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syoddeye · 3 months ago

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hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief.

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.”

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?”

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating.

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?”

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it.

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point.

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check—lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.”

john.

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal.

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.”

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”

body. coma.

“and…and after?”

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth.

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear.

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke.

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down.

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway.

only ash scattered in the wind.

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader

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chewingcyanide · 1 year ago

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𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — i’ve returned from a million year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? ��How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

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10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

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Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack—why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided��lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

#jack hughes #nj devils #nhl smut #nhl #hockey imagine #hockey smut #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes #quinn hughes #jack hughes smut #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey

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slow-reader-reads-books · 7 months ago

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Lesbingyuan au where it’s the normal set up of post extras Bingge dimension traveling into another universe to find his own Shen Yuan. Except the world he arrives in (and is stuck in, can’t opt out of this gender journey) is a slightly genderbent one.

(hidden under a read more bc this turned basically into a wonkily grammatically tensed mini-fic)

Our darling Peerless Cucumber is a 20 something self-proclaimed straight girl with untapped soft butch potential, and is currently recovering from the harrowing trauma of the sunk cost fallacy. She’s spent a lot of time spending money on, reading, and participating in the online fandom of Proud Immortal Demon Way, and she’s currently also dealing with the fact that all her hard work in making herself heard to Great Master Airplane was seemingly for nothing. You see, Shen Yuan had the brilliant idea to create an account that appeared to be a perfectly demographically targeted straight male fan of YY novels who could critique Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky as his fellow but also his better and be listened to and receive great accolades from all frequenters of Zhongdian Literature and be validated for her hate of his writing.

“Airplane’s stupid pen name is a dick joke, I guess I gotta make mine one too… Just to, you know, seem legit and like we have common ground.”

What this charade accomplished was very little, but Peerless Cucumber did become very infamous for three things. One, his nitpicking (“It’s hardly nitpicking if it harms the integrity of the whole story1!!”). Two: his Luo Binghe fanboying (“As a protagonist he’s clearly just a cut above the rest when it comes to soul and wit, the story just rarely ever shows it off”). And three: his skipping of the steamy scenes (“I highly doubt this near identical scenario that also happened twenty chapters back but with a different wife of the week with this exact same cliffside flower giving off the same aphrodisiac mist to Bingge and new wife below will now suddenly be of any plot consequence for the next arc. It didn’t last time either, SKIP!”).

His fervent online activity garnered him the reputation of being an Airplane anti-fan, but also the assumed personality of a submissive simp who hates the easily dominated women that populate Luo Bingge’s harem.

“lol thats why he must like mingyan so much. she never let bingge push her down. cucumber-bro must want a girlfriend who’ll chain him up and whip him! hes a pervert just like the rest of us, just a worse type kek.”

Shen Yuan, when looking at such reply comments, gets shiver-inducing flashbacks to when her meimei left her BL comics out for everyone and the Buddha to see. She accidentally witnessed frightening scenes of thin, long-limbed men pushing each other down, tying each other to beds and cracking whips on skin until they shed blood, tears and semen, the shou begging for the gong to stop and the gong never listening.

Shen Yuan tries to put such things out of her mind if only to preserve in amber the precious, innocent image of her meimei she knows to be true, but also secondarily to focus on the insulted male pride she’s supposed to be feeling after being accused of being a wussy submissive deviant in bed. That sort of accusation requires an in-depth 10,000 character response in order to remain in character as a straight male YY novel connoisseur.

Shen Yuan, as Peerless Cucumber but also as her true self, was undoubtedly straight. Staying in character, Peerless Cucumber made sure to extol the beauty of characters like Liu Mingyan— “She’s an intelligent and cold beauty and is written with a clear and vivid personality! A true equal for our Bingge on the battlefield and in matters of the heart!” As well as occasionally Ning Yingying— “She’s not the boring choice, you all just don’t know the special value a loyal shijie character brings, even if she does lose 99% of her personality to that one singular trait…”

But don’t get it twisted! This is a part of her performance! In real life, logged off and touching grass and breathing fresh outdoor air, she’s your run-of-the-mill average girl who is just a part of the pack.

Her goals in life are simply not ambitious, is all. If there was a competition with ten available spots to win, she’d have no qualms placing tenth and simply feel honored to have participated. If there are ten girls and nine of them bag a good boyfriend, Shen Yuan doesn’t mind being the tenth who gets unlucky. She’s just kind to her meimeis and jiejies like that! As if she’d take that away from them! They'd probably been wanted those boyfriends for a long time!

Shen Yuan is hardly a sore loser, and she knows the great importance of girl code and female friendship.

So, Shen Yuan being the normal average and totally straight and cisgender girl that she is decides to wallow in her Airplane-induced misery by going to a con, donning her homemade Mobei-jun cosplay. She worked hours of her life learning how to sew just for this project to the point her family thought she was finally thinking about settling down and learning wifely skills.

Unfortunately for her ignorant family she’s actually just investing in a really elaborate excuse to cross dress. Well, it’s not really crossdressing, it’s just cosplay! Cosplay is totally different and not about taking on the gender of a character, but their larger identity! She didn’t want to explain this to them, and internally felt afraid and hesitant about it, as if they’d view her as weird for wanting to do this, so she didn’t bother to try at all.

So, Shen Yuan in her 160 centimeter/5 foot 3 inch glory decked out in dark blues and blacks, fur lining the shoulders of her outfit for style points, and wearing a long white wig styled mostly loose but with a few thin braids, chances upon a particularly striking Luo Binghe cosplayer. Not just any Luo Binghe cosplayer, but the best one! He’s tall, must be over 180cm/6 foot but also svelte and willowy in surprising ways. His hair is long and flows down his back from a ponytail ornamented at the base with a thin metal guan. Parts of his cosplay seem very benign, but others seem meticulously crafted and exquisite in quality, especially that sword at his hip! Just looking at it intimidated her, yikes! Job well done, cosplayer!

This Luo Binghe also had the most beautiful and delicately boned face she’d ever seen, eyes dark and deep and highly reflective like that of a lake on a dark and starry night. The cosplayer’s voice was also deeply melodic and enchanting.

This cosplayer… is also a woman! Shen Yuan nodded to herself internally, yes that must be it! No man looks like this in reality, this is a fellow female sufferer of Proud Immortal Demon Way impersonating a fictional man for similar psychological reasons as her. A surge of female loyalty spawns in Shen Yuan’s chest, and she doesn't even bother resisting the urge to walk over and strike up a conversation with this Luo Binghe.

She spat out her name in quick order and immediately started on the topic of female character writing in the novel. The Luo Binghe cosplayer was looking at her quietly and with a heavy amount of gravity, ink-brush eyebrows sitting elegantly low above her eyes in attentive focus. What a good listener this lady is, Shen Yuan thought. She can’t remember when someone last listened to her this closely. She hypocritically chooses to not pay attention to that train of thought any further. “In a world like Proud Immortal Demon Way,” Shen Yuan began with slight smarm, “who would choose to be a woman? I certainly wouldn’t if I wanted to see the interesting parts of the world that drew me into the story in the first place. A male protagonist can explore it freely, but the female characters are all locked away in either the marriage bedroom or the highly isolated harem palaces. Great Master Airplane clearly didn’t eat enough walnuts as a child, he must have some sort of brain deficiency when it comes to writing proper characters— ”

The tall Luo Binghe cosplayer suddenly spoke up. “Choose?” “Hm? Yeah, I mean, in a world like that, there’s basically no choice, yeah? Gotta serve the narrative and readers and all. But the real world doesn’t have a narrative, we only have ourselves and each other to guide us. So we just do what we want, figure it out as we go. Like us two! We wanted to dress up as these male characters from this asinine story and attend this con and we figured out how to do it! We’re kindred spirits, you and I, we’re zhiyin!” “So when you leave this con, you will also choose to take this manner of dress off and wear something else?” “Obviously. Though, my go-to outfit is just a big t-shirt and sweatpants, or athletic shorts. This kind of thing is the extent of me dressing up.” Shen Yuan didn’t notice, but the Luo Binghe cosplayer’s eyes mildly glazed over in irritated confusion at the unfamiliar terms. Nor did she notice the slight expression of planning that developed in that gaze, as if they were imagining a future shopping expedition to find an outfit Shen Yuan would want to dress up in that wasn’t a facsimile of Luo Binghe’s right hand man.

“I… also want to leave this con and wear something else.” “The busyness getting to you, huh jiejie? You must have gotten here a lot earlier than I did, you poor thing. I guess this is it, it was nice talking to you—” “I don’t have any other clothes with me, and am unable to go back home. Can you help this poor one, jiejie?” “Jiejie—” Shen Yuan coughed. “Am I… wait you can’t go back home? Did your ride ditch you or something, aiyah what a scummy thing to do! I do have extra clothes on me, though I don’t think they’ll fit you. But let’s go find out. I guess if I have to take care of you like this, it does make me feel like a jiejie. Your height made me assume you were older than me, haha.”

Shen Yuan laughed, and the Luo Binghe cosplayer rapidly relaxed and took on an easy smile. “An innocent mistake. Jiejie must often be assumed to be younger than her actual age.” Shen Yuan hummed absent-mindedly. “Eh, not really. I’m only 22, and I think I look it. It’s you who looks like a jade immortal, uh, meimei.” She stuttered when she realized she hadn’t yet caught the other cosplayer’s name, and for some reason it felt weird to just call her Luo Binghe without her also LARPing along as Mobei-jun. Shen Yuan by this point had taken the tall meimei’s hand, it pale and slender much like the rest of her, and had been pulling her along towards the public bathroom to make use of her backpack’s change of clothes, walking along the wall to avoid foot traffic. However, the moment she had finished her sentence and called the other one meimei, the Luo Binghe cosplayer suddenly slammed her free hand on the wall and yanked hard on the one Shen Yuan was holding, pulling her in close to herself, caging her in from behind. Shen Yuan squeaked and found herself crowded against the wall. Her back was encased in a warm and dark heat and she could see above her that jade-white hand curled tightly in on itself, heel practically grinding against the wall. It looked like it was trembling slightly. An earth-shatteringly tight grip squeezed the fingers of her still held hand to the point of hurting slightly. Shen Yuan winced at the sensation.

Shen Yuan heard sharp, heavy breathing above her. Not knowing what to do nor quite what was going on, she squeezed back the hand that was keeping hers hostage and leaned back slightly. Comfort is what she’s doing this for, right? Feels like the reason she’s doing it.

Shen Yuan felt the other cosplayer jolt behind her. After a tense beat, a forehead slowly dropped onto her shoulder. Shen Yuan was wearing fur along the top half of her outfit as a part of her Mobei-jun cosplay, but nonetheless she could feel the vague contour of the other’s nose through it, burrowing deeper into its warmth. Shen Yuan now felt awkward for only bothering with faux-fur for her cosplay. But with that face resting upon her shoulder and an odd sense of vulnerability wafting off of her, a sharp sense of broad awareness filled Shen Yuan's mind mysteriously. Her mind filled up with sensory information on the one behind her, naturally taking note of every detail with ease.

“Meimei…” the Luo Binghe cosplayer trailed off, muffled slightly by Shen Yuan’s cosplay, but also seemingly by her own emotions being stuck in her throat. “Can I really be jiejie’s meimei?” Shen Yuan didn’t really know what to do or how to respond, so she simply continued to lean her weight back onto the other. She then pulled on the elbow that led to the hand positioned above her until it was brought down far enough for her to grab properly. Shen Yuan took both hands in hers and placed them in front of her in a comfortable position. They were slightly cold, so she rubbed at them with her thumbs.

The Luo Binghe cosplayer picked her head up and looked down at the sight with watery eyes and a warbling lip. Both of her hands were cradled in that grip, gently held in front of the shorter’s stomach in a tender and intimate fashion. Their arms were bent parallel and their front and back slotted together in a way that, to the taller one, felt predestined.

“Can you, what kind of question is that, of course you can. But, I’d like to have your name too, if you don’t mind? Only calling you meimei sounds like I’m calling out to my real little sister.” Shen Yuan laughed and looked up over her shoulder nonchalantly.

Somewhere in the distance, she can hear people giggling and snapping pictures of the two. She felt a twinge of embarrassment. Of course this moment looks compromising from the outside, they’re cosplaying Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun!

Shen Yuan was suddenly working very hard to maintain a cool poker face in front of her very tall and newly minted meimei.

Bringing up her real little sister and then suddenly being thrust into this type of self-aware of cringe violently and nonconsensually summoned forth invented images of a dog blooded BL scenario that wouldn’t be out of place in her real meimei’s leisure literature.

Fellow con goers, please have mercy on us two women and don't be thinking of what I'm thinking! We’re merely having a pure hearted, early friendship bonding moment! Skinship is very much common and normal between people like us, disregard the kabedon! Totally normal female friendship is blossoming here, get your homoerotic dog blood tropes out of our personal lives!

“This one is called… Qiu Bingbing.” Her voice hitched and quavered with some sort of ineffable, delicate emotion. “Bingbing, ah? Written with the same character as Binghe, meaning ice? And Qiu, is that with the character meaning the autumn season or the character meaning a grave mound?”

Qiu Bingbing hummed and nodded lethargically to the first question and spoke up for the second, hesitating slightly. “Qiu as in autumn.” “What a pretty name, “autumn ice”. You fit the bill of Luo Binghe perfectly, but with a name like that it’s nearly a pity to go by something else. You’re a miraculous find in a place like this, Bing-mei.” Shen Yuan complimented with abandon, eager to make her new friend feel good, and turned around. Still holding one hand, she impulsively took the chance Qiu Bingbing’s still bowed head offered and patted it softly.

She did that for a while, not paying attention to anything else. A euphoric smile opened on Qiu Bingbing’s lips. She was lost in the moment too.

The rest of the world fell away. As long as Luo Binghe, no, as long as Qiu Bingbing can worm her way into every crevice of Shen Yuan, she’ll be fine. He before was always grasping at any semblance of peace and security only for it to slip through his grasp like sand, but she’s found it. She’ll nestle in and hibernate inside Shen Yuan’s veins and she’ll never let go. She will never.

“Let’s go get you those clothes. Good thing I like them oversized, they should be mildly presentable on you, even if they aren’t anything girly.”

��I can live without anything girly, anything of yours will do.”

“That’s good to hear, let’s go then.”

#holy fuck im leaving it at that #svsss #my text #my fic #? dear god in an ideal world that tag will get more use than just this #lets call this...#Cucumber-jiejie And Her Newly Minted Meimei #shen yuan #luo binghe #luo bingge #luo bingmei #lesbingqiu #lesbingyuan #this was originally a much smaller draft that i was making on mobile but i misswipped and suddenly all my progress was lost #so taking a second crack at it with my semi-remembered general gist i ended up writing what's basically a fic?#not really a writer but i entered the flow state and what can a bitch do but obey it ya know #i wonder if that was airplane's mindset when he started writing pidw: “lol might as well see where this takes me”#i guess i can also tag this as #trans luo binghe #transbian luo binghe #my vibe was genderyes she/he unblossomed butch lesbian shen yuan #and withered but newly watered and speedrun-recovering she/he trans lesbian luo binghe. or as she's called here Qiu Bingbing

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onelittlespiral · 11 months ago

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I'd like your BOGO offer. I am the scrawny waterboy for my college. I'd like the kicker of the football team to get taken down a peg or five. I want him to be a nerd and no one else remembers him being a jock.

Subject: Order #100567

Dear (REDACTED),

Thank you for your recent purchase from The Spiral, home for all your transformation needs! Your order #100567 has been received and is on its way as we speak. Your order includes:

(1) Nerd(Assort)_From_Football(Kicker)

(1) Mystery(Self)

Expect delivery in 3-7 days.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

We knew you’d come around and round and round and round…

You had seen just yesterday that your order from The Spiral had finally come through. When you saw some nerd hanging around the practice field, you checked your inbox for the email confirmation. They had provided some details on how they had done it. As the kicker had been leaving practice, they grabbed him and pulled him into an empty supply room. They had him bound and gagged before stripping him of his cleats and cramming his feet in a pair of penny-loafers. The changes, they said, were near instantaneous. Change rippled up his legs as muscle deflated and his lower pads turned to cargo shorts. His stomach flattened and his jersey and pads changed into a sweater and bow tie. He had shrank so much that his restraints had nearly come loose, not that he would be able to fight the men holding him now.

He was already defeated by the time his new glasses were slipped on, which triggered phase two of his changes. Any and all past as a jock we’re gone in an instant, replaced with memories of his advanced mathematics degree and research projects. His memories of summer workouts and practice were now late nights in the library. Football games turned to Quiz Bowls. His mind would no longer be focused on working out his body, instead it was filled with stretches and skills for prepping himself for bottoming. His IQ was shooting up, and he could now understand exactly how to calculate an integral and when to squeeze tight around a dick to elicit the deepest grunts. The team packed up as he was left tied up, growing hornier at the thoughts of his old teammates dominating him like they did the opposing teams…

You couldn’t believe the efficacy of service. Hats off to them for the quick turn around. But you knew you were supposed to get a delivery of your own. You were tired of waiting. But as you were walking home from practice, after scrubbing out bottles and avoiding harassment from the team, you noticed something off. It was strange, but you thought you had smelled one of those jocks following you around. You turned around, worried that some guys were following you home, but the streets around you were empty. Instead, the smell was still coming from behind you, in your book bag. Rolling your eyes, you searched the pockets, expecting to find a jock or some other nasty garment as a dumb prank, but you instead find a chain, buried down at the bottom. In an instant, you feel compelled to hold in in your hands and take a whiff. The scent is metallic and cold how you would expect, while at the same time rancid and wet. You don’t fight the urge as your hands open the clasp and secure it around your neck. The feeling is electric. Your body ripples in response, and you feel your body begin to ache. The cold metallic feeling reaches into your bones and fills your veins with ice. A cold sweat breaks out of you as your body stretches taller and your muscles are filled with cool, hard lead.

I have to get warm, you think, I have to.

Your body seems to respond, as peach fuzz erupts from every inch of your chest, itchy and burning like fire. You scratch, and the hair only grows more in response. It begins to curl around your callousing hands and take root up your arms, spreading its fiery tendrils. You make the mistake of scratching your face, where it also takes root, as a beard erupts from your baby face. The hot licks of fire and freezing spikes of ice is reaching a crescendo as your body is engulfed, ready to reach a melting point and boil off all together when finally… it stops. You are left panting like a dog, sweat dripping from every pore. You knew the transformations offered were powerful, but you never expected this. You take stock of your furry, sweaty body, inspecting every inch of muscle. You feel so… powerful. Flexing your guns and let out an animalistic shout.

But then, something begins to tickle your nose. It smells like the necklace has surrounded you in that layer of stench. Except, it isn’t the necklace. It’s you. Your own sweat is beginning to dry and fill your head. Your past rolls off your brain like the sweat rolls down your washboard abs. Drop by drop you are no longer a waterboy for your football team. You hardly can even understand the sport. You have spent the last few years perfecting your reps and carving your physique. College sports? Who cares. You were lucky enough to graduate high school. You only saw those guys when they needed a personal trainer like you to give them an extra little boost. Those boys spent most of the game standing around. Real men need stamina. And you knew a cardio routine that would get their hearts racing. Bottoming for you was an hours long affair that left boys like them sore, sweaty, and moaning for more. Just how you liked them. You got up off the ground, dusted yourself off, and smirked in the mirror.

Gotta meet my next client in an hour, you think, sticking your tongue out.

In your pocket, you receive an order confirmation from some company called “The Spiral”. Whatever, probably some scam…

Subject: Order #100567 Fulfilled

Dear (REDACTED)

Your order has been fulfilled. We know you have many options, but thank you for supporting The Spiral.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

#male transformation #transformation #bro #straight to gay #jockification #reality change #nerdification #bogo

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saccharine-syanide · 5 months ago

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Could Ren Hana have Borderline Personality Disorder??

Borderline Personality Disorder has a list of 9 criteria intended for diagnosis, however an individual needs only meet 5 of the 9 listed criteria to achieve this diagnosis. In this analysis, I will be discussing why I believe that Ren Hana (BTD/BTD2) likely meets enough criteria for a diagnosis with the disorder. I am not a licensed professional, this is entirely speculative, done for fun/personal reasons, and based on my own interpretations of Gatobob’s character.

This analysis will contain spoilers for Boyfriend to Death 1 and 2

We’ll start off with fear of abandonment as it’s not only the first item on the diagnostic criteria list, but one of the symptoms that is more prominent in Ren’s character. From the first moment that we, as the MC, find ourselves awakening in Strade/Ren’s house in Boyfriend to Death 2, Ren has made certain to achieve absolute control over our freedom and ability to move about. The player character awakens on the couch, a chain securing them via their ankle to the wall, and of course the shock collar fixed securely around MC’s neck. Once unchained a short while later in the story, the player has the option to run from the beastkin, resulting in electrocution as Ren triggers the shock collar. This collar is also automatically triggered if the player character wanders too close to the front door, effectively trapping them within the house whether or not Ren is present. Ren makes it very clear throughout all of his interactions with the MC that he considers them his ‘friend’, despite his controlling behaviors, demonstrating his fear that his newfound companion will find some way to slip free of his grasp, leaving him alone once more, just as how he was when his former captor died.

We see evidence for unstable and/or changing relationships between his relationships with both the MC and Lawrence Oleander. Ren and Lawrence initially form their bond through an online gore forum, eventually meeting in person, with Lawrence being Ren’s intended victim/companion until the player character comes across the pair. Accessing Ren’s route in-game then sees a rapid shift of interest from Lawrence, over to the player, who is captured instead. Later on in the game Ren succeeds in finally capturing Lawrence, however at this point he is no longer interested in developing a further friendship of any kind with the other man, instead intending him to now be the sacrifice of what he has deemed to be the perfect bonding ritual with the MC. However, should the player steadfastly refuse to take part in Lawrence’s murder, Ren’s relationship with both the MC and Lawrence can shift once again, resulting in the player now being the one tied to the chair and subjected to Ren and Lawrence’s murderous whims.

Ren’s mood instability is fairly present throughout most of his routes in Boyfriend to Death 2 alongside obvious issues with anger. He easily shifts from a happy and cheerful demeanor, to much more cruel and cold depending on which choices the player character makes when interacting with him. These changes can very quickly and easily affect which route the player ends up taking, leaving the player tied up in the basement and subject to whichever torture method Ren uses against them, or, as seen in endings such as the ‘Ren ate your heart’ ending, Ren’s unstable mood and strong anger can result in brutal MC death.

While this one casts a bit more personal conjecture on my part, I also believe that Ren exhibits some form of struggle with identity or sense of self. In Boyfriend to Death 2 we receive the information that Strade, Ren’s former captor and companion has been deceased for approximately 2 years at this point. Ren could choose at this time to work on re-integrating himself within society and discover who he is as a person (or beastkin) but instead of working towards self-discovery and healing, he chooses instead to mimic Strade’s behavior. Ren could also struggle with his half-human half-beastkin heritage, and deceased siblings (killed by his mother for not being born beastkin) with these being why he left the beastkin colony in the first place.

While Ren’s desire to kidnap Lawrence was likely a premeditated action, his later capture of the MC, murder of Lawrence, and violence towards the MC should the player’s actions result in the MC being taken to the basement, as well as the few unprotected sexual scenes could possibly be classified as impulsive actions.

Praise from the MC as well as declarations of a desire for affection or intimate acts cause Ren’s heart meter to quickly and positively increase. This along with other dialog including lines surrounding information about Strade’s death could be indicative of Ren holding feelings of worthlessness/sadness around himself.

While not necessarily criteria for diagnosing BPD in an individual, a common occurrence seen with individuals who are diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder is the presence of what has become known as a favorite person. This is a person that an individual with BPD holds an intense emotional connection with, and often relies on for their emotional validation and well-being. Considering Ren’s level of obsession with the MC and his desire for them to never leave him, as well as the way his emotions drastically shift (positive or negative) depending on the choices and voice lines that the player opts for in-game, I’d say that there is evidence that the MC might be considered a favorite person to Ren.

Probably not the most in-depth analysis but finals are eating my motivation. If anyone has any additional thoughts please reblog with them, I’d love to hear what you all think!! ^w^

@rkvils

#ren hana #btd #btd2 #btd ren

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simp-ly-writes · 1 year ago

Text

Lasting Pictures: When We Are Together (pt.8)

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Reader

Summary: John and 141 discover more about your whereabouts alongside the secrets you have been hiding from them. The lies, the cold shoulders and sleepless nights come swinging back in your face with vengeance yet never have such sweet words been shared in spite of it all. Your future awaits on the horizon, now it is up to you to decide who you are sharing in it.

Warnings: 6180 words, slowburn, swearing, mentions of blood, injury and torture.

A/N: I can't believe its already been 85 pages of this story, thank you all for the support! I hope you enjoy the sweet ending of this chapter!

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Lasting Pictures Series Masterlist

Back in London at Base

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN- KATE” Price shouts in the office space. An assistant shakes from behind the door with the force these words are projected with, doing their best to not eavesdrop from the hallway was a hard task as the rest of the task force… calmly waited in the hall while glaring daggers their way- not being allowed entry.

Back inside the room, Laswell shakes her head as it drops into her hands, her elbows resting against the table as her usual bun falls out- her hair acting as a shield. “I don’t give a shit about what any General has to say- that is my squad member, my responsibility so do tell me why the FUCK they are in a differnet country operating outside of our military?” Price shouts out once more before taking a step back from leaning over the station chiefs desk, now walking in circles just in front of it and tossing a hand through his hair.

Taking a deep breath, Laswell tries her best to formulate an answer without giving away too many details yet the Captain notices this change in her personality. “No- you do not get to hide answers away from me Kate. I have gone off the books, committed atrocities in the name of good- I deserve to know why at least. Or what about this- Kate,” The Captain stills, looking up at the ceiling for another ounce of patience as both of theirs were wearing thin. The boys in the hallway could be heard from through the door, piling question after question on the poor assistant.

Price turns his head towards Kate, casting his chin down- his eyes pointed, “Why was I NOT acknowledged when Dice was Injured on that last mission, why was I not noted on that interrogation- Christ, Laswell-”

“No John. You do not get to make these demands of me in MY office, on my base- I am not a secretary, I am not a doctor, and I am not going to tell you the answers when you integrate me, Captain. You could have had those last two answers if you got your jealousy issues over with and asked the damn lieutenant,” Laswell retorts while closing her laptop, she was taking herself off the clock early for today. Grabbing her coat, John blocks the door with his arms crossed as Laswell reflects the same- eyebrows furrowed.

“Maybe me and the boys would not be having such jealousy issues if the guys were not here on base to begin with- they had no reason to be originally- and they definitely have no reason to be off with MY squad member,” John restates his points with a more leveled tone, his mouth twitches up into a smirk as he watches Laswell internally battle herself- knowing that the guys just outside would make worse demands than he.

Laswell sighs out, throwing her coat on a nearby chain before motioning John back over to her desk where she turns her laptop around and shows the thread of emails shared between herself, Shepard and Graves. The shadow company CEO demanded for Dice to be stationed with their team, a token that their contract would be upholded. As the missions dragged on, Graves became more restless- John shakes his head at this new information, refusing to read anymore.

“This is why I didn’t show you John. I know you are not a fan of these side-deals but-”

“BUT what Kate, but what. With their background, it is absolutely disgusting that you would make them do this-”

“Well they did agree to it?” Laswell states but comes out more like a question.

“Did they know? Well maybe with someone of their past, they couldn’t imagine saying no- working themselves to the bone. Fuck, we barley saw them and when we did,” John takes a moment closing his eyes as his voice comes out softer, “I looked past my jealously Kate, I saw that they were healing those memories with em’ but I will not look past them being used. I know where they're coming from, when the higher-ups keep shouting in your ear, demanding more of you until you become a husk. I couldn’t look at them Kate, I-I couldn’t look and see that version of myself reflected again. The rest of us we-” Price stops mid sentence as the door is thrusted open and shut, the assistant now fleeing the scene.

“We were feeling a load of shit- Laswell. You try and watch someone you care for gradually slip away, burying themselves in work because they ‘apparently’ didn't do enough- and when you do try and see them again, they look past you and to someone else- looking happier than ever,” Johnny states while leaning against a wall, looking out the window and onto the training grounds all those months ago. “Sure it is jealousy, yes we did give the cold shoulder but there is no worse feeling than being replaced and everyone was feeling that in one way or another,” Soap finishes as Ghost only nods in reply.

Gaz speaks up next, “If we are sharing then, I know Graves is trying to recruit them, Kate. We all knew it- saw it, and it became all the more disheartening when those shadows appeared in our own personal space and then next week- BAM! They are off without a word- I fucking wonder we were having sloppy work recently, there is only so much we can get done while functioning in the dark.” By the end Kyle is out of breath, taking a bottled water from the minifridge and sitting in one of the armchairs across from Lasswell's desk.

Ghost shakes his head before commenting, “So they worked their ass off, fearing they would be replaced in some way or better yet when another devil comes whispering in your ear, complimenting your good work, showing you friends and pleasures of the craft yet we were stuck doing time-consuming work for no use? What fucking plan is that- no actually, a useless plan that is.”

‘Well then boys, it is a good thing I am sending you off to join them tomorrow if you are done? I apologise, that's the best I can give you now with what I have been working with. I can’t do much if I got fired from Shepard- John. And the best strings I could play was ensuring that they would at least be working with people they knew in the area- I’m sorry for what this has caused. I,"Kate takes a moment, a shaky breath exiting herself, “-I see what they were starting to mean to you all and I am sorry that I was the one who had to take that away from you. But it is up to Dice in the end if they end up signing that contract- we all can only hope they do not.”

“Like fuck they won’t,” Johnny states, a smile gracing its way across his face as he pulls Gaz up and hugs the man, throwing in a hand for Ghost to join them who only rolls his eyes in reply. John shakes his head, the energy in the room having a noticeable difference as he checks his watch. The next day was not far off in the early morning hours they were in now, deployment was soon and soon was when they would make it their personal mission to have you stay with their team. The past meeting the present, and the present overtaking the past as it should- in theory.

↳ One Week Until Mission “Spill”

When the boys touch down on the tarmac, they initially do not see you leaned up against the back of Alex’s truck as you and Farah share drinks out of a water bottle. “Gorgeous!” Johnny calls out once spotting you as he shoves himself in front of a very confused Alez who pats him on the shoulder. “Hey man, it's been a long time since we last saw each other- how have things been?”

“Been better but we have work to do,” Soap replies while wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he practically drags you to sit beside him in the back of the truck. Farah waves you goodbye as she goes to talk to Price who sends you a solid nod in recognition of your presence. You look at the side of Soaps mohawk with confusion, Why are you back to being so touchy all the sudden?

As if knowing your very thoughts he gives you a wink before squeezing your shoulder and strapping you into your seat with a grin. Horangi slides in on your otherside as Alex turns the engine on, Köing rushes to shotgun, mumbling about more legroom as you kick his seat and blame it on Horangi who curses out loudly before lightly punching you on the thigh. You wince, gripping your pant leg as you invite Soap in on the backseat chaos.

“Oh my god! Is that blood!” he yells out with exaggerated gasps as Horangi tries to choke back laughter and Alex politely asks for everyone to, “shut the fuck up.” While readjusting the rear view mirror, double checking that you were not in fact hurt.

Once back at the house, the squads are gearing themselves up as you double check your notebooks on all the information you have collected thus fall, helping Farah and Price to outline the ever-growing team you all had established here.

“And drinks are on me afterwards!” Matthew announces as the crowd cheers, a few members of Farah's group had appeared half-way through the debrief that you had never met before. You giggled to yourself as quite a few eyed up Horangi and Köing, pulling on their sleeves to get their attention, you pointed like gossip girls to the people who were looking for company.

Köing turns a bright red, “Maus-I don’t know…” “Oh come on! Doesn't have to add to anything- you don’t even have to fuck, get your head out of the gutter Horangi- I know that look better than anyone,” you tease out but your eyes hold utmost seriousness. You kept thinking about your talks with them earlier in the week and the aftermath of these next few missions, everything was hanging in the air with this departure's success and yet you couldn’t help but want for everyone here in this room to have something for when they arrived back- in whatever state they would be in.

Seeing your eyes fog over with the depth of your thoughts, Simon brushes his shoulder against your own, nodding along to Farash speech as you snap out of your trance, glancing up to him with a thankful smile as you point to various entrance points you discovered while scooping out the place through public architectural blueprints.

With one last slam to the table and a battle cry being placed, Price requests to speak with you outside as you follow suit, Gaz in tow. He keeps his back to you while walking, ensuring that you all are a good ways away from the house before he starts to speak. “Before we go out on this mission, Dice. There are a few things I need to come clean about, and a few answers I would like from you in return.”

You process his words, eyes darting anywhere but his own as your palms sweat, You were not reading to make your decision whether to stay with the military or go after Spill- Please don’t ask about this, please don’t. You nod once as Gaz crosses his arms beside Price, “As your Captain I am disappointed you did not come to me for support when you needed it and I don’t just mean work, love. In that disappointment of mine, I directed it towards you rather than at myself, I misplaced my actions while addressing your old squad as did the rest of the boys. I cannot speak for their shite but what I will say is that, I’m sorry Dice. I was an arse,” Price says while casting his eyes down to his boots, he grips his vest, swinging on his feet and you cannot help but cast a smile at his actions.

“It’s alright, Price. I-I get it, I was in a downright terrible position and I should have gone to the team but when the guys came around-I… I just got lost in the memories, you know? Those good feelings came back but with the more nights we spent talking to one another… the more it wore off and the more guilty I felt knowing that I left you all without a word…” you sigh out in relief that the dreaded question did not get asked yet Gaz takes that sigh as the start of tears as he races up, encasing you in a warm hug. You smile into his skin as he chuckles at the feeling. John decides to make this a group hug as you groan at the weight of gear being toppled on you before an anxious Alex is screaming from the backdoor like a worried mother, “We are on the road in six people, get your shit together- we have deadlines to meet tonight.”

Hopping out of the trucks once more, you find Price standing on a stump as he counts heads and ultimately addresses the crowd. Soon lines are being formed throughout the treeline and comms are declared silent, you could see your first objective as part of the abandoned factory.

Distant echoes of metal grinding in on itself as trees swayed and groaned in the wind provided an eerie atmosphere to the rising tensions in your shoulders. Standing against the wall, with your NODs on, you nodded towards Gaz as he clipped the lock and you entered the room, to what would be a series of offices. Casting yourself against the further wall to your side and making your way to the centre to meet up with Soap he signals for you to unlock the next door. The first and second room were found empty.

Yet as you move deepering into the facility, through the various offices that have used coffee mugs and papers scattered across their tops, the sound of running feet can be heard echoing down the hall on the outside platform, connecting the offices to the greater factory and mining pit beneath. Turning your head to see Ghost already holding up his hand, you all pause and hear as the steps get closer.

Raising your gun to your face as Gaz does the same. You hold steady as the door handle jiggles, Johnny takes cover behind a tipped over desk, resting his gun against its side as he tries to squint through the blinds from a distance, unable to identify the possible target. A few shouts in another language can be heard as they fumble for their keys and drop a flashlight, it rolls across the metal platform as they swear out into the night air and another voice soon joins their worries.

Ghost stares at the door, gun raised in wait as he eyes you all to hold position. The door soon flies open, you all still hidden in the darkness of the room- observing their actions as they shut the door behind themselves and lean against it- panting out.

Ghost steps towards the window light, motioning them to lay flat against the ground with his gun as he orders with a strict tone, “Hands and Knees on the fucking ground. On the fucking ground now.”

Gaz dashes over to secure them both, moving them against the back wall where Soap and you wait. Equipping the flashlight on your gun you focus in on their faces and kneel to view their badges as Ghost stands behind you, reading to move in if they pull any fast actions on you. They were cousins to the working family who ran this frontal tree-logging factory where in actuality this is where they produced their newest explosive weaponry.

Both scientists refuse to meet your gaze before you grab one of their chins, ensuring their eyes meet your own. They portray confidence, yet their shaking knees tell otherwise, “I need you to tell me who else works here.”

The scientist to the man you currently hold shakes their head violently, thrashing their hands in the restraints as Soap places a boot against their body, stopping their movements with a stubble bit of pressure. “Do not try to look at your friend. I will not ask you again, you tell me- or you meet our other friends in the woods- your choice,” you speak in a clear, even tone.

The man simply spits in your face as you drop your hold on their chin and instead force their body upright, their feet slipping against the floors in an effort to hold themselves up. “What a shame, your cousin here will get to go first- let your lack of information help their screams,” you pressure them further as their eyes go wide- believing in your hold to words.

“They-they are 42 of us here, 10 in staff today- I do not know elsewise to their location. Please believe me- do not hurt her” the man shakes underneath your grip, their shirt slightly tearing as you press them into the wall- it creaks from the weight.

“That's a start, where are they, where are the 10?”

“I-I will show you,” the scientist counter-offers as the lady nods her head in agreement, “yes, we will show.”

“No showing necessary, you will tell me now- I will be taking your badges.”

“Yes, of course! Of course, t-they are meeting with accountant in west wing,” the man stumbles to answer.

“Who is this accountant? Where are they from, who do they speak to?”

“I-I do not know, you will have to ask. They only come to see we do the work and leave afterwards. They are not from here, foreign looks. That all I know, please.”

“Good, thank you,” you offer the man a tight-lipped smile before dropping him to the floor. He groans out as you search his jacket for the mentioned ID and destroy the SIN card in his phone as Johnny examines the woman's handbag and empties it across a desk.

Finding the other ID and her notebook, he stashes them in his vest before enabling comms for another team to keep watch of the two scientists in custody- they would be needed in court afterwards.

After a few moments and adjusting your gear, you hold up your gun abruptly to the sounds of rushing boots. The knocks sounded at the door follow the prediscoled pattern as you sigh out in relief and open the door for the squad to enter, Simon presents the information gathered as they radio back to base while staring down at the two scientists who refuse to make eye-contact once more.

The squad leader gives Simon a nod, signaling your exit as you all make your way towards the west wing. Greeting other squads that you find along the way as Gaz stays behind to help dress one of their wounds.

The metal stairs that you deascened for moan in the wind and shift with the building as you enter down into the west wing. A set of double doors greets your faces as you each take a side, readying to enter the space with a sudden burst. All the lights are on inside the large meeting hall as various guns are pointed up at your face, shouting for your compliance.

Setting your weapon down in your hands as Johnny and Simon do the same, it was squad 3-5 that stood in the room, already holding a tight control over those yet to be interrogated in one of the private meeting rooms or holding the exits.

Laughing out as horror exits your system, you hear the all-familiar sounds of John's investigations as you enter the room as Johnny and Simon wait outside. Price does not face you, his knuckles bloodied yet the accountant's face looks a whole lot worse, or well at least what you assume to be the accountant in their… disturbed appearance.

Letting out a low whistle, the Captain chuckles in response before leaning over. He presses his hands snuggly into their shoulders, forcing them to almost break the back of the wooden chair as he whispers into their ear, eyes flicking upwards to meet your own as he speaks, “Nice of you to join us Dice, maybe you have something to help move this investigation along. Any bargaining chips potentially?”

The accountant stays silent, only glaring into your eyes as you blink twice back at them, “I know that you murdered thousands with the numbers you love to play with back at that office of yours, just outside the city right? Women, children, awaiting fathers, it's all the same to you- isn’t it? Your wife-” you chuckle to yourself, shaking your head as you saunter around the room, “we had a splendid time after the Charity Gala together. Her moans never sounded so sweet while being stripped of that silky red dress,” you humm afterwards as if thoughtfully remembering the scene.

John keeps his eyes locked onto yours as the account begins to shift in their restraints more. He moves a gloved hand, forcing them to look back up at you as you walk closer to stand in front of their sat form, smiling down.

“She told me of how you couldn't make her fulfilled in bed. How good my hands felt in her hair, trailing down her neck of diamonds and right to her stomach…” you tisk the accountant, brushing your hand against John's shoulder before continuing, “then she told me how you had to sell your own manliness to women who only were bought for your attention, sick bastard you are truly. So much so that she found herself in the sheets of not only me, your enemy who made her feel more than you did in 20 years- but the oligarch you work for as well. How wonderful is that- no?”

“You tell lies-”

“Why would I waste my words on a man like you if not only to tell the truth? You are pathetic really…” you trail off while Price smiles, he knows that you both are almost there to crack this man's facade.

“You are pathetic, your little mind games serve as dull knives.”

“Then what will be said of you whatever would your boss think when he finds out you have been tilting the numbers yet again, but are stealing your fortune to pay off that mistress of yours- hm?” you retort with a large plaster across your face as John whistles out, giving their cheek a good pat before coming to stand by your side.

“Decision is yours, I have a member of death's door waiting, like seeing the reaper himself if you want a pre-show to your fate or you could choose to put your dick back into your pants like a good ol’boy and wag your tail for your boss- we would love a chat,” Captain Price teases out, his voice filled with grovel from all the yelling he had done today.

A low nod of the head is all you need for evidence of his acceptance before John is signaling through the window for someone to handle the accountant. And by the time you both exit the room, the accountant in cuffs walking out with another squad member before you and all of his people who laugh at his appearance. You notice as Ghost refuses to make eye-contact with you, instead shifting his feet when you ask if he’s doing alright. When turning around to face Soap, he gives you a strained grin, his gun lower than usually positioned by his core as he tilts his head, signaling towards Price, signally for assurance.

A cough can be heard as you all turn to face Gaz who stands with his arms outstretched as you walk over to give him a hug, your gun dangling across your chest as you both shimmy around one anothers gear with a laugh. With your face plastered into his side, he gives a wink towards Simon and Johnny- a look of understanding for their current state as messages are shared throughout the facility- it was time for exfil after a mission well served.

A shake of your shoulder as your eyes snapping awake, you did not mean to have a nap. Blinking your eyes clear, you notice as a corporal shakes you awake then points to the Captain. Price’s eyes scan your own in a restless search- but for what? Tilting your head towards the Captain to signify your confusion towards his actions he patches himself into your radio system while holding your gaze.

“Do you know if your shadow friends will be joining us for the next objective?”

“Unclear sir, I have yet to hear from their intelligence crews” the title you state becomes knives to John’s ears, cutting their way down to his lungs as he takes a breath in trying to calm himself, already worked up from the earlier mission as you blink none-the-wiser to your word choice’s impact.

“John or Price, your choice Dice…” John replies with a more flat tone than usual that has your head topping to the side. “Sorry Price, still wearing off the adrenaline from the mission, brains a bit scrambled as of current,” you state with a sloppy smile as he casts a tired one of his own, closing his eyes with a humm, extending his boot to touch your own as you lock your ankles around it.

Soon Ghosts voice comes through your headset as you look around to find where he was seated, five seats down, the masked figure stared down the aisle to look at you and his Captain while moving his mic down to his mouth, “Had to hold Johnny back from that Horangi guy a few days ago, same can be said about Gaz and Köing. Mop-masked was holding Kyle in a death stare in the meeting room.”

Johnny pipes up to conversation beside Simon as he notices what is being discussed from the reactions everyone is displaying from throughout the aisle, pulling down his radio system. Simon grips his thigh, as if warning him of doing something that has your eyes narrowing in mixed confusion, concern and irritation- what were they keeping from you?

“Al’right, that Horangi fucker. What is his deal, gorgeous? Really had to share some harsh words with him after what he said about you. Can’t fucking believe that you would say he’s your best with the alligations he presented,” Soap rants while rolling his shoulders, as if preparing himself for a fight.

“Is that why you were being so touchy in the car ride? You only had to ask, quite like your hands,” you ask with a teasing tone, blood still pumping through your body as you watch as Johnny's cheeks flush, the adrenaline from the mission has him on edge as your little stab has him falling back in embarrassment before he rounds his own fireback.

“Love hearing my name on your lips, may have to come over there so you never forget it,” he teases right back with a large wink as Simon whispers for you all to “tone it down,” as he looks at the various eyes looking between our squad- trying to understand the conversation happening between you all.

“If I remember, there were some other names you wished me to call you as well but first, do tell me about these allegations,” you press forward. Gaz now joins, offering his side from an unknown place in the plane. “Simon patched me into what's happening. Köing rubbed me the wrong way with his looks, as if he knew something I didn’t.”

Johnny presses the topic further, adding, “Said that I would never know what you really needed from a ‘team’. I don’t regret my actions, Y/N, I will tell you that now. But when they say those kinds of things, and you leave for those weeks when they arrive- leads me to conclusions I don’t wish to face. We acted nice in front of you, Dice. But I need you to tell me before we land, are you a part of our squad or not?”

“Always,” you answer before your brain can keep up, “I talked in parts of this with Simon one day but… you guys are it for me I think. I cannot say for sure after this mission but… I got what I needed off my plate these past few weeks with the past and now I can promise that you have only my attention,” you state with a raised chest in pride.

“I better have all of your attention,” Johnny comments back, “Alright you,” Simon voices over, taking off Soaps headset and placing it out of reach as you howl with laughter down the line, waking Price up from his temporary drift off, flashing you a smile as you wince out an apology.

Shaking your head down in your laugh to calm down, you pick your microphone back down to continue speaking, “Look, I apologise to you all for my shitty behaviour, their equally shitty behaviour- really all around shitness that has happened. You all have become my truest friends since meeting Gabby in elementary and friends is a term I do not use sparingly- I must hold my thanks. I will do better to come to you all when I am struggling,” you promise watching as Soap manages to sneak back his headset while Simon sends you a warm stare that has you flashing him a smile, enjoying how beet red he gets underneath his gear.

“Just, Friends- hm?” Soap questions with a small frown flashing across his features.

You smile and nod back vigorously, not knowing how to place your thanks into words in a better way than actions. Failing to notice the tone in which the word was replied back in as he leans back against the divider and out of sight with a contemplative humm.

Simon chuckles at your answer, the deep sound causing your heart to race and our lungs to flutter. How you wished to hear the sound again as you watched his chest rise and fall with the actions while underneath that tight black vest. As Gaz and Price remain silent to the conversation.

A few moments go by as you all allow the words to sink in. “Do you have a thing for masks, Dice?” Johnny questions in a serious tone while leaning into Simon's side, doing as he does best- lightening the mood.

You choke on your own spit at the accusation being presented as you stutter for an answer, brain firing on multiple fronts from the whiplash of a conversation.

“I-I’m sorry, could you repeat the question? I think the lack of air is getting to my head.”

Johnny merely smiles before restating the question as calmly as before, as if asking for your favorite colour or season. “Do you have a thing for people in masks? Notice you know many people that wear em’”

“I uh…” your voice trails off as you contemplate your answer, eyes slowly drifting towards Ghost who stares down your form intently waiting to hear your answer. Yet as the seconds tick by, the lack of answer eventually forms one in itself as you hear Gaz chuckle down the radio before turning himself silent and the Captain coughs a few times, turning red underneath his own mustache as he refuses to meet your stare.

“Do you?” you question back, partially curious and the other seeking a slight revenge from playing your in this blushed-filled and nervous state.

“Oh, definitely” he replies quickly before you all burst into laughter and the landing sign is singled moments after, it was home time.

Once back on base, a few days of paperwork are filled out as the days and hours clock down to your next departure. You do your best not to think about it as you ask Gabby for clothing recommendations in your room, she asks you to spin with a wave of her finger as you do so with a groan of frustration. You had been stuck in this endless cycle for nearly two hours now and you had told Gaz you would be meeting him in the lobby in three hours.

You had gone through your whole closet before you outwords protest, unable to keep to just your facial reactions as Gabby hides behind a pair of shoes she found at the back of your closet between the dozen pairs of work-boots. “It’s not even a date, Gabs. We are just making up for lost time with some coffee, nothin’ more nothing less-”

“And I know where my dad went-okay?! If this is not a date, I do not know what else is sweetheart. Treat yourself~” she sings out before throwing another pair of pants for you to try on. She claps her hands together, fixing the buttons on your shirt as she frizzles your hair. “Have fun, you look like a million dollar baby!” Kicking your butt on the way out she quickly turns around to place the mess she created of your room as you lock the apartment door behind yourself and Gaz pulls you into a hug once meeting downstairs.

He opens the door for you, helping you out of the car as well and orders you both two teas with an assortment of small snacks for lunch. Conversation flows between small hand touches and the linking of shoes from below the table. You rest a hand against his thigh, watching as he chokes down his glass of water as you cast the man a wink.

The check slamming against the table has you both stumbling out as dinner time nears, “How about I treat us to dinner?” you say while looking up nearby restaurants on your phone. “Sounds good, love,” Kyle states while wrapping an arm around your waist with a cheeky smile as an elderly couple look towards you both with disgust.

Gaz watches as your smile falls slightly and you back away. He still walks near you, arms brushing against one another in hopes that you would feel more comfortable again, casting him a thankful smile as you both walk down another block to the small Turkish restaurant.

You both sit beside one another, sharing food off each others plats as you ignore the endless stream of messages that Gabby sends you, excusing yourself to the washroom- you open your text messages and cough out in shock, “I’m sorry for spamming, you two are probably fucking right now- next time I want in, have fun! Tell me how he is~” Blushing bright red, your fingers rush across the keyboard, scolding your best friend before splashing water across your face.

Once returning back to the table, Kyle holds his arm up, allowing you to become wrapped underneath its calming pressure, “you doing okay?” he asked you in a hushed tone, lips right against your ear as your blush extends to your ears now. “Just peachy.”

When you leave the restaurant and pick the car back up, you invite Kyle back to your place, “It is closer to here and it would be best to not wake the rest of the lads up,” you comment. “If you want me more to yourself- you can just tell me sweetheart,” he teases while running circles into your knee as he makes a turn into your block.

Leaning over to press a kiss against his cheek, your voice becomes more hushed as you unlock your apartment door and rush up to Spoons. Who looks as happy and healthy as ever, note to self, the elderly neighbour gets a gift. Kyle leans down, giving your pet a quick past before yawning and stretching out of their boots.

He trails down the hallway behind you, hands on your waist as you open your bedroom door, throwing yourself on the bed with an overtired giggle. He follows suit as you roll over, giving him enough space, noticing this he pulls you underneath the covers and against him. “Thank you, Kyle Garrick,” you whisper out, hoping him to be asleep already.

“What for?” he asks out in an equally delicate tone, feeling as your heart races against his chest. “For staying with me, for understanding…” you start to cry, unable to find the right words as he kisses the top of your head, brushing some hair from your forehead. “Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. I am always here, alright? Never question that.”

He feels as you nod once more and chuckles when Spoons snuggles themselves in the empty space at the foot of the bed, emitting a few purrs as you all drift off into the world beyond.

Lasting Pictures Series Masterlist

↳ Taglist: @thriving-n-jiving @cringeycookies @ashy-kit @lilliumrorum @kaoyamamegami

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mrstellmeafuckingsecret · 9 days ago

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written for @saintcursemedia

words : 341

rating : teens & up

title : my kingdom (for a kiss upon her shoulder)

My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder. The vaults of my bloodline, the weight of my name, the bones that pierce me from within my skin, and my mother’s scream in the hallway, sharp with shame, just for Mary to look at me like I am not a product of twisted cruelty.

Mary walks like a song I was never able to sing. She speaks, and my blood turns to wine. Her integrity, down to her soul, makes me want to break whatever made my soul rot in the womb, what’s lost to time. My kingdom, I had said, and I meant it. My kingdom, my inheritance, my winterhouse of ghouls. My kingdom, for a kiss, or less, or nothing, but the shape of her breath in the cold.

Mary was not made for me. Mary was made for light, flowers, and honey-sweet romance. They call her heart well torn I call it the only home I’ve ever known.

Mary voice is a command; my body obeys. She says live and my heart sways, but I have died a hundred times, the decay remains still, I would pull myself out of death’s chains, if it meant she'd press her hand to my jaw and say lovingly, “Darling, you’re good to me.”

I know her anatomy better than my own. I know where Mary’s spine dips and have studied whatever she’s shown. She lets me trace the veins in her wrist to her heart, maps to a country I do not deserve to take apart. (I press my mouth to the border anyway.)

I was born the cage, and Mary was born the bird, and I would break my ribs to free her, let her soar far and high.

I would give up everything for the way she says my name when she’s angry– sharp and holy, she knowing I’m not worthy, and loves me too. My kingdom, I repeat, for a kiss upon her shoulder, for the chance to be worthy of being the only one allowed to hold her.

#this post feels naked #saintcurse #moth's own #moth's writing #dead gay wizards from the 70s #hp marauders #the marauders #marauders era #the marauders era #marauders #mary macdonald #pandora lovegood #pandora rosier #pandamary #marydora #mary x pandora #pandora x mary #pandora loves mary

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thejohnlockedfemboy · 20 days ago

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Keep in mind that these were children. Twelve years old. Kidnapped from their school when they were six and genetically and chemically mutated and modified to be super-soldiers. They were starved, forced to train until they were physically sick, stunned with tasers— all within their first day of being integrated into the Spartan program.

The only family they ever knew was each other and they had no contact with the outside world except for being pitted against adult special forces soldiers who would harm them just to win a petty training match.

James deserved so much better— they all did. He wasn’t even thirteen and he was literally beaten for information by someone who wasn’t even an actual enemy. Fuck Catherine Halsey.

These kinds of books really raise important ethical questions about how far is too far when humanity is faced with extinction. Is the greater good worth sacrificing for when the heart offered up upon the alter is a teenager who has been force-fed on propaganda and false stories of glory and heroism? Should people far up in the food chain really get to decide the fate of the soldiers they’re using as cannon fodder? It makes one wonder when a soldier is merely a number and when he is a man known and loved by those around him.

Who grieves when the Spartans die? Nobody, not even the other Spartans, because they’ve been taught that to die fighting is the most honorable act of service to one’s cause. But when we look upon the glassed surface of Reach, does it make you wonder if it was all worth it, John? When you remember Sam, who died because of a stray hit to his armor, or James, who suffocated slowly in the cold, dead vacuum of space, or Joshua, shot down by plasma?

They’re all gone now, but not officially. No, just MIA. Because the Spartans never get to die.

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chroniclesofskz · 3 months ago

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Under his command P3

One night, as he held her tightly, his breath ragged in her ear, she felt a tremble in his hand. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. It was the first time she had seen him anything less than completely in charge. The realization filled her with a strange mix of power and pity. She knew that underneath the dominance and the demands, he too was a man with needs and fears. And perhaps, just perhaps, he needed her as much as she needed him.

Y/N decided to test the waters. The next time he called her to his room, she went willingly, though with a newfound sense of defiance. As he began to tie her up, she whispered, "Daddy," the word now a challenge rather than a plea. He paused, his eyes narrowing, and she knew she had his attention. With a smirk, she asked, "What happens if I don't behave?"

The air grew thick with tension as he stared at her, his grip on the ropes tightening. Then, without warning, he yanked her to her feet, spinning her around to face the full-length mirror that stood in the corner. "You want to see what happens when you don't behave?" His voice was low, dangerous, and it sent a thrill of excitement through her. He reached for a set of chains attached to the ceiling, looping them around her wrists. "I'll show you, my little rebel."

He began to bind her with the chains, lifting her off the floor, until she was suspended in midair, her toes barely brushing the plush carpet. The cold metal dug into her skin, sending a bolt of pain through her body, but she didn't protest. Instead, she watched him in the mirror, her breathing shallow and quick. His eyes never left hers, the challenge in them unmistakable. He was daring her to push back, to fight against the very thing she had grown to crave.

With a smirk, she whispered, "Is this what you want, Daddy?" The words were a taunt, a dare, and she felt a thrill as she watched his eyes darken with desire. He stepped closer, his body pressing against hers, the warmth of his skin searing her through the thin fabric of her lingerie. He reached up, his hand brushing her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "You want to play games?" he murmured. "Very well, my sweet princess. But remember, you're the one who's bound, not me."

The next part of the evening was a blur of sensation. The sting of the whip, the coldness of the ice as it melted against her hot skin, the burn of the flogger as it kissed her back. Yet, with each strike, she felt herself getting wetter, her body begging for more. And when he finally entered her, the pain melding into pleasure, she knew she had made the right choice. For in this twisted dance, she had found a part of herself she never knew existed – a part that craved the very thing she feared most.

Their battles of wills continued, each one more intense than the last. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Y/N found that she was no longer just the girl who had been sold to pay a debt. She had become an integral part of 3RACHA's world, a piece of the puzzle that no one else could fill. And as much as she hated to admit it, she had grown to love the man who had claimed her. The man who had shown her the darkest parts of herself and had taught her to crave the taste of power and submission.

Their relationship was far from perfect, a tapestry of scars and bruises, of love and pain. But as she lay there, bound and trembling with desire, she knew that she belonged to him. And for the first time in her life, she felt truly alive. The chains that had once held her captive had become her lifeline, a symbol of the twisted love that had grown between them. And as she called him "master," she knew that she would do anything to keep this feeling, to stay in this world where she was both the prisoner and the queen.

Part 4

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splendsay · 8 months ago

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COD Fic // Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 10: Father's Daughter

hello hi yes more angsty hand holding in this chapter UR WELCOME I had to do a lil bit o' research for this one to make sure all my i's were dotted n' shit, so I am hopeful everything comes across in a way that tracks with reality as much as possible and it all makes sense and also that u love it and honestly if u don't that's really none of my business

Callsign: Sunshine // Chapter 10 // Father's Daughter

.................................................................. CWs: Explicit language, vague mentions of past trauma and recovery, descriptions of guns

Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, Reader (You), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Chapter Excerpt:

"You won't find it anywhere. It doesn't exist."

Soap frowns. "What d'you mean?"

You stare at them -- these men you hardly know. They seem so earnest. You hate that. You hate that you only have one thing to offer them -- a measly supply of information relative to your crazed scientist father's end-of-life havoc-wreaking.

You tighten your grip on Ghost's fingers, and he runs a comforting thumb along your pinky.

"Toward the end... My father...he got more and more erratic. His behaviors, his decisions. They didn't make sense. He wasn't himself."

Gaz leans forward on his elbows, nudging his bowl to the side. "In what way?"

"He stopped taking my calls--"

"Because you were discharged?"

You try not to feel the sting of that word on someone else's tongue, but it's hard. Even after all this time.

"Partially, maybe," you ponder. "But he'd been deteriorating even before that. I'd thought he was just manic -- obsessed with the task at hand. That wasn't entirely out of the ordinary. But he was taking shortcuts he wouldn't normally. He told me one day that..." You trail off. The memory is like a bloodstain.

"Dad...dad, slow down."

"It's the breakthrough of a century, Sunny," your father speaks to you through rough, choppy pants, as though he's got blades in his lungs. He's been chain-smoking again.

"This...this will be my legacy," he goes on. "Everything I've worked for, everything I've done. Nothing will top this. It's perfect -- it's the perfect specimen, I know it is."

"Dad, what about trials?"

"I don't fucking need trials! We'll go strai--"

"But, you're pre-clinical, you can't proceed on humans without testing the potential implicatio--"

"Who the fuck do you work for, the FDA? I don't have to do shit!"

"But the ethics of jumping straight to--"

Your father's voice is as cold as you've ever heard it when he cuts you off again. "Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, Sunny. You know this."

There's a momentary, bitter pause as you digest his words. Words you know, words he's recited to you a hundred times. "Dad," you plead. "There's anoth--"

"Goodbye, Sunny."

The line goes dead.

The sensation of Ghost squeezing your knee again brings you back to the present.

..................................................................... Links to: Spotify Playlist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

.................................................................

"Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful." - Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784), English Author, Poet, and Literary Critic and Writer

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plum-orchard · 2 months ago

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the innie conception of how much they are their outie is changing as the conditions within the severed floor changes. we can see that even their philosophy of self is downstream of their oppression.

this is typified by mark's orphic rebellion to choose a life of uncertainty and love with helly which is both a rebuke of his master (outie mark) and a reinforcement of the System's goal (cold harbor, i.e. severing so completely even the most powerful love can be occluded)

but also we have cross-department solidarity for the first time with mammalians nurturable and choreography & merriment joining forces with MDR (all of this, birthed largely by the bravery of irving's affair with burt!!!) which begs of us the difficult question that is asked in this finale and that i hope and pray the writers can find interesting answers and complications to: what DOES liberation look like? when you're at the absolute bottom of the food chain with no power, how do you find a path to freedom?

the core tension of the show seems to be becoming the innie's deterritorialization of their conditions and lumon's simultaneous reterritorialization of them, and it seems (🤞) like the search for answers to questions of where the self resides and how it manifests is going to be integral to breaking this cycle.

innie and outie solidarity seems like a plausible path to liberation, but it will remain impossible (like we saw today with the camcorder convo) unless they can come to an understanding of the innie/outie as some sort of a self.

as some smart guy said once: “the self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities.”

can't wait for season three.

#severance #severance spoilers

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sleepyhead-poll · 7 months ago

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ROUND 3D, MATCH 3 OUT OF 4!

Propaganda Under the Cut

Avrana:

Kern is the last survivor of a fallen empire, questionably human in every sense of the word, clinging to life through cold sleep technology, scientific integrity and pure, unadulterated spite. She's torn from oblivion in the space between the silence and faced with a universe she no longer recognises. Trapped in a coffin of circuitry and steel with no one to talk to but her broken reflection, she cannibalises her own mind into a simulacrum of a simulacrum, her sympathies shifting from the fractured remnant of humanity to their mutated arthropod kin on the planet below. Not even she knows what's down there. She was never supposed to dream. later on she is hit by a laser and uploaded to ants and it is honestly the coolest shit ever

Alecto:

Woke up after nearly 10,000 years and immediately ran god through with a sword

Apparently "killed" millennia ago and sealed in the titular Locked Tomb, Alecto was in fact only "switched off", chained up, and frozen in a big block of ice on Pluto, to make sure she never, ever wakes up. She is a Barbie Girl. She is a Barbie World.

#avrana kern #children of time #adrian tchaikovsky #alecto #alecto the ninth #the locked tomb #tamsyn muir #round 3 #round 3d #poll bracket #poll tournament #polls #character polls #hibernation poll

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dickmedowndc · 2 years ago

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Little Menace - Jaime Reyes/Khaji Da x Villain!Reader

Word Count: 4,486

Summary: Blue Beetle has been handling you as a villain for ages. But what happens after he shows up expecting a fight, only to find you bloody on the ground. Against Khaji Da’s better judgment, Jaime suggests dragging you back to their apartment and getting you cleaned up – after all, they need to find out what happened, and they can’t leave you to die. Which leads to their current predicament of getting you into the bath without leaving you unsupervised.

Notes: Reader is not in a relationship with them (yet), but Khaji Da and Jaime are together. Khaji Da is still a little shit in this and Jaime is just trying to survive for the night. Translations are at the end under the dotted line. Based on the prompt by @gingerly-writing, prompt #3109:

“You know,” the supervillain rasped as they eased their battered body into the bath, “when you finally got me naked, I was imagining a much sexier situation.”

Part II here

…★…

“Any sign of life?”

“None yet, Jaime Reyes,” the voice echoed back in his head.

They had spent enough years together that it was white noise in his mind by now – the feeling of Khaji Da scanning the area for any sign of attack or threat. A constant source of vigilance that Jaime had long since learned to trust with his life. They were so regularly, deeply, integrated that when they were on the field it became hard to tell where one of them started and the other one ended.

Neither seemed to mind. It just made them a more formidable opponent in battle.

Outside of a fight, though Khaji Da was on regular alert, they were easier to tell apart. Jaime had grown, and Khaji Da had learned over the years what his personality was. It had been a long road for both, but they were better for it.

A clicking sound, just a small warning trill somewhere at the edges of his thoughts brought Jaime back to the present.

Khaji had caught him wandering and pulled him from his own head.

“The leak said that the meeting was supposed to be happening tonight, but this doesn’t seem like their normal drop-spot.” Jaime scanned the area, eyes darting along shadows and thick branches that swayed above crumbling stone walls.

The whole area was falling apart this far out of town. The only common residents among the decaying architecture tended to fall into a small demographic: bored teens looking to tag the old walls, get away and hang out to act a bit stupid, or just making out. It wasn’t the same secure locations that you would normally frequent.

Too many things could go wrong. A bystander could show up – not that you would be unable to handle something so small – or a drone could spot you and your newest client out in the open.

In all the time that he and Khaji Da had been facing you, attention to detail and a vicious fighting strategy had kept you just out of their reach. Nothing more than a taunt away always.

But this wasn’t right.

It felt more like the hero was waltzing open-armed into a trap.

Even Khaji Da seemed more on edge – locked on to each snap of a twig or sway of a branch that cast a shadows’ puppet play against the cold earth around them.

Their information had seemed pretty solid however. While you often worked alone – leaving less room for error when you handled things yourself – occasionally outsourcing was required. And unfortunately for you, not all your chain had as much of a backbone. The most recent investigation had lasted less than two minutes before the sniveling man had recounted every tid-bit of information he knew about you and your dealings.

Tonight was supposed to be a big one – a huge client for you and an even bigger payday if what they had learned was true.

It was just one more reason the feeling of unease prickled along Jaime’s spine. You wouldn’t be so careless with such an important meeting.

Just then Khaji Da pulled them both to a halt, taking control of Jaime’s body for a second and forcing their suited self to a stand-still. “Faint signs of life detected just ahead.”

“How many,” Jaime asked, eyes narrowed at the decrepit building his scarab had faced them directly towards.

There was a moment of silence as Khaji Da focused in on the area, trying to find anyone or anything that could be awaiting them. “Only one, it’s them, but their vital signs are low – from what I can currently determine. Proceed with caution, Jaime.”

“You read my mind.”

They changed tactics, moving in slowly from the side and scaling the building to come in from above – a section of the wall and roof was rotted away and caved in, but between the darkness and the walls that remained barely standing it provided them enough cover.

Khaji Da took over the suit visors once inside, illuminating the area in tints of yellows and oranges as they scanned – flashes of numbers, letters, and more complex measurements moving by in the blink of an eye to Jaime as the scarab ran through calculations and possibilities. “Our target has not moved from their spot since I located them. I need a visual to determine their current state.”

Jaime didn’t need to answer, nor would he risk it. While you were unable to hear the regular feed of information that echoed inside of his head, you would certainly hear any response that the host of the duo returned. Carefully, and following the path laid out on the suit monitor, Jaime made his way around the beams and to scan the ground floor.

The sight below gave him pause, and even Khaji Da’s calculations seemed to halt.

The inside of the building was destroyed. Far beyond the damage of nature and time alone.

Whatever had been left furniture wise in the house had been thoroughly demolished. Old wood that had once been the tops of tables and chairs was scattered and splintered around the room, buried under the rubble of drywall and crumbled stone. Metal bars and other rusted items were either bent or shoved deep into walls and the floorboards. Much of the flooring itself had been broken and dug up, as though something had been beaten against it until it gave way. Old fabric chairs were overturned and crushed against the far sides of walls. Cabinets hung on unsteady hinges. The toppled couch had long gashes along the pillows and back of it.

It was a warzone. Nothing inside the house had been spared. Graffiti was illegible, even that which looked new from the colors and designs.

But Jaime realized something as he unceremoniously dropped from the rafters and onto the creaking floor: he didn’t see you anywhere.

He shifted his arm to a blade, ready for you to leap from the shadows – amused that the hero had fallen so easily for a distraction. But no attack came as he scrounged through the wreckage.

A minute passed before Khaji Da audibly beeped, pulling the suit to the left and laying directions over the screen.

Jaime followed without argument, heart still pounding and nerves on fire as he prepared for a fight. If the house looked like this, he could only imagine what you had done to the assailant. Yet a part of his brain corrected him; Khaji Da had picked up your unique signature, so why would you still be in the old home? As he stepped closer, he could hear it, the labored rasp of breathing from under a thick beam and a large section of stone from the wall.

If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t believe they had survived. But you were never that easy to get rid of.

A warning flashed before his eyes – Khaji Da could tell that vitals were dropping faster, and they got to work shoving away the debris. Piece by piece they moved stone and wood, slowly able to make out the tattered sight of your uniform, until finally your upper body was in sight. That left your legs trapped, but the stone was loose on you from the waist down and it took no time to dig you out, soon flipping you onto your back and shifting to a clear section of flooring.

Jaime didn’t need to ask, allowing Khaji Da to do a more in-depth scan of your condition.

“They’re lucky they can handle as much as they do or they would be dead,” Khaji’s voice chirped in Jaime’s mind as he finished scanning. There was plenty of damage, but nothing you would be unable to heal from given your abilities and experience. It seemed more likely that the debris had just knocked you out and your opponent had taken it as your final loss, leaving you for what likely would have been death, had you not been found and dug out.

“So what do we do with them?” Jaime asked, looking around to ensure they were still alone. For all he knew it could still be a trap.

“We need more information on what happened.”

“We need to take them into custody.”

There was silence before Khaji spoke, unease at the idea of handing you over to anyone. “Prior incidents prove that is unwise. They were taken into custody at the beginning of their career multiple times, when less of a threat, and injured many people during their escapes. A hospital will be unable to secure them properly.”

“And with how much more dangerous they’ve gotten it’s sure to get someone hurt or killed trying to hold them,” Jaime spoke, finishing khaji Da’s thought before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “We won't be able to get them to talk either – they never did in custody.”

“Correct, Jaime Reyes.”

Their conversation was cut short when you groaned, arms twitching before you moved them to cover your eyes, forcing a sharp breath when the pain hit you in waves.

The world was spinning and you tried to recall what had happened. Your new deal had gone wrong – had been a setup entirely. Someone had taken a hit out on you and you, though unaware of it, had let yourself get carried away. The supposed client was one that could normally be trusted, at least as far as black-market dealings went, and you had tried to accommodate their request, even if changing your location left a bitter taste in your mouth. That was the last time you listen to the possibility of money over your own gut, you thought.

It meant that now you had some blows to return when you could get up, and a new goal to hunt down whoever had been just stupid enough to put a price on your head.

You had a reputation to uphold, after all.

But then the realization hit you. The last thing you could remember was being slammed into the old wall, before the stone had finally given way in the fight and buried you. But there was no pressure, no dig of rock into flesh. Your limbs could move freely – though the pain begged you not to. And you were just aware enough to know that someone was standing beside you.

You dreaded opening your eyes and finding out who.

Regardless, you needed to know your situation. So, rubbing the dust from your eyes you opened them, squinting up at the figure that stood before you.

He was easy enough to figure out, even without your full ability to see for the moment. The distinct pattern of blue and black on his armor giving him away even as a fuzzy blob. You grimaced, spitting his name out with venom as though you could puff up and bluff your way out of a fight or capture. As though you weren’t laying on the ground at his mercy.

“You’ve seen better days,” he chimed, crouching down close enough for you to fully see him. “You’ll be fine, by the way.”

“Of course I will,” you snapped back, pushing up with unsteady arms as you got in his face, silently daring him to make one wrong move.

“But you’re not much of a threat right now.” His voice shifted as the scarab took over for a moment, thoroughly undeterred by your aggressive display. His mouth set in a thin line as he shifted to grab hold of you, pulling you up to your feet as he stood.

You didn’t have the strength to complain when you were finally moved, the process of standing enough to send the world around you spinning before your vision went black. He said something, you know that, but despite straining you were unable to make out the words, only giving a half-hearted grumble in response.

Blue Beetle stood and watched as your head lulled forward. You had slipped right back into unconsciousness, and Khaji made quick work of scanning you to further assess for additional damage he might have missed. “They’re fine, likely just overwhelmed from the fight. I am unsure how long they were stuck under the rocks as well, but we should keep an eye on them incase their condition worsens.”

“The best way to do that would be to take them back to our place then.” It wasn’t Jaime’s favorite thought, but there were few other options that would keep you from harming someone else and still allowed the hero to keep an eye on you.

“Other arrangements could be made with the league for a temporary holding cell and medical treatment.”

“Then we still have the issue of them refusing to speak to anyone,” Jaime reminded. “But I don’t like the idea of them knowing where we live.”

“Assessment, they already know.”

“What.”

“They are already aware of where we live.”

“Since when?” Jaime shot, alarmed at this information.

“Scans have indicated them far too close to our apartment on more than one occasion, though they always remain right on the edge of my range. The most likely explanation is that they believed they were too far out of range to be detected. But they are aware of where we live.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It would be more concerning for you to know, and I remained vigilant to their location. If they had come closer, I would have alerted you.”

“We could have moved!”

“We can’t afford that.”

That was true, Jaime sighed, shifting so you were resting more comfortably. Being a hero meant cut hours and unsure paychecks sometimes. They really couldn’t move, at least not without moving somewhere that put them more at risk of being found out. “We’re talking about this later though, mi media naranja.”

For now, that left the hero transferring their temporary guest from the abandon building to their apartment without drawing too much attention.

While carrying you did slow them down, being out cold and unable to argue with them was more of an aid than expected. Along with years of practicing quick arrivals and departures without being seen meant that in no time at all, you were inside the dark living room along with them.

“We should just set them on the couch for now, I guess, at least until they wake up.”

“Scans indicate they will be waking momentarily, Jaime Reyes.”

“Great,” he grumbles, setting you down on the cushions before standing, feeling his back pop as he straightened it back out.

True enough, after setting you down you began to stir, squinting at them in the darkness before taking in your surroundings. “Did you seriously bring me back to your place?”

“Did you seriously get your ass kicked tonight?”

You bit your tongue; not sure you had the energy or patience to joke about what was sure to become a personal sore subject. Instead, you folded your arms over your chest and let yourself sink back into the couch. “Dick.”

“Well, we couldn’t leave you there for dead, and you’ll attack some poor nurse if we try to take you to a hospital or jail.” They would need to contact the League later about a proper cell to hold you – but this development certainly hadn’t been expected.

You hummed, shrugging your shoulders with a proud smirk on your face. “I like my freedom.”

There was a tone switch, and you knew it was no longer the host that spoke. “Have you considered not being a mercenary then.”

“I’m not a gun for hire, and I’m a little hurt you think so lowly of me.”

“I wasn’t aware of where they sat on your hierarchy,” the scarab shot back.

“You wound me.”

“It looks like someone else beat us to it first, actually.”

You ignore that, though the grimace on your face would give you away if they had turned around to catch it in time – instead you watch them close the window and shut the curtains. “You say that like you haven’t been chasing me since we were teens.”

Jaime switches over this time with a deep sigh. “You guys are just gonna do this all night, aren’t you?”

“What can I say, you guys bring out the worst in me.”

He gives an unimpressed humming, fixing you with a steady gaze. “Somehow I doubt that.”

You hesitate, shrugging it off before changing the subject. “Are you gonna turn the lights on or not?”

It seems to click in his head that the room is tinted in yellow still from his visor, prompting the hero in blue to finally flip the switch, watching as you shut your eyes and flinch at the sudden onslaught of light.

“They need to clean up or they’ll bleed all over our home,” Khaji Da quips in Jaime’s head, a subtle clicking emanating from the scarab under the armor as he takes in the state of the upholstery.

“I’m sure if we just move everything out of the bathroom, we’ll be fine to let them use it,” he murmured under his breath – though he could see you turn your head to study him as he spoke.

“An oversight, Jaime, they are unable to stand without assistance and have limited mobility in their right arm and leg. Most of their injuries are located on the right side of their body. They will not be able to get clean and tend to their wounds without aid.”

Jaime didn’t need to ask what Khaji was clarifying, it was easy enough to figure out even if he was still tired. Instead, he turned to focus his attention on you. “We need to get you cleaned up and take a look at your injuries.”

“Just point the way,” you said, readying yourself to stand.

Jaime just raised a brow, unsure if you could even tell with the armor covering his face. “Try to stand and let me know how that goes.”

You did as he asked, seemingly ready to disprove him. It lasted until you attempted to take your first step, your leg giving out under you from the weight and pain. Only leaving you to find that you had grabbed onto Blue Beetle, who had moved to catch you as soon as he had seen you attempt to walk. “I see what the issue is now.”

“We’re going to move you to the bathroom and run a bath – we'll look at the worst of your wounds while it’s filling up, and handle the rest afterwards.”

“Aye-aye Captain.”

Jaime could only shake his head before pulling you along to the small bathroom – knocking the toilet seat and lid down before letting you sit on it and busying himself with the bath. He was less concerned with you reaching anything dangerous when Khaji Da was keeping a lock on you, and considering your current sorry state.

Once the water was started and at what he deemed an acceptable temperature, Jaime turned back to you. This was the part he wasn’t ready to handle. “Alright, we need to get you out of your suit.”

“So, I get to be naked and you get to stay in your armor?”

“They have a point, Jaime.”

He turned his head as he addressed the comment that had come from his partner. “Whose side are you on right now?”

Khaji Da gave no answer, instead peeling back the armor. It wasn’t the first time that you had seen him without – a particularly nasty battle in the past had caused enough damage to the armor that Khaji Da had been forced to recede.

Jaime still felt safer this time, knowing his scarab would be fast enough to help him if needed. “Better?”

You gave no answer, waving him off for the moment before turning to pull off your gloves. More than ready to have the suit off so you could begin to feel clean. As it stood now, it was an attack of grime and dust that sat in-between the tattered fabric and in the gashes on your body. Never had this outfit felt so suffocating than it did now.

Jaime motioned for you to stand, hooking his hands under the collar of your shirt, or what was left of it hanging off you now, and began to peel it away – focused more on trying to do so as gently as possible without looking directly at you. It wasn’t like there was a guide to handling aiding your injured and attractive nemesis out of their tattered suit. He wished there was. But even the scarab had gone silent, Jaime guessed because he felt just as awkward about the situation – though Khaji Da would likely detach from Jaime’s spine before he would ever admit that he found you attractive as well. The train of thoughts and repetitive mental chants not to look came to a screeching halt when Jaime pulled too hard, earning a pained whine as the threads pulled against the tender flesh of one of the worst open wounds. “Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting the fabric up directly before continuing to pull it down.

There was a half-hearted grumble in response and nothing more as you allowed him to continue.

Finally, after what felt like too long, the suit had been removed, leaving you standing in front of the hero undressed.

Jaime’s flustered expression must have been more obvious than he thought, because you seemed all too amused with by it. At least until he let go to stop the water and you began to sway in place.

Jaime remedied his mistake, sitting you on the edge of the tub this time before turning to reach under the sink and pulling out an emergency first-aid kit. “We’ll just clean around this one on your hip first that’s the worst, and we’ll deal with the rest after you’re clean.”

“I don’t think sitting in a bath is the best choice then.”

“I figured the hot water would help with the pain for a bit, and we can clean off most of them. The shower head detaches, so we can spray the rest off when the water drains. You’re not going to be able to stand long enough for this.” He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling you up once more after determining the water was hot enough, letting go of you reluctantly when you swatted at his hand.

“You know,” you rasped as you eased your battered body into the bath, “when you finally got me naked, I was imagining a much sexier situation.”

“Cierto, pequeña amenaza.”

It took you a moment after you were comfortably back in the tub to look up at him. “Did you just call me a menace?”

“A little menace,” he corrected, ignoring the way he felt flushed as he knelt beside the side of the bath.

You laughed at that before closing your eyes and leaning back against the wall of the tub. “Yeah, I can get with that.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been more.... I don’t know, quippy.” Jaime admitted, reaching for a clean cloth and turning the faucet on once more to wet it.

“The closest thing you’ll get to a thank you.”

Khaji Da switched over, unable to pass up a chance to tease back, as had become tradition in their interactions.

“Careful, you make it sound as if you like us.”

“I do,” you responded, lazily turning to look at them.

Khaji Da retreated back, unable to handle the embarrassed emotions that came with taking center stage, leaving Jaime to handle the aftermath. Not that he was doing much better.

“I’ll try to be as careful as I can.” Gently he moved closer, leaning over the side before beginning to wipe away the blood and dirt that still covered your skin.

Despite keeping his word, the pressure still brought an increase in pain, leaving you to turn your head away, jaw clenched and eyes closed as you allowed him to work. And you had to admit, when you did finally look back over at him, he was completely focused on the wounds; the hero was meticulous as he cleaned them off, forgetting the situation for the time being. You turned away again, relaxing under his attention and letting the hot water chip away at the pain that clung to your sore body.

“Will you tell us what happened?”

His voice jolted you awake, catching you off guard that you had even let your defenses down enough to begin falling asleep. Lips pursed in a thin line, you glared daggers at the wall before you, gritting out a no before returning to silence once more.

“We can help,” Jaime began again, only to be cut off.

“I can handle this on my own.”

Jaime stopped, pulling the rag away before staring you down. He didn’t expect you to answer so quickly, or to spill out your plans, but given the situation, nor had he expected you to throw your walls up so fast – it was bound to turn hostile if it progressed. “Si quieres dejar de ser obstinado, elige un día para comprometerte a hacerlo para ver cómo se siente.”

You hesitated before turning to face him. “If it comes down to it then Blue Beetle will be the first I come find.”

“If whoever it was doesn't kill you first,” Khaji Da interjected, pushing forward enough to be a part of the conversation.

“I’m not easy to kill.”

It was true, they had to admit. Even after the fight earlier most of the damage came from however long you had been under the rubble and a lucky blow to the head knocking you unconscious. But you were not invulnerable. Though, it was not as if you could leave for the time being, so they backed off. It was always something they could confront you on later.

Assuming you didn’t make a half-baked escape attempt in the middle of the night.

Before they could continue however, or even change the subject, they realized your breathing had slowed. You had fallen back asleep. Between the constant ministrations that came with your wounds being tended to, and the warm water, it had been just enough after a long day.

Jaime stopped for a moment before relaxing back. “We didn’t just bring them here because it was safer for civilians, did we?”

Khaji Da returned his question with a series of clicking, almost reminding the other of a child caught in a lie. “Affirmative, Jaime.”

Jaime said nothing more, not that he needed to, before pushing himself forward again to continue cleaning out the wounds in silence. They would wake you later when it was time to drain the water. For now, though, both partners of Blue Beetle were content to let you rest as long as you needed – knowing the nap would likely also pacify you when you did finally return to the world of the waking.

---------

Translations... "Mi media naranja" = essentially "my other half" "Cierto, pequeña amenaza" = "Right, you little menace" "Si quieres dejar de ser obstinado, elige un día para comprometerte a hacerlo para ver cómo se siente." = "If you want to stop being stubborn, pick one day to commit to it to see how it feels."

#dc x reader #nicole writes #blue beetle x reader #jaime reyes x reader #khaji da x reader #jaime reyes/khaji da

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