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hcneymooners · 2 months ago

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౨ৎ summer slasher!pazzi: the finale.

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

🫀⋆ you're at the end. turn back .ᐟ .ᐟ

cw: high gore (final showdown), blood, violence, typical horror disturbances, misplaced sexual tension, psyopathic behavior, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs a mass murderer, unhealthy relationships bc it's a horror au, codependence, obsession.

notes: i genuinely thought you guys would bury me alive if i didn't post this, so here you go. i hope you enjoy. for all the threats i was getting, i better see some reactions in my inbox tonight! in all seriousness though, thank you for being here.

love you.

it turns out that even if your best friend is a killer, it will destroy you when she dies. it seems people you love are still people you love, even at their worst.

azzi doesn’t realize how much she has seen paige as infallible until now. her hands shake as she runs them over paige’s blonde hair, the blood soaking it so dark that the strands appear white. paige’s eyes are so blue, so bright in the cold call of the sun as she stares into nothing. there is so much blood, so much fluid leaving her from the neat slashes beneath her sternum.

her ribs peek through, the white bone arcing gracefully like dancers’ legs, curved in a reverent kneel around the pulp of her heart.

azzi doesn’t know where they are. when she looks up, eyes wild and wide, she can only see an aching, open forest. it was as if the two of them had been on a private anabasis, marching inland to something she was unsure of now. her throat burns as if she has been screaming, but when she lifts a hand to her mouth, she doesn’t find it open—she only feels the plump, even line of their closure.

her hands are shaking and covered in red. she reaches down and picks up paige’s head, which lolls like a broken doll. azzi’s grip keeps slipping, the crimson spray of blood across paige’s shirt and the base of her neck making it impossible to hold on.

finally, a sound leaves her.

it’s a horrible rattle, a combination of death and grief. azzi chokes it out, her back snapping outward as she leans over paige’s body and keens. she is nothing but an animal now—nothing but a pit of loss and rage. with a hand still on paige’s cheek, azzi glances up. she’s searching.

ashlynn must be here. she must be.

who else would be the killer?

as she turns to look in a new direction, something flashes—a hot arc of light. azzi stumbles to her feet and is surprised to feel the earth beneath them. when she peers down, she sees they are bare, her brown skin pressed into the rotting, maggotted soil. she doesn’t have any more energy to be horrified.

she pushes through the thrush and works toward that bouncing sphere of light. every step away from the woman on the forest floor behind her, away from the woman she loves, feels like glass cutting through her skin.

it is salt in the wound to leave her behind. it is a slow-burning; it’s an unforgivable evil.

but she reaches her destination, despite the pain. she is not clear about what she expected to find. maybe ashlynn—her knife siphoning the light like the leech she is, her weapon an extension of her parasitic life.

but it’s not.

azzi finds nothing but a mirror.

its body is long. its surface ripples like skin beneath a pulse.

she stares into it, desperate for answers. nothing is there except for herself: bloodied, bruised, and broken. she grits her teeth and tucks a shrill shriek of rage behind them.

she swallows down her terror. swallows down her mindless hatred. tries to taste only the love—the drive of paige’s death—tries to make it sweet.

and then, she sees something rise behind her.

a horrible, dark figure rises silently from the ground. she knows what it is. the knowledge snakes deep into her chest and coils in her stomach. this is paige’s killer. the creature that took her without remorse.

she has nothing to fight with except her bare hands. but still, azzi turns to face it. to face her.

she is hot-blooded. ripened by her anguish.

and then—she goes cold. because—

azzi is staring at herself.

behind her, the mirror stills. it has given her her answer.

𓇼

azzi jerks awake.

no scream. no gasp. just the sudden, animal twitch of her limbs like something’s been severed inside her.

she lies there for a second, disoriented. the air is too still. her chest heaves once, twice, but no sound escapes her. she’s soaked in sweat, the sheets clinging to her ribs, the echo of a scream trapped in her throat like a swallowed bullet.

she turns. slowly. like her body has a gravity it hadn’t before. she shifts beneath the blankets, knee brushing warm skin, and then she sees her.

paige.

on her back, sleeping deep, with one arm thrown above her head. her hair is a mess across the pillow. her face is soft, the tension of living drained from it in sleep. there’s a damp spot just at her collarbone where azzi must’ve cried into her in the night without knowing.

azzi stares. her own hands are trembling. there’s no blood on them now, no forest rot under her nails, but she still feels it. she still sees the wet gleam of paige’s ribs and the arc of bone cradling the red, weeping muscle.

she shifts forward, almost timidly, and crawls on top of her. her weight settles gently on paige’s hips, and she leans down, hands smoothing back the loose blonde strands. one at a time. every strand is a prayer. out of the two of them, paige is the religious one, but azzi still tucks paige’s name behind her teeth for protection.

she thinks about paige’s connection to god more often since discovering that paige could kill people without a hitch in her breath. she wonders if the avowed faith is more about penance than true belief. maybe there is room for both.

(paige understood that god was real when azzi saw the monster of her and did not scream. only unearthly hands could have made such a kind, forgiving heart.)

she presses her face into paige’s neck. breathes her in. the iron tang of her skin. the faint, dry vanilla sweetness of her shampoo. the heat of her pulse just beneath the surface.

paige stirs, brow furrowing slightly before her arms lift and fold around azzi’s waist. “you okay, mama?” she asks, voice sleep-rough and soft.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she wants to. she opens her mouth. closes it again.

the dream still clings to her ribs like ivy. she can feel it in her gut, in the space behind her eyes, in the echo of her name shouted from far away. she can feel the end of something. like a bell that’s been ringing long before she heard it.

finally, she lifts her head and looks down at paige. her lips part, and this time the words come, low and fragile.

“this is going to change me.”

paige is quiet. just blinks at her for a long moment. then she reaches up, slides her hand into azzi’s hair, and cradles her.

“shh, baby,” she says. “just sleep.”

but azzi knows she won’t.

something in her has already broken loose.

𓇼 jana’s asleep on the couch. curled up in one of paige’s hoodies, headphones half-falling off, arms wrapped around her stomach like she is forcing her spirit to live inside of herself. azzi tucks the blanket up over her shoulder, gently, and when she picks up jana’s phone to place it on the charger, she sees that the younger girl is listening to morgan’s sleep playlist. she feels the familiar prick of tears, the sickly reawakening of grief in her legs and chest.

𓇼 she leaves a cup of tea on the table beside her. koshary shai, with a twist of mint. just how jana likes it.

𓇼 in the kitchen, the quiet is almost too loud. paige is on the floor with blueprints and maps, and two empty mugs already. her hair’s tied up. she looks like she hasn’t slept despite them pressing together last night. azzi doesn’t ask—she wasn’t able to sleep well after either.

𓇼 “she shouldn’t be here,” paige says, not looking up.

𓇼 “i know.” azzi’s voice is low, rocking with something she’s trying to keep under control. “but she has nowhere else. and i—i don’t want her anywhere else.”

𓇼 paige sighs. folds up a map like she’s trying not to rip it in half. “we should’ve told her. she deserves to know.”

𓇼 “and then what? she dies too?” azzi snaps, and then closes her eyes. quieter now: “i can’t let her be part of this. not again. she’s already struggling to live with…it.” she still can’t talk about morgan.

𓇼 paige watches her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. then: “you were planning on going alone.”

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer.

𓇼 “azzi,” paige says. and it sounds like she’s saying, please don’t die. azzi crouches beside her, takes paige’s face in both hands. her thumbs press softly beneath her eyes. “i keep having dreams of you dying, p. not like nightmares. more like… soft prophecies. i’m not psychic, but it has to mean something, right?”

𓇼 paige looks at her and then says, “it’s probably a manifestation of your trauma, az. i’ll be fine.”

𓇼 silence. outside, the wind shifts. azzi lets her go and walks away. she turns on the nespresso machine, which sits on the countertop, gleaming black in the weak sunlight, and brings it to life with a press of a button. “i don’t want to take the chance.”

𓇼 “azzi,” paige finally says. “i was willing to kill for you. i did kill for you. do you really think you’d make it out of this apartment without me right behind you? you’re smarter than that, ma.”

𓇼 moments like this one remind azzi that paige is—still—incredibly dangerous. she’s only barely tamed the beast inside her, has only trained it to heel beneath azzi’s hand.

𓇼 in the other room, jana stirs. her tea goes cold.

but of course, ashlynn is always one step ahead. azzi has to hand it to the bitch: she’s evil with a true purpose.

the basketball court is eerily beautiful at night. quiet and sacred. the polished hardwood catches slivers of moonlight filtering through the high windows, creating long, creeping shadows that stretch across the floor like abstract fingers.

it’s easy to slip in and be alone inside of it. everyone else left after morgan died, and those who stayed wouldn’t have left their rooms even if offered a million dollars.

paige had insisted they come. i need to clear my head, she'd said, and azzi had, like always, understood. basketball is paige's ritual, her form of meditation. the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor grounds her in ways little else could.

azzi watches from the lowest bleacher, small and still. paige runs drills like she's trying to outpace death. dribble. step. shoot. each motion lands with ghostlike precision. the ball arcs clean, kisses the net with a sound softer than breath.

“you’re still favoring your right,” azzi calls out, voice too light for what she’s carrying.

paige catches the rebound, pauses. gives a half-smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “old habits.”

die hard, azzi finishes in her head. she doesn't smile back.

overhead, the fluorescents hum like dying bees, casting everything in a bleak, clinical glow. the emptiness of the gym amplifies every sound: the squeak of paige's shoes against hardwood, the hollow tremble of the rim as the ball beat against it. their words hang strangely, echoing back warped.

azzi checks her phone. no new messages. no calls. no blue dot from jana. her stomach knots. she’d made the girl promise, promise, to stay in, to lock everything. the girl had argued—of course she had—but eventually relented when azzi's voice cracked with a shrill squeak of desperation.

"she'll be fine, baby," paige says, reading the emotions off her body like a book. "she's smart."

"she's coping," azzi counters sharply. "there's a difference."

paige nods, slow. you aren’t yourself when you deal with grief. it makes a beast out of your nerves. it is easy to act out, to slip into a version of yourself warped grossly by your loss. jana is capable of anything during this time, plagued by a deep, miserable irrationality.

they all are.

the ball balances on paige’s long fingertips for a moment before she sends it spinning up toward the basket again. swish.

that's when azzi feels it. not a sound, not a sight. just a pressure. like the gym is inhaling. her spine prickles. her body knows before she does. she's developed a sixth sense for danger these past months, an animal awareness that prickles along her blood. her gaze darts to the shadows that gather in the corners of the gym, the observation deck above, and the corridor leading to the locker rooms.

“p,” she says. barely.

paige stills mid-dribble. doesn't turn. doesn't ask. but azzi sees the shift in her shoulders. she felt it too.

“paige, we need to go.” azzi stands. her hands won’t stop shaking.

the lights flicker once. twice. then plunge them into darkness.

azzi doesn’t think. she only moves instinctively toward where she last saw paige. her arms cut through the dark. her body is pulsing with an unnamed energy. she’s not calling out. sound feels like a risk now. her fingers graze skin, and paige catches her fast.

their fingers connect and tangle, hold. paige pulls her closer, their bodies pressing together in the dark. azzi’s body, ever uncontrollable, warms slowly as it registers their proximity. azzi exhales against the curve of paige’s neck, breath hot with fear. her lips brush bare skin, sweat-slicked. paige’s hands find her waist, urgent, grounding.

“emergency exit,” paige whispers, her mouth against azzi’s ear. “we’re gonna move slow, okay, mama?”

they begin.

one step. two. it’s as if they’re dancing.

the dark feels alive. the court groans under them.

ten steps. maybe more. time is liquid here. the silence crushes.

then, a sound. metal screeching against metal.

a lock clicks into place.

then another.

another.

“she’s sealing us in,” azzi moans. paige’s body is so tense it could be stone. they stop their migration, unsure now.

and then,

“i always hated that stupid bracelet.”

the voice sings through the dark like a near bullet.

azzi stiffens. paige turns, shielding azzi instinctively.

“such a pathetic little charm. all that sentiment for something mass-produced.” the voice drips honey and venom. amused. almost tender. “you kept it, though. of course you did. you probably felt so good thinking you had it all figured out. god, i hate arrogance.”

silence.

then footsteps. slow. deliberate. from the direction of the locker rooms. the echo carries strangely in the dark gym, like the space itself is struggling to breathe. it does not want to release her.

they switch: azzi steps in front of paige because she’s the one closer to the heat of ashlynn’s evil. her body is trembling, but her hands are fists.

“ash,” she says into the dark, hoping to coax some memory of their history with the nickname. “you don’t have to do this.”

ashlynn laughs mockingly. the sound is so soft, so broken at the edges. “ash. god, you’re still so romantic. you still think this is about choice?”

the lights snap on. all at once. blinding white.

and there she is. standing near the half-court line, hands at her sides, head tilted like a question.

she looks wrong.

thinner than she was. more angular. her limbs are too long for her body, or maybe it’s just the way ashlynn holds herself, like a doll that’s been overextended at the joints. her skirt sways with every shift of weight: white, cheap pleats, bloodless. a cropped uconn jersey is taut over her ribs, the fabric faded and curling at the hem. there’s blush smeared along her cheekbones, or at least azzi prays it's blush. she doesn’t know how deep the violence runs in the other woman.

ashlynn’s lip gloss is smudged pink and sweet. she’s dressed up, azzi realizes with mounting horror.

ashlynn’s eyes are too wide. unblinking. like she’s seeing a vision none of them can.

“there was never a choice,” she says, voice now deadly quiet. “there was always only this.”

wings. it’s a match to the bracelet azzi found missing.

ashlynn notices her staring.

“oh,” she says, tilting her head further, mock-embarrassed. “you like it? it was a set. my mom got them for me. one for the wrist. one for the throat.” she touches the charm gently, like it’s precious. “guess she didn’t want me to forget how easily things can break.”

azzi’s throat tightens. the gym feels colder now.

“you killed her,” she whispers. “you killed morgan.”

ashlynn doesn’t flinch. she only sighs. patient. as if disappointed in a child.

“yes, that. god, that was awful, wasn’t it? it was supposed to be jana or, well, you.” azzi’s blood runs cold at the mention of jana. ashlynn watches her, her lips twitching. “morgan was an outlier. an unfortunate name added accidentally to the list. but despite whatever you’re thinking, i swear this is all for a very good reason.”

azzi feels paige’s hand on the small of her back, right in the middle. she tries to focus on it. ashlynn saunters closer. both girls step back.

“all they ever did was hog the light,” ashlynn says, walking forward steadily, slow and calm. it’s as if she's giving a lecture. “gold medals. scouts. scholarships. even in their failure, they were praised for being brave. strong. legendary. but there’s no room to grow in soil that’s already choked.”

she steps closer. her charm swings gently. again, the girls step back. ashlynn pauses, her eye twitching almost imperceptibly.

“someone had to rip out the roots.”

ashlynn finally stops, now a few feet away. looks directly at azzi. her eyes shine sickly. azzi can feel her words, her disregard for every life she’s spilled into an early grave, settle slow, stringy, and sticky inside of her. it clings to the ribs.

“you—you were supposed to be different,” she says. “a signal that things could change. that we didn’t have to keep worshipping the same ten girls forever. but azzi, you stayed small.”

her tone shifts again. silk-wrapped. almost pitying. she tilts her head, seems to smell azzi's disgust.

“i’m not a monster, azzi.” a soft shrug. “i’m only a gardener.”

and something in her smile twists like she believes it. like it wasn’t pain she inflicted on real people, only a kind of pruning.

only love, in its most warped, most desperate form.

azzi suddenly becomes aware of how much her body is showing. she’d only thrown on an oversized, black zip-up hoodie over an unforgiving sports bra and low-rise cotton shorts. they were from adidas, vintage soccer style ones that ashlynn had gifted her just last year. i thought you’d look so good in these, she’d said.

azzi wonders if she’d thought of her dying in them, too.

ashlynn paces closer. her voice is still lilting, syrup-sweet.

“you know, you should’ve thanked me. i carved a space for you. you could’ve led.”

azzi’s voice is steady, but there's a tremble at the edges. “you didn’t make space. you made graves.”

a beat. ashlynn’s smile flickers. falters. that wasn’t the response she wanted. that wasn’t in the script.

then, paige steps forward. she easily maneuvers azzi to the side. she can see the coil of ashlynn’s body, that same killer’s rise that she houses in her own.

“bullshit,” she says coldly. “you’re a fucking coward. you don’t have the talent, so you’re cutting the real players up? come on, ash, that’s pathetic.”

ashlynn closes her eyes and cracks her neck. she speaks with her eyes still shut. “and you. god, we could’ve been great together. then, you had to go and get all moral about it. ‘nah, azzi is off limits.’” the impression of paige drips with derision. ashlynn’s eyes open. “why do you always have to be the fucking hero, bueckers?”

paige doesn’t flinch. “i didn't say all that. i know what i am. i’m not that deluded.”

ashlynn lunges—not for azzi, but for paige. swift as death.

but paige is ready. she ducks, somehow shoves azzi away, and ashlynn back, hard. azzi feels the air get knocked out of her as she falls to the floor, paige’s strength much more than she ever could have anticipated. her side hurts from where she’s hit the court, and she realizes just how softly paige has always treated her. even when she was being mean.

when she gathers enough strength to look back at where ashlynn is, she sees paige is managing to hold her own. there’s a moment where she even has her—back foot planted, adrenaline surging. she almost wins.

until ashlynn shifts direction, sharp and serpentine, like a dancer who missed a cue and made it part of the choreography. she feints toward where azzi sits stupidly on the ground and, of course, paige moves to intercept—too late.

ashlynn smiles, and azzi feels a horrible twisting ribbon of dread around her neck at the sight. she watches in slow motion as ashlynn whips back around and drives the blade in.

right under the ribs. the blood that follows is deep and red.

azzi screams.

the sound tears out of her like a rupture, and then there is only blood. blood, ruby and leaking, and the echo of metal. there is only paige, crumpling like the world stopped holding her up. azzi was a fool to think violence couldn’t reach her.

azzi scrambles forward, knees slamming the ground, hands skidding through something warm. she falls, slips as she pushes herself back up. her vision is thin and hot and wrong. she can’t hear anything except the pulse between her ears and paige gasping, trying to say her name through lips turning white at the corners. paige is still trying to be strong, her teeth grinding together as she lets out a pained groan.

azzi is going to kill her. she’s going to kill that fucking cunt.

“fuck,” azzi chokes. “okay. it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

she shrugs off her hoodie, blood on the sleeves already, and presses it hard against the wound. paige hisses, jaw clenched, but doesn’t pull away. azzi makes her hold it there.

“fuck, this shit hurts,” paige whispers. azzi lets out a weak laugh. “ah, shit.”

her blue-eyed gaze flickers over azzi’s shoulder. she reaches out, her free hand cupping azzi’s chin.

“look at me. azzi, look at me.”

azzi struggles to look away from the way her hoodie is becoming more and more soaked. her eyes are wide and glazed over. paige takes her hand away, slaps her. azzi gasps. not from the sting, but from the grief of it.

paige has never hit her before. not even once.

“sorry. ‘m so sorry, baby. but i need you to listen to me. you need to run.” she pushes past azzi’s strangled protest. “she wants to finish me off. it’ll keep her distracted, and it gives you a good chance.”

“p—” azzi begins, but paige cuts her off.

“you knew what this was, mama. i said the point was protecting you.” her gaze is hard. “this is it.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she’s somewhere else now. something else. her hands are soaked, sticky. her breath goes in sharp, shallow. paige’s blood is on her neck, her chest, her mouth maybe. it doesn’t matter.

“azzi, if you don’t fucking move, she’ll kill you too.”

azzi meets her eyes.

“she already tried.”

paige’s brow furrowed. azzi pressed her forehead against it. her lips parted, and the words ghosted out like smoke.

“do you remember seventh grade?”

𓇼 they were thirteen.

𓇼 paige never cried. not really. at least not when people could see her. she was the kind of girl who moved through the world like it owed her something sweet. so self-assured in a way that didn’t feel fair.

𓇼 she was perfectly coded. she knew exactly how to flick her ponytail and land a beautiful free throw. azzi had always watched her sideways, had memorized the slope of her smile and perfect nose.

𓇼 so when she found her behind the concession stand after practice one afternoon, sitting with her knees pulled up and her face red and wrecked, azzi had gone still.

𓇼 she knelt down. touched her. paige flinched.

𓇼 “it’s nothing,” paige said, laughing in that fake, strained way. “it’s stupid. that girl—whatever, man. it’s just words.” but there was a mark on her neck. a little welt like a thumb had pressed there, too hard.

𓇼 azzi didn’t ask. she just stood up and walked back toward the gym. past the vending machines, around the corner where the field shadows stretched long. she knew exactly who it was, who had done this. who kept doing this.

𓇼 amerie. eighth-grade cheerleader. lip gloss always too fucking pink. always looking at paige like she was—like she was something she could ruin. a small piece of meat that wouldn’t put up a fight between her teeth.

𓇼 she was behind the school alone, talking on the phone. azzi didn’t say a word. she grabbed her by the hair first.

𓇼 the phone went flying. amerie screamed once, short and stupid. then azzi slammed her to the ground—knees scraping, elbows cracking. she sat on her chest, legs pinned on either side, weight down hard like she wanted to be inside her ribcage.

𓇼 “you think you’re tough?” azzi said, breathing fast, too fast. amerie was clawing at her arms, crying now. “get off of me, you freak. what the hell—”

𓇼 azzi punched her. then again. then she dug her fingers into her cheeks, thumbs pushing up hard until amerie’s mouth split open at the corner.

𓇼“you like to call girls dykes?” she hissed. “you want to call paige that? huh? hurt her? make yourself feel big, bad, and strong?”

𓇼 the girl sobbed. azzi spit. she wasn’t sure if it was blood or bile or lip gloss on her tongue. azzi touched her own mouth, smearing whatever was there. then grabbed amerie’s chin and smeared it across her lips.

𓇼 “now you’re one too.”

𓇼 she leaned in close. maybe kissed her. maybe just hovered. she wanted her to remember this. her smell, her taste, the fear.

𓇼 “i’ll come back if you say her name again. and i swear to god, amerie, you’ll never forget mine.”

𓇼 and with that azzi stood, wiped her hands on her shorts. left the other girl curled on the asphalt, pink glitter gloss mingling with blood. she glanced down at her hands, saw the smear of dirt and glitter and blood.

𓇼 she sucked it off.

paige looked at her, her face pale from blood loss and now twisted in a mixture of surprise and something azzi couldn’t place. then, paige let out a long breath, and azzi understood.

it was desire.

“i never knew you did that. i just thought she’d finally fucked off.”

azzi smiled and leaned down, pressing a sloppy kiss to paige’s mouth. paige moaned into it, and azzi felt a rush of pleasure at the idea that paige was called more to her than the shadow of death at her door. she almost lost her sense of the present, but then ashlynn shifted from where she was watching with an almost detached boredom, and the floor creaked.

azzi grew cold.

“stay down,” azzi murmured. her voice was glacial. “you always take it. let me do it this time. please. just stay.”

she pressed her cheek to paige’s temple. felt her nod.

she rose.

azzi’s eyes are wide, unfocused. her body was already wrecked, always had been. but something sharp is crawling back up through her.

she remembers the feel of skin giving beneath her knuckles. the split of a lip. what it feels like to mark someone and walk away.

that’s what ashlynn doesn’t understand.

azzi hasn’t survived because she’s strong. she’s survived because she’s mean when it counts. love has never softened her. in fact, love, and paige, were her triggers. she doesn’t feel the blood trailing down her own leg until she sees it, shiny against her thigh, a relic from paige's wound that she hadn’t registered.

her hoodie is a makeshift bandage, and she’s left in her sports bra, which clings to her ribs, soaked through with sweat. her shorts hang low. her whole body hums like a struck wire. carefully, azzi turns to look at ashlynn. azzi—bleeding, breath stuttering, heart thudding like a war drum—laughs.

ashlynn’s face contorts.

she hates being humiliated.

“you’re such a piece of shit, ash,” azzi says. “on and off the court. you want me, but you can’t even make the proper effort to kill me. there’s always somebody else you go for.”

“tread carefully, az,” ashylynn says, her voice deceptively easy.

“or what?” azzi asks, head falling to the side like a dog. “you’re going to kill me? stab me? go ahead. at least then you’d finally fucking do something to me.”

ashlynn’s mouth twists into a sneer, and her hand tightens its grip around her blade. she wipes the strip of metal on the white of her skirt, the contrast jarring. azzi steps back, feet still slick. she moves toward the locker room.

“and here i was, trying to be nice and give the two of you a chance at saying goodbye,” ashlynn hisses. she’s moving away from paige. “this could’ve been sacred, azzi. you ruined it. again. but hey, at least you’ll be together in the end.”

azzi slides into a crouch, her body keyed up. she locks their gazes together, calls to the beast.

“eat shit, bitch.”

she turns and runs.

azzi knows she isn’t a fighter. but she also knows she wants a kill.

the lights flicker, buzzing and half-dead. steam coats the mirrors, and the floor is slick with water, blood, and shattered glass from a kicked-in fixture. she skidded into it when she burst into the room. somewhere, a towel drips blood into a puddle.

azzi is crouched low between lockers, her breath stuttering. she’s bleeding from her thigh, her side, her shoulder—flesh opened like peeled fruit. her hands are slick and shaking as she pulls another shard of glass from her side. it’s long and jagged, and her tattered skin flutters as she tugs it out like fleshy butterflies.

her shorts hang low on her hips, threatening to fall right off. her v-line is soaked. her sports bra clings to her chest, black and wet and shining in the low light. from outside the door: a thud. then another. footsteps.

azzi’s vision narrows to a tunnel. the fluorescent lights above flicker like a dying star, casting fractured shadows across the locker room tile, smeared with blood. hers, probably paige’s, maybe even someone else’s. who knows how long ashlynn has been here?

the air reeks of sweat and iron. her eyes are burning. her bare feet slip slightly as she takes one step forward, then another. she carefully snags the towel on the floor, wrapping it around the bottom of the piece of glass she just pulled from her side. she stands there with her makeshift blade trembling in her hand.

ashlynn moves like a ghost. calm. confident. as if none of this matters.

“she told you to run,” ashlynn calls out, her voice syrup-slow, tilting her head like a curious predator. “you should’ve listened.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she can’t. every word lodges in her throat behind a scream that hasn’t broken free. she pauses, closes her eyes, licks her lips, and tries to place ashlynn’s location.

she takes a leap and lunges. she’s off.

the blade barely grazes ashlynn’s thigh. just enough to tear fabric. just enough to draw a bead of blood. enough to enrage her.

they crash into each other: teeth gritted, knees hammering into ribs, fingernails clawing through sweat-slick skin. ashlynn’s knife goes spinning across the tiles. gone. azzi doesn’t care.

she slams her shoulder into ashlynn’s sternum. the pain is immediate and electric, sharp enough to make her vision go white for a split second, but she doesn’t stop. doesn’t stop when her elbow cracks against the corner of a bench. doesn’t stop when ashlynn swings the bat—where the absolute fuck did that come from?—and beats it against her forearm. doesn’t stop when the bone splits like a breaking tree branch.

azzi keeps going.

not because she thinks she’s primed to win. but because she refuses to lose.

they end up near the showers, and ashlynn uses azzi’s weight against her, slams her hard into a wall of mirrors and porcelain sinks. azzi feels an army of glass go into her, and she shrieks. ashlynn’s smile nearly overtakes her face. her teeth are pink with her lip gloss.

blood slicks the floor. they fall into it. slide in it. roll.

ashlynn is strong. but azzi is meaner.

azzi headbutts her. a sickening crunch. blood gushes from ashlynn’s nose. she rears back, and azzi strikes again. ashlynn catches her this time, pushes her back, and kicks her hard in the ribs. glass pushes in. azzi lets loose a horrible wail of pain.

god, she hopes paige can’t hear her.

“you’re not like her,” ashlynn hisses as she pins azzi to the floor, their limbs tangled in blood and water and broken tile. “you’re soft. paige is out there, gurgling like a pitiful little insect. she’s killed for you. and you? you can’t even protect yourself.”

azzi meets her eyes. something dead and ancient opens in her chest.

“you’re right,” she says, her voice flat. “i’m not like her. i’m not even like you.”

her eyes slide down to her thigh, to where a jagged chunk of mirror is protruding at a grotesque angle. her hand closes around it. she screams, raw and loud, as she drags it out.

the world tilts.

azzi grits her teeth, sobbing through the pain as she finally frees the shard and slashes it across ashlynn’s neck.

the sound ashlynn makes isn’t human. it’s not like she was one.

“i’m worse,” azzi finishes, her voice monotonous. she’s an animal now.

blood sprays across the wall. ashlynn gurgles. falls back. grabs her throat. tries to stand. but azzi tackles her. ashlynn worms her way out, still desperate to keep going.

azzi is so fucking tired of her.

somehow, the fight spills into the gym. azzi barely registers her surroundings anymore. it’s all just shapes and echoes and blood. the bat has been dropped. the wood shines red and begging.

azzi picks it up with her broken arm, pain lighting up her nerves like fireworks. doesn’t matter. she spits blood from her mouth, tilting her head back to breathe.

ashlynn is up. she’s stumbling. gasping.

rage floods azzi. she pushes herself forward, steps slow and heavy. she is aware of paige just off to the side, her body writhing to life as she sees the ways in which azzi is destroyed. the gym lights are strobing, or maybe that’s just azzi’s vision going in and out.

ashlynn is swaying. still moving. still swinging. so determined not to die.

azzi follows. she is her harbinger.

she hefts the bat. cocks her shoulder back and raises it high. her shadow elongates past ashlynn’s bloody, burbling body.

here they are—framed center court. azzi stands, slick with gore and sweat, chest heaving. her body is shaking, the bat trembling in the air. she’s frozen for only a moment. not with fear, but with the aftershocks of violence, like a bell still ringing long after the strike.

she looks savage. beautiful.

her shorts ride low on her hips, exposing more bruises than skin. patches of raw flesh bloom across her thighs and abdomen; a cruel constellation of survival. her stomach rises and falls sharply. blood traces the curve of her spine.

her mouth parts, lips raw, a streak of crimson trailing down her jawline like war paint. her eyes are half-wild, rimmed with salt and pain.

she is radiant.

she is herself, finally.

behind her, paige coughs, wet and broken. azzi doesn’t turn. she’s focused, but she can feel her. she knows paige is still on the ground because she made her promise to stay down. to let her fight. to let her win.

ashlynn turns, her knees beginning to buckle. her eyes widen. there’s a flicker of fear. azzi’s face twists into a snarl. her teeth flash, and she swings.

the first strike lands in the ribs. the crack is beautiful. next swing: the side of the head. then the shoulder.

the bat rises and falls. again.

and again.

she beats ashlynn down with everything she has.

azzi is screaming now. she doesn’t remember starting. the raw, bestial sound claws out of her chest. she drops the bat mid-roar and keeps going. keeps wailing like her body has become a speaker for everything she ever buried.

her grief. her love. her shame. her fear. her rage. it all comes up at once, ripping through her like a second spine.

she screams until her throat gives out. until she vomits. she falls to her knees, hands holding her up as the bile falls. she looks up, remnants dripping from her mouth.

ashlynn is unmoving. she’s finally stayed down.

azzi looks away and blinks blood from her lashes.

behind her, paige lets out a rattle. it’s moist and weak.

azzi turns. her injuries scream. agony spears through her. still, she crawls over.

paige is alive, but barely. azzi begins to cry.

the doors crash open. the police—late as always. she wonders what finally clued them in.

sirens scream outside. floodlights streak in through broken windows, blue and red flashing against the blood-slicked floor. a crowd is gathered just inside the gym entrance: cops, students, and jana, stunned and silent.

azzi stands, heaving.

she steps forward, bare feet flexing, each move unsteady but deliberate, like her body weighs more now. her breath drags out in short, shattered exhales.

“mmm,” she moans, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from fainting.

she places herself in front of paige.

one step. then another. she turns to the crowd.

her eyes lock with theirs. someone is sobbing. someone else whispers her name like they barely recognize her. in azzi’s face: no remorse. no apology. only choice.

the bat glints on the floor next to what used to be ashlynn, still wet.

azzi raises her hands, palms open. blood pools in the creases. her arms shake.

she’s drawn the line. they can think what they want.

azzi’s already decided.

paige is trying to sit up, always trying to take the fall for her. but azzi is different now.

but she doesn’t mind.

she will do anything to keep paige alive. to keep them both alive.

final girl stands alone. one killer behind her. one in front. she loves the one behind. their instincts are twinned. the other is gone. final girl has survived. but there is no peace inside her. only the hum of violence, like rabid bees. there is an aftertaste. almost holy. final girl with her blood-stained hands in the sudden silence. final girl declares: i did this. i would do it again. i had to choose, and i will always choose her. final girl stands cut open. many things bleed out. from her: a red river of love, but no peace.

𓇼 the hospital is quiet at 3 a.m. everything is bleached and humming.

𓇼 paige has a private room. no visitors allowed for now. but rules don’t apply to girls who almost died for each other.

𓇼 azzi’s got six stitches along her ribs, butterfly bandages blooming down her forearms where glass sliced her open. her body is stiff as she rises. a nurse tried to stop her from leaving her bed. azzi didn’t stop walking.

𓇼 she finds paige propped up in bed, pale but awake, one arm bandaged tightly against her body. the stab wound missed anything fatal by an inch. azzi has replayed that inch in her head a thousand times.

𓇼 paige blinks as if to check if she’s dreaming when azzi shuffles inside. “hey, princess,” she says. soft, so soft.

𓇼 azzi doesn’t speak. she just crawls in beside her, every joint aching. she presses her face into paige’s shoulder, careful not to touch the dressing, and exhales for what feels like the first time in days.

𓇼 paige tips her chin, kisses azzi’s hair. “i’m so proud of you, mama,” she whispers. “thank you for saving my life.”

𓇼 azzi barely breathes. paige pretends not to notice her hospital gown growing wet. “you’d do the same for me.” it’s quiet. not solemn. bone-deep.

𓇼 then paige mutters, “she got me early. she knew i’d shut that shit down.” azzi huffs, a crooked little laugh. “i am so gonna fuck you when we get out of here.”

𓇼 paige blinks, surprised, then breaks into a smile. “yo, chill,” she grins, hand curling into azzi’s. azzi smiles too, but paige can see through it. this is all bravado.

𓇼 they lie there a long time, and eventually paige falls asleep. azzi listens to the monitor beep steadily in the dark.

𓇼 she brings a hand up to her neck, where the sleek gold evil eye jana got them both for protection glints against her collarbone.

whether it’s that—or paige’s lips dragging across her throat—that’s the only line azzi wants drawn across her neck.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi slasher au.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 7 months ago

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Slipknot - Wait and Bleed 1999

"Wait and Bleed" is a 1999 song by American heavy metal band Slipknot, released as the their debut and lead single from their 1999 self-titled debut album. After being remixed to replace the screamed vocals in the verses with more melodic singing, it was released as the lead single from the album in July 1999, and peaked at number 34 on the US Billboard Hot Mainstream Rock Tracks chart in February 2000. It remains one of the band's most popular songs.

"Wait and Bleed" earned Slipknot a first Grammy nomination in 2001 for Best Metal Performance, and won the Best Single award at the 2000 Kerrang! Awards. The song enjoyed a degree of commercial success, reaching number 34 on the Hot Mainstream Rock Tracks chart and number 27 in the UK Singles Chart. It was also ranked number 36 on VH1's "40 Greatest Metal Songs" list. This track, along with "Left Behind", "Pulse of the Maggots", and "Snuff", were released as downloadable songs in the Rock Band series. A remix version of "Wait and Bleed" by Terry Date was featured on the soundtrack for Scream 3.

"Wait and Bleed" received a total of 50,6% yes votes - phew, just barely managed to avoid a tie! 😲 Previous Slipknot polls: #100 "The Blister Exists".

youtube

#finished #low yes #90s #o4 #lo3 #slipknot #english

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magicdustsworld · 10 months ago

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Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader; tw - Fellatio, cum swallowing, adultery; divider credits - @saradika-graphics

Imagine sucking off Yakuza boss!Sukuna while he is on a call.

Forced down to your knees, red tongue darting out to swirl over his frenulum—eliciting a lewd groan from him. Sukuna peers down at you, a corner of his lip curling up into a provocative sneer while maroon gaze scorches with an erotic desire.

"Yeah and? mhmm... what the fuck did Masume say?"

Holding the phone with his left hand, he brings up the pointer of his right to his lips—gesturing you to keep it low. (As if he really wants that?) You return his gaze with a leacherous one of your own—an invitation cum challenge he recognizes all to well. You pass a smirk and not a second later, you're eagerly accepting the glans penis inside your mouth. Lapping up at the tip, you proceed downwards, coating his entire cock with your saliva before readily sucking him off.

Sukuna's attention is allegedly on the call at hand. A blissful expression clouds over his eyes s he hums and murmurs curses under his breath while speaking to— whoever the fuck it is. However, as you go down on his cock, bopping your head in a to and fro motion, all to please him like a good girl, he just seems to not notice it. Taking it for granted, is he? Unknowingly, you scoff under your breath, trails of his musky precum settling on your tongue; you gulp them without much of a second thought.

You look up again and the same sight greets you. Yes, you know it may be an important call and you know you shouldn't do it. You still do it.

Your teeth grazes over his prepuce.

"Ngh Fuck– Huh? Nothing, just uh, don't worry. Whatcha' saying again?"

He glares at you, threading his fingers through your luscious strands; he tugs them back firmly. Mouth filled with cock, your protest only comes off as a jumbled mess. Leaning down, momentarily he retracts the phone from his ear, "Do this shit properly or this will be the last thing you'll be sucking." Said so, he is back to his call.

The threat lingers in the air—he isn't lying. You know. Countless times you have seen him snap the string of someone's life without an exchange of words. The grip of his Beretta M9 peaks out of his pocket, the looming peril and the sheer power he holds over you in this situation(and all the others) making itself stark clear. Despite the eminent danger oozing off of his body language, the thrill of it all sends a pulse to your core.

You clamp your legs tighter, the fabric of your panties brushing with your clitoris. Regardless, the warning does the job and as much of a desperate whore you can be for the man above you, you still want to watch and experience this charade play out.

Besides, you already got his attention, didn't you?

Gaze fixated on you, with both pair of teeth out in a menacing display akin to a ravenous beast being served, he watches you. You move your head back and forth, aiming to just give him a stellar fellatio while your cunt starts to drip with wanton need. You nibble on his his foreskin, forcing more of his girth inside your hot cavern, the wet muscle licking over the glans—raunchy moans escalating from you.

"Got over with– Ah shit! Where did you learn that? Wasn't speaking to you, just some maggots."

Seriously, maggots?

You deserve something more than that. However, before you can retract yourself from his cock, Sukuna’s strength comes to play. He, quite literally, forces you down on his cock till your smeared mulberry tinted lips wrap around his base. He buckles his hip, fucking your face on his own as he sets a relentless pace making tears to spring up your eyes. His cock head reaches so far and so deep that it hits your uvula. Manicured nails digging into the fabric of his pants, you try to balance yourself on your knees—task proving to be futile.

Guttural moans start to escape Sukuna as well. Struggling either to make sense of the speaker or let himself find reprieve with the way your mouth welcomes him.

The latter seems to win by a large mark.

"Heard ya' the first time, what the ahh– shit! You little minx," A smirk curves up his lips, forehead creasing as the product of erotigenic act knots in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck– wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Hang up."

No sooner he utters the last two words, the phone is discarded on the leather couch. He cages you in his grasp, lascivious noises releasing from him as the sweatbeads start to cling and drip down. The acrid smell of arousal and the squelching sound of mouth meeting flesh reverberates through the corners of his office.

His cock twitches in your mouth, your eyes have only partially widened when he is shooting thick ropes of cum down your throat. He holds you his place, tip of nose, pressing against his pubes till you swallow each and every seed he has to offer; something you find yourself doing alike second nature.

His grip loosens and you retract your mouth from his cock with a pop sound. A string of saliva connects your glistening lips with his cock. Trails of ecstasy running down your lips—Sukuna, extends his hands, gently wiping it away with his thumb. An act proving to be a stark contrast to the names he called you while he was bullying your throat.

With name calling, something flickers in your mind...

"Who was that?"

"Don't you wanna know?" He snickers, grabbing you by the bicep as he pulls you up on his lap so you're left to straddle him. "Just my dumb wife filling me on what she did today."

#sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna smut #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x you #sukuna ryomen x you #magic!writes

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crocodile-tears-and-a-dream · 16 days ago

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sukuna x fem!reader

letting your bf take his stress out on you after a rough day like the loving gf you were; smut

the door to your apartment slammed open with a force that shook the walls. ryomen sukuna loomed in the doorway, his massive frame practically pulsing with raw, unhinged rage. his four blood-red eyes burned with a savage glare. his broad chest heaved, the air around him heavy with an almost suffocating energy. he’d had a shitty day—a real fuckin’ disaster. some worthless sorcerers had the audacity to challenge him, and though he’d ripped them to shreds, their stupidity left a sour taste in his mouth. he was pissed.

you, his sweet, naive little girlfriend, was curled up on the couch in nothing but a flimsy, oversized t-shirt that barely covered your thighs, your soft legs tucked under you as you scrolled through your phone. the second you heard the door, your head snapped up, eyes wide with worry. you could feel the crushing weight of his aura before you even saw him, and when you did, your heart twisted.

despite his monstrous energy, you loved him—loved how he shielded you, how he let just enough of his guard down to show a hint of something human beneath the curse.

“sukuna,” you called softly, your voice a delicate contrast to the violence pouring off him. you slid off the couch, padding barefoot across the hardwood toward him. “what’s wrong? you look… pissed.”

he didn’t answer at first, just kicked the door shut with a grunt and stormed through the room. his gaze raked over you, lingering on how the thin fabric of your shirt hugged your curves, and for a split second, something darker than anger flashed in his eyes—something raw, starving.

“tch. useless maggots thought they could face me,” he snarled, his deep voice dripping with hate. “i ground their bones to dust, savored their pathetic screams, and still, i’m itching to tear something apart.”

you stepped closer, unfazed by the venom in his words. you knew him—knew that under the bloodthirst, he needed something to anchor him, something to remind him he wasn’t just a beast. reaching out, you placed a small, hesitant hand on his forearm, feeling the searing heat of his skin and the hard muscle beneath.

“i’m sorry you had to deal with that,” you murmured, gazing up at him with those big, innocent eyes that always seemed to cut through his fury. “let me help you, okay? i hate seeing you like this. i’ll do anything to make you feel better.”

sukuna’s lips twisted into a wicked smirk, one of his huge hands snaking up to grab your chin, tilting your face to meet his stare. his sharp nails scraped your skin, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“watch what you’re offering, little girl,” he purred, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “you have no clue what i need right now. i could snap you in half without even blinking.” but you didn’t even flinch. instead, you leaned into his touch, your purity somehow piercing through the storm of his wrath.

“i trust you,” you whispered. “i’m yours, sukuna. use me however you want.”

that was all it fucking took.

something broke in him, a floodgate of raw, unrestrained need coursing through his veins. he didn’t give you a chance to rethink your silly words. in one quick move, he scooped you up, his massive hands gripping your thighs as he hoisted you against his chest, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“stupid fuckin’ girl,” he growled, but there was a hint of something softer in his tone—something possessive, almost like he gave a shit. “you’re gonna regret this, but i’ll be damned if i don’t claim what’s mine.”

he carried you to the bedroom, each step heavy with intent, his hold on you tight but not bruising. he kicked the door open and tossed you onto the bed, the mattress groaning under your weight as you bounced slightly. you barely had time to breathe before he was on you, his massive body caging yours, four eyes devouring every inch of you like a bloodthirsty animal. your shirt had ridden up, exposing the smooth skin of your stomach and the lace of your panties, and sukuna let out a low, guttural growl at the sight.

“fuck, look at you,” he rasped, one hand trailing up your thigh, his rough fingers scraping against your softness. “so damn fragile, so easy to shatter. i’m gonna ruin you, and you’re gonna beg for every fuckin’ second of it.” his words were vile, dripping with dark promise, but the way his thumb brushed over your hip bone was almost gentle—a quiet vow that he’d never truly break you, no matter how brutal he got.

before you could even respond, he ripped your shirt off with a single, vicious yank, the fabric tearing like it was nothing. you gasped, your chest heaving as the cold air hit your bare skin, your nipples hardening under his hungry stare. sukuna licked his lips, a sinister grin spreading across his face as he squeezed one of your breasts, his huge hand engulfing it as he squeezed just hard enough to make you whimper. “perfect fuckin’ tits,” he muttered, lowering his head to drag his tongue over the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing it before sucking hard. the sensation was sharp, a mix of pleasure and sting that had you arching off the bed, your hands clutching the sheets.

“s-sukuna~!”

one minute, you were trying to offer your loving boyfriend comfort, and the next, he was consuming you like you were his prey. but you weren’t complaining—not when his touch, rough as it was, made your pretty little pussy this wet, your body already aching for more. he pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, his lips wet with spit. “what’s wrong, princess? thought you wanted to help me blow off some steam,” he mocked, his voice oozing with taunt as he slid a hand down your stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of your panties. “don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”

you shook your head, breathless, your hips bucking without thought as his fingers brushed over your slick folds. “n-no, i… i want this,” you managed to say, your voice shaky but firm.

and you did.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he purred, and then he tore your panties off without batting an eye, the fabric shredding in his grip. he didn’t hesitate, spreading your thighs wide with his knees as he settled between them, his gaze locked on your bare pussy. “fuckin’ hell, look at that. already so wet for me, huh? you’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you?”

his words were crude, degrading, but the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing worth something in his miserable existence—made your heart flutter even as your body burned with shame and need. without warning, he dragged two thick fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness before shoving them inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust. you cried out, your walls clenching around the intrusion as he curled his digits, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. “tight as fuck,” he growled, his thumb circling your clit with rough precision. “gonna stretch this sweet little cunt out before i destroy it with my cock.”

his filthy words sent a shiver through you, your body trembling beneath him as he worked you open, his fingers pumping with a brutal rhythm. the wet, lewd sounds of your pussy sucking him in filled the room, mixing with your breathless moans and his low, guttural curses. you could feel the pressure building, your climax creeping closer with every harsh stroke, but before you could fall over the edge, he yanked his fingers out, leaving you empty and whining.

“-kuna, please!” you begged, your voice a desperate whimper as you reached for him, craving more, needing him. he let out a low chuckle before bringing his fingers to his mouth, groaning slightly as he tasted your wetness. “patience, sweetheart. i'm not done with you yet.” he shifted, shrugging off his robe to reveal the full extent of his monstrous form—his carved torso, the black markings snaking over his skin, and the massive, throbbing cock hanging heavy between his legs.

your eyes widened at the sight, a mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. he was fucking huge, the tip already dripping with precum, the veins bulging along his length like a warning of pain and ecstasy. “don’t worry,” he said, catching the flicker of fear in your gaze. his tone softened the tiniest bit as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, a rare moment of tenderness. “i’ll go slow at first. can’t have my favorite little toy breaking on me, can i?” you nodded, your breath hitching as he positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick folds.

he pushed in slowly, just as he’d said, but even that was enough to make you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body stretched to take him. “fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with restraint as he inched deeper, giving you time to adjust. “taking me so well, baby. so fuckin’ good.”

the burn was intense, a mix of pain and pleasure that had tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t want him to stop. you clung to him, your legs trembling as he bottomed out, his hips pressed flush against yours. for a moment, he stilled, letting you breathe through the overwhelming fullness, his hands stroking your thighs in a way that was almost gentle. but sukuna was never patient for too long. once he felt you relax a bit, he pulled out halfway before slamming back in, setting a merciless pace that had you crying out with every thrust. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard banging against the wall as he fucked you with a ferocity that bordered on feral.

“that’s it, take it,” he snarled, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid between your bodies to rub tight circles on your clit. “scream for me, princess. let me hear how much you love it when i ruin you like this.”

his words only fueled the fire in your core, your moans growing louder as your body arched beneath him. the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin filled the room, the stench of sweat and sex hanging thick in the air. you could feel every inch of him, the way his cock dragged against your walls, the way his balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust.

but god did it feel so, so good.

“sukuna, oh fuck, i’m—” your words cut off in a choked sob as your orgasm hit, crashing over you in waves. your pussy clamped down on him, milking his cock as your body shuddered, your vision going white with pleasure. “fuck, that’s it,” he growled, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chased his own release. “cum all over me, baby. make a fuckin’ mess.”

and you did, your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs as he fucked you through the aftershocks, drawing out your pleasure until you were a whimpering, oversensitive wreck beneath him.with a final, animalistic groan, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled his load, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. you whined at the sensation, your body trembling as he collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy but grounding. for a moment, the world was silent save for the sound of your ragged breathing, the heat of his skin against yours. sukuna didn’t pull out right away. instead, he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed a surprisingly soft kiss there.

“you okay, princess?” he murmured, his voice quieter now, laced with concern. “didn’t fuck you up too bad, did i?” you shook your head, a tired smile tugging at your lips as you wrapped your arms around him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “i’m fine,” you whispered. “better than fine.”

he grunted, satisfied, and finally pulled out, a rush of warmth spilling from you as he did. he rolled onto his back, dragging you against his chest, one large hand resting on your lower back while the other tangled in your hair. “good,” he said simply, but there was a warmth in his tone that cut through his usual roughness. “you’re mine, y’know that? no one else gonna take care of you like i do.”

you hummed in response, nestling closer as the exhaustion of the day—and the intensity of what just happened—began to settle over you. but sukuna wasn’t done. after a few minutes of quiet, he shifted, sitting up and pulling you with him. “c’mon, let’s clean you up,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “can’t have my girl lying here all sticky and fucked out.”

he carried you to the bathroom with ease, setting you on the counter before running a warm bath. the steam rose in gentle curls as he added some scented oil—something he’d never admit to buying just for you—and then helped you into the tub, sliding in behind you. his massive frame engulfed yours, but his touch was careful as he washed your hair, his fingers kneading your scalp with surprising gentleness. he cleaned your body too, his hands gliding over your skin with a tenderness that clashed with the brutality of earlier.

“feel better?” he asked, his voice low as he rinsed the suds from your shoulders, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “much,” you replied, leaning back against him, your eyes half-lidded with contentment. “thank you baby.”

he snorted, but there was a flicker of a smirk on his lips. “don’t get used to me being all soft and shit. just takin’ care of what’s mine.” but the way he held you, his arms wrapped around you like a shield, told a different story. you stayed like that for a while, the warmth of the water and his presence lulling you into a state of calm. when the water started to cool, he helped you out, wrapping you in a fluffy towel before carrying you back to bed. he even changed the sheets—grumbling the whole time about what a damn mess you’d made—before tucking you in beside him. as you drifted off, his hand resting possessively on your hip, you couldn’t help but smile. sukuna might be a monster to the rest of the world, but to you, he was something else entirely. and in moments like this, you knew he’d always look after you, no matter how rough or wild things got.

a/n: this is my first time writing smut so idk if it's actually good or not.. hope y'all don't hate it. tbh i wrote this as self indulgence just for my friend

#sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #jjk smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujitsu kaisen smut #jujitsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #sukuna x reader smut #sukuna x you smut #sukuna x y/n smut #sukuna ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader

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f1nalboys · 1 year ago

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Reunion - Frank (Adam Barrett)

Frank x Fem!AFAB!Reader

hiiiii guys >:)) i promise ill get to requests soon!!!!! i just was mentally being attacked by this freak and Needed to write something super quick for him!!!! lmk if anything is ooc for him, i did my darndest writing for him!!!! i hope u all enjoy and lmk if youre interested in me writing more for him!!!! ALSO!! i know his real name is adam but to make it easier for myself i just called him frank in the fic, lmk if u guys prefer that or using his actual name 😝 <3

WORD COUNT: 3190

WARNINGS: nsfw, vampire!frank, human!reader, oral (afab + amab recieving,) choking (to the point of nearly passing out), biting, slight blood play, slightest bit of scent play??, degradation and praise, handcuffs, restraints, face fucking, multiple orgasms (afab,) creampie, this was meant to be short and then i was attacked...., pain play, mating press, implication of more sex, brief mentions/threats of being fucked until you pass out but you are fully concious the entire time, proofread but u guys know me by now

Frank tilts his head, tongue gliding across razor sharp teeth, a sinister grin gracing his normally soft features. You watch him from your spot on the bed, handcuffs tight around both your wrists and the bedframe. Tugging at the restraints, you wince as the cool metal digs into your warm flesh, squirming when you feel Frank's gaze finally land on you.

“Keep struggling and you’re gonna make yourself bleed.” Frank grins, the bed shifting with his weight as he sits down beside you. He’s still fully clothed, a far cry from your bare skin still covered in healed-over bite marks and a layer of sweat. He leans in, hand trailing up your stomach lightly, too lightly to feel good, his nose brushing against your wrist. Frank breathes in deeply and you watch as his eyes roll into the back of his head. “Fuck. Y’know what? Keep doing it. I want you to bleed.”

You whine, shaking your head. “Frank, c’mon, please!”

“C’mon, please,” Frank mimics, fake pouting. You stay silent. When he was like this, all sharp teeth and sharp tongue, it was better to take whatever he was going to give you. A fight wouldn’t stop that. His hand trails up your chest, fingers calloused and rough, before landing on the base of your throat. His grip is loose, for now. “You always been this damn whiney or did this vampire shit give me better hearing?”

You swallow heavily. “I’m sorry.” You squeak and he grins, shaking his head. His hand grips your throat a bit tighter, feeling your pulse pumping heavily under his fingers. You watch his face as his eyes close. His breathing, which you learned he had to pretend to do after getting turned, matches your own. He stays like this a while, feeling your heart beat and the air fill and leave your lungs, feeling the humanity and life pump through your body on instinct.

Frank didn’t miss many things about being human. He was stronger, faster, more agile, smarter, more ruthless, and so fucking powerful it could make your head spin. The things he didn't have anymore he could, for the most part, recreate it well enough. Breathing was now a conscious decision, one he only did when around other people. The sunlight thing didn’t bother him, only resulted in him moving to a city where the nightlife was more important than the daytime. The bloodlust was easy to satiate with his job.

The one thing that he couldn't ignore or replicate, however, was a heartbeat.

His chest felt empty, a dead thing lying there doing nothing but rotting away, maggots and fungi eating away at the carcass that was his humanity. On occasion, he’d find himself laying down, eyes closed, hand over his heart, imagining the thump of it, vibrating his chest, telling him and anyone who touched him that he was something, that he was alive. Your heartbeat was the closest thing to his own he could get to anymore. Frank loved to hear it quicken, skip a beat, change in its normal soothing rhythm, all due to him. Him and his hands, his tongue, his teeth, his words.

Him.

Frank’s eyes open again, blue eyes dark, and he sighs, letting go of your throat. “Spread your legs.” His voice leaves no room for argument and you listen, your face growing hot from embarrassment at the wolf whistle he lets out. “So fuckin’ sexy, you know that? S’why I keep comin’ back.” He murmurs, leaning over and kissing you roughly.

It’s too much, but everything Frank did was too much; he sprayed cologne until you felt like you were suffocating, he kissed you until your lips were bruised, he went down on you until you couldn't remember your name, he killed until he was covered in blood, he betrayed anyone and everyone who was dumb enough to trust him. Everyone but you. The only person he had stayed (mostly) gentle with, loyal too, was you.

Sure, he wouldn’t ever call himself your boyfriend, but he’d kill any guy you talked to and leave their decapitated head on your doorstep, fucking you into your mattress till you couldn't walk, and tell you that you were his. For now, that was enough.

Frank kisses down your neck, sharp teeth nicking at the thin flesh, a low moan being pulled from your lips. He loved the noises you made, could get drunk off them, could pull them from you for hours, and he has. “I need you,” you whimper as his mouth latches onto your nipple, his warm tongue flicking over the hardening nub. He hums around it but doesn’t stop. You can feel him relax over top of you, his free hand squeezing at your other tit, the days stress melting away. “Please?”

“I’m takin’ my time.” Frank says, narrowed eyes flicking up to meet your own, but he lets go of your nipple, sliding down the length of the bed. “Bet you’re fuckin’ soaked though, aren’t you? That’s why you’re begging me.” You can’t deny it even if you wanted to because his hand is cupping your cunt, thick finger prodding at your slick opening to see, and you’re moaning so loud you know your throat is going to be sore tomorrow. “Fuck, you are. Guess it has been a bit, hasn’t it? Missed me or something, sweetheart?”

“Missed your cock.”

“Just my cock?” He asks, rubbing your wetness on your clit, a shiver going down your spine. “Not my fingers? The ones on your sloppy fuckin’ pussy right now, you didn’t miss them?” He asks, a smug fucking grin on his face, his fingers moving expertly against you. “Not my mouth? Bet your pussy misses my mouth. Shit, last time we fucked you didn’t seem very happy when I stopped tongue fucking you, so what changed, huh?”

His voice is sharp, working himself up the more he talks, his eyes focused on yours. He loves the microexpressions you make when you’re trying to hold back; the furrow of your eyebrows, the twitch of your lips, the flare of your nostrils. It's so incredibly human, so incredibly sexy, he wants nothing more than to bite into your neck and drain you, keep you inside him forever. But, he can’t. He’d miss you. Instead, he slips two fingers inside your hole, the stretch making you gasp, eyes widening, heartbeat picking up. “O-okay, okay…missed you.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ did.” He says, sliding down the rest of the bed, strong hands on your thighs, tongue swiping across your clit. Your legs try to close, your back arching off the soft mattress, the clang of the handcuffs bringing a smile to his face. Frank moans against your cunt, his fingers massaging your thighs as he enjoys himself.

You want to touch him, to run your fingers through his hair and tug, bringing him closer, but these damn handcuffs keep digging into your wrists and it hurts and his fingers won’t stop pumping and scissoring inside your cunt and his lips are wrapping around your clit and he’s sucking and suddenly you can’t think of anything as you cum. Your legs shake and your eyes roll into the back of your head and all Frank can do is laugh against you as he draws it out.

“S-stop, hang on,” you stutter after what felt like hours, your body going limp. Frank listens for once, moving his face off of your cunt but he leaves his fingers inside you, curling them just to pull a whine from your throat. You watch as he runs his tongue over his teeth and lips, tasting you, cracking his neck to stop himself from bending you in half and shoving his cock inside you. It’s been a while, almost two weeks, and he wants to savor this. Or, he wants to try. Self control has never been his strong suit. “Can you take the handcuffs off?”

“They hurt?”

“A little.”

“Not yet.” Frank crawls over top of you, pressing his lips to yours. He’s gentle now, but you know he’s holding back. Despite how rough he gets with you, he’s always holding back from the primal urge to rip you to shreds. When he pulls away, he moves forwards even more, his knees just under your armpits. You stare up at him and he knows you’re nervous. His smile is gone, his eyes dark as he works on undoing his belt. “I’ll take ‘em off you real soon baby. I just need you to earn it first.”

You swallow heavily, your heartbeat spiking as you watch him take his belt off. He tosses it to the side, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down to his thighs. His pants rub against your bare chest, scratching you, but you can’t be bothered to care, not with the way your mouth was filling with saliva at the sight of his bulge. Frank laughs as you try to sit back onto your elbows, an annoyed whine stuck in your throat, and he pulls his underwear down, sighing as his cock springs free.

His cock is hard and he strokes it slowly, just out of reach. “Fuckin’ look at you… you ain’t embarrassed acting like this?” He asks, clenching his jaw to keep from moaning at the sight of you. You didn’t know it, or, at least, he hoped you didn’t, but he was addicted to every fucking thing you did. Your voice, your facial expressions, your movements, your back talk, your anger, your sadness; he was obsessed with it all. It was all for him, even when you were alone.

Smiling slightly, you shake your head no. “Were you embarrassed eating me out?” You counter and he smirks, rolling his eyes slightly before leaning his hips forward, the tip of his cock brushing against your lips. Your mouth opens, your eyes laser focused on his dick. Frank teases you, rubbing his cock across your wet tongue.

“Mmm, fuck, I wasn’t,” he answers, tilting his head as he watches you strain your head forwards in an attempt to take him into your mouth. “But I wasn’t doing that.” You roll your eyes and look up at him, doing your best to look doe-eyed. His eyes narrow; he knew what you were doing, and he knew it would work. “So slutty, aren’t you, sweetheart? All for my cock.” As he talks, his voice low, he uses his hand to press his cock against your cheek, thrusting shallowly. His precum smears across your cheeks and you moan softly, your tongue rolling out of your mouth to slide against his shaft as he does so.

Finally, Frank pushes his cock down your throat. He does so slowly, hissing as he savors the heat of your mouth as your lips wrap around him. Your eyes close and you hum, enjoying the weight of his cock on your tongue. His cock was perfect for you; long, thick, and curved upwards, it always filled you to the brim, hitting that spot inside you to make your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

“There you go, Y/N,” he grunts, his hips flexing. The rhythm he sets is slow and deep, making you gag each time and giving you enough time to recover before he repeats it. “Fuck, your mouth is so good, you know that? Just wanna, fuck,” his hand comes to rest on the headboard behind you, leaning over your head, plunging his cock deeper into your mouth. You hear the metal headboard creak and you know the grip he has on it is nearly enough to break it. “Just wanna fucking shove it down your throat till you pass out.”

You gurgle around his cock, heart jumping at the thought, and he grins. “You want that, slut? Huh? Missed me so fuckin’ bad you want me to fuck your tight little throat? Make you take it even after you’re fuckin’ knocked out, using you like my own little fuck toy, my little puppet to do whatever I want with?” His thrusts get harder, deeper, and now you really are finding it hard to breathe, but you don’t want him to stop. Not yet. You have no way to stop him even if you did, and the realization is almost enough to send you into a panic. But you know Frank. He knew your body better than you did, knew what you could handle and what you couldn’t, knew what would make you cry in pain or pleasure; you were safe with him, even if he was bruising your throat.

The edge of your vision begins to blur, the lack of oxygen making your head spin, and right when you swear you’re about to pass out, your tugging at the handcuffs finally stopping, he pulls out. You suck in a harsh breath, sputtering and coughing, not registering as Frank gets off the bed and kicks his pants the rest of the way off. It’s only when you feel his hands pressing your knees to your chest that you realize what he’s about to do. “Wait!”

“What?” He grumbles, swiping his cock through your folds, focused on the way you coat the tip. “Don’t tell me you don’t wanna fuck… that’ll be cruel...” You respond by tugging at the handcuffs again, clanging them against the bed frame, and he nods, tsking, a grin on his face. “Ah, right, right. Forgot about that. My bad, baby.”

He grabs the key from his pants pocket, wetting his bottom lip as he unlocks them, tossing the handcuffs and keys to the side. Your wrists are raw, a few droplets of blood bubbling up along the skin. “You made me bleed.” You say softly, no venom in your voice. He grabs your hand gently, bringing it to his mouth before he licks the cut. It tickles.

“Fuck, your blood…” Frank says, giving you a look you can’t quite place before he’s back at the task at hand. Your knees are pushed to your chest, your hands positioned to hold them back as far as you could, and before you know it his cock is bullying its way into your hole. “So fucking tight.” He grunts as he sets a brutal pace, each noise of pain you make only fueling him onward.

He doesn’t ever want to hurt you, but it’s hard not to when you sound and feel and taste so fucking good when he does.

“My cock too much?” He leans over your body as he fucks you, using his weight to keep your legs trapped above his shoulders. Frank's face hovers above yours, his eyes locked onto every twist of your face. “Too fuckin’ big, too fuckin’ thick, it hurts, Frank.” He mocks, emphasizing each word with a sharp thrust. Your arms, now free from the restraints, wrap around his shoulders tightly. “Too fuckin; much but you don’t want me to stop, fuck, ain’t that right?”

“Yes! Yes, fuck, don’t stop, please!” You cry out, the pain of being stretched out finally beginning to melt away into toe curling pleasure. The fire in your stomach is burning white hot, his stomach bumping against your clit with each thrust, his grunts replacing your own thoughts. Every word he said, every name he called you, it all blended together perfectly.

He begins to kiss at your neck, sucking marks onto your flesh only to soothe them with his tongue. “Missed you too, y’know?” He whispers against you. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, the way you get so god damn tight. Couldn’t, shit, couldn’t even play with my cock ‘cause it didn’t feel as good as when you do it.” He laughs at this, shaking his head at himself for admitting it. He missed the other stuff too, like your smile and your laugh and the way you smelled when you were curled up in his bed asleep. He’d never tell you that, though.

Franks thrusts grow sloppy, his patience finally snapping. “You better fuckin’ cum on my dick, Y/N.” He grunts, lifting his head for a brief moment to look you in the eyes. When he sees them squeezed shut he growls, one hand wrapping tight around your throat. “Fuckin’ look at me.” Your eyes pop open, your gasp of shock stuck in your throat. “Your greedy little cunts gonna milk me dry, you understand, bitch?”

“F-fuck,” you gurgle, your hand grabbing onto his as he tightens his grip again. You do your best to nod, feeling spit collect at the corner of your mouth, your heart beating so quick you think it’s going to burst. You can’t breath but he’s fucking you so well you don’t give a shit; you just hope if you pass out he’ll hold off on cumming inside you until you were awake again so you can feel it.

“There you go, baby, fuck, cum for me.” Frank grunts, feeling your orgasm just before you do. His hand lets go of your throat as you cum, shoving your head to the side to sink his teeth into your flesh. Somehow, someway, he’s able to hold off for a few moments longer, savoring the feeling of your cunt spasming around him before he cums, the sweet taste of your blood pooling into his mouth tipping him over the edge. He doesn’t let go, groaning into your shoulder as he spills inside you.

Your gasps come out shaky as he feeds. He swallows a few times before finally letting go, your blood covering his mouth. He kisses you roughly, his hips flexing, making sure your cunt gets every drop. “Gross,” you tease when he pulls away, your tongue swiping over the blood he had left behind on your tongue. Your face screws up at the metallic taste but Franks changes to be softer. He runs a finger down the side of your cheek, taking the sight of you in. “What?” You murmur, feeling your face grow hot.

“I did miss you. For real.” He admits, corner of his lip twitching upwards at both the look of shock that crosses your face and the way your heart skips. He never admitted that to you before; it was always about how much he missed your cunt or your mouth or your hands, how he missed fucking you and making you his, and you always accepted that this was the way it would be. Sure, you dreamed about this moment time and time again, but you never actually thought it would happen. “Being away, you know, made me think some things through.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well…” He tilts his head slightly, surveying your face. “I’m thinking maybe it’s time you joined me.” His hips flex again, pushing his cum deeper inside you, and you gasp, back arching off the bed slightly. Frank moves your legs down off his shoulders and you wrap them around his waist. “Hm? How’s that sound, sweetheart?” Frank purrs, kissing you gently, his cock plunging in and out of you slowly. He pulls back, lips hovering just above yours, a smirk on his face. “You want me to turn you?

#f1nalboys masterlist #f1nalboys writing #f1nalboys works #abigail #abigail 2024 #frank abigail #adam barrett #frank abigail x reader #adam barrett x reader #adam barrett x y/n #frank abigail x y/n #vampire x reader

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dvchvnde · 10 months ago

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excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them.

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight.

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest.

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley.

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes.

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home.

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter.

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs.

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream.

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way.

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone.

#this was written while i typed one handed and snacked on cheesy tteokbokki after midnight and for some reason #sheher over youyour was easier to text to speech annotate w/o my Samsung having an episode #I'll clean it up after though #simon riley x reader #hitchhiker au

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bleedingichorhearts · 26 days ago

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Hi <33 Can I ask for something angst with Nurgle? Thank you<33

“Angst? For Nurgle? Out of all the gods you could despair? Man, you got me thinkin. It was a bit hard to make somethin' up for him with no direction.” - Ichor

Summary - “Nurgle kept you too long by his side without thinking of his your mortal body could handle his power.”

TW // Angst-Ish, Death, Gore? Flash Fiction(543).

Nurgle was a bit oblivious to the blights of the mortal body like a Great Unclean one to a Nurgling.

He hadn’t kept in mind that a mortal cannot survive within his domain. It didn’t even cross his mind. He honestly thought you would be resistant like Isha, but… he should have known better. The mortals were always a bit… weak… not that he judges his potential children.

Now, here he stands with your dead, rotting body in the cusp of his hand. It should have been something he would coo and faun over, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not this time. He will not make this mistake of his to be keen of, for he loved creation, not death. Death destroys his gardens while creation keeps them alive.

Except, creation of his couldn't keep you alive. His creation took instead of evolving; recreating you. It took what shouldn't have been taken, and he didn't even bother. He thought you were fine and dandy in that little cage of yours.

He could revive you in his own way, but that would make you... to obeying. Too... less of you. He could ask Tzeentch, but again, that won't be... you. Not only that but he's not one to go to Tzeentch out of all beings of gods. They conflict with one another, and he wouldn't trust that he would switch up his little mortal with their power. So, he does the next best thing, or so he thinks it is.

He stores you like some ingredient for his cauldron of disease, and that's what you have become, an ingredient.

He uses you for only the best recipes. Never taking more than he should from your body that grows maggots, worms, flies, acid, gasses and surprisingly? Mushrooms. Never taking any bones like: fingernails, and well... your skeleton. He wouldn't take your hair either, and if a curious Nurgling gets too close to your body of internal rot? They are getting squished, even a Great Unclean One and Champion knows better than to potentially show greed around the most precious ingredient of his meals.

Sometimes, the God of Decay lays and curls around you, hoping to feel that warmth you used to give, but instead he just feels the coldness of you. He just smells the mildew and delicious decay of your body. You weren't alive, your body wasn't. Your soul, however? Is stored in an overly protected place within his garden. Strings of pulsing, soft pink flesh wrapping around your casing as if you were a caterpillar getting ready to become a butterfly. Yet, that would never come unless it had to be ultimately done. Unless your soul wishes to leave and infect another body.

If your soul has a drive to do so, he would let it and follow. His spirts high for a recreation and capture of you. All while reminding himself that he needs a way to not let you rot once more within his care, but until that happens? Your soul is stuck in a ball of flesh, and your body used for the best soups and foods, made by his own hands.

You had just become another essential in his plagues. A more special one at that.

“@kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.”

“+@c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @marcela2000, @passionofthesith, @insanity6666, @ilovewolvezz.” - Tagged

#🗡️ichors’ warhammer request’s #warhammer 30k #warhammer 40k #nurgle #nurgle x reader #chaos god #tw: angst #tw: death

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pricesgirl · 1 month ago

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Neon moon

Chapter 2

She wasn’t a ghost.

She should have been.

By all accounts, by the laws of time and suffering, she should have rotted away with the memories that had clung to him like maggots in a corpse. But she was here—whole—a revenant of blood and sinew, a cruel mirage crafted from grief and madness, standing in the dim light like something pried from the jaws of the underworld. His mind had summoned her before, in the fevered delirium of nightmares and longing, but this was different. This was real. Too visceral. Too wrong.

“Ekko…” she breathed, his name escaping her lips like the last gasp of a dying thing, slipping through time’s cracked teeth, searching for him in the wreckage of their past.

His chest caved inward. His ribs turned to rusted iron.

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t breathe.

Jinx.

Powder.

The name curdled in his throat, thick with blood and betrayal. She had been the marrow of his bones once, the bright thing in the dark, the spark that made the world bearable. And then she had burned it all down. She had carved herself into him with jagged edges, her love a rusted blade twisting deeper, deeper, until the wound festered, bled, ruined him. And now, standing before him, she looked—

Alive.

No longer the wraith of his nightmares, no longer the hollowed-out creature he had last seen drenched in smoke and violence. The ghost of bruises no longer clung to her skin like war paint. Her bones, once brittle as burnt paper, had been stitched back together with something almost unnatural. Her skin, pale but pulsing with warmth, stretched smooth over muscle that hadn’t been there before.

Her hair, that wild electric blue, flickered in the dim light like something alive, like it might reach for him, coil around his throat and squeeze.

And her eyes—

Those violet eyes, so bright they could cut through bone, so sharp they could strip him raw like a carcass left to the elements—held something darker now.

Pain.

Survival.

Ekko’s mind spun in jagged, fractured pieces, time stretching out before him like tar, suffocating him with each tortured second as he tried to hold on to the remnants of himself.

Blue.

Blue had faded from his world, slipping through his fingers like water. Even the electric, vibrant blue he had etched into his memories had dulled, bled out by years of violence and loss. The blue he once had known was a ghost, an echo. A faded thing.

But now?

Now, standing before him, staring back with that savage intensity, all he could see was blue.

Bright blue.

Blue so vivid, so overwhelming it burned into his retinas, searing his vision until it swallowed the edges of everything else. It was a color that felt like it might crack open his skull and pour into his mind, spilling out all the things he had tried to bury. The things he had tried to forget.

But beneath the blue, there was something else. Something darker.

Red.

Red, creeping like a stain across the blue of her hands, tracing the contours of her fingers. Blood. Not fresh, not dripping, but something lingering—an aftertaste of violence and raw, seething emotion. The tips of her fingers, smeared with it, the faint marks where her nails had bitten into her own flesh. Her hands hung at her sides, fists clenched so tightly the bones of her knuckles stood out, white and sharp, As though she might shatter herself with the pressure.

But there it was. The evidence.

Small, crescent-shaped wounds where her nails had dug deep into the delicate, fragile skin of her palms, the blood oozing from them like the last remnants of a war she had fought alone. It stained her hands in a way that made it seem like she had been baptized in violence, each drop of crimson a mark of her survival, her unrelenting will to endure.

And her lips—

Split at the corners, raw and trembling, as if violence had kissed her too many times, leaving its scarred imprint on her very soul. The bruises around her mouth were half-faded, the skin just beginning to heal, but the pain still clung to her like a second skin. Every inch of her screamed of things unsaid, wounds that festered beneath the surface, held together by whatever fragile thread she had left to hold on to.

There was a wildness in her, thrumming just beneath that calm, that eerie composure she wore like armor. It was the kind of wildness that lived in the spaces between breaths, in the way her muscles twitched, coiled with restless energy. A fragility that felt as though it could shatter with one wrong word, one wrong move. And yet, there was a strength, too. A quiet, dangerous resolve in the way she held herself, a steeliness that had been forged in the flames of her pain. It coiled in her arms, in her jaw, ready to snap if provoked, ready to strike.

Ekko stood there, paralyzed, his body locked in a brutal stand-off with his emotions, each one warring for dominance. His mind reeled, a whirlwind of fury and something far softer, more insidious. The weight of everything—the loss, the time that had slipped away like blood from an open wound—pressed on him like the weight of a thousand tons of stone. Each new shard of understanding, each jagged piece of the puzzle, ground against his bones, leaving him raw, vulnerable. His fists curled tightly at his sides, a primal urge to lash out clawing at him, desperate to rip through the silence, to tear into the source of his torment.

Anger simmered in his veins, a furnace of rage fed by the months she had stolen from him, the cold, empty space she had left in her wake. His soul had bled out in that void—drowning in unanswered questions, in the desperate, gnawing ache of grief that had worn him to the bone, until even his own breath felt like a betrayal.

But the anger—it was nothing compared to what had crept beneath it.

Sorrow.

He saw it in the trembling of her hands, the uncertainty clouding her once razor-sharp eyes. This wasn’t the girl who had disappeared, the girl who had left him with nothing but silence and burning memory. This was the girl who had survived—who had clawed her way through the wreckage, fought for every breath when the world had tried to suffocate her. And as much as her absence still bled in his chest, as much as it left him raw and unfinished, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Not with her. Not when she looked at him like that—like she was still trying to piece herself together, still fighting for something more than just survival.

And yet, beneath all of that…

All he wanted to do was pull her close. To erase the distance between them, to wipe away the hurt and confusion that separated them. But how could he? How could he even begin to untangle the mess of emotions that coiled around them like a noose?

His body moved before his mind could catch up, a step forward, slow and deliberate, as if he were afraid she might shatter under the weight of his touch. His voice came, low and broken, a sound he didn’t recognize as his own—soft, like a whisper meant to soothe a wound that would never heal.

“Where the hell have you been?”

The words tore free, jagged and raw, more forceful than he intended. But they weren’t born of rage—they were born of confusion, of a hurt so deep it felt like it was carving out the very space inside his chest, leaving him hollow, broken. And beneath that hurt, there was something softer, something dangerous—something that squeezed his heart until he thought it might crack open and spill all the things he had been too terrified to say.

Jinx flinched. Just the slightest tremor of her body, as if the question had cut deeper than she was ready to admit. But her eyes? They never left his. She didn’t answer right away, her lips pressing together as if the words were caught somewhere in the depths of her throat, struggling to claw their way out.

He saw it then—saw the guilt that writhed beneath her skin, saw the uncertainty that danced in the flicker of her gaze. It made his own chest ache, a sharp, tender pain that echoed in the pit of his stomach. His hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for her, to pull her into the space between them and erase all the years of unanswered questions, of everything that had torn them apart. But he hesitated. He didn’t know if she would let him.

“You’re alive,” he said, quieter now, as if the words were more for him than for her, a fragile attempt at grounding himself. The words felt too thin, too fragile for the weight of the moment, but they were the only ones he could find. “You’re alive.”

Jinx nodded, her breath shallow and broken, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her, making her look away for a fraction of a second. In that brief moment, he saw the crack in her composure, the subtle shift in her walls that told him more than any words could.

Ekko’s breath hitched, his chest tightening like a vice around his lungs. His fingers curled into fists, the bones in his hands grinding together, his knuckles turning white, shaking with an emotion he wasn’t sure he could contain. Rage, grief, longing—they coiled in his chest like a suffocating knot, pressing against his ribs with a force that made him want to scream, to tear everything apart, to make sense of the mess she had left behind.

She was standing right there.

Alive.

Whole.

And all he could think about was the nights he’d spent picturing her body in the dirt. Imagining her bones picked clean by time, by war, by the ghosts that never stopped whispering her name in his ear.

Jinx.

She had left him. Torn herself from his world and taken every last piece of warmth with her. No body, no grave, just the gaping maw of emptiness where she used to be. He had mourned her in ways he never thought he would have to. Screamed her name into the wind, let it rip through his lungs until he had nothing left but silence.

And now she was here. Breathing.

Like she hadn’t destroyed him.

His voice, when it came, was rough. Sharp. A blade dulled only by the ache buried beneath it.

“You left.”

The words weren’t enough. Nothing would be enough. He wanted to say I lost my mind looking for you, I buried you in my heart and let you rot there, I hate you for making me hope again. But all that came out was that same, shaking whisper.

“You fucking left.”

Jinx flinched, just the smallest twitch in her fingers, the faintest tremor in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, recognition. It was enough to make the air between them feel impossibly heavy, like it was going to crush them both.

“I didn’t wanna hurt you,” she murmured, voice small, delicate—as if the very act of speaking might shatter her. The words were soft, barely there, like they were afraid to be too loud, too real, in this space between them.

Ekko’s exhale was sharp, angry, escaping through his nose as he fought to keep himself steady. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles in his neck rippling under the strain. The anger surged again, hot and searing in his veins, but it didn’t feel like it could go anywhere. He was burning alive with it, and yet, nothing came of it.

“That supposed to make it better?” His voice cracked on the last word, rough and broken, the sound scraping the inside of his throat. But he didn’t care. He didn’t want to care. His hand scraped across his face, a gesture so rough it almost hurt. His whole body hummed with restless, agonized energy, a desperate need to tear something apart—to make this all make sense.

“Do you have any idea what it was like? Thinking you were—” He stopped himself, shaking his head, the words dying in his throat before he could give them life. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t let the word leave his mouth. It was too raw, too final, too real to speak.

Dead.

The word had haunted him for months, the weight of it pressing down on his chest every time he closed his eyes. He couldn’t say it. It wasn’t real. Not anymore.

But it had been. For so long, she had been nothing but a ghost in his mind. A hollow echo of a girl who used to burn so brightly, now snuffed out in the dark.

Jinx swallowed, her gaze flickering down for a moment, like she was trying to swallow the distance between them. Something shifted in her expression. She looked older now. Softer. Healthier. Like time had wrapped itself around her, let her heal in ways that Ekko hadn’t been able to. He hated her for that, just a little. He wanted to be angry about it—wanted to lash out at the fact that she’d gotten to move on while he’d been left to rot in the past, stuck in a perpetual state of grief.

But he couldn’t. Not when she was standing here in front of him, not when she was looking at him like he was something delicate—like a single breath could break him apart and spill everything he’d buried so deep inside.

He couldn’t hate her for that.

He could never hate her.

His fingers trembled, reaching for her before he could even think about stopping himself. He brushed the edge of her sleeve, the touch light, hesitant—like a fragile thread connecting him to something he thought he'd lost. She didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to explain,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and raw. Weary. The weight of everything he hadn’t been able to carry settled in the deep, aching hollows of his chest. “I don’t—I don’t know why you left. I mean, fuck, I do know why, but…” He stopped, trying to steady himself, but the words came too fast, breaking through the floodgates. “I missed you.”

It was too simple. Too raw. Too naked. But it was the only truth left in him. The one thing that had been there all along, buried beneath all the rage, the grief, the confusion.

Jinx’s lips parted—just slightly, as if she were about to speak, as if she were about to crack herself open and place something raw in his hands—but nothing came. Just silence. A nod. Small. Fragile. Heavy enough to crush them both.

And then, like a whisper against his skin, her fingers brushed his palm.

Ekko didn’t think. He couldn’t. The moment shattered whatever distance remained between them, his body moving before his mind could catch up. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her in, closing the unbearable space that had stretched between them for so long.

Jinx tensed. A flicker of hesitation. A ghost of all the years lost between them. But then—then, she gave in. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight, desperate, like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go. Like she was afraid she might.

Ekko exhaled, a slow, shaking breath that felt like it had been held in his chest for lifetimes. His arms tightened around her, and she didn’t disappear. She was warm. Solid. Not a ghost. Not a cruel mirage conjured by grief.

His hand drifted up, fingers threading through her hair—instinctive, reverent, like touching something he had never thought he’d hold again. It was longer than before, the strands softer, spilling past her shoulders like ink bleeding across paper. He hadn’t noticed at first—not through the storm of shock and fury and aching, unbearable relief. But now, with her pressed against him, he let himself see her.

“You let it grow out,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath against her temple, quiet, like speaking too loud might shatter the moment.

Jinx made a sound—half a laugh, half something more fragile. “Yeah… Guess I did.”

Ekko’s fingers traced absently through the strands, slow, deliberate. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some proof that this was real, maybe. That she wasn’t going to disappear the second he let go.

Jinx shifted, her breath warm against his collarbone, then—so softly he almost didn’t notice—she buried her face against his shoulder.

And just like that, something in him cracked wide open.

He had spent so long standing at the edge of an abyss, teetering, waiting for the inevitable fall. But here, in this moment, with her weight against him, her scent curling into his lungs like something familiar, something missed—for the first time in years, he felt like the ground beneath him wasn’t crumbling.

Like maybe—just maybe—the world hadn’t taken everything from him after all.

○

Ekko followed her through the dimly lit streets, his pulse still unsteady, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against his ribs. Jinx walked ahead of him, her steps light but purposeful, as if she wasn’t quite ready to slow down, to sit in the silence of what had just happened. He understood.

She glanced back at him, her fingers twitching at her sides like she wanted to reach for him but didn’t know how. “Chuck’s probably waiting,” she muttered, almost absently. “He gets pissy if I’m out too long.”

Ekko stiffened mid-step. “Chuck?” His voice came out flatter than he intended, like a blade pressed too hard against a whetstone.

Jinx hummed, distracted, already turning onto the next street. “Yeah, he’s probably sleeping, but—”

Something hot and sharp coiled low in his gut, an ugly thing with teeth, curling its fingers around his spine. He hadn’t let himself ask before—where she had been, who she had been with—but now, with some Chuck waiting for her, the question dug its claws in deep.

“You, uh… got someone waiting on you?” He tried to keep his voice even, but it came out tight, like it had been dragged through clenched teeth.

Jinx blinked at him over her shoulder. “Yeah.”

Ekko clenched his jaw. His fists curled at his sides before he forced them to relax, fingers flexing against the sick burn creeping through him. He didn’t have a right to be mad. He didn’t. But that didn’t stop the image from forming—some guy sitting in her apartment, knowing the things Ekko didn’t, knowing her in ways he had lost the right to.

“Chuck,” he said, rolling the name over his tongue like poison. “Right.”

Jinx shot him a look, lips twitching. “Yeah, you’ll like him. He’s kind of an asshole.”

Ekko exhaled sharply through his nose, gaze darkening. Oh, I bet he is.

Jinx didn’t elaborate. Just kept walking, her steps light, unhurried, like she had no idea what she’d just lodged in his chest. And Ekko followed, the weight inside him growing heavier with every step, dragging him down into something slow and smoldering, a dull heat coiling behind his ribs.

His mind twisted the name into a shape he could hate. Chuck—some smug, lazy bastard draped over her couch, taking up space like it belonged to him. A man sprawled out in the quiet parts of her life, legs kicked up, hands resting on things he had no right to touch. He could see it too clearly—clothes left where they didn’t belong, the scent of someone else clinging to her space, the soft echoes of laughter that weren’t meant for him.

His jaw locked. His stomach twisted. He had no right to feel like this—no claim, no reason to care who she let into her world, who she laughed with, who she whispered to in the quiet hours of the night.

But the thought still burned, a slow, sick thing slithering between his ribs, sinking its teeth into the raw, bloody places inside him.

Jinx, oblivious—or pretending to be—led him up a rusted staircase, fingers ghosting along the rail like she was tracing something only she could see. She moved like she’d done this a thousand times, like the path had been etched into her bones, like muscle memory alone carried her forward.

At the landing, she fished a key from her pocket, shoved it into the lock, and twisted. The door groaned open, a slow, aching sound that rattled against the silence.

Ekko hesitated. The threshold felt like a line he wasn’t sure he was meant to cross.

He wasn’t sure what he expected—some shape stretched out on her couch, a stranger’s scent in the air, the low murmur of someone waiting for her in the dark. But the apartment was still. Dim.

Jinx stepped inside first, arms stretching above her head, spine arching with a lazy, careless sigh. “Alright, I’m back,” she called, her voice light, easy, like she had done this a thousand times before. She tossed her keys onto the counter. They hit with a sharp clink, shattering the hush that had settled over the room.

She exhaled, her head tilting slightly. A pause, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression.

Then, softer—almost amused—she added, “Don’t be mad.”

Ekko stood frozen in the doorway, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. His eyes dragged over the dim-lit space, searching for evidence of Chuck—a jacket thrown carelessly over a chair, a half-empty glass on the counter, a man waiting in the dark.

But the room was empty.

Then—movement. A whisper of sound against the floor. Low to the ground. Watching.

Ekko’s body tensed, the air growing thick, suffocating. His pulse slammed against his ribs. Something slunk forward from the shadows, slow and deliberate, eyes gleaming like twin embers in the dark—one the color of dying flames, the other a ghostly blue, unnatural, wrong. It was small. Too small. And yet, the weight of its presence filled the room, stretching into the spaces between them.

A cat.

A fucking cat.

The tension in his chest didn’t ease. Not fully. Not when he watched the creature move toward Jinx with the eerie certainty of something that knew her, something that had always known her. It wove around her legs, tail curling, body pressing into her as if tethering itself to her presence—like it had been waiting for her. Like it always would.

Ekko’s stomach twisted. He’d seen something like this before.

He’d heard it in Jinx’s voice when she spoke of Isha—the girl whose name still lingered in the corners of her mind like a half-forgotten prayer. The way she described her, the way her fingers twitched, grasping at ghosts that would never reach back. “I would’ve done anything for her,” she had told him, her voice thick with something raw, something ruined.

And now, here she was, sinking to her knees before this creature like she had found some echo of what she had lost. Her voice, soft and fragile, barely a whisper, “Hey, Chuck,” slipped from her lips, as if saying the name could stitch up wounds Ekko had only just begun to recognize.

The cat pressed into her palm, its purring a constant, throbbing rhythm that filled the space between them. The sound vibrated through the walls, through the floor, through Ekko’s chest, settling deep in his bones. And Jinx—she softened. She shifted, her face unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen in years. It was like watching the wreckage of her soul pull back, piece by piece, only to reveal something tender and raw beneath it. Something alive.

She bent forward, her fingers disappearing into the thick, orange fur of the cat. And Ekko—he felt a strange pull. Something tugging in the hollow of his chest. Without thinking, he crouched down beside her, the weight of the moment heavy between them. His hand moved toward the cat, hesitant at first, as though uncertain of what kind of damage might be done by crossing this delicate line.

His fingers brushed against Chuck’s fur, the softness of it more real than anything he'd felt in months. The cat leaned into the touch, purring louder, a comforting, soothing vibration. Ekko’s hand moved again, slower this time, sinking into the warmth of the animal. And Jinx, still lost in the moment, looked up at him—her eyes softened, the flicker of something tender dancing there.

For a fleeting moment, the chaos, the noise of the world, faded. There was only the pulse of Chuck’s purring, the warmth of the space, and the strange, delicate connection between them—torn and frayed, yet still holding on.

Ekko’s breath slowed, his heart beating out of sync with the weight in his chest, a quiet ache that had always been there, lingering just beneath the surface. He let the moment stretch, longer than he expected, feeling the ground shift beneath him. It wasn’t peace, not quite. But it was something close to it. Something they both needed.

○

The soft hum of the shower ran through the apartment, a steady sound that filled the silence between them. Ekko lay back against Jinx’s bed, his head resting against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were a little too warm, the air a little too thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for—her to finish, or for the world to somehow make more sense. Either way, he found himself tangled in the quiet moments that stretched between the low trickle of water and the faint buzz of a streetlight outside her window.

His gaze drifted down to the bed beneath him—Jinx’s bed. The sheets were a chaotic patchwork of mismatched fabric, a strange medley of patterns that clashed more than they complimented. Bright florals fought against geometric shapes, some faded and fraying at the edges, others still holding their color with a stubbornness that mirrored Jinx herself. It was ugly, undeniably so, but in a way that felt almost… endearing. Like it was too perfect in its imperfection, an abstract reflection of the girl who had picked them out, one reckless choice at a time.

Jinx had let him stay, had asked him to, though she hadn’t said much about it. It was just a soft kind of invitation—the way she looked at him when he asked where he would sleep, like it was obvious. Here. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a hesitation. Just a fact.

Ekko glanced at the bathroom door, listening to the water splashing against tile, the sound of her humming faint through the thin walls. The apartment smelled like soap and something sweet—maybe her shampoo, maybe just the weight of being in her space. It felt strange, like he was invading something personal, but at the same time, it felt like a weird kind of normalcy. It was domestic in a way that didn’t quite match the chaos of his own world.

He shifted in bed, stretching his legs out, his mind wandering as it so often did. They weren’t talking about what was heavy. Not yet. They were just existing in these mundane moments—sharing space, sharing breath. And part of him hated how easy it was to fall into the routine of it. Normalcy, he thought again. And then he hated it even more because normalcy felt like a memory of something neither of them could ever have again.

The sound of water stopped abruptly, followed by the soft squeak of the shower door. He glanced over just as Jinx stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her hair clinging to her shoulders, droplets of water still tracing down her skin. She was still wet, still glistening, like she had just stepped out of the world and into this quiet moment between them.

Ekko shifted, sitting up a little more, the bed creaking beneath him. His pulse quickened, a low hum in his veins, though he didn't know if it was from the sight of her or the proximity of it. She was so close now, close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the tension in the air, the quiet heat that had slowly started to build between them. He couldn’t quite place it—was it something physical? Or was it just the intimacy of being here, in this soft moment, where words didn’t matter and the world outside didn’t exist?

His gaze flickered to her face, catching the way her wet hair clung to her cheek, the way her towel barely hung on, wrapped tightly but threatening to slip. There was nothing rushed about it. Nothing urgent. Just... her. Just them. And it felt tender, in a way that was almost too much, a subtle pull in his chest that made him ache.

Jinx caught his gaze and held it for a beat longer than was comfortable, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was half-expecting something, or maybe nothing at all, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she stepped closer to him, her bare feet silent against the floor, and for a moment, she just stood there. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough, heavy and soft, like the air before a storm.

Ekko’s heart skipped a beat, the space between them charged now with something that felt dangerous but comforting at the same time. He swallowed, trying to find words, but his throat had gone dry. She was too close. He was too close.

Her hand moved then, slow, deliberate, as if she were still unsure of how to approach him, but it was a touch he welcomed all the same. Her fingers brushed against his arm—soft, hesitant—and in that touch, there was a promise of something more, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that they had never said out loud.

He leaned into it, closing the space between them, his breath shallow, as though drawing too much air might make it all vanish. Jinx’s face was inches from his, her eyes searching his in a way that made everything else blur. She didn’t pull away, didn’t retreat. She just—waited.

The bed creaked again as he moved closer, his fingers gently brushing her damp hair away from her face, a whisper of contact that felt almost like a question. Her lips parted, but the words didn’t come. They didn’t need to. It was enough, the moment stretching between them like silk, fragile and tangible.

Ekko’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat louder than the last, as he closed the space between them. There was a tremble in his hands, a hesitation that hung between them like a delicate thread. Jinx was still—still enough to make his breath catch—and for a long moment, neither of them moved. The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken, something too raw to define but too heavy to ignore.

Her lips parted slightly, and the world outside seemed to blur, the noise of the city fading away, leaving just the two of them in the silence of this fragile moment. Ekko’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes, searching for something. Maybe an answer. Maybe a reassurance. But all he found was the same quiet trust, the same tension that had been building between them all this time.

Ekko shifted, pushing himself up from the bed in one fluid motion, standing before her.. His lips brushed against hers, hesitant at first, as though testing the waters. But the moment their skin touched, everything shifted. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a question, an apology, a confession. It was the weight of everything they had never said, everything they had never dared to admit. The softest of touches, but it felt like everything.

Jinx’s breath hitched as she leaned into him, her body pressing closer, the towel still loosely clinging to her form as though it were a fragile barrier she was willing to let slip. Her hand found his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt, grounding them both in the reality of the moment. Ekko responded in kind, his hand gently cupping her face, as if she were something delicate, something fragile he wasn’t sure how to hold.

The kiss deepened, just a fraction, the connection between them intensifying with every passing second. It wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was slow. Intentional. Full of something deeper—something far more complicated than either of them were willing to acknowledge. It was the moment where everything and nothing existed at once, where the weight of their pasts, their fears, their desires—all of it—seemed to slip away, if only for a second.

Ekko’s heart thudded against his ribs, his breath shallow as he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers. Neither of them spoke, but the silence felt heavy, full of meaning. He didn’t need to say anything. Neither did she. The quiet between them felt full, brimming with unspoken understanding.

Jinx’s eyes fluttered open slowly, and for a moment, she just stared at him, searching. Maybe for answers. Maybe for something more. And then, without a word, she let out a soft, quiet laugh—barely a sound, but enough to ease the tightness in his chest.

“God,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

Ekko’s breath caught at the sound of her voice, soft and vulnerable, as if the walls between them were dissolving with every passing second. Her laugh, barely audible, was like a breath of relief in the thick air between them. It was a sound that carried all the weight of everything they had never said and everything they were finally allowing themselves to feel.

The warmth of her skin against his, the soft pressure of her hand on his chest, was a grounding sensation. He could feel the thrum of her pulse under his fingertips, and it mirrored the erratic beat of his own heart. It was all too much—too many emotions, too much closeness, too much of everything—but it was also exactly what he needed. What they both needed.

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, tracing the curve of it, watching her inhale sharply as she leaned into his touch. The vulnerability in her eyes made him ache in a way that was unfamiliar, a tenderness that both terrified and excited him. Slowly, carefully, as though testing the waters, he kissed her again. This time, it was deeper, slower, the kind of kiss that felt as if it could stretch on forever.

Jinx responded without hesitation, her hands moving to his shoulders, pulling herself closer, her body pressing into his as though there was no space left between them that needed to be filled. His fingers slid through her damp hair, cupping the back of her neck, and she shuddered under the gentle pressure.

The kiss deepened, soft and slow, their breaths coming in tandem, filling the space between them with something both tender and intense. Jinx’s fingers slid beneath the fabric of his shirt, her touch delicate and deliberate as she traced the lines of his muscles, as if memorizing the feel of him, as if she needed to reassure herself that he was real. Ekko could feel the warmth of her skin seep into him, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Her lips parted slightly against his, and the subtle shift of her body against his made his pulse quicken, but he didn’t rush. He couldn’t—this moment was too precious, too fragile, and he didn’t want to break it. Not yet. His hands slid lower, one resting on the small of her back, pulling her closer as though the space between them wasn’t enough.

Jinx’s breath hitched, her chest pressing into his, and he felt the soft swell of her body against him, the intimate weight of her presence wrapping around him like a warm, comforting embrace. He could hear the soft sound of her heart, feel the way it raced in sync with his. There was no need for words, no need for anything more than the way their bodies fit together, the quiet connection that throbbed between them.

She tilted her head back slightly, just enough to break the kiss for a breath, her eyes half-lidded as she looked at him. There was something in her gaze—something raw, something real—that made him ache even more. She was looking at him like she needed him, like she wanted him, but more than that, she was looking at him like she trusted him with everything she was.

Ekko’s hand slid up to her cheek, cupping her face gently, his thumb brushing against her soft skin. The intensity of the moment was almost too much to bear, but at the same time, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be. With her.

“I…” He started, his voice rough.

Jinx’s fingers curled slightly against his chest, her brows drawing together just the faintest bit, as if searching for something—something beyond the way he touched her, beyond the silent weight of their connection. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Ekko could see it in her eyes, the way they wavered, the way she hesitated.

She needed words.

He swallowed, his throat tight, pulse hammering as he tried to find the right ones. The weight of it all settled deep in his chest, but it wasn’t heavy in a way that hurt—it was heavy in a way that meant something.

His fingers traced the side of her face, gentle, reverent, as he held her there, making sure she saw him. Really saw him.

“I want this,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “I want you.”

Jinx’s breath caught. He felt it, the way her body went still against him for just a second, before a quiet exhale left her lips.

His thumb brushed against her cheek, soft, reassuring. “It’s not just this moment,” he said, his voice firm, like he needed her to understand. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Jinx blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. For a second, she just stared, like she was trying to decide if she believed him. And then—slowly—her expression softened, something fragile melting into something certain.

She let out a quiet, shaky breath, her fingers tightening against his shirt. “…Okay.”

Ekko smiled, just a little, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips barely brushing her damp skin. “Okay,” he echoed. And this time, when she kissed him again, it felt different. It felt whole.

Jinx’s lips found his again, softer this time, slower—like she was savoring the way he felt, the way he tasted. Ekko melted into it, letting himself get lost in the warmth of her, in the weight of her body pressed close, in the way her fingers tangled in his shirt like she didn’t want to let go.

His hands slid down, following the curve of her back, tracing the damp skin still kissed by the heat of her shower. The towel was still there, still separating them, a fragile barrier between something inevitable. He could feel the way it clung to her, barely hanging on, teasing him with the promise of what lay beneath.

His fingers found the edge of it, brushing lightly, testing. He wasn’t in a rush—this wasn’t about desperation or hunger, though both simmered beneath the surface. It was about her. About them. About this moment and how he wanted to remember every second of it.

Jinx didn’t pull away. She only pressed closer, her breath hot against his lips as she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Her hands moved too, slipping under his shirt, tracing the lines of his stomach, his ribs, her touch featherlight but intentional.

Ekko’s breath hitched. His grip on her tightened just a fraction, fingers flexing against the soft fabric of her towel. He wanted it gone. Wanted to feel her, all of her, without anything in the way.

His lips moved down, trailing along her jaw, the damp strands of her hair brushing against his face as he kissed a slow path to her neck. “Jinx,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low, rough with something he wasn’t sure he could name.

Her hands fisted in his shirt at the sound of her name on his lips, and then—finally—she shifted, just enough for his fingers to slip under the knot of the towel. He felt the tension there, the way it barely clung to her, and his breath stilled for a second, waiting for her reaction.

She didn’t stop him. If anything, she seemed to welcome it, her body arching just slightly, an invitation as her lips brushed against his ear.

“Take it off,” she whispered.

Ekko swallowed hard, his pulse a frantic rhythm in his throat. His fingers flexed against the soft fabric of her towel, hesitating for only a breath before he slowly, carefully, pulled at the knot. The towel loosened, the damp weight of it slipping against her skin, and for a moment, he paused—eyes flickering up to meet hers, silently asking for permission one last time.

Jinx didn’t look away. If anything, she leaned in closer, her breath warm against his cheek, her fingers still tangled in his shirt as she whispered, “It’s okay.”

And that was all he needed.

The towel fell away, sliding from her body to pool at their feet, leaving nothing between them. Ekko’s breath caught as his gaze raked over her, taking her in like he’d never seen anything so stunning in his entire life. She was all soft curves and pale skin still kissed with droplets of water, her hair damp and wild against her shoulders. But it wasn’t just her body—it was the way she stood there, bare before him in every sense, with that quiet trust in her eyes that made his chest ache.

His hands skimmed up her sides, slow, reverent, his fingertips tracing the delicate lines of her waist, her ribs, committing every inch of her to memory. He could feel the way she shivered under his touch—not from cold, but from something else entirely. Something shared. Something burning between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Jinx sighed against him, her body pressing closer, her bare skin brushing against his clothes in a way that sent a shiver racing down his spine. Her hands tugged at his shirt now, insistent, her fingers curling into the fabric as she pulled. “You’re overdressed,” she murmured against his lips, a teasing lilt to her voice, though there was something breathless beneath it, something real.

Ekko let out a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against hers for a brief second before he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The second it was gone, Jinx’s hands were on him, fingers tracing the lines of his chest, his stomach, exploring with a quiet curiosity that made his breath hitch.

He kissed her again, deep and slow, his hands roaming, memorizing, guiding her backward, his hands steady but gentle, until the backs of her knees met the edge of the bed. Jinx didn’t resist—if anything, she let herself be led, her trust evident in the way she clung to him, her fingers splayed against his skin as if anchoring herself to him.

His hands skimmed down her arms, over her sides, mapping every inch of her before he slowly, carefully, eased her down onto the mattress. She sank into it with a soft sigh, her damp hair fanning out around her, and for a moment, Ekko just stared.

She was beautiful. Not just in the way her body lay beneath him, bathed in the dim light, but in the way she looked at him—open, trusting, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t sure she ever let herself be.

Her skin was warm and smooth, glowing softly in the low light, and the way her body shifted beneath him made his breath catch. The curve of her waist, her slender hips, the gentle swell of her chest—everything about her was so soft and natural, drawing him in. Her body was delicate yet strong, like she could hold her own but was offering him a piece of herself he wasn’t sure she often gave away.

Her breasts, small and perfect in their natural shape, moved with the rhythm of her breath, the soft skin there inviting him closer. Her legs, long and smooth, seemed endless, the muscles in her thighs soft but defined, a perfect contrast to the vulnerability of her expression. She wasn’t hiding anything—no barriers, no walls—just this raw, undeniable truth that felt as intimate as the touch of his fingers on her skin.

Ekko followed the curve of her body down, moving with deliberate slowness, as if savoring every inch of the moment, every breath shared between them. He braced himself above her, his weight balanced on his forearm, allowing his free hand to drift over the soft, warm expanse of her bare thigh. The touch was tender—almost reverent—as though her skin itself held the answers to the questions he had never dared to ask.

He kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that felt like it was unraveling time itself. His lips met hers with a quiet urgency, a soft plea for more, as his body pressed flush against hers. Skin to skin, heat to heat, the rhythm of their breath blending together, each exhale more fragile, more intimate than the last.

Trembling slightly, traced the path of the blue smoke that coiled over her limbs, its delicate tendrils winding like a living thing—alive, but fading. The once-vibrant hue, so full of life, had dimmed in the wake of the explosion, the colors now muted and fragile, like a dying dream.

"Do they hurt?" he murmured, his voice soft, filled with a quiet concern that only made his words feel heavier. "The scars, I mean."

“Not anymore,” she replied with a shrug, her voice light but distant, like she was trying to push the weight of it all away. "They did for a bit, you know? Like, I'd reach for some tea or something and it’d feel like this little ow, like a jolt, and Chuck would just stare at me like I’m fucking crazy. Which, let’s face it, maybe I am…”

Before she could say more, before she could spiral further into her own tangled thoughts, his lips met hers, gentle but firm—a kiss that cut through her rambling like a sudden storm. His hand cupped her cheek, pulling her closer, the warmth of his skin grounding her, silencing the whirl of words she didn’t want to say.

Her legs instinctively parted as she felt the weight and warmth of him above her, a slow, steady pressure that seeped into her skin, spreading through her like fire.

Slowly, his fingertips traced higher, barely brushing her skin, a teasing promise that never fully materialized. It was maddening—how her body responded to every soft stroke, how her breath hitched with the anticipation of something that lingered just out of reach. And Janna—she was drenched. Slick and warm, the glistening evidence of her desire visible in the soft, dim light.

“Ekko,” she breathed, barely more than a whisper, tender, almost bashful.

“You okay?” he murmured, his lips brushing against her hair as his fingers lingered on her heat, his breath warm and steady. “I can stop.”

She didn’t speak right away. Just breathed him in, the steady beat of his heart thudding beneath her cheek, her lashes fluttering against his skin. Her fingers curled against his back, not pulling, just there—clinging in that quiet, tentative way.

And then, barely audible, she whispered, “Don’t.”

His hand stayed where it was for a moment longer, the heat of her pulsing against his fingers, slick and aching. Then, with a care that bordered on sacred, he dipped his fingers into her—just a little. Just enough to feel the way her body trembled around him, the way she clung to his touch like it meant something more than pleasure, like it was tethering her to the earth.

She gasped, the sound catching in her throat. Her hips twitched, unsure, and he stilled.

“You okay?”

Her nod was small, but real. Her breath came fast, uneven, but not from pain—more like awe. Like she didn’t know how to fit the feeling inside her chest.

And that’s when it struck him—not the nerves, not the careful way she moved, but the wide-eyed softness in the way she held him, the way she let him in.

She’d never done this before.

He blinked, heart thudding. Not in fear, not in pressure—but in wonder. She had chosen him, trusted him with this, with her.

His fingers moved again, slow and tender, curling slightly as he watched her face. The way her lashes fluttered, the way her mouth parted just so. It was a strange kind of beautiful—how new it was for her, how raw and unpolished the pleasure looked on her skin. She wasn’t trying to be perfect. She wasn’t trying to be anything but open.

And he loved her like this. Not because of what she gave him, but because of what she let him see. Her vulnerability, her trust, her quiet, aching want.

She whimpered softly, hips moving against his hand now, more certain, more trusting. Her fingers clung to his shoulder, and she buried her face in his neck again, breath hot against his skin.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured, not because she needed to hear it, but because he needed to say it—because she was. Every shiver, every sound she made, was perfect.

She clung to him like he was the only steady thing left in the world, her breath coming in short, shaky gasps against his throat. Every movement of his fingers was slow, mindful, like he was learning her by heart—committing each response, each sigh, each delicate tremor to memory.

Her walls fluttered around him, warm and tight, and he could feel how carefully her body reacted, every shift full of unspoken trust. It was quiet between them, save for her breath, the faint rustle of sheets, and the soft, slick sound of his fingers moving inside her—each one a wordless confession of how much he adored her.

He curled his fingers just slightly, and she gasped—really gasped—like the air had caught in her lungs and couldn’t quite make it out. Her legs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer in instinct, in need.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against her hair, kissing the crown of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m right here.”

And still, he moved gently—like he was trying to show her something sacred with every motion, every sweep of his palm. The heel of his hand brushed against her clit with the same quiet precision, a soft pressure, circular and slow, and she whimpered—half-buried against his shoulder, like the feeling was too much to hold all at once.

He couldn’t look away from her. The way her brows furrowed slightly with pleasure, how her lips stayed parted, as if in prayer. The way her whole body arched ever so subtly into his hand, chasing the sensation, learning how to want out loud.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, unable to stop himself.

She looked up at him through lidded eyes, dazed and shining, cheeks flushed and lips trembling. “You’re just saying that,”

He smiled against her cheek, fingers never stopping. “Because it’s true,” he said. “And because I don’t think you’ve ever really heard it before.”

A soft sound caught in her throat—something between a laugh and a sob—and she kissed him, clumsy and fierce. It was her way of saying thank you. Of saying stay. Of saying I’m yours.

So he stayed. He stayed through every tremor, every breathless moan, through the slow build of heat that made her body curl toward him, clutch at him. He kissed her through it, whispered to her, held her as if nothing in the world could take her from his arms.

And when she finally fell apart for him, it was quiet. Shattering. A wave that started deep and rose through her body like a hymn. Her legs shook. Her back arched. Her lips found his name and clung to it like it was a lifeline.

For a long moment, she didn’t move—just breathed, slow and uneven, her body wrapped in the afterglow and the warmth of his touch. His hand stayed against her, gentle still, like he didn’t want to let go of the connection they'd just forged. But then, she shifted beneath him—slowly, deliberately—her fingers finding the waistband of his pants.

She looked up at him, still breathless, her eyes glassy and sure. “I want them off,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. There was no shyness, not now. Just trust. Just want.

He froze for half a second, heart thudding against his ribs, caught off guard by how steady her voice was. How much weight it carried. And then he nodded, his breath catching as she tugged at the fabric again, more insistently this time.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, fingers tracing the line of his hipbone. “I want to feel you.”

His hand closed around her wrist, not to stop her—but to ground himself. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath hot between them. “Are you sure?” he murmured.

She kissed him—softly, fiercely. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

So he moved, slow and quiet, rising just enough to push his pants down, his boxers following, the fabric discarded somewhere off the edge of the bed.

Her eyes trailed over his body, the hard planes of muscle softened by the quiet glow of the room, no longer carved in motion or shadowed by tension—but bathed in stillness, in warmth. The sharp lines of his chest and shoulders, usually taut with energy, seemed gentler now beneath her gaze, like a sculpture left out in the rain, shaped not just by strength, but by tenderness, by time.

He shifted, slow and reverent, until he was hovering over her once again. His hands, steady and warm, settled at her hips—anchors in the soft tide of the moment. Then, with a gentleness that felt like worship, they moved lower, smoothing over her waist, gliding down the silken curve of her thighs.

He parted her legs with the lightest pressure, just enough to make space for him. One hand steadied her thigh while the other reached between them, fingers wrapping around himself as he guided the tip to her entrance.

He paused there, heart pounding, eyes flicking up to meet hers. She was watching him—wide-eyed, a little breathless, her lips parted like she was trying to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet, the tension in it soft but unmistakable.

She gave a tiny nod, almost shy, and swallowed. “Yeah… I just—yeah. I want to.”

Her voice shook a little, and he caught it, leaned down to kiss her again—slow, steady, reassuring. “We’ll go slow,” he murmured against her lips, his thumb brushing over her hip. “Just tell me if anything feels off, alright?”

He felt her nod again, her legs tensing slightly around his waist as he began to push in—just barely, just enough to feel the first resistance. Her breath hitched, and his stopped altogether.

He paused, letting her adjust, every inch of him still and patient. His lips brushed over hers again, a gentle reminder that he was there, grounding her. He wanted this to be as soft as it could be, a moment where trust and tenderness were the only things that mattered.

Her breath shuddered, and he could feel her pulse racing against him, the way her body was learning to respond, unsure but eager. Slowly, so slowly, he began to move, a careful rhythm that let her feel each shift, each breath. His movements were hesitant at first, giving her space to breathe, to make sure everything felt right.

Her hands found his shoulders, her grip tightening a little, her fingers digging into his skin as she shifted beneath him, matching his rhythm. A soft whimper escaped her lips, and he kissed her again, swallowing the sound, wanting to protect her from any discomfort.

“Ekko…”

“Jinx…” he murmured in return, his voice raw, strained with the weight of the moment. He moved slowly, purposefully, his body sinking deeper into hers, a careful rhythm that matched the tender reverence in his words. Her name, whispered against her lips, held a quiet reverence—like a prayer or a confession, something sacred between them.

Jinx.

It wasn’t spat out in rage, or cried in terror, but whispered in pure reverence against her lips, like a tiny little secret just for the two of them.

Her breath caught, sharp and soft, as his movement deepened. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes brushing against her cheeks, her body trembling slightly as she adjusted to him, to the way he filled her.

“Oh…oh fuck.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough.”

The words hung in the air, soft and desperate, an invitation for him to give more. And so he did, pushing all of himself inside of her, deeper, filling her, not just physically, but filling her heart too.

He watched her closely, attuned to every shift, every flicker of emotion that passed over her features—the subtle flutter of her eyelids, the slight parting of her lips as she gasped for air.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered, his voice thick with concern as he leaned down to press his forehead against hers, his breath shallow.

She shook her head, a small, soft smile tugging at her lips, and tugged him closer, her nails scratching at his arms. “Feels good.”

Her words, soft and real, made him pause for a moment before he began moving again—slow, gentle, giving her time to adjust. Each thrust was careful, almost hesitant, wanting to make sure she was comfortable.

But as she tugged him closer, her nails digging into his skin, her body instinctively reacting, he could feel her need for more. She kissed him, her lips desperate, and whispered, “Please... more.”

That was all it took.

His thrusts stayed gentle but deepened, reaching places that made her gasp softly against his mouth. He moved with care, but no longer held back—not now, not when she was asking for more with every shift of her hips, every quiet sound she made.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, drawing him in closer, her heels pressing into the backs of his thighs like she couldn't stand even an inch of distance between them. He buried his face in her neck, breath hot and uneven, murmuring her name like a prayer between each slow, steady movement.

“Jinx…”

There it was again, her name on his lips, a soft thing, wrapped in a bow and delivered with care. His voice trembled slightly as he whispered it, like saying it out loud made everything more real—more meaningful. The rhythm of his movements never wavered, each one measured, deliberate, as if he were savoring every inch of their connection. His fingers brushed against her skin, tracing the path of her spine, the curve of her waist, like he couldn’t get enough of the feeling of her, of this shared intimacy.

“Jinx,” he breathed again, the word a confession, an offering.

She pulled him in closer, her lips finding his in a kiss that was both urgent and tender, a silent plea for more. Her hands roamed across his chest, the feeling of his body beneath her fingers grounding her in the moment, reminding her of what they were sharing—something deep, something real. She could feel every inch of him, the way his body reacted to hers, the heat between them building like a slow-burning fire.

She met him, pushing her hips up to meet his in time with his movements, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “More,” she murmured against his lips, her voice thick with desire.

He gave her more. His hands slid beneath her back, lifting her slightly as he deepened his movements.

She felt it again, that heat coiling deep in her gut, an unfamiliar wave of pressure building with every movement, every shift of his body against hers. It was overwhelming, too much and yet not enough, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. She didn't know what to do with the intensity of it, how to breathe, how to make sense of the way her body seemed to demand more.

Her hands found his shoulders, gripping him as she tried to steady herself, but the feeling inside her was growing, swelling, pulling her deeper into him, deeper into this moment. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her as she pulled him even closer, urging him to keep going, to keep pushing her toward something she couldn't name but knew she needed.

"Ekko, fuck, Ekko, I’m—"

It hit her like a freight train, the pleasure crashing through her, waves of it washing over her body, her spine taut like a bow pulled too tight. She couldn’t hold it back, the intensity, the need, the emotion that had been building for so long. Her fingers dug into his skin, her body arching up to meet him, and in that moment, with everything overwhelming her all at once, she breathed the words she hadn’t even realized she needed to say.

"I love you."

She wasn't sure if he heard her—if the words had pierced through the haze of heat and motion. His lip was caught between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pace steady, unrelenting, chasing that final, dizzying high. He didn’t respond at first, just held her tighter, like letting go would break them both.

But then his breath caught.

A soft, broken sound escaped him, barely a whisper, as if his body could no longer hold back the weight of everything that had been simmering beneath the surface. He buried himself in her one final time, the ache of their connection reverberating through his limbs, making every breath a struggle. It was as if the world around them had collapsed into a singular, fragile thread, stretching taut between the two of them—this one sacred, fleeting moment where nothing else mattered but her. Nothing else existed but the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, the heat of her body against his, the sound of her breath mingling with his in the silence of the dream.

He clung to her as though she were the last piece of reality in a world that had become nothing more than echoes and shadows. His fingers dug into her skin, as if holding on would make her stay, make her real, make her always be this way.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words raw, shaking in the hollow of his throat. He had always felt it—always known it—but it had never been this clear, this desperate, this... necessary. The truth that had always lived inside him now spilled out, unbidden and aching.

“I love you.”

The words spilled from his lips once again like blood, leaving him vulnerable, open. They lingered in the air between them, heavy and alive. And somehow, in the depths of his shattered heart, he could feel her response—unspoken, yet more real than anything he’d ever known.

She did.

She really did.

○

The light was soft when Ekko stirred, a delicate gold spilling through the curtains like a lover's kiss, gentle and reassuring, whispering, You made it. His eyes fluttered open, hazy with the remnants of sleep, the world around him blurred like a dream he wasn’t ready to leave. For a heartbeat, he didn’t know where he was—his mind still tangled in the quiet depths of slumber—but then, slowly, he felt it. The warmth beside him, so familiar, so steady, a rhythm in perfect sync with his own pulse.

Her breath was a melody, soft and steady, a sweet lullaby that curled around him, pulling him from the edge of his dreams. And then, the scent. It lingered in the air—floral, like spring rain, but touched with the sharpness of gunmetal, a reminder of who she was. A contradiction. Wild and tender. Danger and softness, all wrapped into one. It clung to the sheets, to the air, to him, as though she had left pieces of herself behind, woven into the very fabric of the morning.

Jinx.

She lay there, curled into the fragile cocoon of sleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting lightly over his chest, as if the contact was a tether—something to ground her even in the most dream-wrought corners of her mind. The quiet rhythm of her breathing filled the stillness, each rise and fall a silent echo in the room, a reminder that she was still here, still with him.

Ekko watched her with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of her features. He smiled faintly, a slow, quiet thing that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts, as if the world outside had ceased to exist in the face of this moment. He didn’t want to wake her. He didn’t want to shatter the fragile illusion that this—she—was real. But the ache in his chest, the desperate longing that had been clawing at him for so long, pulled him forward, made it impossible to stay silent.

He shifted slightly, barely daring to move, as though the slightest wrong gesture might cause her to vanish like smoke, dissipating into the morning light. His fingers hovered over her jaw, trembling ever so slightly, before he traced the edge of her cheek with the faintest touch, like he was afraid she might break beneath the weight of his hand. “Jinx…” he murmured, a breath so soft it was almost a prayer. “Hey…”

“Powder–” he tried again, leaning in closer, voice soft but persistent.

Her eyelids fluttered, but she stayed nestled against the pillow, the warmth of her body melting into his. Ekko’s smile deepened as he watched her, the gentle rise and fall of her chest still the only sound in the room.

"Pow…" he murmured again, his voice soft and coaxing, a lullaby whispered into the stillness of the room. His lips brushed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine as he lingered just close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his own. "You gotta wake up sometime."

Her fingers twitched, tentative, as if the world was pulling her between the realms of dreams and waking, and for a fleeting moment, he thought she might slip back into the quiet depths of sleep. But then, her eyes fluttered open, slow and heavy, the violet of them still clouded with the remnants of dreams, like a mist that refused to lift.

“Morning,” he whispered, his voice low and tender, like a secret meant only for her. The warmth of his breath brushed against her skin as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, the lingering silence between them filled with a rare kind of peace. It was as though the world had paused for just this moment, and nothing could disturb it.

She squinted up at him, her gaze unfocused at first, before a slow, sleepy smile curved on her lips. Her fingers, delicate and almost hesitant, found his hand, curling around it with a quiet need, like she had to confirm that he was real, that he was still here.

“Morning…” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep, caught somewhere between dreams and waking. Her words were a faint echo, a whisper caught in the fog of her slumber. She nuzzled into him, her body instinctively drawing closer, seeking the comfort of his warmth like a fragile thing clinging to the only solid ground left in a shifting world.

Ekko's breath hitched softly at the feeling, his heart aching with a tenderness he didn’t quite know how to handle. He chuckled, the sound a quiet, bittersweet thing, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Sleepy head,” he teased, his fingers lingering on her skin as he tightened his hold, pulling her closer, as though afraid she might slip away.

The first light of the morning spilled through the windows, soft and golden, wrapping around them like a secret, a fragile promise that things might still be okay. The room was quiet, the air heavy with a peace that felt almost too delicate to be real. Time stretched, and for just a heartbeat, everything was still—untouched, unsullied by the world outside.

○

To some, peace was a stillness—an undisturbed surface, the hush between heartbeats. To others, it was chaos tamed just enough to breathe through. The troubled often found peace in violence, in grit, in the bite of something real. But Ekko… Ekko found his peace in softness.

Peace was blue.

Peace was waking up to her hair tangled across the pillow, wild strands draped like silk across faded floral sheets, the scent of her skin still warm in the cotton. Peace was the sound of her laughter muffled by morning, her voice scratchy with sleep as she teased him from the bathroom, water running, steam curling like smoke under the door.

Peace was watching her in the haze of that steam, bare and glowing like something sacred, before she looked over her shoulder—eyes bright with mischief—and beckoned him with just a tilt of her chin.

Peace wasn’t the absence of pain.

It was her.

Still breathing.

Still wild.

Still his.

Always his.

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authors note: hiiii, i genuinely have had half of this sitting in my drafts and finally managed to finish it (cried while writing this) <3

please like and reblog <3

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