#EVERYTHING WENT WRONG. again and again and again

[hatethysinner]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[strzxrin]

DAISY BELLS

pairing. yandere!doll x gn!reader

synopsis. you weren’t one to get dolls, always finding them to be creepy despite selling them yourself. so why is it that when you were making a doll, the one on your side keeps blinking at you?

content warnings. gore, horror-esc, yandere tendencies, obsessive behaviours, creator/creation dynamics, cannibalism, stalking, aggressive touching (not by character), blood, death.

word count. 3.5k

it was around two weeks ago.

someone had placed an order in your shop, requesting to make a live sized porcelain doll. it was an odd request, asking for porcelain the size of a human.

the woman who placed the order, she didn’t give her full name; just an initial ‘L.’, she was just as odd. white hair that falls right down her spine, soulless red eyes, a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and a voice that was meant to portray warmth only gives off the wrong vibes. if anything, she looked more doll-like in comparison to the dolls you produced yourself.

you try not to judge your customers, but it was something about her in general that felt off, yet you couldn’t understand why. regardless, you made her doll according to her specifications.

male, short brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, a leaner body figure, and butler like clothes. you didn’t think too much of it, not when she paid you way more than she should’ve. you had tried to tell her that it was too much, but L believed that it was alright.

so, you worked with her specifications and made sure to produce the highest quality doll to ever be made.

every process was made with love and hardship. you carefully painted his eyes, you made sure the hair would fall in just the right places, you’d hand sewn the garments with proper fabric; as if you were dressing up a human rather than a doll of your creation.

“what a pretty boy, i’ve made” you’d murmur to yourself with every process you’ve done. then it came with his lips, and you’d lean close, making sure to do his details properly before you were finally satisfied with your results.

long fingers that was sculpted to be delicate, a proportionate body, and some light in his eyes. he was beautiful, and you can’t help but be proud of yourself for being able to make such a masterpiece.

and L? she was satisfied with the results. she tells you that he’s everything she ever dreamed of. the final touches she wished for you to add, was a name seared right at his nape.

“i believe.. neo, would suit such a fitting doll, don’t you think?” she says with a smile, one that made shivers run down your spine but you had no choice to nod. you branded his name at his nape and then gifted him to her.

she left that day, and you didn’t think you would see her again any time soon. unless it had to do with repairs but you did advise her to be careful with him, he is made out of porcelain after all.

but two weeks later, she contacted the shop again, saying that she had accidentally broken him and wanted to bring neo back to the store for repairs. you accepted of course. it was your job after all.

when she came into the store with neo in her hands, you’d give her a friendly smile and she would smile back, leaving neo in your arms. except before she left, she gave you so much money on the counter. “i decided that you can keep him instead. he’s a very beautiful doll, better made to be displayed here”

your eyes had widened at the amount of cash that was on your table, but even more so, you were confused and was about to protest only to see her disappear.

“what?” you just murmured to yourself and looked at the doll in your arms now. his cheek is cracked; leaving a huge hole that you needed to fix, and his arms had some weird markings to it. in the end, you sighed and began fixing him.

however the moment your fingers touched one of the edges of the crack while you were inserting a new porcelain piece, you accidentally cut your finger. you hissed in pain for a moment “fuck,” murmuring slightly as you went to grab a tissue to wipe off the blood from his face.

but the moment you touched his newly fixed cheek, you could’ve sworn that his porcelain skin felt human. you blinked at sensation and pulled away “what the fuck..?” there’s no way that your doll became human, right?

you touched his cheek once more and it was back to porcelain and you sighed. “nevermind. i think i just need to sleep more” you shook your head, pulling yourself away from him. you stared at him for a little while, but you swear that his eyes were looking right into your soul.

“nah.. my doll can’t be haunted right?” you murmured, lightly smacking your cheeks to recollect yourself before sighing. you needed to close up shop anyway, so you started to pack your things, your back facing neo.

and while you were busy, he blinked and a small smile appeared on his lips before he schooled his expression and went back to being stagnant when you looked.

you closed off the lights and locked the shop before heading back home, but you just can’t shake off the feeling that someone or something was watching your back the entire time.

you’ll find out soon enough, that perhaps you should’ve never accepted the commission by L.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

he was conscious. he’s been conscious for a while now. his memories contained the one who brought him to this world, a lady with white hair and red eyes that stares deep into his.

she only smiles, humming and he hears her saying “it’s time for you to reunite with your true family.” he didn’t know what she meant but deep down he knew that this wasn’t his real home.

so she told him to behave, to stay still until the time is right, and he couldn’t bring himself to say no. he didn’t have a voice yet, nor could he move properly. he was conscious in his body but he couldn’t articulate and that frustrated him.

however, when he was brought back to the shop, he finally saw you. and undeniable pull between the both of you and he realised, you were his creator, his master, the one he needed to devote his life entirely to serve you.

he knows that the lady had left the store but all he could focus on was you. just you. you looked conflicted and his heart burned when he saw that expression. did you not want him here? but you made him! you should need him as much as he needs you.

he watches you with his soulless eyes for a moment, admiring every feature that you have before he felt the trickle of your blood on his skin and he felt something else in his body. as if he was real.

the memories of you making him started to flood in, how you took days into making him, the smile on your lips when you put details on his skin, your soft voice calling him a pretty boy only made his chest thump.

L had given him a heart, and with that heart, it solely beats for you. the moment you touched his skin, he felt alive, he wanted to hold you more and to lean into your touch and hear your heartbeat.

he kept looking at you, hearing your words and how much he’d like to lick off the blood from your fingers just so that you’d be alright. he wonders how his voice would be now that he’s sentient. but he won’t try it now. he’ll do it next time.

he watches you, he sees you packing up and his fingers twitched, wanting to keep you here with him. he doesn’t want to be alone, he wants to be wherever you are. he hates it, he can’t stand being apart from you. don’t leave him.

but his intentions were left unnoticed as you closed the lights and locked the shop close. he turns his body and just watches you leave, and he longs to have you back in his arms once more.

still, he used this opportunity to articulate his body, get used to the medium he’s in. he focuses on his surroundings properly now that he’s not focused on you and he felt a pit in his stomach.

there were so many other dolls in the shop. he didn’t like it. that means they all have fondness over you too. he started to walk, he learned how to use his fingers and he grabbed one of the dolls to look at it.

then he smiles. it was a gentle smile, and eerie smile, and he realises that he is the only one that is sentient. you love him the most, that’s why he’s conscious now. L may be the reason why he’s here, but he heard her say that the reason for his existence and why he’s so compatible with life is because of you.

you placed your blood, sweat, and tears when making him. and he was the product of perfection. therefore he’ll be your most important person in your life, he’ll mold himself into your ideal boyfriend, and he’ll have you all to himself.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

when you entered the shop today, you see neo sitting in the same spot you placed him. but why are the other dolls misplaced? you shook your head, trying not to think too much about it since it could be you misplaced them the day before.

you started to organise everyone before sitting at your work bench to make a new doll. you had came up with a new design this time, so you wanted to work it out. while you were working, you had played some videos to have noise in the background but also just to keep you company.

“woah,” you murmured when a new character came on screen, the voice of the character is what drew you in and you blinked “he sounds exactly like my type,” you hummed softly to yourself, shrugging as you went back to painting the doll’s face.

you felt stares at the back of your head again and you shuddered at the feeling, turning around to just see neo watching you. you stopped what you were doing and got up, going up to him and turning his body around so that you don’t get the creeps.

you went back to work for a while before hearing some shifting and you swore that you’re the only one who’s running this shop. who’s in this building. so why do you hear noises outside of your phone?

you turned around, only to see neo almost falling off the counter and you got worried that he was going to fall and shatter again. so you quickly run to him to stop him from falling.

“you’re prone to breaking,” you murmured, scolding the doll that you thought wasn’t sentient. you sighed softly, picking him up. and there was that feeling again, the feeling of a human skin on a supposedly porcelain body.

you decided to make him sit next to you while you worked. at the very least, you could keep an eye on him while you did your job. when you checked the time, you realised you needed to get food for lunch, making you get up from your seat.

you looked over at neo before patting his head. “watch over the shop while i’m gone, yeah?” you murmured to him, giving him a small smile as you went out to get lunch.

while you did so, you couldn’t help but feel you were being watched again, but when you turned around, no one was there. “fucking creepy” you shuddered to yourself, shaking your head and hoped that nothing will happen.

you didn’t know it of course, but neo was following you spiritually. watching and making sure you’ll come back to the store safe. he wanted to be next to you physically but you told him to watch the shop, and he is a good boy. he’ll do anything you ask him to, anything but leaving you.

when you came back, you realised someone was standing at the door and waiting for you to reopen. you had to mentally sigh. it was jax.

you wouldn’t say he’s a patron because he never buys any of your dolls, but he does bring customers to you from time to time. but that isn’t the reason why you dislike him. no, it was because he’s a leech who doesn’t know when to back off. you were uncomfortable by his unnecessary touches and comments, you didn’t want to see him today when you had just brought back lunch from the nearest convenience store.

“( name )!” his voice in itself was aggravating. you wanted to punch him but he was the reason to why you’re still in business. you sighed and nodded. “jax,” you murmured and opened the door to which he strode inside with such confidence.

“i can’t believe you still make creepy dolls,” he commented while you hummed and went behind the counter. you looked at neo and smiled softly “thank you for watching over the shop” you murmured but jax saw that scene and snorted.

“and now you’re talking to dolls too? you’ve gone insane” he chuckled with his sleazy voice. “well it’s fine, i dig hotties with a hint of quirkiness” you wanted to gag, and punch him at the same time.

“what are you doing here, jax?” you asked gruffly, not wanting him to linger any longer. you finally looked at him and he gave you a sneer before grabbing your chin forcefully “jax, what the fuck, let go of me!” you try to push him away but he didn’t let go.

“you’ve been denying me of my date for too long ( name ). i’m growing impatient.” “god fuck off, jax! i’m not interested in you, for fucks sake” you try to fight him off but he was so insistent and you felt a lingering fear. you hoped, you prayed that nothing bad would happen to you.

and thankfully, you were saved by L. she had grabbed his hand and pushed him away. she gives you a smile. “continue on with your lunch break ( name ). i’ll come back in later for a commission” she tells you before dragging jax away.

you were stunlocked for a moment but you try not to think about it. your eyes went back to neo. “ah.. i’m sorry you had to see that” you patted his head. you didn’t know why you were talking to your doll. you’ve never really done it before, but you just felt like it was obligated.

maybe because you formed a bond with him during his creation process that you can’t help but feel guilty when he sees you being tossed around like this. you sat back down at your work table and looked at him with a sad smile.

“your creator is a real coward, aren’t they?” you murmured softly before clenching your fists and sighed. “i swear, jax that fucking creep. can’t he just take a no for an answer? man, i hope some diabolical shit happens to him.” you complained softly before returning back to your work.

you should really be careful with your words, you have the power to change things soon after all.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

when you closed the shop that night and went to bed, neo stayed there carefully until he finally got up. jax, was it? clearly he didn’t know how to be a gentleman around you. this is why he hates humans after all.

he walks the streets late at night, L had given him the directions to where he was kept and he followed. it was as if he knew the streets very well, and in a sense, since his soul is now connected to yours, he does. he went into a back alleyway, seeing jax slowly waking up from being passed out.

“what the fuck” jax murmured, his eyes coming into focus at the figure in front of him “w-what the hell? aren’t you that fucking doll—“ he was immediately silenced when neo shoved something directly into his mouth.

“you bothered my master.. you made them uncomfortable” neo murmured, his voice hoarse as if he’s not used to the tone of it yet. it’s fine, he’ll have his way soon. neo crouched down, looking directly in his eyes “my summoner says that there’s a way for me to become more human.”

he was talking to himself since jax can’t respond, nor does he want to hear his voice responding to him anyhow. his jaw unhinged for a moment, it was uncannily wide as he ripped jax’s arm with no strength.

jax tried to scream but his voice wasn’t letting him. he thrashed in pain, tears welling up in his eyes at this monster of a doll. could he even be considered as a doll? not with the way his eyes reminded him of a demon.

“such a weak human. and you thought you could score a date with them in this state? pathetic.” he murmured, taking a bite of his flesh. he can’t taste anything. but he supposes that’s how it all begins, shouldn’t it?

the moment neo finished up the arm, he noticed that jax had crawled away and he scoffed. “no running away, coward.” he murmured and he appeared right in front of jax. he ripped off his legs next, watching more tears leave the man’s eyes as he sobbed, silently begging for mercy.

“my master told you to stop, told you no so many times but you ignored them. so why should i listen to you?” he asks, making direct eye contact with him while he eats his legs. he continued this process until all his limbs were eaten off and the man was dead from the loss of blood.

“stupid humans.” neo murmured before he started his full meal. he ate every single thing from jax’s body. his organs, his cheeks, eyes, brain, and even the skull. he made sure that he left no traces behind before his jaw hinges back together and he was back to the pretty neo that you made him.

“congratulations on eating your first human, neo” he hears the familiar voice of his summoner. he looked up, wiping the blood off his cheek as she stared deep into his soul. “keep eating humans and you’ll become the perfect imitation of one. wouldn’t you like that? to be by their side all the time?”

he went docile. yes. this was what he was made to do. become human to be by your side. to hear you laugh and giggle, to be your type and be your boyfriend. he wants to have you, all of you.

he’ll just begin by eating those who wronged you. and to know that, he should know who exactly he should target.

he got up from his spot, beginning to walk down the streets aimlessly as L watches him move. “such a fine specimen. he’ll be perfect for you, ( name )..” she muttered out and disappeared.

as he walked, he approached a house with a very similar presence. he looked up, and he knows deep within his gut that it’s your house. yes.. yes he’ll have you soon. and then he can convince you to keep being by his side.

he broke into your house easily, looking at the pictures on the walls and seeing you smiling and laughing with the people in the pictures. he hates it. he hates it so much. he wants to make you laugh. no one else should make you laugh.

but he doesn’t want to see you cry. so, he’ll find someone else. he’ll find someone else to eat and he’ll become human for you once and for all.

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡

you woke up the next morning, disoriented from what happened the day before. you left your room after washing your face but as you stepped into the living room you just see neo on the couch.

you blinked. “neo?” you murmured. since when did you bring him back to your home? was it yesterday? maybe because you found some comfort with neo after jax’s scene that you decided to bring him home.

you shook your head and went to the doll, patting his head. “you protected me well last night, didn’t you?” you smiled, not expecting a response. but neo’s hair felt real, not made out of the synthetic fibres you used.

and that’s when neo leaned into your touch. you jolted a bit. did neo just move? surely not? you looked at his positioning properly and sees that his body was already leaning towards you and you sighed out of relief.

“y-yeah.. there’s no way neo is sentient, he’s a doll” you murmured to yourself. you pulled your hand away from his hair hesitantly and went towards the kitchen to make breakfast.

however his eyes was facing your back and he was admiring you. so this is how you looked like every morning. it was a good idea to modify a bit of your memory while you were asleep. because now he can live with you permanently.

he’ll just have to find a way to reveal himself sooner or later. but that’s a problem for a future him, isn’t it?

[beargyu313]

Let’s not do this again .ೃ࿔ *:･

⋆✴︎˚Summary: you’ve known Riki since you were little, but as the years pass they force you apart. You never knew running into him after two years would make you meet the worst version of yourself.

⋆⭒˚.⋆Word count: 13k

CW: This story explores messy, flawed characters—read with caution.

 *ੈ✩‧₊˚Tags: angst with happy ending, smut, childhood friends, brat tamer Niki, subtle degradation, cheating, blackmailing, possessive behavior, sex as retribution, jealousy, angry sex, fluff at the end

જ⁀➴a/n: This was way angstier than I intended idk what happened taglist: @mrsjjongstby

mdni smut ahead, masterlist

You have known Riki your whole life. Being neighbors meant you saw each other often. And all it took to spark a friendship was him sharing his candy with you on a cold September day.

You still remember it, as if it happened yesterday. First day of school, overcast weather, and your chest tight for no real reason.

After school ended you went to the playground. And your younger neighbor was already there. He didn’t understand why you were sad, but he knew he wanted to make you smile again.

He just sat down beside you and placed the wrapped sweet in your hand. Like it was obvious that he wanted to make you feel better. That he would.

After that, it was always just you two. Matching Halloween costumes. Staying up too late on Fridays. Trading secrets. You had other friends, but Riki always came first. He felt like home.

As you two got older, things shifted. But not in a sudden, dramatic way. It was slow. Soft. The kind of change you barely noticed — until one day when you kissed him, and it didn’t feel wrong.

On his 18th birthday, you two had sex for the first time. It wasn’t planned. But it also wasn’t a surprise. That was the thing about you and Riki, everything just sort of happened.

He’d touch your wrist a certain way, and you’d end up in his lap. You’d fight, and then you’d make out in silence.

You weren’t a couple. But you weren’t just friends either.

Then Jungwon came along. Same age as you. Same classes. Smart, kind, charming in the right ways. It made sense to date him. To say yes to something real. Something normal.

So you did.

And for the first time, Riki wasn’t there. He hated it. Tried to act indifferent. Played along at first. But you could feel it. The resentment. The anger. The disbelief that you’d actually leave him behind.

Because here’s the thing… Riki thought you’d pick him. He thought he was your endgame. But you didn’t. And he never forgave you for it.

But you still dream about his mouth sometimes. You still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, especially on cold and foggy days that reminisce the early autumn weather.

And no matter how much time passes… you can’t move on. Even two years later, as you’re getting ready for a party you think about him as you look out at the blinking city lights hugged by the mist and fog.

You hug your bare arms, already wearing the backless ruby dress, matching with Jungwon’s shirt.

He steps out of the bathroom, his blonde hair impeccably styled into fluffy bangs. You force a tight smile as you look over him.

“Ready?” he asks you, holding his hand out.

You take his hand, “almost,” you say, spritzing the final beats of perfume and then you’re leaving.

The party was glamorous. Screaming Park Jongseong. Flashing lights, gold hues dominating the ballroom, at least five different types of wines to choose from, and you think you can even spot a champagne tower through the crowd of people dressed in fancy clothing. You grab onto Jungwon’s hand tighter as he happily leads the two of you to Jongseong. This is why you like Jungwon, he grounds you.

You’re still taking in the room once you reach Jongseong, you exchange greetings, let Jungwon take over the conversation with his lifelong friend, and then it’s like time freezes.

Right across from you, you spot him. Your heart beats harder in your chest as you stare. It can’t be him. Can’t be your Riki. This Riki was taller, broad shoulders, somehow intimidating. Which was weird because the Riki you remember always felt like home.

He still hasn’t noticed you. He was too busy smiling at a girl hanging off of his arm. Unknowingly your jaw clenches at the sight. What was worse even, you knew the girl.

Rei.

Sweet, kind Rei. She and Riki used to be classmates back in middle school. You never would’ve guessed this was Riki’s type. Selfishly you wanted, or hoped, he would chase the ghost of you in every girl he meets.

Same as you did, looking for traces of your Riki no matter where you were.

That’s when he spots you. And you quickly avert your gaze, cheeks burning at your shameful thoughts. You reach for comfort, for Jungwon – still in deep conversation with Jongseong – and he wraps his arm around your waist and you melt. A little. But it’s enough.

That’s when you hear what they’re talking about. And your blood runs cold.

“—still won’t tell anyone what the occasion is,” Jungwon is saying, laughing under his breath. “A little dramatic even for you, don’t you think?”

“Come on,” Jongseong grins, swirling his champagne. “I give you flowers, live music, gold everywhere — and you complain?”

“I’m just saying,” Jungwon tilts his head, “I’ve seen people throw royal galas with less mystery.”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Jongseong smirks. Then like it’s nothing, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a velvet box. Flips it open.

“Oh my god,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Inside is a ring. Elegant, shimmering. Oval diamond, flanked by two smaller stones.

Jongseong’s grin widens.

“So you’re—?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “She said yes last week. Tonight’s just the warmup.”

Jungwon lets out a low whistle. “That’s what this whole thing is?”

“Soft launch,” Jongseong winks. “Dinner on Sunday’s the real reveal. Only close friends.”

You nod slowly, still a little stunned. That was the thing about men like Jongseong — everything was glossy, fast, and expensive. Even the life milestones felt like magazine spreads.

He notices your hand still looped through Jungwon’s, and his smirk returns, sharper now.

“What about you two, huh?” he drawls. “Two years and counting, right? When are you putting a ring on it, Mr. Romance?”

You force a laugh. “Don’t start.” And you can feel the bubble of anxiety growing again.

“Seriously,” he nudges Jungwon. “You gonna make her wait for a diamond or what?”

Jungwon chuckles. “I’m pacing myself.”

Jongseong raises a brow. “Yeah? Careful. Someone might steal her first.”

The words land strangely. Too pointed. You’re about to respond, to deflect, tease back but your gaze drifts again.

And across the room, Riki is still in your line of vision.

He looks happy. Or at least, he’s playing the part well. You watch as he leans down, lips brushing Rei’s ear, saying something that makes her giggle before she kisses his cheek. And you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

For the rest of the evening you can feel his eyes on you. You don’t see him look at you, but you know he’s watching you. His presence is like a dark cloud. Following you across the galla no matter where you go.

You can feel yourself getting drunk. Whether it’s on his attention, or the alcohol you don’t know.

Later, maybe an hour in, you see Jongseong cutting through the room, dragging Riki behind him. Jungwon straightens beside you, smile returning.

“Come meet my business savior,” Jongseong announces proudly. “Guy practically rebuilt the whole backend in a week. Couldn’t survive without him.”

Riki stands next to him, hands tucked in his pockets. His hair is a little tousled, jaw sharper than you remember, but he gives the same bored nod he always used to when being praised.

Jongseong gestures between them. “Jungwon, this is Nishimura Riki. Riki, this is my oldest friend in the world.”

Jungwon eyes him curiously, then tilts his head. “Wait... have we met before?”

There’s a beat. A flicker of something passes through Riki’s eyes.

And then, calmly he motions to you and your stomach swoops, “We used to be neighbors.”

Disappointment shoots through you.

“Oh—” Jungwon turns to you. “That’s right. You did say your old neighbor moved back to the city.”

You don’t remember saying that. Maybe you did.

You look between them, nodding softly. “Yeah. We go way back.”

Riki doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to.

But then Jongseong is waving over a waiter, and suddenly there are flutes of champagne being passed around, and someone’s asking what everyone’s drinking.

Without thinking, you grab a glass of Hibiki from the tray and hand it to Riki.

You don’t ask if he wants it. You don’t need to.

He takes it without hesitation. A soft hum of thanks.

Then, like nothing’s happened he says, “You still drink brut rosé?”

You blink. You’re holding that exact glass in your hand. Your cheeks warm.

“Guess some things don’t change.”

He smiles at that. Barely. Just a flicker. And still not once do your eyes meet directly.

You’re in a progressively worse mood as the week unfolds. Nothing obvious. Not the kind anyone can name. Not even Jungwon.

You still kiss him goodbye, still laugh when you’re supposed to, still hold his hand in public like it means something.

But your head’s somewhere else. Your body moves through the days like clockwork, while your mind stays circling back to a half-smile and a glass of Hibiki.

You lock the door to your bathroom. Turn on the faucet. Stare at your reflection. You swore you’d be fine. Swore he was the past. But your mascara’s starting to get smudged and your hands won’t stop shaking.

And worst of all you still want him. Not in memory. Not in fantasy. You want him now.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, desperately pushing down your arousal. But your thoughts keep betraying you throughout the week. Little things. Like if he has any new kinks, any new fantasies he wanted to try out. Maybe something Rei doesn’t want to do. But you would. You were always down for whatever he wanted.

An invitation comes a few days after the party. A private dinner hosted by Jongseong’s family. Only close friends and immediate relatives.

You don’t want to go. But Jungwon lights up at the mention.

“I think we should,” he says, smiling. “It’ll be nice. Just family, you know?”

You nod. Smile back. Pretend your stomach doesn’t drop.

The party’s held at a hotel you’ve only seen in magazines. Huge mirrored ceilings, white orchids adorning the room, the kind of ambient lighting that makes everyone look beautiful. Jongseong’s fiancée is radiant, warm in a way that’s clearly rehearsed, but still charming. Her and Jongseong’s parents sit near the head of the table. Jongseong’s sister flirts with a waiter.

You’re seated across from Riki. Of course you are.  You’re seated just barely enough to avoid conversation. Close enough to feel the weight of his stare.

The table is long, candlelit, buzzing with low conversation and vintage jazz from invisible speakers. Jongseong is laughing with his fiancée’s father. Someone makes a toast.

Rei leans into Riki’s side and loops her arm around his, she’s glowing in soft pink. Like a cherry blossom come to life.

You want to bite something.

It’s awkward between you and Riki. Too quiet. Eye contact too fast, too sharp. Every glance feels like a threat.

Rei is talking about something — her job? A skincare line? You’re not listening. You’re watching the way Riki cuts into his steak. The way he drinks water with his left hand. The slight curve of his mouth when Jungwon says something flirty in your ear and you laugh.

Riki doesn’t say a word, doesn’t flirt. But he keeps refilling your glass.

Twice. Three times. Brut rosé, always.

Your leg brushes against his under the table once. He doesn’t move it. You’re not sure if you’re even breathing. The room is suddenly too warm. Or maybe it’s you.

Still the dinner drags.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom.  You don’t expect him to follow. But the moment the door clicks shut, you hear it. Footsteps. Then the quiet lock turning.

His reflection appears behind you in the mirror.

You don’t turn around.

“You looked real domestic tonight,” Riki says, voice low. Flat. Like a dare.

Your breath catches. You grip the sink tighter.

“Still playing house? Even when I’m this close?”

You shake your head once. Not at him but at yourself. At this. You can’t look at him, not when your whole body’s already betraying you. His scent, his closeness… it was too much, too soon. You’re not ready to face him.

“I haven’t said anything,” you whisper. Your skin is flushed, something akin to nervousness (or arousal) building somewhere deep in your tummy.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

He takes a step forward. You feel the heat of him now, not touching, but close enough to scorch. And even though there’s no touching, your body reacts like there is. Like it remembers what his breath feels like against your neck. What his fingers can do.

“You said you moved on. So did I,” he pauses. Smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “But wanna know something funny?”

You don’t answer. You already know it won’t be funny.

He lifts his phone. Swipe. Tap. Holds it just out of view, “Guess what I still watch when I can’t sleep.”

You turn your head just slightly and see it. A flash of movement. Your body. The sound of his name gasped like a prayer.  You flinch like you’ve been slapped. Heat rushes between your thighs. Your stomach sinks, and tightens.

That night. That angle. You know exactly what he’s watching. What you wore. How he looked when he came inside of you.

“Delete it—”

“Why?” His voice is calm. Dangerous, “You think you didn’t want the camera on you that night? You think I didn’t know exactly what that look in your eyes meant?”

You did, still do. You know exactly what he means. You remember the way you looked up at him. Mouth parted, eyes wide, begging without saying a word. You remember how it felt, being watched by him.

You turn to leave back to your boyfriend before you do something stupid. You try to push past him, but he’s already moving. Not blocking you. Just enough to remind you you’ll have to touch him to get out.

His hand grazes your wrist. Not by force, just subtle touch. It lingers like a promise.

Like a warning. You should pull away but your skin tingles from that one brush like it’s been lit on fire.

“You’re still lying,” he says softly, “Just not with your mouth.”

You flinch. Something in you twists — humiliated, exposed, wet. Your body still wants him. But your mind claws for a way out.

You snap your gaze to his, eyes sharp.

“I have to get back to my boyfriend,” you hiss. More bite in your voice than you intended. It echoes against the marble tile like a slap.

His face changes. Barely. A twitch of the mouth. But it’s enough to tell you you hit something raw.

He laughs once, bitter. Low.

“Yeah. That’s always been your line, hasn’t it?”

You blink.

“Run back to Jungwon when it gets too real. Just like before.”

Your jaw tightens. He doesn’t stop.

“You think I didn’t know you were using me? Letting me fuck you like that — whispering my name like I was the only one — and then going home to him?”

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you didn’t think about me when he touched you.”

Your breath hitches. His words hit you straight between the thighs… and that’s the worst part. You do still think about him.

And he knows it.

You shove past him this time, physically push the door open and leave before you say something you can’t take back.

You return back to the table, flushed. Your chest is tight as you try to calm your breathing. Jungwon places a hand on your lower back.

You startle. But smile. Too quickly, too rehearsed.

Riki joins the rest of you a moment later, leaning boyishly across his chair. He places an arm around Rei’s shoulder, looking directly at you.

But you don’t give him the reaction he’s looking for. Instead, your hand rests on Jungwon’s thigh and he clasps your fingers together as he tells you about the dessert that’s about to be served.

And as the sky outside turns to black everyone starts slowly leaving the hotel.

You’re in bed when your phone buzzes. Jungwon’s in the shower. You’re half-scrolling, half-asleep.

It’s a screenshot of that same video he was showing you in the bathroom. The photo is blurred. But unmistakably you, pink thong pushed to the side, exposing your wet cunt that’s gushing with Riki’s cum.

He didn’t add any caption.

you’re sick

Is what you type back, knowing exactly who this is from.

u like it.

Is what comes back, a second later. Then, another buzz.

go somewhere you can be alone

 before I send it to your boyfriend

You stare at the messages. But your feet are already moving. You slip onto the balcony, tightly wrapping the black robe around your shoulders. The cold wind cuts through you. You shut the door just as your phone rings.

You don’t hesitate as you pick up.

“I told you to delete it,” you snap. No greeting. No pretense.

A beat of silence passes between you before you hear the crackling on the other side. Was he smoking? Then, his voice cuts through the line, deeper and rougher than you remember him sounding on the phone.

“And you also said you loved me.”

Your breath stutters. You grip the phone tighter.

He exhales, something sharp behind it, “You think I sent that to fuck with you?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, “I sent it because you’re mine. You always have been.”

Your lips part to argue, to say something cold. But nothing comes out. He hears it. The silence. The surrender.

His voice softens, but only slightly.

“Just spend one week with me,” he says. “Like before. No strings. And I’ll delete it for real.”

You laugh, bitter, “And Rei?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Don’t act like you’re any better.”

You stiffen. His voice is sharper now, no softness, “You were still fucking me when you started dating him. Or did you forget that too? Three months of you calling me baby, coming over at midnight, then going to brunch with him the next morning like your mouth wasn’t still swollen.”

Your stomach turns. Shame curls hot under your skin because he’s right. Because he remembers it better than you do. Because you never really stopped. You couldn’t. That’s why you had to leave.

He exhales into the silence slower now. Controlled. Cruel, “So don’t ask me about Rei like you’re innocent. You don’t get to moralize, baby. Not when you let me fuck the lie out of you for months.”

You feel it low in your gut, the feeling building the longer he taunts you. That horrible, aching twist of guilt and arousal, of memory and muscle memory. Like your body remembers every time you swore you’d stop, and every time you came crawling back.

“Does Jungwon know that?” Riki asks, so calm it could kill you. “That when he took you to your first fancy dinner, I was the one you called when you got home?”

Your mouth is dry. Your thighs press together, not because you want to but because your body’s already answering questions you haven’t asked.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you manage. “You’ve moved on.”

“Sure,” he says, too fast. Too sharp. “Me, Rei, we look good, don’t we? That what you wanted to say?”

You don’t reply.

“So why are you breathing hard into the phone right now like you want me to say more?”

You clench your eyes shut, grip the phone harder. You want to throw it. You want to drop it. You want to crawl through it. Anything to make it stop. To don’t’ make it stop.

“You kept that video,” you whisper.

“I did,” he confirms, without apology. “Watched it last week. And last month. And again the night before your anniversary.”

You gasp softly, shoulders curling inward. Shame coats your skin, thick and electric. But there’s no denying it anymore. You like his obsession with you. The confirmation that he was just as bad as you were was weirdly soothing.

“I told you not to make it so pretty,” he murmurs. “You think I was just gonna delete that?”

“You’re sick,” you say, but it comes out breathier and whinier than you intend.

“You liked it,” he says. And then, softer he adds, “And I know you still do.”

Your hand trembles. You press your fingers to your lips to quiet yourself, to swallow whatever sound might escape. You slide a finger down to your panties. Pressing down on your clit. You don’t move your fingers though, gaslighting yourself that this is okay. That you’re not about to masturbate while Riki’s taunting you with his deep voice and cruel words.

He lowers his voice. It’s barely a whisper now. “You’re still mine, even if you won’t say it.”

You feel your pulse stutter. There’s something dangerous about the quiet in his tone — not violent, not even angry. Just… sure. Like he’s not trying to convince you. Like he knows you’ll say yes. Eventually.

You press the phone harder against your cheek.

“I have a boyfriend.”

He lets that sit. Lets it rot.

“And I had you,” he says finally. “Every fucking version of you. Not just the good parts.”

You think about Jungwon’s hand on your lower back. How light it felt. Safe. Soft.

But it’s not what you ache for now.

“Where?” you whisper decisively.

A pause. And then, with brutal precision he answers – as if he’s thought it all out, “Hotel Majestic, on the top floor. Friday. Wear whatever you want, but no underwear.”

The line clicks dead.

And you’re left out in the cold, wind wisping hair all over your face. You sneak back into the warm bedroom and luckily Jungwon was still in some other part of the penthouse.

Throughout Monday and Tuesday you’re trying to stay composed. You’re soft-spoken, polite, and polished. You hold Jungwon’s hand a little tighter in public. Smile a little sweeter. Your makeup is perfect, your outfits more carefully curated than ever. You’re performing the role of the good girlfriend with a new level of desperate conviction.

But once you’re alone, you spiral. You can’t stop replaying the phone call in your mind over and over again. You’re easily startled. You zone out. You can’t stop anticipating and imagining Friday — his hands, his mouth, his voice.

He texts you on a Tuesday evening.

You’d stayed late at the office — some intern mixed up a calendar invite and your boss chewed through the whole team like wet paper. Your brain feels like it’s in a mush. You’re half-dressed out of your blazer, collar loose, wine-stained lipstick smudged, when your phone buzzes on the desk.

You glance over. Coupang Eats. You’d saved him under that name to avoid raising suspicion. Your stomach knots, low and sharp.

You unlock the screen. The message is already waiting.

Coupang Eats: u gonna wear white on friday

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t even say hello.

You: You don’t get to ask that.

Coupang Eats: didn’t think u’d answer didn’t think u’d say yes either

You: It’s just sex. That’s what you said, right?

Coupang Eats: sure. keep saying it if it helps

You stare at the text box. Thumbs hovering. You type ‘Don’t text me again’. But then you delete it.

You don’t send anything.

So he does.

Coupang Eats: u’ll be thinking about me either way might as well give you something real to touch yourself to

You turn your phone over and chuck it across the room.

The next day you’re jittery. Checking your – now cracked – phone over and over again. But he doesn’t text you. You don’t know if you’re happy or disappointed by that as you lay in bed next to Jungwon, staring at the ceiling. He’s warm. He always is. One arm thrown across your waist like you’re something precious. Like you’re not betraying him the longer this goes on.

And still, your legs are clenched tight together. Your breath uneven.

You check your phone again, around 3 a.m.

Nothing.

The next day you try distracting yourself. You fold laundry. Light a candle. Then give up pretending you’re not waiting. Your phone buzzes at exactly 11:04 p.m.

Coupang Eats: still thinking about the video?

Your stomach flips. You hate him. You hate him for knowing. You hate him for being right.

You: How long have you had the video?

Coupang Eats: long enough.

You: Why?

Coupang Eats: I like watching you when I miss you.

There's a pause. Long. You try not to breathe. But he’s typing again.

Coupang Eats: you miss me?

You: You’re disgusting.

Coupang Eats: and you’re wet, quit stating the obvious

You clench your jaw. You throw your phone across the bed like it burned you. But when you crawl after it again — your hand doesn’t go to the keyboard. Instead you open the gallery and click play on the video.

Your hand snakes between your legs. Just like Riki said it would.

You probably touched yourself more than you did when you were a teenager this week. And each time, you hated yourself for it. You’re consumed. It feels like Riki owns you. Again. You're ashamed that you still want him. It’s humiliating. And what’s worse, it turns you on.

On Friday Jungwon comes home with takeout and a new bottle of red. You’re pacing around the room, white dress on when you hear the front door open.

You greet him by the door, always the perfect girlfriend and he kisses your cheek, leaves his coat on the stand, and hums something low as he sets the table for you two.

Two plates, two candles, and the playlist you made him months ago still queued up from some night before. He lights the candles without asking. Like being with you has made him softer in all the right places.

“Surprise date night?” you ask, trying to sound playful. As if you’re not lowkey trying to rush out the door.

“You’ve been quiet this week,” he murmurs, brushing your hair off your shoulder. “I missed you.”

The words land in your chest like a bruise.

You pour the wine. Try not to shake. Try to smile. It’s real — the affection. But it feels like you’re loving him with your hands tied behind your back.

“Since when do you pour for me?” he laughs, eyes warm and teasing.

You smile, small. “You’ve had a long week.”

He hums. “You’re so good to me.”

Your stomach coils. Guilt, maybe. Or something worse — the part of you that wants to ruin it all.

He kisses your temple. “You’re gonna make an amazing wife one day.”

The glass nearly slips from your hand.

You don’t respond. Just press your face into his shoulder and nod like you believe it. Like that’s the version of yourself you want to be.

He doesn't notice. He leans in, kissing your jaw, his voice warm and low against your skin. “You look so pretty. Is that the dress I bought you?”

You nod. He beams like you just gave him a gift. You press your lips to his. Slow. Familiar. Gentle. But your head is somewhere else entirely.

The first message from Riki comes just as Jungwon is plating dinner.

Coupang Eats: tick tock.

You ignore it.

Jungwon sets your plate in front of you. Sits. Laughs about something his coworker said. Eats with one hand while he reaches for yours with the other. You let him hold it. Let him squeeze. Let yourself pretend this is enough. You don’t check your phone again until he leaves to get another wine bottle.

Coupang Eats don’t keep me waiting. again.

Your heart stutters. Then starts racing.

You: He’s almost asleep.

Read.

Coupang Eats: aww. such a sweet girlfriend want me to call? help tuck him in?

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

He’s baiting you. Of course he is. And you hate that it’s working.

You: Shut up.

Coupang Eats: did he kiss you goodnight? did you kiss him back thinking about me?

You clench your thighs together. It’s not fair. It’s never been fair. And worst of all he knows it.

Jungwon comes back in a t-shirt and sweats, smelling like mint and dryer sheets. He drapes an arm around you on the couch, nuzzles into your neck.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles. “I love this.”

His fingers trace circles on your thigh. Not sexual just sweet. Just his. His version of forever. You feel him relaxing next to you. Melting into the couch as his breath evens out.

You leave a blanket on the couch. Place a kiss on his forehead so soft he doesn’t stir. The guilt is loud in your ears, but not louder than the pull. Your phone buzzes again in your coat pocket.

Coupang Eats: wear white.

And you already are. Because it’s not about being good anymore. It’s about seeing if he still burns.

You drive in silence. Not because you want to but because any music might make it real. The roads blur. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than they should. Every red light feels like a warning.

Jungwon’s scent is still on your clothes. Your lips still taste like the kiss you left on his forehead. And under all of it, you’re wet. You hate yourself for it. You hate how easy it is.

Your turn signal clicks. You’re five minutes away.

Your phone buzzes again in the passenger seat. You don’t even look. You already know who it is. You already know what you’re about to do.

The hotel hallway reeks of too much cologne and carpet cleaner. Room 912. You hesitate once, then knock.

The door swings open fast. Like he was already standing behind it.

He doesn’t speak.

You’re not sure who moves first, maybe him. But suddenly, you’re inside, your back against the door, his mouth inches from yours.

His voice is low, rough. “You wore white.”

You almost say for you. But you don’t. Because that would be too honest. Riki doesn’t care to wait for your answer. His big hands are on you as soon as the door locks.

"You missed this?" he gruffly asks, pinching your nipple through the dress as his hips grind against yours.

"I missed being treated like shit? No, thanks," you bite. But your body betrays you, chest pushed out, legs spreading to allow him access.

Riki's grip on your waist tightens, his hands find the curve of your ass. He hikes the short dress higher, exposing your ass.

His mouth is by your ear when he speaks, and you have to fight the urge to nuzzle into the crook of his neck.

"Funny. Your pussy says otherwise," he lowly says, fingers prodding by your clothed wet entrance.

You clench around nothing, groaning in what you hope Riki thinks is annoyance.

He doesn’t.

He roughly turns you around and wraps his hand around your throat. Just enough to make your mind go numb, enough so your knees tremble.

Your hands are pressed against the door, as Riki pulls your hips back. He has you awkwardly half-way bent as he bunches your dress around your waist. Expertly tucking and folding it in so it doesn’t slide down.

He harshly spanks you and you moan at the contact.

“Stand still, take what you came for,” he gruffly tells you.

“I didn’t come for you,” you spit out, moaning as he lands another fat spank on your ass. You feel it jiggle at the harsh contact.

"No? Then why are you shaking?"

You don’t reply. You can’t, not when his hands slide up your back sensually. He’s pulling you back against his body and you let him.

Riki wraps his arms around you and guides you towards the bed.

He doesn’t let you lay down. Gripping your hips when you reach the edge of the bed and pushing your head forward.

Doggy. Of course. That was always his favorite way to have you. He finds your lacy panties, slowly slipping them down.

"You still wear lace for me, huh? Or is this what you wear when you’re playing house with him, too?"

"Don’t flatter yourself," you tell him, refusing to feed his ego. But you can feel your pussy gushing, the substance dripping past your lips, making your thighs sticky.

"Why not? I’m the reason your thighs are shaking right now," he whispers as he hovers by your neck.

"Fuck you," you hiss as you bite down on your lip.

"You will. But not yet," he tells you, his hands on your ass. You feel him press his hips into you and glance over your shoulders.

He was still dressed and that only made you even more turned on. Oversized gray tee, black chrome hearts boxers.

Riki hisses as he lets your pussy stain his boxers. You feel him twitch as he humps you once, twice, three times.

Then he slips two fingers past your mouth. His larger frame allowing him to do so from behind. "Every time you lie to me, I’ll make you gag on the truth."

“Shuck yoh,”

Fuck you is what you mean to say but it comes out muffled with his fingers pressing down on your tongue. He has them in so deep you can’t even swallow, saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth.

But Riki only presses closer, his other hand traveling to your clit.

"You already did. That’s the problem."

He starts playing with your pussy then. Just the way you like, and each time you moan, the fingers in your mouth pull back a bit.

"You looked real proud, playing perfect girlfriend. Walking around like you’re innocent."

"I am innocent," you complain and Riki immediately slides his fingers deeper into your warm and wet mouth.

"Not after tonight. You came to this hotel just for me.”

"I had to. You said you’d delete the video if I did."

“Oh sweetie,” he mocks you, “you and I both know you’d be coming regardless of the video.”

That when he pushes you fully on the bed. He flips you around so you’re laying on your back.

He positions himself between your thighs, gaze locked on your glistening cunt.

You move up on your elbows as you watch him watch you. His eyes flick to yours as he pushes past your entrance.

He shows you no mercy as he immediately pushes two digits deep into you.

"Slower— I haven’t—" you gasp, back arching off the bed.

"You haven’t been properly fucked. That’s what you meant, right?" he darkly mocks you. But you see the ghost of smirk on his handsome face.

"Riki—" you whine, trashing on the bed as he roughly pushes in and out of your wet pussy. Loud moans and squelching noise fill the otherwise quiet hotel room and you really hope it’s soundproof.

But Riki is merciless, almost cruel as he taunt you, "No one else gets you wet like this. Say it."

"No one," you quietly gasp, gripping onto his hair as he presses a wet kiss on your clit. His tongue swirls and sucks on it, just enough to make your mind spin. He pulls back with a popping sound.

Your breath hitches when he says it—

“That’s my good girl.” Like he’s been waiting to say it. Like he knew you’d earn it eventually.

Your eyes drag up, greedy, as he pulls his shirt over his head. The muscles. The sharp cut of his waist. And then the tattoo—dark, bold ink sprawled across his side, crawling up his ribs like a warning.

You stare. Maybe a little too long.

“You like that?” he smirks, thumbs hooking under his waistband. “Thought about this when you were with him?”

You say nothing. But he sees the way your thighs press together. The way your lips part when he drops his boxers and steps toward you, cock hard and already leaking.

You swallow. And nod. Just once. Honest, finally.

He smiles, cruel and slow.

“Of course you did,” he says, voice low as he crawls on top of you. “Bet you fucked him with this image in your head.”

You’re trembling now. Not from fear. From the weight of it — the ache, the guilt, the unbearable want. His tattoo is right there, close enough to touch, and your hands rise almost instinctively, splaying across his inked ribs. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

“Say it,” he murmurs, bending slightly, his mouth ghosting over your jaw. “Tell me you thought about me.”

You exhale shakily. “I… did.”

He hums, pleased. His hand slides to your neck, the other gripping your thigh, forcing it open.

“And now you get to have me. Just like this. Just like you wanted.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Because the truth is lodged in your throat — hot and humiliating and dangerous.

He leans in until his lips brush your ear.

“Good girls shouldn’t lie,” he says. “And you’ve been lying for so long. Would love to punish you, but some other day. Need you too badly right now.”

Then, Riki is on you. Body on yours, lips on your neck.

He growls ever so slightly as he grips his dick and positions it close to your pussy.

“Been waiting for this, for so long,” he softly mutters and then he’s slipping in.

He was way girthier than you remember, the stretch pleasurably painful and you claw at his back. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist.

Riki continues pushing in, slowly stretching your cunt with his big dick.

"God— I forgot—" you whine in a strained voice. 

"No, you didn’t. You pretended to forget. Just like you pretended he was enough," he replies through gritted teeth.

"Stop talking about him," you whine, lips brushing against his shoulder.

"Why? You’re dripping around my cock while he’s asleep thinking you’re loyal," he mocks as he sheaths his dick fully into you.

You cry out at both the pleasure and his cruel words, "You’re a fucking monster."

He pins your wrists to the bed when you press your nails into his back. Harshly. His other hand goes to your throat, squeezing you in silent warning.

"Yeah? And you let the monster ruin you every time," he taunts you, his hands move to your legs – still wrapped around his waist – and he adjusts your position so they’re resting on his shoulders.

You’re folded like a pretzel, left to his mercy. And Riki knows it too.

He smiles down at you as if he won a prize and then he starts fucking you. His thrusts are intense. Deep and unrelenting as the fucks you as if he’s punishing you. He is.

Your sounds are a mix of gasps, whimpers and moans, “Please—Riki, please—”

“Yeah? This how you wanted to get fucked? To be ruined?”

But he softens just a bit, slowing down ever so slightly, “You miss how I break you open, don’t lie.”

He’s softer. But not sweet. His thrusts fueled by the betrayal, the jealousy, the ache. This is sex punishment for leaving.

And you understand that this is him establishing control. So you let him, hips tilting up to meet his rhythm, hands fisting in the sheets instead of pushing him away, your body falling into obedience before your mind can catch up.

And it’s only when he sees you break, after your moans start to sound like sobs — that his mouth lowers to your throat, planting a gentle kiss. Then another on the inside of your knee, a subtle crack in the armor. Always a reward.

“I always knew you’d come back like this,” he breathes into your neck, his voice a low growl. “Opened up. Begging.”

He slows down then. Just enough to make you feel him in a different way, the angle almost brutal. He stays deep inside of you and leans down so your foreheads nearly touch. Not kissing. Just staring.

“You think he can make you feel like this? Tell me who owns this pussy. Say it.”

And you do. Pleasure swirls in all parts of your body, you don’t even register the building ache in your thighs.

You’re nearly crying, choked "Harder— please, I want—"

"Want what? Say it," he tells you, nuzzling into your neck.

"I want you to ruin me."

"Already have," he growls, and then his hand finds your small clit. Peeking through the gap between you two.

He rubs you, not to fast, not too slow – but just right. You lock in place, the pleasure of his fat cock entering you, stretching you open and his big hands playing with your cunt too much.

"I c-can’t— Riki— it’s too—" you beg.

"You’ll take it. You owe me this."

"Please— I’m gonna—"

"Cum for me. Prove it still belongs to me," his voice is strained as he speaks. He can feel your tight cunt squeezing impossibly tighter around his dick and he groans when he hears your breathy voice.

"Yours— yours— fuck, I’m—" you say, trembling and not breathing momentarily as you cum.

You’re still trembling when he pulls out. Riki fists his cock, teeth clenched, eyes locked on you as he cums hard, messy, all over your bare skin like a claim.

Neither of you speaks.

For a moment, the only sound is your broken breathing, shallow, trying to come down. You reach blindly for something, maybe a sheet, maybe him and feel the mattress shift under his weight.

He doesn’t hold you. Not fully. He doesn’t even look at you as he tosses you a towel and lies back beside you, chest rising and falling.

But when you move closer, he doesn’t stop you. Your head finds his chest, and he stays still. Heart pounding beneath your cheek.

You close your eyes.

Silence stretches.

Then, just as your fingers start to relax against his ribs, you hear his voice low and steady, dangerous.

“You left me once.” A pause. “You won’t get another chance.”

You lay there for a moment longer, catching your breath on his chest. He still hasn’t touched you, not really. He’s just letting you cling onto him.

You speak first. “I should go.” Your voice is quiet. Calculated. You don’t look at him.

Riki doesn’t move. “Obviously.”

You sit up. Wipe the mess from your stomach. Slip your dress back on, not bothering to fix your hair. You’re still flushed. Still swollen where he broke you open. But your voice? Steady. Controlled.

“I live with him,” you say, reaching for your phone. “I can’t be gone all night. He’ll wake up.”

You expect silence. Maybe something cruel.

Instead, Riki laughs, it’s short. Bitter, “You think I give a fuck about Jungwon?”

You turn, fixing your earring in the mirror. “You did this whole thing because of Jungwon.”

He sits up now, elbows on his knees. His stare cuts through your reflection.

“No. I did this because you pretended you were over me.” He stands, walks up behind you, not touching. Just close enough. “And you’re not.”

You hate how your knees almost give.

You snap the clasp on your purse shut. “I never said I was.”

He steps in closer. “So stay.”

You swallow. “I can’t.”

Riki’s jaw ticks. Something in his eyes dims. “Right. Because you’re such a good girl now.”

You don’t flinch, but your heart does, “Better than I was with you.”

It lands. It hurts him. But he doesn’t stop you when you reach for the door.

You pause before leaving. Glance back once.

He’s watching you with that look again, the one that never says what he wants, only what he can’t admit.

“Text me when you get home,” he mutters. “So I know you didn’t crash or something.”

You stare, “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“No,” he calmly says. “I'm not, but you're still going to text me.”

You don’t respond. Just close the door behind you. But you don’t stop shaking until you’re halfway back home.

You wake up sore the next morning. The ache in your hips is slow and low and everywhere. Your body remembers before your mind does.

You're curled against Jungwon’s warm and familiar chest and his hand rubs soothing circles on your back.

“Don’t feel good today, Wonnie,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

He presses a kiss to your temple. You flinch. Not enough for him to notice. But you feel it. The echo of Riki's mouth, rougher, crueler… it still burns under your skin.

Jungwon hums, his voice soft with concern, “You were tossing around a lot last night,” he says. His fingers trail down your spine. “I’ll make you tea. Go shower, baby.”

You do. Twice.

The water is hot enough to scald. But it’s not enough. You scrub behind your ears. Between your thighs. Inside your bellybutton. There’s still something on you. In you. His scent. His breath. The way he said mine like it was a curse and a promise.

You check your phone with wet fingers. One new message. A photo.

Riki’s hand, ringed and veined, fisted around something delicate and pale. Your panties. Twisted in his palm like a trophy.

Coupang Eats: forgot these.

You close your eyes. You bite your lip. And you save the photo.

And when you meet at night his mouth is everywhere, teeth against your thigh. His voice dark and amused, whispering to you what he’ll do next time.

This time, after you are done, you make sure to stuff your ruined panties into your coat pocket as you’re leaving.

On Sunday he simply texts you “come outside in 15” and you do. You slip out just as Jungwon get’s on a business call coming from overseas. You mumble something about needing air. He kisses your cheek without looking and you’re already halfway out the door.

Riki’s car is parked at the edge of the driveway. Engine low. Window down. He doesn’t say a word as you slip into the passenger seat. The smell hits you first — leather, smoke, cologne that clings to your skin even when he's gone. His eyes drag over you like he’s checking for damage.

You don’t greet him. Just say, “What if Jungwon finds out?”

He laughs, sharp and short. “You’re not worried about that,” he mutters, not even looking at you.

“I am,” you snap. “This is insane. We shouldn’t—”

But his hand is already moving, low between your thighs, and your body betrays you instantly. You flinch, it’s not from fear but from how fast your pulse spikes when he touches you like that. Like he’s entitled to it.

You climb into his lap anyway.

It’s cramped. Messy. Windows fog too fast, too loud, and you're fucking him in the front seat with your skirt bunched around your hips. Your back hits the steering wheel. He doesn’t care. Neither do you.

You tell him to be quick but the moment he’s inside you, time fractures. He grips your waist like a lifeline. You ride him like you’re drowning.

There’s no music. No words. Just breath and skin and the wet slap of your bodies colliding in the dark. You bury your face in his shoulder and his hands slide up your back like he’s remembering every inch of you.

Oddly, it feels romantic. Not soft. Not safe. But intimate in the way only ruin ever is.

He finishes with his mouth on you, not your lips — no kiss. Not yet. That would mean something.

When he pulls back, his eyes are still half-lidded, gaze fixed on you like you’re something carved out of sin. Your heart’s pounding in your ears. Your thighs are shaking.

You reach for your coat silently. Pull it around you like a shield.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, “don’t wear anything. Saves us both the time.”

You slam the car door harder than necessary.

The next day you’re halfway through lunch with Jungwon when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at it absently, thinking it’s work—until you see her name.

Rei: I’ve been thinking! Maybe we do a little double date? It’s been forever! 🥹 I think Riki’s been down ever since he saw you again. I wanna patch you guys up 😭💗

You choke slightly on your iced coffee.

Jungwon looks up from his plate, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, setting the drink down and wiping your mouth. You try to play it cool, but your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

He squints, playful. “Who is it?”

You hesitate. Just a beat. Then force your best smile. “Rei. She wants to set up a double date. Us and her… and Riki.”

Jungwon’s brows lift. “Really?” He seems genuinely surprised, but not suspicious. Just thoughtful. “That’s kind of sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” you lie. “It really is.”

You feel his foot graze yours under the table. “I’d be down,” he says with a grin. “Maybe you two can finally patch things up.”

Your stomach coils. Not from guilt. From the irony of it all. Rei wanting to help. Jungwon wanting to trust. You’re smiling through your teeth like you’re not already branded head to toe in Riki’s touch.

You: Totally! Would be fun.

Rei: He needs this. He won’t say it but I can tell 🥺

You turn your screen off.

You haven’t even seen Riki today, and still it feels like his hands are all over you. The rest of the day stretches, thick and frustrating. No texts. No missed calls. Not even a sign.

You go home with Jungwon. Let him kiss your cheek. Let him laugh against your neck. Let him touch your waist with hands that don’t know better.

You wait. All day.

You shower. You try not to think about the marks on your skin, the ache between your thighs that never really left. You try not to check your phone every ten minutes.

By nightfall, you’re pacing.

Finally, just before midnight, your phone lights up.

Coupang Eats: rei’s breathing down my neck. can’t today.

That’s it.

No “hi.” No apology. Just dismissal dressed like explanation.

You don’t reply. You leave it on seen. You throw your phone on the nighstand and crawl into bed. You hate that it hurts. You hate that it hurts because you miss him.

You curl up, blanket pulled to your chin, and close your eyes like that’ll stop the heat from spreading low and slow inside you.

You don’t expect another text.

But at 1:13 a.m., your phone buzzes again. You grab it with more desperation than you mean to.

Coupang Eats: but ive been thinking about you the whole day

There’s a slight pause, and then he’s double texting you.

Coupang Eats: think rei’s starting to catch on. she asked if i’ve been seeing someone else

Another pause. You keep leaving his messages on seen.

Coupang Eats: anyway. i want your mouth tomorrow

You stare at the screen. Your body flushes instantly, pulse skipping. He always knows what to say to wreck you.

You read it again. And again.

Your thighs clench under the blanket. You should block him. You should throw the phone across the room. Instead, you place it gently on your nightstand. And smile, just a little. You never stood a chance.

Tuesday he’s ignoring you. Again.

You try to stay rational. You tell yourself it’s because of Rei. Because of guilt. Because of everything this already is. But that doesn’t explain why your chest tightens every time your phone buzzes — and it’s not him.

You last until midnight. You’re curled under your blanket, half-dreaming, half-angry, when your screen lights up.

Incoming Call: Coupang Eats

You step into the hallway and gently close the door so you don’t wake Jungwon. Then you answer without a word.

Silence on the other end. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just… breath. Slow and steady.

“Riki?” you whisper.

Still nothing.

Your voice sharpens. “What’s wrong?”

Another breath. Then finally, his voice — low, worn, unsweet.

“You’re mad.”

You scoff. “You think?”

You can’t help the raising of your voice, “I waited all day for you yesterday. I sat next to him thinking about you, and you haven’t even—” You catch yourself. Bite down the whine in your voice. “—you haven’t said anything. Not even a text.”

“I’m not here to make love to you. You have someone for that,” he says, flat and final.

You flinch. Like he slapped you through the phone. Your throat tightens. You wait for him to say something else.

He doesn’t.

You end the call first.

You stand there in the hallway with your phone pressed to your chest like it might keep your heart inside your body. But it doesn't help. Not even a little.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. You toss and turn so much that Jungwon at some point bear hugs you and keeps you close to his warm body. And finally you’re able to relax enough to let sleep overtake you.

The double date is happening late afternoon today. You don’t mention the call — not to Jungwon, not to yourself. You just get dressed. Not in red because that’s too obvious. But soft. Romantic. A pink silk dress that hugs your waist and slips off your shoulders with every movement. The kind of dress that would make someone believe you’re innocent. That you belong to someone.

The date is happening in a cute, but luxorious sweet shop. The café is a pastel-hued dream. Soft pink walls, delicate white lace curtains, and dainty gold accents catching the light. Glass display cases are lined with perfectly frosted cupcakes. Vintage floral teacups clink softly against saucers, and gentle indie music hums in the background, mixing with the faint chatter of quiet patrons.

Rei and Riki are already sitting down by the window overlooking the entrance. Your heart squeezes when you see him. He’s dressed in a crisp, black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the lean muscle of his forearms. A subtle flash of silver chain is glinting around his neck. His shirt is tucked neatly into tailored charcoal trousers, sleek and effortless, like he stepped straight out of a midnight city skyline.

You make sure Riki sees you walk in first. With Jungwon’s arm around your waist, smiling up at him like you mean it.

Rei waves you over. She’s sipping on her drink, other hand on his thigh like she owns it. You slide into your seat across from them, perfectly poised.

Jungwon orders for you, as always. You rest your chin on your hand and glance at Riki just long enough to make it look casual.

He won’t look at you.

Not at first.

But you can see the tension in his jaw. The white of his knuckles on his water glass. He’s trying not to react.

Good.

Rei watches you. Not warmly. She senses something — can’t name it, but it’s there. Then she blurts, “Didn’t you two used to be, like, inseparable?”

Her tone is off. Maybe playful. Maybe not.

“That was a long time ago,” Riki speaks.

You shrug, smile too sweet. “We were kids.”

You don’t look at him.

Jungwon laughs, reaching for your hand. “Didn’t you say you had a crush on him in high school?”

Your stomach tightens. You throw your head back and laugh, “God, don’t remind me.”

This time, Riki looks at you. Dead on.

Then, slowly, his hand drops to Rei’s thigh. He leans closer to her and murmurs something — something that makes her smile and adjust her grip on his bicep.

You almost break. But you don’t. Instead, you slide your hand under the table and rest it on Jungwon’s knee. Riki’s gaze drops. Then sharpens. You can feel it burning through your skin.

Jungwon starts telling a story to break the tension — something light about his boss messing up an email thread. You fake-laugh, brushing your hand along his forearm.

Still nothing from Riki.

So you go further.

You lean into Jungwon’s ear. Whisper something that makes him grin and kiss your cheek. You giggle and sip your coffee, letting your lips linger on the mug.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down.

Coupang Eats: Stop fucking smiling at him like you’re not going to be on your knees for me in 2 hours.

You excuse yourself. A moment later, in front of the bathroom stalls, you hear footsteps. You don’t turn around.

“So that’s how we’re playing it?” you murmur.

Riki doesn’t answer.

“She’s clinging to your arm like a trophy and you’re looking at me like you want to kill something.”

Still nothing.

You turn. Face him. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, breathing slow and shallow.

“She asked about us,” you say. “You really gonna sit there and pretend we were nothing?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re the one pretending.”

You raise a brow. “I’m just being polite.”

Riki steps closer. Still calm. Still composed. But you know the signs… the way his jaw clicks, the twitch in his brow. He’s unraveling slowly.

“You smile at him like he’s enough,” he says quietly. “But I know what you look like when you’re lying.”

You look up, but Riki’s already turned back toward the tables.

And you follow.

Because you always do.

You return to the table with Riki just a few paces behind, the silence of the hallway still clinging to your skin. Jungwon glances up from his cappuccino, expression tightening. Rei’s head tilts ever so slightly, like she’s trying to catch a whisper she just missed.

“Everything okay?” Jungwon asks, voice easy, but his hand slips off the back of your chair like he’s not sure if he should still be touching you.

You nod too quickly. “Just—long line.”

“Hmm.” His eyes stay on you for a beat too long. You know he doesn’t believe you, but he smiles anyway.

Rei's stirring her iced latte with her straw, the clink of ice loud in the delicate atmosphere of the café. The scent of vanilla and buttercream hangs in the air. Around you, couples laugh softly, forks clinking against pastel plates.

But at your table, the energy has shifted.

You take your seat, careful not to brush against Riki’s knee under the table. You don’t want to give anything away… except maybe in this moment you do. Maybe you want to be caught.

Jungwon reaches for the last macaron, brushing a crumb from your plate as he does. “Try this one, it’s raspberry.” His voice is soft. Familiar. And it makes you ache.

But before you can answer, Riki’s voice cuts in, sharp around the edges. “She doesn’t like raspberry.”

The table stills.

You freeze mid-reach.

Rei blinks. “Oh?”

You force a laugh. “I guess I… grew out of that.”

Jungwon sets the macaron down slowly. “Right,” he says, like he's trying to convince himself.

The tension spirals, thick and sticky as frosting. You try to redirect, compliment the café wallpaper, anything to smooth it over. But Rei’s already watching Riki too closely now. Her fingers trace the edge of her water glass. Her mouth presses into a thin line.

“So,” she starts, “you guys been seeing each other lately?” She phrases it light, like it’s casual. But her eyes are too sharp, scanning you both.

You smile like you’ve practiced it. “Not really. We ran into each other a couple of days ago. Unexpectedly.”

Riki doesn’t say anything. He’s staring down at his coffee like it personally offended him.

Rei hums, glancing between you again. “Weird. Riki never mentioned it.”

You sip your drink to avoid answering. It tastes like syrup and guilt.

Jungwon shifts beside you. He’s been quiet too long. Observing. Calculating. He reaches for your hand under the table—and you flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

You see the flicker in his eyes. Something cold, unsure, tightening his jaw before he lets go.

Riki’s chair scrapes softly as he leans back. He stretches one arm behind Rei’s chair. It’s casual. Possessive. Performed. But when your eyes flick to him, he’s already watching you. And he doesn’t look away.

The silence stretches too long.

You glance at the time. Not late, but suddenly, it feels like you've been here too long.

Jungwon clears his throat softly. “We should probably get going. You have work early, don’t you?”

It’s a neutral out. A subtle offering. But the edge in his tone is unmistakable.

You nod too quickly. “Right. Yeah.”

You stand, smoothing the hem of your dress. Across the table, Riki doesn’t move. Rei offers a tight smile as she pushes her hair behind her ear, eyes flicking between you and Riki again.

“You two heading out too?” Jungwon asks, polite.

Rei shakes her head, “I think we’ll stay a bit. Riki’s sweet tooth hasn’t kicked in yet.” She laughs, light but forced. Riki doesn’t even blink.

Jungwon places a warm hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

You don’t look back.

But still in the café, as you and Jungwon are leaving Rei watches Riki pick at a dessert he’s not even eating.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” she asks.

Riki shrugs. Doesn’t look at her.

“You couldn’t fake it for two hours?” she says, still trying to keep it light, but her voice is breaking at the edges.

He doesn’t respond.

She swallows. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

Still nothing.

Rei sits back, blinking fast.

“I hope she’s worth ruining everything.”

In the car you and Jungwon are barely halfway down the block before he speaks.

“You don’t like raspberry,” he says. Quiet. Not accusing. Just… unraveling the thread.

You stare out the window.

He doesn’t push. Not yet. He just lets the silence sit between you both, letting you feel the weight of it.

And when he parks the car outside his and yours penthouse, his voice drops lower.

“How long has this been going on?”

You blink. “What?”

He turns to look at you. Not angry. But hurt. And that’s worse. Way worse. You never meant to hurt him. You were just too blindsided by Riki. Like you always are. Everything is always too much with him. Too colorful, too loud, he makes you too ha-…

“Whatever this is between you and Riki,” he says. “You think I can’t feel it?”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

He nods, jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to be right.”

You don’t say anything. Not because there’s nothing to say but because anything you could say would sound cruel. Or worse, dishonest. And you’ve lied enough.

The penthouse is quiet when you step inside. Not soft quiet — hollow. Like all the warmth Jungwon tried to build with you has finally leaked through the cracks. You trail in behind him, your eyes skimming over the small signs of his care… the flowers he replaced just this morning. The charger he keeps plugged in for your phone. The pink cupcakes you like in the fridge, even though he doesn’t eat sweets.

You should feel something. But you only feel heavy.

You sit on the edge of the bed. Your dress folds gently at your thighs. The same dress you wore to hurt someone. Or maybe yourself. You can’t tell anymore. Somewhere between the fucking, something in you blurred.

Across the room, Jungwon doesn’t move. He stands like he wants to ask for something, an explanation, an apology — but knows he won’t like the answer.

And maybe the worst part is… you wish he would yell. Or cry. Slam a door, something. But Jungwon is still himself, still his calm self and it only makes you feel messier. Uglier.

Your phone buzzes.

Coupang Eats: We should talk.

You lock it. Set it face-down on the nightstand.

Coupang Eats: Whenever you're ready.

Your hands shake slightly as you unzip the weekender bag. You don’t pack much. Just what you need. You tell yourself you’ll come back. That it’s not permanent. You lie to yourself the way you always have. Softly, sweetly.

You glance toward Jungwon once more. He hasn’t moved from his office. His back is to you now, one hand gripping the edge of the desk like he’s trying to ground himself.

You want to go to him. Say sorry. Say something. But you don’t know how to comfort someone while still choosing someone else.

So instead, you whisper “I’m staying at a hotel. Just for a while.”

He doesn’t answer.

You leave the keys on the credenza. The door clicks shut behind you.

And just like that, you become the kind of girl who walks away from a man who would’ve never walked away from you.

You last 5 minutes in the car by yourself before you’re shaking. Your vision blurs and you pull over. Your hands stay on the wheel, but your shoulders can’t stop shaking.

No noise escapes you, the kind of breathless crying that comes only after you’ve been thoroughly overwhelmed. You don’t even know why you’re crying. Because you hurt Jungwon? Because you left him? Because you chose Riki this time and you’re sorry for hurting him too? Because you don’t know if you’ve ruined it with him too?

You gather yourself slowly. Just enough to drive to the closest hotel.

It’s shabby. If you were your usual self you wouldn’t be found within 10 feet of it. But right now the small and dim room brings you comfort.

The lighting is yellow and uneven, the hallway carpet faded with time and secrets. But right now, the small, dim room wraps around and it's enough.

The walls are a muted pastel green, chipped at the corners, soft and sleepy. The heavy curtains are the color of oversteeped tea. The rug beneath you is old, scratchy in some spots and suspiciously soft in others — probably disgusting. But it’s warm. And it doesn’t ask anything of you.

The bedspread is stiff. The air smells faintly like cheap linen spray and leftover takeout from whoever was here before you. But there’s a strange comfort in how off it all is — like the room knows you don’t belong here, and it’s choosing not to care.

You drop your bag. The zipper’s still half open.

You lie down on the carpet, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The glow from the streetlights outside crawls in through the blinds in thin gold lines. You trace them with your eyes like they might lead you out of this moment.

But they don’t.

They just remind you that morning will come whether you’re ready or not.

Eventually, you sit up with heavy limbs and pull your dress off in silence. You throw on an oversized tee, one that smells faintly like Jungwon’s laundry detergent, and immediately hate it. You shrug it off your shoulders as if it burned you.

You flick the TV on, scroll through the channels until you land on one that only plays indie love songs and soft piano ballads. You try to sleep to it, but your brain won’t quiet down. The pillow feels too loud. The room feels too full of everything you left unsaid.

So you grab your phone.

The screen lights up with missed calls. Coupang Eats (3 missed calls) 11:08 PM. 11:42 PM. 12:17 AM.

You don’t call back.

Instead, your fingers start flying across the screen. You swipe through your notes app, scroll past voice memos and lists you never finished, until you find it: “Shared account pw 🫣🤐🤞”

The login still works.

The finsta you and Riki made when you were fifteen. No followers, no bios, no comments. Just a locked archive. You remember laughing about it back then, calling it your “burner for memories.”

The feed loads.

First photo you see is a blurry close-up of your pinky with his pinky wrapped around it. Captioned contract sealed.

Then you scroll past selfies at the convenience store, your faces mid-laugh, Riki sticking out his tongue. Then a video of him trying to teach you how to skateboard, failing miserably and pretending to die in the parking lot. You can hear your own cackling in the background.

The further you scroll, the harder it gets to breathe.

A picture from your sixteenth birthday. He’d made you a paper crown from receipts and straw wrappers. You wore it all night. He wrote in the caption ‘Queen of making me soft’. You’d replied ‘Ur weak anyway’.

You press the screen. Let the image fill up your phone. Let the ache press into your lungs.

He was your best friend before he was anything else. And now everything feels like too much.

You set the phone face down and finally let yourself cry. Quietly. Face buried in your arms. Not for Riki. Not for Jungwon. Just for the version of yourself who didn’t know how complicated love could get.

You fall asleep like that, head pounding, throat sore and dry and eyes swollen. And wake just as the sun is starting to paint the skyline yellow-

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your heart leaps. You sit up too fast. The pounding continues, it sounds urgent, not frantic. Like whoever’s on the other side knows you’ll open. Like they’re sure of it.

You reach for the first thing you can find (your old hoodie) and slip it over your head as you stumble barefoot to the door.

You peek through the peephole.

Riki.

Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Jaw tight. His shoulders are hunched like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, skin pale under the hallway light. You open the door slowly.

Neither of you says anything at first.

He just looks at you. Takes in the hoodie. Your bare legs. The redness around your eyes.

You swallow hard. “How did you even find me?”

He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for once. “Went to your place. Jungwon opened the door. Didn’t say much… just said you were staying at some hotel. That you left.”

He looks up now. “So I checked every hotel near the highway. Every cheap one I thought you’d never usually pick. I figured, you’d want to be somewhere that didn’t ask questions.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your chest tightens just seeing him there.

Riki doesn’t wait for an invitation. He doesn’t speak again. Just steps inside, shuts the door behind him with a soft click. Tosses off his jacket onto the nearby chair.

Then he walks over and pulls you into his arms.

No tension. No games. No hunger.

Just holds you.

You cave instantly, burying your face into his chest like your bones have been aching for this. And you cry. Again, but it’s not like last night, not quiet or restrained — but open. Loudly. Like a kid.

Riki says nothing for a while, just moves you both to the bed. His hand just runs slowly over the back of your hoodie, warm and careful. You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Then, just barely above a whisper he tells you, “I told you I’d never stop choosing you.”

And that’s all it takes.

You let yourself collapse into him, fully.  His hands splay across your back, holding you close enough to feel every shaky breath. The kind of hug that says stay here. That says I’ve got you.

Time moves differently in his arms. You don’t know how long you stay there, pressed against his chest, legs tangled, hearts a little quieter now.

Eventually, your tears slow. You sniffle and wipe your cheek against his shirt, then freeze. “Sorry. I got snot on you.”

Riki glances down. “I don’t care.” He slightly pauses before speaking again, “I like when you ruin my stuff anyway.”

You roll your eyes, even as the corners of your lips threaten a smile. “You're such a freak.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — his thumb brushing beneath your eye gently. “And you look ridiculous in that hoodie. It's swallowing you.”

“It’s yours.”

“Exactly.”

You both laugh. A small one. But real.

Riki presses a kiss to your forehead. It's gentle. No pressure. No expectation. Just warmth.

You sit on the edge of the bed while Riki disappears into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. You hear the faucet, the clatter of the cheap soap dish. It’s quiet again, but this time, not lonely.

When he steps back out, his hair is damp and pushed back, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He looks younger this way. Less like the person who ruined you, and more like the boy who used to make you laugh until your stomach hurt.

You curl your knees up to your chest. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He glances at the crusty hotel menu on the nightstand and lifts a brow. “Room service?”

You nod. “Please don’t judge me if I order pancakes and miso soup.”

Riki smirks. “That’s disgusting. I’m getting that too.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed with trays between you.

Miso steam fogs your lashes. The pancakes are a little dry, but Riki drowns his in syrup and makes a show of pretending it’s gourmet. You throw a rolled-up napkin at him and he catches it mid-air with his mouth. He’s so smug, it’s ridiculous (ridiculously endearing).

For a while, it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like you’re not running away. Like this is just... the two of you again. Existing in a quiet pocket of peace.

“I forgot how easy it is,” you murmur.

Riki chews, swallows. “What is?”

“This. Us. When we’re not trying to hurt each other.”

He’s silent for a second, then reaches across the tray and tugs your sleeve. “Then let’s stop trying.”

After breakfast, you both stretch out on the bed. You lie back. He lies beside you. Not touching. Just breathing together. And after a while, without saying anything, Riki slips his pinky against yours.

You link it.

He glances at the clock. “It’s still early,” he says. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You turn to look at him. “Where?”

He smiles. Soft. Secretive.

“Somewhere we left a part of ourselves.”

A short drive later with the windows cracked and the morning sun warming the car you’re on your way.

You recognize the route before he even parks.

The overlook.

It’s stupid, really. Just a hill that peers out over the city, tucked behind an old park and some bike trails. You used to sneak up here after dark when you were both barely sixteen. It was the first place you ever kissed. On a hot rainy summer day. Hair soaked, heart pounding, shoes caked in mud. Neither of you ever talked about it much after — like it was a secret even from yourselves.

You stare at the familiar curve of the hill, the chipped bench still there.

“You remember?” Riki says as he kills the engine.

You nod slowly. “Of course I do.”

Neither of you says this is where it started. But you’re both thinking it.

He helps you out of the car like he always used to, like you’re fragile and treasured and something he doesn’t want to lose again. You sit on the bench, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the skyline.

And when he takes your hand, he doesn’t lace your fingers together… he just holds it, palm to palm. Still. Soft.

“Do you think we could ever do it right?” you ask quietly.

Riki looks over at you. His lashes catch the light. His voice is a little hoarse. “Maybe not perfect. But honest this time.”

You nod. “I could live with that.”

And then, he finally kisses you.

Slowly. Gentle. The kind of kiss that makes time stretch like the world softens just to give you this. He kisses you like he remembers every version of you — the girl from next door, the one who used to steal his hoodies, the one who left him, the one who came back. Like he’s been holding his breath since the last time you touched and finally gets to exhale.

And you melt into it. Your hands slide into his hair without thinking, like it’s an old habit. He tilts his head just slightly, deepening it, and your heart stumbles because it’s not lust that makes you shiver — it’s how much you feel. The love. The passion. The yearning you’d been hiding from yourself.

There’s something unsaid in it. A hundred unsent messages. All the years in between. An apology. A promise. A beginning.

And when he finally pulls back just an inch, your forehead rests against his. Both of you a little breathless.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “More than I should’ve.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him again. Because saying it aloud would break you.

But he already knows.

You sit beside him on the old bench by the reservoir for the long time after that. Shoulder to shoulder, reminiscing together.

You glance at him. “It hasn’t changed much.”

Riki smiles faintly, eyes forward. “You have.”

You huff a laugh. “Thanks?”

“I mean it in a good way.” He tilts his head toward you, expression open now, so rare for him. “You always had all this light in you. You just… didn’t know how to carry it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Letting it in. Letting it sting.

Then you nudge his knee with yours. “You were the first person to ever see me.”

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Six

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Welcome to your position: haunting the narrative, Mick Schumacher! As always, feed the writer with all of your reactions and thoughts and feelings <3

CHAPTER SIX

Six Years Ago | Zermatt, Switzerland

Ana had been the golden girl.

All sleek ponytails and perfect posture, skis parallel and polished, her laugh bright and effortless in the cold. The kind of daughter who said thank you to instructors and remembered birthdays. The kind who folded her pyjamas and made her bed each morning, even though they had a housekeeper.

She used to glow.

That winter, she didn’t even ski.

Not because she couldn’t—her body still remembered how to move. But the idea of speeding down a slope, the world whipping past too fast to hold onto, made her sick to her stomach. Like she’d be flung into space and never come back down.

So she hovered.

Around the edges of everything. Inside the chalet’s vast lounges, or on the porches where cigarettes burned slow and the drinks went unmonitored. Her limbs jittered, her laugh came sharp and wrong, like she was playing at being human and getting the timing all off.

She was sixteen. And already a year into the slide.

A year since that first pill quieted the static in her brain. Since that silence started charging interest—high, constant, cruel.

And no one knew. Not really.

They called it hormones. Stress. Isolation. Her father muttered things about the altitude and pulled her out of school early, hoping it would help. Susie watched her quietly, too afraid to push too hard.

They had no idea.

Not about the baggie hidden in the lining of her Moncler. Not about the lines she’d done off the guest bathroom vanity. Not about the dealer she’d found two days after they landed. A rich kid from Geneva—older, dull-eyed, with a Rolex and a habit of not asking questions.

They didn’t know. Because she still looked right.

Boots polished. Hair combed. Skin slick with overpriced creams. But up close, the cracks were there. If you knew where to look.

Mick knew.

He was seventeen, sweet in a way most boys weren't. Still awkward at the grown-up dinners. Honest. Quiet. Kind.

And Ana hated him for it.

Because the night he found her on the porch—shivering, pupils wide, hands twitching like live wires—he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” he asked, voice careful.

Ana smiled slow, mean. Held a pill between her fingers like it was an offering. “You want one?”

His face shifted, the way faces do when something inside them breaks a little. “Ana—what the hell?”

She rolled her eyes, syrupy with false sweetness. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not taking that,” he said, low. “You shouldn’t either.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just fear. Real, unflinching fear—for her.

She couldn’t bear it.

So she struck.

“Jesus, Schumi Junior,” she said, soft and slicing. “You really are soft, huh? No wonder you never win anything. You don’t have the teeth for it.”

He flinched.

And for a second, Ana felt powerful again. Ugly and triumphant. Her pain reflected in someone else’s eyes.

She let the pill melt on her tongue, head tipped like she was receiving communion.

That was the last time she saw him.

Because the next morning, Michael Schumacher fell.

A freak accident. Off-piste. No helmet. Ice, speed, bone, blood.

Traumatic brain injury.

Everything collapsed. The chalet emptied in a blur of helicopters, hushed phone calls, PR teams and private flights. Ana stood in the hallway while Mick packed, his face hollowed out and too old for seventeen.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her—straight through her, like she wasn’t even really there—and walked out the door.

He never got the chance to tell anyone what he’d seen.

And she never got the chance to say sorry.

It should’ve been a mercy. But it didn’t feel like one.

Because that trip didn’t just take a friend.

It took Michael. The man who taught her how to brake without flinching, who adjusted her kart seat himself when she was too small to reach the pedals. Who told her, once, “That fire in you, Anneliese—it’ll burn down the world if you don’t learn how to steer it.”

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t learned a goddamn thing.

When the news went public, when the headlines exploded and the condolences started coming in waves, Ana locked herself in a guest room and dumped every last pill she had onto the floor.

She didn’t take any.

She just sat in the middle of them.

And for the first time, she didn’t feel high or low. She just felt stuck.

Watching the wreckage unfold. Like she’d always known it was coming.

—

The yoga studio was still warm when Ana opened her eyes.

She lay flat on her mat, chest rising and falling slowly, limbs slack. The last notes of the sound bath were fading out—chimes and breath and soft movement. The room exhaled around her.

Jules was already up, twisting her braid and humming under her breath. Glowing in that clean, post-class way. 

Ana stayed down a second longer.

She liked the hush. The moment before the world had to be real again.

When she finally sat up, her eyes caught on a girl across the studio.

Waifish. Ethereal. Barely twenty. She wore a dove-grey set that clung like silk, her collarbones stark, her bun falling in just the right, effortless way. She didn’t sweat—she glistened.

Ana felt her beauty like heat against her skin.

The girl laughed at something the instructor said. Airy. Delicate. Unscarred.

And Ana hated herself for the thought that surfaced, fast and sour. 

That could’ve been me.

If she hadn’t burned it all down first. If she hadn’t shattered at sixteen and handed the pieces to whoever asked. If she hadn’t ruined herself before the world ever got the chance.

But she’d never say it. Not out loud.

She’d never put another girl down for simply being whole.

“Coffee?” Jules asked, rolling up her mat.

“God, yes,” Ana said, standing.

They moved through the changing room, showered in companionable silence, and stepped out into the sunlit streets of Monaco. The sea glinted to the south. Everything shimmered with calm.

Ana pulled on her sunglasses.

And stopped cold.

White tee. Black shorts. Flowers in hand—wild, messy, beautiful. The kind you bought when you knew someone, really knew them.

And the yoga girl?

She walked straight into his arms.

Mick.

He hadn’t changed much. Taller maybe. His edges sharpened with age. Still soft in the ways that mattered.

He smiled like he meant it. Like nothing had broken.

The girl kissed his cheek. Took the flowers. And Ana stood there, caught in the middle of the sidewalk, as if someone had cut her strings.

She didn’t still love him. Probably never had. 

Childhood crushes were like that—determined by proximity and kindness and—

God. It hurt.

A deep, searing ache. The kind that didn’t feel like jealousy—just loss. The ache of a door you didn’t know was still open slamming shut for good.

She’d let it go for too long. Let him go.

No message. No hug. No I’m sorry.

She could’ve said something. Reached out after the accident. After the fallout. 

But she hadn’t.

And now he was someone else’s.

Someone lovely. Someone whole.

“Fuck,” Ana breathed, barely audible.

Jules stopped. “Ana?”

Ana blinked, then shook her head. “Nothing. Thought I saw—never mind.”

But Jules followed her gaze anyway.

Together, they watched as Mick opened the car door, placed a hand on the girl’s back, and disappeared behind the windshield.

Gone.

And Ana stood there.

Six years of silence crashing into her all at once.

—

Oscar sat with his arms folded across his chest, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

The glass-walled conference room overlooked the lake—sleek and quiet and painfully serene, like everything else at the McLaren Technology Centre. It was the kind of place built to impress. Reflective. Immaculate. Cold.

Not unlike the team of bosses seated across from him.

Mark was speaking. Something about terms. Leverage. The second-year clause. But Oscar wasn’t really listening. Not because it didn’t matter—it did—but because none of it was surprising.

McLaren wanted to renew early. Lock him in before the vultures started circling. Before the other teams started calling.

He’d expected that.

What he hadn’t expected was how draining this part of the job would become. Not the racing—that was the good part. The rest of it. The meetings. The politics. The endless diplomacy. The grinning for cameras and sponsors, the measured responses and strategically timed interviews. The curated version of himself that existed solely to be palatable.

He blinked slowly. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift in his seat or tilt his head to appear more attentive. He just sat still. Like always. Cool. Quiet. Calculating.

And across the table, Lando Norris sprawled like the antithesis of every professional standard.

Trainer jacket half-zipped. Hair unkempt. Foot bouncing with some internal beat only he could hear. He wasn’t technically supposed to be in the meeting, but had wandered in anyway with a second coffee in hand and a grin like he owned the building.

“Don’t forget to ask for access to a private jet on weekends,” Lando stage-whispered. “And a Peloton. I’m serious, mate. Changed my life.”

Oscar didn’t look at him, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t even use your Peloton. It’s got two inches of dust on it.”

“Still changed my life,” Lando argued. 

Oscar’s phone buzzed on the table beside him.

He glanced at it—reflexive, fast.

Not Ana.

He didn’t even know what he’d been hoping for. A text. A full stop. A meme. A single goddamn emoji. Anything.

It had been almost two weeks since they’d last seen each other.

They’d made their arrangement, gone over terms and safe words and hard limits. It’d been a sweet, sophisticated kind of contract. Once a month. No pressure. No mess. Something clean.

Like a French film with subtitles and slow lighting.

But the silence that followed didn’t felt clean.

Not cold, exactly. Just empty.

The kind of silence that hovered. That lingered too long in the chest. That made you second-guess the shape of something you'd both agreed not to name.

His phone buzzed again.

He checked it before he could stop himself.

Still not her.

He shoved it face down on the table.

“Do you want to counter or commit?” someone asked—Zak, maybe. Or one of the lawyers.

Oscar straightened, voice even. “Opt-out clause at the end of year two if I finish in a position lower than tenth in the drivers standings. Performance-linked bonuses.”

There was a moment of pause as pens scratched and heads nodded.

Then Lando sat up, suddenly alert. “Wait—hang on. If he gets that, I want that too. I’ve been here five years, and no one’s ever offered me an opt-out.” 

Oscar didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. He was too tired for it.

Because Ana should’ve texted by now.

But she hadn’t. 

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Didn’t know why it got under his skin the way it did. Why it made him feel like he’d missed something. Or like something had happened, and no one had told him.

They weren’t anything, not really.

They weren’t in love. They weren’t even dating.

They didn’t say good morning or good night. They didn’t belong to each other.

They were just—

Once a month. Clean and simple.

Except nothing about Ana seemed to be able to stay simple. 

And Oscar, for all his restraint, for all his calm, for all the stillness he wore like armour—

Couldn’t stop checking his phone like he was waiting for a crack in the silence.

For something. For her.

—

The dining room was soft with lamplight, the scent of rosemary chicken still lingering in the air. The table had been mostly cleared, wine glasses half full, napkins folded lazily on empty plates. Jack was under the table, making car noises with a spoon, narrating an elaborate race between his mashed potatoes and a dropped pea.

Ana lay on the rug beside him, chin in her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement as he made crash sounds and waved a slice of cucumber like a checkered flag.

“Messy boy,” she whispered, grinning.

“I’m faster than Lewis,” Jack declared, entirely serious.

Ana laughed, tugging his sleeve to stop him from skidding too close to the table leg. “You can’t say that in this house. You’ll be disowned.”

Across the room, Susie was at the head of the table with a planner open in front of her, reading aloud from an email. Their dad sat beside her, glasses perched low on his nose, nodding thoughtfully.

“I think if we move his tutoring to the afternoons, it frees up his mornings for play,” Susie was saying. “He’s five, he needs more recreational time. And sunlight.”

“He needs to study hard if he wants to be a scientist,” Toto said without looking up. “He built a rocket out of Legos. That is engineering prowess.”

Susie sighed, fond. “He can become a scientist in the afternoons.”

Ana smiled faintly. Jack climbed into her lap without warning, arms flung around her neck, and she leaned into the weight of him. His hair smelled like syrup and soap.

“Can I have a tutor too?” she asked suddenly, voice quiet but deliberate.

The room stilled.

Toto looked up first, eyes narrowing slightly in focus. “What?”

Ana didn’t look at him. Just kept her gaze on the rug, on the tiny dent Jack had made in it with his toy car. “A tutor. I mean—could I get one too? I want to... I want to get my GED. Or whatever the equivalent is here. I just—”

She faltered.

Susie’s voice was gentle. “Anneliese—”

“I know it’s late,” Ana said quickly. “I’m twenty-two. It’s stupid. And I probably won’t see it through. But I keep thinking about it. Like—I just stopped one day. I stopped studying. I stopped everything. And now I—I’m really behind. And I feel stupid, sometimes.” She exhaled shakily. “But it’s not too late, right? Not really?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then her father set his glass down with the quietest thud. His voice, when he spoke, was low and certain. “No, maus. It’s not too late.”

Ana looked up. He was watching her with an expression she didn’t know how to interpret—pride, maybe. Something quieter too. Relief, perhaps. Or guilt, softened by time.

Susie reached down and touched his arm. “We’ll find someone,” she said simply. “Of course we will.”

“Maybe someone who doesn’t think that I still need to learn my ABC’s,” Ana murmured, nudging Jack, who was now humming to himself and chewing on his sleeve.

Susie laughed. “No promises.”

—

Her closet doors gaped open, every drawer half-yanked and left hanging. Bras tangled with silk scarves. Socks scattered like confetti. Shoes tipped over one another in the corner, some missing their pairs entirely. A broken hanger had somehow ended up jammed between her bedside lamp and an old Vogue issue from last September. There was a coat draped over her desk chair, a sequin skirt slumped like it had fainted across the edge of the bed, and at least thirty purses in a pile. 

The floor was chaos.

Not metaphorical, aesthetic chaos. Real chaos.

The kind that threatened your ankle stability and self-worth at the same time.

A mountain of clothes sat in the middle of the room—chaotic, unfiltered, growing by the minute. Everything she hadn’t worn in years.

Too big. Too sheer. Too young.

Things that belonged to a different version of herself.

One she wasn’t sure she even recognised anymore.

Ana stood in the middle of it all in a threadbare hoodie and a champagne silk slip, one sock half-on, the other foot bare, her bun barely holding together. She was holding a sequined crop top up like it had personally offended her. Which, to be fair, it kind of had.

It was supposed to be a simple purge.

A midnight burst of "fresh start" energy.

After dinner. After the tutor conversation. After seeing Mick again—God, Mick—like a ghost dropped back into the frame of her life without warning.

She hadn’t known what to do with all of it. The emotion, the whiplash, the sharp twinge of shame and something dangerously close to nostalgia. So she did what any twenty-two-year-old girl with too many feelings and a Pinterest board full of aesthetic minimalism would do.

She declared war on her closet.

And now she was losing.

Badly.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and her limbs ached, and she was exactly one memory away from crying into a pile of dry-clean-only fabrics.

And still—on top of everything—there was Oscar.

Always Oscar.

Lurking at the edges of her brain like white noise. Like pressure behind her ribs.

They had an agreement. Boundaries. Rules.

Once a month. Clean, simple, adult. 

But her heart wasn’t cooperating with the terms.

She didn’t want to be that girl. The needy one. The girl who texts just to say I’m thinking about you, or I miss your voice, or I heard something today that made me laugh and I wanted to share it with you and God, isn’t that pathetic?

She didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t hold her side of the bargain.

But the silence between them was starting to hum. And she couldn’t pretend it didn’t ache.

Ana dropped the crop top in the “give to Jules” pile and collapsed backward onto the floor, arms flung out.

The hardwood was cold against her back. She stared up at the ceiling, suddenly convinced it held answers—some cosmic instruction manual she hadn’t been given.

Somewhere beneath a pair of vintage Levi’s, her phone made a sound. A Gmail notification, probably. She dug it out with the lethargy of a girl on the edge. Opened the camera. Snapped a wide, unfiltered photo of the wreckage around her.

Piles of clothing. A rogue bra strap hanging off her bookshelf. A lone boot on her desk. The mirror reflecting back just the left side of her face. 

She stared at the photo for a moment.

Then sent it to Oscar, without thinking too hard.

—

iMessage — Anneliese > Oscar

Anneliese

*insert photo here*

i’ve made a terrible mistake lol

—

She hit send before she could change her mind.

Regretted it immediately.

Until, a moment later, the typing bubbles appeared.

—

Oscar

Hello, pretty girl 

Isn’t it like 2am in monaco rn

—

Ana blinked. 

Pretty girl. Pretty girl. 

She let herself smile. Just barely.

—

Anneliese 

yes. maybe. perhaps. 

Oscar

Are you organising?

Anneliese

trying. it’s not going very well, as you can see

Oscar 

That’s a lot of clothes haha

Are you okay?

Anneliese 

yeah i just couldn’t sleep so 

Oscar

I haven’t heard from you in a while

Are you having second thoughts abt our agreement?

—

She didn’t respond right away.

She let her phone rest on her chest, watching the screen dim, then brighten again with another buzz.

—

Oscar

We can call, if you want.

Or you can ignore me and keep organising, that’s fine too.

—

Ana stared at the message. Then turned her head, slowly, to where a Gucci bag lay flopped sideways in the “donate” pile like a passed-out heiress.

She smiled, tired.

—

Anneliese

isn’t calling me breaking a rule 

we only agreed on occasional texts

Oscar

I make the rules. 

I say calling is okay. 

Encouraged, actually.

Anneliese 

ok

call me 

—

Incoming FaceTime from Oscar.

Ana froze.

Her heart jumped—stupidly, dramatically—then skipped. She glanced around at the mess, at her bare face in the vanity mirror, at the frizz haloing her bun.

“God, okay,” she muttered, dragging her hoodie sleeve over her mouth and exhaling sharply. Then she hit accept.

Oscar’s face appeared, softly lit and tilted slightly, like he was lying down. His hair was damp, and his voice came low and familiar, scratchy in a way that felt entirely too intimate for someone she was supposed to see once a month.

“Wow,” he said, deadpan. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Ana turned the camera to show the state of the room. “It started with one drawer. One. I thought I had it all under control.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Why are you awake? It looks late there.”

He shrugged, barely moving. “Jet lag, probably. Is that a… is that a neon green sweater?”

“I should’ve just burned it.”

“No, no. Don’t say that. I’m interested to see what else you’ve got in that pile now.” 

She propped the phone against her mirror with a makeup bag and flopped onto her knees in front of the pile. The call settled into something easy, if awkward around the edges. He watched while she held up various items for judgement—thumbs up or thumbs down. Sometimes he made a face. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all, just raised an eyebrow.

The commentary started dry—short, clipped, borderline short in that strange way only Oscar could make funny.

A distressed faux-leather mini skirt. 

A long sheer blouse with fringe. 

“You were in a cult?”

A denim vest covered in iron-on patches.

She laughed until her ribs hurt.

Eventually, she ended up cross-legged in the middle of the room, surrounded by Yes, No, and Dear God Why piles. Oscar had shifted onto his side, cheek propped in his hand, his face barely framed by his pillow.

They talked about fashion mistakes; his and hers.

She told him about her hippie phase at eleven.

He admitted to a full year of cargo shorts and a fedora when he was ten.

“You’re lying,” she said, horrified.

“I’m not,” he replied, straight-faced. “There are photos. I’ve made my mum promise never to show anyone.”

Somewhere in the middle of it, she’d grown warm from the effort of sorting, folding, talking. Without thinking, she pulled the hoodie over her head and tossed it aside.

She didn’t notice his pause. 

But Oscar saw. Just for a second, as the fabric lifted, he caught a glimpse of her arms—pale, bare, marked. Faded marks, not fresh.

He blinked, and the moment passed.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t let it register on his face.

Didn’t let her know he’d noticed.

He just tilted his head slightly and said, “The fringe blouse, the cult one? You should put that one into the fire with the neon thing.”

And she kept laughing.

When the piles were mostly done, she gathered the donate bags and set them by the door. The room was still a mess, but it looked survivable now. A soft kind of ruin.

She came back, curling up under the blanket, phone still perched on her vanity, Oscar still there, barely lit, blinking slowly.

It had been an hour.

Maybe more.

Neither of them moved to end the call.

But then Ana yawned, eyes heavy. “I should sleep.”

“You should,” he said. “I should, too. Probably.” 

“You have stuff tomorrow?” She asked. 

He nodded. “Nothing too important.” 

She hummed.

Then hesitated. He did too. 

“Night, Anneliese,” he said softly.

She smiled without realising. “Night, Oscar.”

The screen went dark.

Ana pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

And then, as she turned toward the mirror to grab her phone, she saw it.

Her arms.

Bare.

Pale.

Unhidden.

She stilled.

Breath caught, sharp and shallow.

The scars weren’t fresh. But they were there—old, pale things, faint lines that refused to fade. A story written across her skin in a language she’d tried to forget.

And the hoodie was off.

And she hadn’t noticed.

And Oscar had been looking.

A hot wave of panic crashed over her. Her chest squeezed tight. Her stomach flipped.

He saw.

He definitely saw.

There was no way he didn’t. The angle. The lighting. The pause—brief, but there.

She clutched the blanket harder, twisting the fabric in her fists like it could ground her.

Stupid. Stupid. God, Ana.

How could she forget? How could she let her guard drop—on FaceTime, of all things? With him?

Not that Oscar had ever seemed judgmental. But what did she really know?

She replayed the moment in her head, second by second. Was there a shift in his voice? A flicker in his eyes? Pity, discomfort, recognition?

Had she missed it?

Why hadn’t he said anything? Or had he—subtly—and she’d just been too distracted to notice? Did he understand what he saw?

Her hands moved to her arms, rubbing them like she could smear the past away. Undo the mistake. Slip back into the safety of being unseen.

This was why she didn’t get close.

Why she kept everything light, funny, distant.

Because the second you forgot to stay zipped up—this happened.

Now he knew.

Or worse—suspected.

Was he lying in bed right now, staring at the ceiling, putting the pieces together?

Googling symptoms? Trying to work out what exactly was wrong with her?

If he searched “junkie, Monaco,” would her name still come up?

“ANNELIESE WOLF—HEROIN CHIC OR MONACO JUNKIE?”

That headline had lodged in her skin and stayed there, echoing years later.

Would he text tomorrow, pretend nothing happened, and then quietly disappear? Piece by piece, day by day, until there wasn’t a single part of him left for her to grab onto.

The thought made her stomach twist.

Her heart pounded too loud. Her hands shook. Her cheeks flushed with the old shame—the kind that smelled like antiseptic and came with hospital bracelets and her father’s quiet disappointment in clean, white rooms.

Oscar hadn’t recoiled. Hadn’t flinched.

But maybe he’d just been polite.

Kind.

The way people are kind to broken animals on the side of the road.

She buried her face in her hands. The sound that escaped her was part-sob, part-curse, part desperate please take it back.

Why did you take off the hoodie? Why didn’t you think, you stupid, awful, terrible girl?

She sat like that for a long time. Trembling.

The room still glowing faintly from the vanity light.

The mess no longer funny.

Eventually, she picked up her phone.

Her fingers hovered. Then slowly, she typed.

—

iMessage — Anneliese > Oscar 

Anneliese 

Thanks for not judging the chaos :)

—

She stared at the message. Hovered over Send.

Then tapped it.

She didn’t know if he’d read between the lines.

Didn’t know if she wanted him to.

But it was something.

A peace offering. A white flag. A quiet please don’t look at me differently, don’t give up on me, don’t leave me, Oscar. Please don’t leave me.

She set the phone down. Slid beneath the blanket fully. Shut her eyes like sleep might dull the clawing ache in her chest.

But even in the dark, her arms felt louder than everything else.

Still, she didn’t reach for the hoodie.

Didn’t cover them.

She just lay there.

Unhidden.

And hurting.

And waiting.

—

Morning came slowly.

Grey light filtered through the curtains, soft and unbothered. Ana hadn't really slept—just drifted in and out, eyes closed but mind racing. Her phone hadn’t lit up. No messages. Not from Oscar. Not from anyone.

She was somewhere between half-dream and half-panic when she heard the quiet creak of the door.

Then, “Ana?”

She blinked. Lifted her head from the pillow.

Jack stood in the doorway in superhero pyjamas, hugging a worn-out plush rabbit to his chest. His curls were wild, sticking up like he’d fought something in his sleep and won. His grin was wide and gap-toothed. “You’re awake!”

“Barely,” she croaked, voice thick with sleep. “Come here.”

He sprinted across the room and clambered up onto the bed like a mountaineer, collapsing beside her with a dramatic sigh. “You smell like sleepy.”

“You smell like raspberry  jam.”

“Because I had toast for breakfast.” He said. 

She smiled. The smallest one, but real. He wormed his way under her blanket, warm and alive and buzzing with energy.

He poked at her arm.

“What are those?” he asked, squinting. “You have ouchies?” 

Ana bit her lip.

Unfiltered. Five-year-old curiosity, not judgment. Not fear.

She felt the sting before she could brace for it—eyes hot, throat tight, a wetness blooming where her cheek met his curls. “No,” she said, voice shaking just slightly. “They …don’t hurt. They’re just—old stories, little dragon.”

Jack frowned. “They don’t hurt?”

“No,” she said. Then cleared her throat. “Not anymore.”

He considered this, serious as only five-year-olds could be.

Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I have a white ouchie on my knee from when I fell off the slide. I cried so much, but then you got me the blue plaster with the rocket ship.”

“I remember,” she whispered, laughing through the wet in her voice.

“We both got better!”

Her breath hitched.

She pulled him into a hug, tight and full and slightly desperate. He didn’t squirm. Just tucked himself in against her and huffed a sleepy breath. 

“Do you wanna go to the park today?” she asked into his hair. “We can have a picnic.”

Jack gasped. “With the little sandwiches?”

“The very little ones.”

“And strawberries?”

“If you want.”

He grinned so wide it crinkled his whole face. “Best day ever,” he said, and wriggled out from under the covers to go hunt for his backpack, or some socks, or whatever he’d decides he needed for their adventure. 

Ana got up. Pulled on a soft shirt—long sleeves. Tied her hair back.

There were sandwiches to make.

And fruit to slice.

And a little boy waiting for her downstairs like it was the most normal, beautiful morning in the world.

NEXT CHAPTER

[blaysreid]

WRONG NAME, RIGHT REACTION

pairing = chaoticbf!spencer + prankstergf!reader

summary = You prank call Spencer “Jensen” while asking for a blanket and accidentally unleash his petty, genius side. Now he’s plotting hilarious revenge with confused waiters. Welcome to the ultimate prank war, where Spencer always wins with his silly ideas.

The apartment was quiet.

Late afternoon sun poured through the windows, casting everything in gold. The scent of tea hung in the air, and Spencer sat cross legged on the couch, utterly absorbed in whatever dense academic article had taken his soul hostage.

You were beside him, curled up with your phone.

Minding your business. Mostly.

And then, as fate would have it, you saw the trend again. "Call your boyfriend by your ex’s name and see how he reacts."

You smirked slowly. You weren’t impulsive, normally. But today… today felt right.

You stretched casually, then leaned forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. “Hey Jensen, can you pass me that blanket?”

Stillness.

Absolute, soul shaking stillness.

Spencer didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink.

But his fingers stopped moving on the page.

Paused mid sentence.

“…What did you just say?” His tone was calm. Too calm.

You tilted your head, blinking innocently. “Hmm?”

“You called me Jensen.”

“Oh,” you said airily, like you hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb. “Right. Sorry.”

He finally looked at you. Very slowly. “Sorry?”

“Yeah, force of habit.”

Silence. The kind of silence that made you want to laugh and run and also maybe leave the country.

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Like his brain short circuited. “Force of habit?”

You nodded. Bit the inside of your cheek. Fought a smirk. “I mean… Jensen used to pass me stuff. It’s just muscle memory, y’know?”

His jaw twitched.

You went on.

“Blankets, mugs, remotes. Jensen was very helpful.”

Spencer stared at you. “So helpful that you forgot I existed?”

You shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I see.”

Then he picked up the blanket and tossed it into your lap.

You blinked. “Thanks, Jen-Spencer.”

Now his eyebrows rose. “Unbelievable.”

You kept going, like the gremlin you are. “Actually… you kinda remind me of him sometimes.”

That broke him. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” you said, all dreamy now, looking off into the distance. “He used to read like that. Cross-legged. Glasses on. All mysterious and… emotionally unavailable.”

Spencer scoffed. “I’m not emotionally unavailable.”

You raised a brow. “A year ago you flinched when I tried to hold your hand.”

“I was overwhelmed-”

“And you locked yourself in the bathroom for twenty minutes when I told you I liked you.”

“I WAS PROCESSING-”

You burst into laughter.

His eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

You curled in on yourself. “Oh my god-”

He sat up straighter. “Wait. Are you-"

You covered your face. “Spencer I'm sorry-" trying to hold your laugh in.

“You’re pranking me.”

“I AM!”

He looked offended. “You LIED?!”

You cackled. “You were about to start filing a psychological profile on me!”

“I was about to CALL GARCIA and ask for Jensen’s address!”

“THERE IS NO JENSEN-”

“ARE YOU SURE?! Because I was seconds away from looking up any male you’ve had contact with in the last ten years-”

You were sobbing from laughter now. “oh my god-you're actually insane-"

Spencer crossed his arms. “You’ve chosen violence. I will remember this.”

“Oh, you’re mad now?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m planning revenge.”

You froze. “Wait-what kind of revenge?”

Spencer leaned in, close, his voice low.

“I’m going to wait. Bide my time. And one day… I’ll introduce myself as Jensen to a waiter.”

Your eyes went wide.

He smiled, devilishly. “Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

A/N = I lowkey have no idea what this is.. random. But please check out my other better works if u enjoyed:) I'm starting to work on requests now, feel free to request more!! And please be specific about them 😭

[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F! Reader

1 - The Man Who Saved You

Season 1 trailer series masterlist next chapter

Summary: Before the 2003 outbreak, the Cordyceps virus was a secret government project led by your father, a dedicated scientist. After realizing his mistake, he discovered your immunity following a bite at age 10. Desperate to make amends, he made deals with Fedra and later with the Fireflies, while you chose to escape instead of sacrificing yourself. Years of evading capture ended when you were eventually caught and taken to a hospital in Salt Lake with another immune girl. They thought two hosts would boost their vaccine chances, unaware that Joel was ready to take them all down. Unbeknownst to him, he had saved both you and Ellie. Now, you set out on your own, hoping to find your saviour again, leaving the rest of the Fireflies behind in your hospital scrubs. It wasn't long before you unexpectedly encountered him in Jackson, but he had no idea who you were or about your immunity. Chapter W.C. 10,5 k. It's an introductory chapter, so stay tuned for more about Joel in the next one! Warnings: guns, outbreak, Infection, post-apocalyptic theme, FUCKED UP SHITTY WORLD, language, profanity, cursing, attempted rape, blood, SLOW BURN, slow build, idiots in love, hate to love, arguments, cold behavior, selfishness, TOMMY, ABBY, ELLIE, DINA, WLF, FEDRA, FIREFLIES, sexual tension, abuse, trauma, nightmares, violence, injury, betrayal, murder, teasing, hate or love?, angst, maybe smut, fluff and romance stuff later not sure yet...age gap: Reader 30 Joel is 55 authors note: Each chapter will have its own music and warnings. Thank you all for your support, and have fun! my masterlist

Chapter Songs...

**Prologue.** 

You are her.

The girl that Fedra, Fireflies and the WLF chased endlessly but could never pin down. Somehow, you always managed to slip away. 

EVERY SINGLE TIME. 

That’s you.

You are among the first witnesses to see the world turned upside down with the arrival of this chaotic new reality, where everything familiar crumbled due to the cordyceps virus that transformed life as we know it. You stand out as a unique individual, an extraordinary person navigating this virus in a way that defies all expectations, possessing an incredible immunity that sets you apart from the rest.

That’s you. 

“Humanity's only hope, the sole potential source of a cure, the chance to develop a vaccine that may never be found again.” 

Yeah, those after you see it that way. As a thing, a lab rat, a test subject—disposable, without dreams or feelings... 

But honestly, you shouldn’t be surprised.

From the moment you came into the world, a profound sense of distance from others has surrounded you—something you never had a choice in. It all began when your mother was bitten by one of your father's test subjects while she was pregnant. That incident marked the onset of a global crisis—the day the virus escaped from the CDC and rapidly spread across the globe. Growing up in a laboratory, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of touch with what most people would consider home.

Your dad and his team dedicated years to creating something remarkable for humanity—yeah, they really believed in it—while dabbling in something perilously risky, only to realize they had made a grave mistake. They managed to keep it under wraps, but they could never quite eliminate the problem, always falling short.

From 2000 to 2003, your dad and his crew poured everything they had into combating a virus known only to a select few in the government. By August 2003, the number of test subjects had skyrocketed past a thousand, sparking outbreaks in Indonesia and other key grain-producing areas.

And that’s when the world went to hell. 

The sound of boots echoes on the floor as a figure strodes through the entrance of the building.

The man has “F.E.D.R.A.” emblazoned in large letters across his back, indicating he is likely a Fedra soldier or commander. Everyone in the room avert their gaze, casting guilty looks as if they had just been caught red-handed. Those sitting on the floor, some sporting visible injuries, quickly get up, heads bowed—not just out of respect, but from sheer shock and fear. They keenly aware that trouble is looming, for this man only appeared during significant events. He is one of Fedra's elite, irreplaceable in his role.

Major Gibson's furious, disappointed eyes scans the room, his anger swelling with each wounded soldier in sight.

One of the soldiers steppes forward, visibly nervous, and offeres a salute. “Sir.”

“What’s the situation, lieutenant?” Gibson inquires, his voice steady yet charged.

“Sir, we’ve managed to corner the target inside the building.”

Gibson narrow his eyes, disappointment dripping from his tone. “You’ve managed?” His gaze shift to the injured soldiers sprawles across the floor, some with bandages on their heads and limbs. “Is this what you call 'manage'?”

The lieutenant loweres his head but, despite his recent failures, a flicker of hope ignites in his eyes—tinged with a dash of determination. “The girl is wounded. She can't escape from the building. All entrances and exits are secured by my men.” She points to the building plan spread out before them, indicating the girl’s possible location.

Without looking up from the map, Gibson asks, “A girl. Is the one responsible for putting your men in this sorry state just a girl?"

Taking a deep breath, the lieutenant steadies herself and replies, “With all due respect, sir, you don’t know her yet. We have clear instructions to capture her alive. It's challenging since she’s exceptionally well-trained—"

“I may not know her, but I do know the orders. How old is this girl again?”

The lieutenant hesitates but answers carefully, “Twenty, sir.”

A grim smile spreads across Gibson's face, as if he expected this. He looks at the soldiers around him, counting them.

“Interesting,” Gibson says with angry smirk. “Twenty men can’t handle a twenty-year-old girl. How fuckin' ironic.” The soldiers bow their heads again. “Alright, listen up! We need to capture this girl before sundown. With the Fireflies closing in and everything going to shit, we can’t afford to let that girl get away. Get your fuckin' shit together! Let's do this!"

“As you command, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldiers echo, rallying around him as Gibson pulls out a red phosphorescent pen and starts marking the building plan. “We’re going to follow my plan for the capture,” he says, and the mood shifts, filled with a sense of purpose.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath as you press your hand against the bullet wound just above your knee. They’re definitely trying to cripple you without killing you, aimlessly targeting your legs, but some of them must not know what they’re doing. Trying to find first aid supplies in this building is like digging a well with a toothpick—practically impossible. Ignoring the pain, you stagger forward with your automatic rifle in hand, scanning every inch of the corridor for anything that might help. At the far end, the dark elevator shaft catches your eye. You can’t tell if the cabin is just stopped or stuck somewhere below, but your mind quickly races to plot your escape. The elevator doors are two-sided, and if you can exit from the other side, you might make it to another building. But with your leg like this, it’ll be painfully slow, and you know that once they figure out where you are, they’ll be right on your tail.

You’re certain of it.

Think, think, think. 

Your eyes dart around the crumbling, half-destroyed building, reeking of mold and decay, and then you spot the kitchen area. Just then, a strong, deep voice calls your name from outside. You don’t care; you know what’s coming next, so you head to the stove, checking the gas cylinders in the kitchen.

“Surrender immediately! I repeat, surrender immediately. I’ll count to three, and my team will enter. We know you’re wounded; there’s nowhere left to run. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

You snort, partly at his threat and partly at the thrill building up inside you as you realize the kitchen gas cylinder is still functional. Suddenly, a plan forms in your mind. “We’ll see about that, motherfucker,” you mutter, turning all six knobs and quickly tying a bandana around your neck to cover your mouth.

As the gas begins to fill the room, you can hear him counting down.

“You cocky show-off,” you whisper, pulling a lighter from your pocket. With the cigarette you snagged from the dead man's bag on the street last week, you light it up and take a long drag. The smoke is heavy, old, and scratchy, burning your lungs, but it carries a familiar comfort. You brace one of the doors closed, waiting for the gas to spread. This is a gamble you’ve never taken before—something that could very well backfire—but you don’t care. You’re smart enough to wrap a fire blanket around yourself. With the cigarette burning down, you hear the soldiers’ footsteps getting closer. Adrenaline surges through you, your heart pounding. You bite your lower lip, take a deep breath, and grip a piece of stone from the floor—probably debris from the wall blasted in an earlier explosion. You wrap the blanket around your entire body, feeling every heartbeat like a drum demanding action.

As you check your cigarette, watching it burn almost to the end, you spot the soldiers approaching. Counting them as they appear: one, two, three, and...

Now, it’s go time.

You prepare to toss the burning cigarette with a flick of your thumb and middle finger. With the stone in hand, you smash the glass of the door and step into the elevator shaft, ready to jump to the other side, both physically and mentally. The smell of gas rushes into your nostrils as you hurl the cigarette into the shaft, cover yourself with the blanket, and brace for impact.

Then all hell breaks loose.

It’s not the sharp explosion of a grenade you might expect—rather, it’s slow but utterly devastating. First, the flame from the cigarette ignites the gas fumes, and then pressure causes everything to explode outward with a haunting roar. A shard of glass grazes you, stopping you just short of your escape. In that heartbeat, you realize the mix of brilliance and recklessness in your move. Tossing the cigarette this close was a mistake, but the blanket shields you from the fire's fury, saving your skin. It all transpires in mere seconds, but the intensity is overwhelming.

With the noise pulsing in your ears, you gather your strength and take a few steps back to jump. Your rifle bumps against you, but the shock dulls the sensation. You sprint forward as fast as possible, launching yourself into the air. You land and roll to your feet, recovering swiftly while scanning your surroundings. Did something -infected- hear that blast? Did a soldier figure out your scheme? Nothing moves. A grin spreads across your face, despite the chaos—you’re a mess, but you’re unstoppable. Adrenaline floods your system. It’s as if your blood has transformed, energizing you as you soak in the thrill of your narrow escape.

This section of the building is calm and quiet, but it's unnervingly dark. Frustrated, you flick on your flashlight and move forward, visualizing your plan with every step, recalling the silhouette you spotted from outside. As you make your way down the stairs, you steer toward the likely location of the fire escape. Fortunately, the lower floors are bright, the walls have cracks that let in sunlight, and nature's touch is visible with overgrown grass surrounding you. The area around the fire escape door is unobstructed, and you’re nearly ready to make your escape. The soldiers' voices are now barely audible, a distant clamor filled with shouts and even some pleading. All of it because of what you've done. All because of you. Strangely, it doesn’t scare you like it once did, nor do you feel the same weight of guilt. Not anymore. You have your reasons, and they’re all too valid.

But this isn’t the time to dwell on the past. You are neither the hunted nor the hunter; you exist within a rigid philosophy. Kill or be killed. Eliminate anyone who stands in your way. That’s the new order—a law, a constitution, a moral code to live by. After all, who can hold you accountable? No one bears the blame; everyone is a victim except one. It’s all his fault: your father. And that’s exactly why you’re on the run, and why you must keep moving.

The destruction you’ve caused is staggering; most of the soldiers are likely dead, the rest wounded and spent. That’s a relief; they won’t be pursuing you for a while. At least until you find a vehicle and make your way out of Boston for good.

**Prologue ends.**

10 years earlier. 

September 26, 2003... 

It was too late. There was no corner of the Earth untouched by the virus. The CDC had gone quiet; its energy spent, its resources depleted, and a grave mistake had occurred.

At just ten years old, you suddenly became significant in your father's eyes—a girl who had once been seen as unimportant until you were bitten by one of his test subjects. Just like your mother.

When your father, a dedicated scientist specializing in infectious diseases, finally looked at you—really looked at you—you felt a rush of excitement. With the innocence of your ten-year-old mind, you might have thought his sadness stemmed from the fact that you were going to die soon, like your mother, your friends, his friends, coworkers and countless others struggling to survive out there.

But you were mistaken; they were mistaken.

You weren't infected.

You didn’t die.

You didn't change.

The bite mark remained—the wound became infected like any ordinary scratch, but eventually, it healed.

It passed.

This was incredible, impossible even, but it happened. That night, your father and his research team aimed all their efforts at studying you. Yes, you were the new test subject. But unlike the others, you were unique, challenging the very limits of reason and logic.

In a way that defied everything your 40-year-old father had seen, learned, taught, and discovered throughout his life, you were alive.

Your situation flew in the face of biology, science, and medicine. It felt like the final flicker of hope, a fleeting thought—a brief breeze.

You were, quite simply, an impossibility.

You were unreal.

You were a miracle.

Yes, "miracle" was the first word that came out of your father’s mouth when he finally smiled into your eyes. It was the only positive thing he had said, but it wasn’t a genuine compliment. It was just a reaction, the moment he realized you hadn't undergone a visible transformation due to the virus—that you were still human.

Miracle.

That single word would shatter whatever had already been broken.

You despised that word with every part of your being. Even now, it’s still a curse, an insult. Because from that moment on, the worst chapter of your life began.

Nothing would ever be the same again after you heard that word. Things were already bleak, and then they took a turn for the worse.

November 29, 2003.

The old world had vanished; everything was now under the army's control. Before the Cordyceps outbreak, it was just an ordinary emergency response unit, handling floods, earthquakes, and other crises. But when the Cordyceps brain infection spiraled out of control, transforming people into infected monsters, FEDRA seized complete control of civilian life. Despite your father being a scientist involved in top-secret projects, it wasn’t solely his influence that mattered. The world had become such a disaster that, regardless of who you were—celebrity, politician, millionaire, or even the president—you were all in the same sinking ship. Rank, fame, and reputation meant nothing; survival was all that counted. The only reason they took your father seriously, listened to him, and placed you—all the lab staff—in safe areas was because of your unique situation. Very few were aware of this, not even Fedra's top brass. Only one of their higher-ups had a clue, but that was just a facade, a distraction they could no longer afford to focus on. Proof was necessary, and it couldn’t be simply about showing your bite mark.

It required scientific data and hard evidence.

Yes, the procedures still continued in this chaotic world.

First, they needed to find a secure place to carry out laboratory activities, but Fedra didn’t prioritize that. It had only been a year since the outbreak started, and hospitals had become some of the most dangerous places around. Soon after, the Fireflies' uprising complicated matters even further. As people worldwide succumbed to the epidemic daily, transforming into lifeless creatures, discussions about a vaccine faded into mere chatter. This was largely due to the failed attempts at developing one. Fedra was reluctant to accept it, while your father was desperate to convince them—but there was simply no way to prove him right. All he had were your blood samples, X-ray results, photos of the bite mark, along with video and audio recordings.

Living in the quarantine zone meant you had to conceal your bite mark, located right on your calf, since there were no guarantees of special protection for you. Instead, they pushed you to take part in self-defense training.

To put it more accurately, your father forced you.

You hated him for it.

You had never been fond of him, but pushing you into intense military training was the final straw. His apparent happiness, as if someone else were to blame for the outbreak, only added to your frustration. Yet, only you, your father, and one other surviving team member were aware of the truth—William. Unlike your father, who never seemed to take the blame, William lamented the role he played in this global catastrophe. Their constant bickering drove you mad, especially when everything around you was already in disarray.

A few months later, the Pittsburgh quarantine zone, where you had been temporarily living, was attacked by a group known as hunters, forcing an urgent evacuation. Hospitals were also being targeted, smuggled by the hunters or raiders. Your father's hopes were dwindling, and the situation was growing more dire by the day.

October, 2009. 

Six years had come and gone since everything changed. First, the quarantine zone in Pittsburgh crumbled, falling into the hands of hunters. The remaining civilians in Pittsburgh joined their ranks, and those who dared to voice their opposition were swiftly silenced by the hunters' ruthless leader.   

The U.S. military pulled back their search efforts from all areas beyond ten miles of established quarantine zones, a decision clearly outlined in a letter from the U.S. Attorney General. Meanwhile, Boston had emerged as one of the most secure quarantine zones, successfully fending off firefly attacks. That’s where you were now—until Fedra's elite unit transferred you to a secret location. 

At last, what your father had been longing for had occurred: a fully equipped hospital had been discovered and cleared from infected, and you would soon be escorted there.

As time went on, the cordyceps continued to evolve. The first group infected in the second stage began transforming into the terrifying third stage known as clickers. This made survival outside the quarantine zones increasingly perilous; the only means of communication left were radios and announcements. 

When the convoy set off from Boston, transporting you to the hospital, they didn’t reveal the destination. Perhaps they kept it from you for your own good. Suddenly, an unexpected attack happens—fireflies, the rebel group you’d only heard about but never encountered. Your father and William urge you to stay in the vehicle for your safety as the sounds of fighting erupt outside. The Fedra military vehicle you were in offered some degree of protection, but as a teenager, you were still grappling with feelings of frustration and rebellion, dismissing everything around you. Your disdain for your father had reached new heights, and little did you know that these emotions would soon morph into something far more complex—raw rage.

The firefight intensified, and before you knew it, they’d eliminated all the Fedra soldiers. The door of your vehicle swung open, and a dark-skinned woman with curly hair stepped between two firefly soldiers, commanding you to exit. Your father and William nodded in approval, but hesitation gripped you. William gently pulled you to your feet, standing protectively by your side. You dropped down from the vehicle, shoving your hands deep into your hoodie pockets, embodying the angst of a teenager, looking like you were a million miles away from being the world's last hope.

You relished the sight of your father looking vulnerable, hands raised in surrender. You remained indifferent to the armed soldiers surrounding you—this was a scene you had grown all too familiar with. But your father’s face, etched with desperation, was a different matter entirely, and you couldn’t help but find it amusing.

“Please, we’re only doctors,” he begged, which only made you smile with a hint of cruelty.

"We know exactly who you are, Doctor Clouser," one of them says, carrying a tone of authority. It was the woman with curly hair who spoke up.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered sarcastically. William shoots you a disapproving glance, but you brush it off. 

The soldiers turned their attention back to your father, who seemed caught between fear and resignation. “You’re coming with us,” the woman asserted. Reluctantly, your father conceded. What other choice did he have anyway? If they intended to kill you, they would have done it already. 

As you walked toward their vehicle, you cast one last glance at the lifeless bodies of Fedra soldiers sprawled on the ground—an all too familiar sight in this grim reality. Your father went on about how Fedra would come looking for you, how they wouldn’t let you go easily, emphasizing your importance.

But no one seemed to pay him any mind. 

The journey felt endless, and by evening you arrived at the University of Eastern Colorado, one of the fireflies' bases. The woman leading the group introduced herself as Marlene. Your father was wary of her, and only you and William knew why. When they took you into a triage tent, leaving you alone with Marlene and her two men, you sensed that you were not the only one aware of the truth. 

"I wonder why Fedra is keeping you alive? After all, you’re to blame for everything, aren’t you, Dr. Clouser? Nobel Prize-winning scientist in molecular biology and genetics. And you, Dr. William Devane, microbiology expert, also an award-winning scientist. Two geniuses responsible for the outbreak that fucked everything up."

Your father and William tensed up as Marlene’s companions exchanged shocked glances. Marlene’s expression shifted from anger to an almost hopeful curiosity. “So tell me, why does Fedra help you? Is there a chance for a cure or a vaccine? Is that their goal?” 

A cure, a vaccine—those words you almost hear every fuckin' day. Turning your gaze to the side, you spotted a 9mm pistol on a table nearby. Grabbing it in a quick motion crossed your mind—thanks to those teenage hormones—but that was a dumb idea; there was no way you could take on all those soldiers outside. They had no clue about your immunity and wouldn't think twice about taking you out and you didn’t want to risk William’s life. Yeah, you cared about him more than you did for your father.

When your father and Marlene were inside the tent talking, you waited outside, aware that Marlene's men were eyeing you with obvious hostility. Who could blame them? Anyone would think the same way, knowing the truth: they were responsible for the world’s downfall and and the one in charge was your dad.

Soon, Marlene and your father emerged, and all eyes turned to them. The moment your father's gaze met yours, you instantly grasped what was being discussed.

What a surprise.

Marlene cast a meaningful glance at her men, called them back to her side, and you returned inside. Your father looked directly at you. “Show them, it’s okay.”

You shot him a glare. “I’m wearing freaking jeans.”

He glared back. “I told you to show them.”

William stepped in, using a gentle voice as he called your name and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Let me help you.” The bite mark was on the inside of your calf, which is why it made you tense. William positioned himself in front of you, creating a barrier as you unzipped your pants. “Okay, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like it would even matter if I said I wasn’t.” You pulled your hoodie down to keep your underwear hidden; luckily, it was long enough to cover your backside.

When William finally stepped aside, the bite mark came into view, looking like a tree branch etched into the skin. Marlene bent down, switched on her flashlight, and leaned in to inspect the mark closely. Remembering how you got this bite, the moment you got bit by an infected, you fought the urge to kick her while she gazed down at the mark. “When did this happen?”

She directed the question at you, but your father chimed in, as usual. “I’ll do the talking; you just stay quiet.” It was his go-to line.

“Six years,” he replied.

Marlene raised her eyebrows in surprise. Your father continued, “Yes, it coincided with the outbreak.”

“How come the vaccine hasn’t been produced until now?” she asked.

And just like that, your father launched into an explanation about the early days—how Fedra couldn’t get you to the hospital, the lack of facilities, and so on. As you pulled your pants back up, you muttered, "That’s enough staring, I guess."

“Salt Lake,” Marlene said firmly. “That’s where we’ll be taking all the supplies after the unsuccessful vaccination attempt by the Biologists we brought in from San Francisco. The hospital is large and has everything you might need, but it’s not exactly clean. Infections are widespread, and cordyceps has infested even the operating rooms. Cleaning it up will take some time. For now, you’ll stay here until I send you there. And remember, this stays between us.” Your father and William nodded, then she turned to her men, giving them a meaningful look without uttering a word.

“Don’t worry, Marlene,” they reassured her in unison.

Marlene locked eyes with you, cautioning you not to say anything about your situation and to behave, having caught on to your rebellious attitude. That look.

The same gaze that flickers in the eyes of everyone who learns your secret—the look of hope you despised. Thankfully, Marlene didn’t use that word; perhaps she was a realist and not a believer in miracles. That might be the only thing you liked about her.

The only damn thing.

February 2012.

Failure, every scientist’s worst nightmare, lingers like a shadow over your father. As promised, Marlene and her team clean the hospital and ensure you’re placed there. He and William have everything they need. It’s impressive that they’ve managed better than Fedra. Yet, failure stares them down once more, especially after the 186th attempt. Each failed experiment begins with the hope that maybe this time it will succeed. Everyone in the hospital is exhausted, sleepless, and on the brink of despair, but no one cares about you—except for William.

The number of blood samples taken from you has left you anemic, your body desperately fighting the threat of it. Your arms are mottled with purple marks; your complexion is pale and wan. But you persist through your training, benefitting from the special meals prepared for your health. They’re concerned about you, but it’s not out of pity; it’s for a larger purpose. Anemia would reduce the number of red blood cells in your blood, which directly impacts the vaccine’s efficacy, leading to more failures.

When your father scolds you for this, you realize you are no longer surprised. It doesn’t even sting anymore. Even the lieutenant trains you treats better than him—strong and tough but quick to applaud and congratulate you when you finally beat her in a spar. Your father doesn’t offer the same. You’ve been a failure in his eyes since birth, and the reality remains unchanged; only the direction has shifted.

For a fleeting moment, you wish he would successfully create the vaccine—not for humanity’s sake. In your eyes, humanity is a lost cause. You’re curious to see if his attitude toward you would change if he succeeded. Maybe he’d look at you with love or admiration. But let’s be honest: deep down, you know that wouldn’t happen.

You’ve spent so long in the hospital that you’re itching to get out. The day you finally break free feels exhilarating. You think about taking a brief detour to escape the suffocating confines; however, before you can get far, you encounter an infected individual. In your surprise, you realize too late that a network you’ve never seen before lies right at your feet, one that sends out vibrations to all nearby infected. Yes, your skills have improved over the years; you can handle various weapons, but when faced with a horde, those arms are useless.

A cacophony rises from the cracked asphalt roads blanketed by green grass—one voice, then two, three, five, eight, and more. Your blood runs cold as you see a horde rushing toward you. Being immune won’t protect you; they’re driven solely by their primal need for nutrition.

You are the prey.

You sprint back toward the hospital, even though you know it’s futile, cursing yourself for stepping outside. Just then, a group of fireflies arrives in military vehicles, opening fire on the infected. As one vehicle pulls up to you, it takes out a runner just behind you, but there are more closing in. Suddenly, another runner lunges at you.

You struggle beneath this dreadful creature that sounds horrifying and looks even worse. With all your might, you attempt to raise your gun, but it’s useless. That’s when you got your second bite, right below your shoulder. The pain is overwhelming, consuming your senses entirely. All you can focus on is the location of the bite—the crushing pressure, the excruciating pain. You scream until your lungs feel like they’re on fire, convinced for a moment that your flesh is being torn apart. The agony spreads through your veins, radiating throughout your entire body. Since the pain dominates your attention, you don’t even notice when the soldier who shot the infected lends a hand to pull you up; you simply let him.

But more are coming—hundreds—relentlessly charging. The soldiers around you cast you bewildered glances, clearly aware of what just happened.

Once you’re taken back to the hospital, soldiers guide you by the arm to a different room in the emergency wing, just to be safe. One even gets scolded by a commander for aiming at you; it’s a rare sight for them. None have seen someone bitten before who hasn’t turned into one of those monsters.

The wound appears serious, likely deeper than the first, meaning it will take longer to heal.

Yet, you remain human—what luck.

The next day, your father brings you to the lab for more blood tests. To your surprise, he seems almost pleased about your new bite, showing no rage for your reckless escape. But William is furious and incredibly worried about you.

It takes up to two weeks for the new bite's effects to show in your blood results, and you return to your monotonous daily routine.

Boring.

July 2012.

One morning, your father walks into your room in a surprisingly good mood, which usually signals trouble for you. He promptly calls William in for a private chat. You find yourself bored out of your mind with their vaccination chatter. Your only hope is that they’ll abandon the vaccine nonsense, leave you alone, and go back to living like normal people. You can’t help but envy the folks outside who are just trying to survive. It’s absurd to dream of living like them, but the truth is, at least they’re free. And when it comes time to die, you think you’ll finally be free too. This hospital feels like a prison. People treat you like a lab rat—they don’t even bother to make eye contact when they take your blood. They don’t ask how you’re doing, and it’s painfully boring.

As you’re sketching in your notebook late at night, William quietly slips into your room. You hold on to the hope that he’s brought something to lift your spirits—a fully charged Walkman or perhaps one of your favorite comic books. But when you see the troubled look on his face, you realize this isn’t going to be a light-hearted chat.

"Come with me."

It’s a good offer, and you can’t refuse it—not if it’s from him.

You glance toward the door. Two soldiers standing guard, poised to thwart any attempt you might make to escape. You’re so crucial yet an absolute headache. William leads you out of the room, and as the soldiers start to follow, he raises a hand to stop them. “It’s alright,” he says.

“Where are we going?” you ask, confusion bubbling up. He doesn’t answer; he simply keeps walking. His arm wraps around you protectively, but you’re not sure why. You step into a room you’ve never seen before, filled with various supplies. William closes the door firmly behind you, grabs a large, dark backpack, and thrusts it into your hands.

“What’s going on, William?” You’re taken aback.

“Just take it,” he insists.

As you check the safety on the revolver he hands you and slip it into the back of your pants, you are even more bewildered. “What the hell is happening?”

“We don’t have time, and this might be our only chance,” he replies, urgency lacing his voice. He throws the bag over your shoulders. “It’s packed with supplies—enough for a few months.”

You nearly stumble under the weight. “Okay, I get that, but I don’t see the purpose yet.”

William’s eyes darken with concern and anger. “Your father has figured out how to produce vaccines.”

You’re stunned. “Isn’t that supposed to be good news?”

“To make that vaccine, you need... surgery. But there’s no way you’ll survive it.” His words hit you like a punch in the gut. You tremble as he wraps his arms around you, his voice quaking with emotion.

“I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him kill you. Damn humanity. Damn the vaccine. I won’t, babygirl. You’re like my real daughter. I won’t lose you.”

You stand frozen, numb, as your heart aches.

“He,” you breathe out, unable to say “dad.” “He’s chosen to sacrifice me, hasn’t he?”

William's continued sobs and silence say it all.

Of course, he has.

He cradles your face in his hands. “Promise me you’ll survive. As long as you’re alive, I can rest easy knowing you’re out there, just breathing.”

“Please come with me,” you plead. “I don’t even know where to go…”

“I need to distract them so you can escape. There’s a map in your bag. I’ve marked possible locations for the Fireflies and the FEDRA, and noted safe spots and soldier routes. When I find you again, we’ll join another group together. Never reveal your immunity, your identity, your name—not even mine. You’re someone else now, can you understand? Stay off the main roads and avoid open spaces. It will be hard, but I know you’ll make it. You are strong. You're 19 now.”

You nod, determination in your voice. “I promise I’ll make it, but you have to promise you’ll survive and come too.”

He tries to assure you with a confident look, but you can see it’s a façade. “I promise. Now you need to go. They’ll be here soon to take you for the surgery. I can't buy you any time if they realize you’re missing from your room.”

You fight back tears, a lump forming in your throat. “I need to know one last thing before I go.”

William takes a deep breath, preparing himself for your question.

“Is there really no other way to produce the vaccine?”

“There has to be a way—there's always a way. But your father…” He swallows hard. “That bastard is just—“

“Enough,” you interject, your voice shaky but steadier now. “I have my answer.”

April 2024.

Ten years have gone by. You’re still on the run, but now you’re more experienced—a young woman who’s tough to stop or defeat. For all this time, you’ve managed to survive alone, witnessing too much—haunting memories that invade your dreams, scars that linger on both your body and soul. You’ve been bitten three more times in this span. William never showed up where he promised. You waited for him for months, even years, placing a sign over to one of those wrecked cars at your meeting spot. The doll from your childhood—the one he gave you for your sixth birthday—remained untouched every time you returned. But still, he never showed up. Maybe something happened to him on the way. Maybe he gave up or maybe he never intended to come back.

Who knows?

And who cares? You certainly don’t anymore, not after what they did and what you had to do.

Now, casting a desperate glance at the map, you contemplate your next route. None of the places William marked as safe are safe anymore. The map has changed, you’ve changed, and so have your aspirations and goals.

In the meantime, you found a companion. 

You named him Taxi. 

A German Shepherd. 

You met him while scavenging for supplies, trapped next to a wrecked taxi—likely caught in a hunter’s snare. He’d lost a lot of blood from an injured leg, and if you hadn’t intervened, he would have died. At first, you felt indifferent; you couldn’t access emotions like before. But when you looked into his eyes and heard his whimpers of pain, you couldn’t ignore him. You helped lift him from his suffering, and since then, he’s never left your side.

From that moment on, that dog turned into your best buddy. He was an amazing pal, warmer than any human you knew, a loyal friend cared for you in ways no one else did and stood by your side, ever ready to protect you.

“What’s up with this Bella girl? Is she torn between Jacob and Edward or what? Is love really that complicated?” you ponder, glancing from the novel *Eclipse* in your hand to the taxi as you carefully walk along the cobblestone. Taxi barks twice. You laugh, “Are you saying I don’t get it because I haven’t read the first book?” Looking at the other novels on the back cover, you shrug. “Dude, the library was crawling with Clickers. It's all I could scrounge up.”

Moments later, Taxi growls, pulling you from your thoughts. You spot a runner nearby, his back turned but movements erratic—likely infected just days ago. You crouch behind a junked car, and Taxi stealthily lowers next to you. “Shh, it’s just one. I can take care of it,” you assure, pulling out your knife. You set the book on the ground and move quietly, letting the pages flutter with the wind, then dive at the runner just in time. You take him down with a swift stab to the throat, his loud, ominous growl echoing as he collapses. You wipe the knife on his ragged clothes and then on the fabric of your sleeve.

No one else is around; it's a relief.

Just then, you hear the rumble of tires approaching. Whistling to Taxi, you signal it to come closer. “Quick,” you say, darting behind the wheel of a nearby gasoline truck. You wait as two military vehicles pass by without stopping. As you recalled hearing on the walkie-talkie that the Fireflies were moving to Utah a few days ago, you couldn't help but wonder: who are they now?

You exhale in relief as they drive on. Just when you think it’s safe, the vehicle behind the other one halts, and you freeze. “Damn,” you mutter as someone opens the door and sees the runner you just took down. 

“Hey!” the driver calls, raising his hand to signal the vehicle in front to stop. 

The taxi growls low, and your nerves spike. You instinctively reach for your gun, loading bullets from your pocket into the chamber and flipping off the safety. Two people step out of the vehicle, examining the runner and muttering to each other. One gestures for the others, probably telling them to search the area. Soon, they all nod and scatter, weapons drawn, just as you had feared. 

Eight armed, trained individuals. They’re definitely looking for you; any other group would have kept driving after spotting an infected by the road. 

You glance at Taxi and point him the opposite direction. He leaves immediately—you’ve trained him well—but worry clings to you. Time is of the essence. You pick up a rock from the ground and throw it to the far side of the truck. As two of them turn, you take a steady aim and pull the trigger, hitting both in the head. 

Bull’s-eye. 

“What the hell?”

"She’s here—" Taxi lunges at the screaming womans throat and you take down the other one as he finish her off. Two people near the vehicle duck behind cover. The other one next to the woman who just got tackled raises a gun and fires at him, but you take him out too.

The remaining one, clearly of higher rank, shouts a warning to the others: "Don’t shoot her! Remember, we have orders to take her alive!" Another voice calls out, "Surrender! Now!"

“Come and get it, motherfucker!” you yell back, quickly pivoting toward the vehicle, aiming, and letting loose with your shots. Thankfully, they hesitate to return fire, giving you the chance to roll into the nearby grass. Taxi crouches down beside you. You signal him to hang tight behind a rock. "They can shoot at you, but they can’t hit me. Stay put.”

It takes a few tense moments to crawl through the grass until you reach the front of the enemy vehicle. You hear a shot ring out in the distance—just a scare tactic—and aim carefully before shooting at the tires of the vehicle behind you. As they scramble, you fling open the car door, dive into the driver's seat, and crank the engine.

“Hey!”

Ignoring their frantic shouts, you open the side door and holler as you take off, “Taxi! Come on!”

Taxi barks in response, sprinting toward the car, dodging gunfire, and leaps into the passenger seat.

“Good boy!” you laugh, giving his head a quick pat as you slam the door shut and hit the gas.

You flash them the middle finger through the window, taunting, “Suck it, fuckers!”

“Shoot the tires!” someone yells from behind.

"Don't let her get away!"

“No, no, no, don’t shoot the tires,” you grumble to yourself. It’s hard enough to steer in a straight line without swerving all over the road. Soon enough, they open fire, and you instinctively duck, while Taxi hangs out the window, barking.

“No, buddy, get down!” you scold him, swerving to the right in a desperate attempt to shield him. Suddenly, you feel a thud as one of the rear tires bursts, and the steering wheel slips from your control. “Damn it!”

Before you know it, the car flips over in a chaotic tumble. Without a seatbelt on, you are jolted violently, your head smacking against something hard. The last thing you hear is Taxi's cries of distress and the screeching of brakes as everything goes dark.

As you slowly open your eyes, a wave of excruciating pain surges through your head and radiates throughout your body. Realizing you’re lying down and catching a whiff of antiseptic, you attempt to sit up, only to find yourself strapped to a stretcher.

“Hey, take it easy,” you hear a voice cautioning you. It must be a medic, though dressed in civilian clothes.

"Where am I? Taxi... Where's my dog?" you manage to ask, panic creeping in.

“You've taken quite a blow to the head,” he replies. “You've got two fractured ribs as well. So how about you just stay still for now?”

“Where’s my dog?” you insist.

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t see any dog.”

“If anything happens to him, I swear—”

“What are you going to do?”

That voice—Marlene.

Damn it.

How long have you been gone?

When did she show up, and... where were you?

“You’d actually burn the hospital down just for a dog? That’s so you,” she says, stepping a bit closer. You notice the deep lines on her face that have only gotten stronger over the years. “After all that time running around by yourself, it's pretty impressive what you've been through. But here we are, years later, and all you care about is your dog. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, you know.”

You give her a sarcastic look. “The hospital... Another attempt for a cure? Marlene, you really don’t give up, do you?”

“Maybe we’re alike in that way. But not in others. What you did back there was selfish. I lost thirty good men because of you."

“Cut it out and get to the point. You planning to take my blood or what?”

“No, you’re not leading this time. You’re going to be... a substitute.”

You raise an eyebrow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

“It means we’ve found another immune person.” You’re taken aback; that’s highly improbable. “Just like you, she adapted to the virus after being bitten. This time, we’re definitely producing that vaccine.” Her eyes sparkle with hope, reminiscent of your father’s once-hopeful gaze.

“Oh, congratulations. Looks like you should be up for a Nobel Prize, Queen Firefly.”

Marlene lets out a lazy chuckle at your joke, but a flicker of something deeper crosses her face—a trace of sadness, perhaps. "What we have endured all this time is finally going to mean something."

“Sounds more like a cover-up to me.”

This time, anger flares in her eyes as she meets your glare. “I wouldn’t feel too relaxed if I were you. If we successfully develop the vaccine thanks to Ellie, we won’t need you anymore—and there are plenty of men itching for revenge. You get that, right?”

You match her menacing stare, though deep down, fear coils within you.

“Now, I’ve got to go. She’s being prepped for surgery,” she says, standing up.

"You mentioned that her situation is similar to mine." Marlene pauses but doesn't look at you. Remembering the virus intertwining with the brain, you murmur, “You know she won’t survive this surgery.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “Yeah, I know," she answers coldly before turning her back and leaving the room.

You watch her go, noticing two armed soldiers waiting at the door. You find yourself wondering how many days have gone and how they found that girl, and you can't shake off your worry about Taxi.

However, at this moment, you should only be worried about yourself.

Hours drag on.

Marlene never comes back to the room where you’re confined. Luckily, they untie you, but you still trapped. When a nurse enters to help you put on your hospital gown, you realize why they released your bindings. “Did the girl’s surgery go well?” you ask her. You don’t know her, but a bond forms from your shared condition, and a wave of sadness washes over you.

“It hasn’t started yet, but it’s almost time. You’ll be next,” the nurse replies.

You tense up. “Hey, what? Marlene didn’t say anything like that, I…”

The nurse explains, "Dr. Anderson believes that having two hosts increases the likelihood of creating a vaccine. They’ll start with her first, and then it will be your turn.’”

“You're going to kill us both,” you grunted.

The nurse stares at you, blankly. “You’re doing this for humanity and—"

You grab her by the throat. “If you utter anything about a ‘miracle’ or the ‘greater purpose,’ I’ll break your jaw.”

Her eyes widen as she pushes your hand away and calls out in alarm, “Open the door, I’m coming out!”

The soldiers at the door swing it open, weapons drawn, until she steps outside. They close the door behind her and stand watch. Through the frosted glass, you see her greet someone in the corridor. You strain to catch snippets of their conversation about the surgery.

“The girl’s been anesthetized; she’s ready.”

“Alright, prep the other girl. The nurses will let you know when it’s time. Today is crucial for all of us, so keep an eye out. Don’t let anything go wrong.”

“Good luck, doctor.”

From the clatter of voices and footsteps, you can tell you’re being held very close to the operating room. Tension fills your body. You have to act, or the fate you’ve been dreading for years will finally catch up to you—you’ll die.

And for a world so wretched.

Additionally, William previously mentioned that there is no guarantee the vaccine will be effective.

The room is small; they’ve stripped away your weapons and belongings, and the soldiers haven’t budged from the door.

You need a plan.

But what can you do? As you scan the room, thoughts race through your mind. Perhaps you could fashion a weapon from the syringes, but then what? How would you handle the soldiers?

Then, chaos erupts with the sound of gunfire.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” someone shouts.

The commotion from the lower floors sends alarms ringing through the upper levels, yet the soldiers at the door remain on high alert, conversing amongst themselves. The gunfire continues, echoing louder. Whoever is responsible for this—could it be Fedra?

Yes, that makes sense.

"It's him!"

“Kill him! Kill him now!”

Him?

Just one person?

The sounds grow increasingly frantic, the shots puncturing the space, thinning the ranks of your captors. As each bullet finds its target, the noise fades somewhat. You feel a mix of relief and anxiety; the soldiers abandon their posts, heading into the corridor. Moments later, the air fills with the sound of bodies crumpling. The clatter of bullet casings and reloading comes closer, making you instinctively crouch down. You don’t dare open the door. Whoever it is, they move like a relentless machine, eliminating everything in their path.

After a brief silence, you cautiously crack the door open. You hear slow, deliberate footsteps, and when you catch a glimpse of the figure, you freeze.

A man in his forties or fifties stands at a distance with his back to you. Suddenly, he swivels his head, revealing his face in profile. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he grips an automatic rifle tightly. He moves forward with a skill, focus and calmness that’s almost savage. In that moment, you realize his intention. Perhaps the girl about to undergo surgery is this man's daughter or someone he really cares about.

Who else would go to such lengths for someone?

Cold-bloodedly killing fireflies one by one.

As the gunfire finally subsides, you push the door open a bit more and step out of the cursed room. You head to the other space where they’ve stashed your belongings. Just then, another gunshot rings out, followed by screams—woman’s screams, one of which sounds like the nurse came to your room earlier. You quickly grab your things and dart down the corridor. There's no time to change; you just need to escape the hospital as fast as you can. Though the backup team is supposed to be waiting, the silence is deafening. Bodies lie strewn across the floor, drenched in blood, as you navigate your way through the carnage.

You might have felt a twinge of sorrow for them if they hadn’t intended to kill you. But now, looking at them, there's no pity left in you. All you can focus on is escaping this place alive and finding your dog.

A short while later, you hear the voices of the team you were waiting for echoing through the hallways. As you descend to the lower floors, you start to map out your escape route. But just then, the sounds of running feet and shouting reach your ears from above, accompanied by a frantic radio transmission. “Crap! The doctor shot!” 

“Sir, the smuggler took one of the cars and got away with the girl!” 

“Damn! The other girl escaped too!” 

“Move to the lower floor immediately! Secure all exits!” 

“Find them! Hurry, hurry!”

Knowing you’re already on the lower floors, you sprint to the garage, praying to find a car there. If they managed to escape that way, maybe it could be your ticket out as well.

As luck would have it, there’s indeed a reliable car waiting for you. However, your peripheral vision catches something on the floor—a body. Damn it… it’s Marlene, shot multiple times with a pool of blood forming around her.

Once, this scene would have evoked pity for her, but not anymore. The trauma from your father has eroded any empathy you once had, leaving behind a hollow shell—a girl who is no longer innocent or naive.

Now, it’s time for you to do what you do best: running away.

Thanks to that man, you are alive and were able to escape.

June 2024. 

You're on the road again, running away once more. The car you "borrowed" from the fireflies barely lasted a month before you ran out of gas. Luckily, you stumbled upon your trusty dog Taxi near the hospital. He must have been waiting for you there, your only true companion in this harsh existence. The top part of one of his ears is torn, perhaps from the accident or maybe even a bullet. Regardless, he’s in decent shape, which is more than you can say for yourself.

About a week ago, raiders attacked, aiming to steal your supplies and worse. With your military training and the help of Taxi, you fought them off before they could succeed. You had a bullet lodged in your stomach that you managed to remove yourself. Even though you stitched the wound up, it’s become infected and is festering. You have no clue how much longer you can hold out without proper medical care or antibiotics. As the pain and fever drag you down, you stumble and hit the ground. Taxi licks your face, trying to nudge you back to your feet. “Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not ready to give up yet,” you gasp, struggling to breathe.

The heat is parching your throat, and there’s barely any water left. All that’s left in your bag is one last can of dog food you’ve been saving for Taxi. For three days now, you haven't eaten anything other than a meager portion of dried meat—so small it barely fits in your palm.

It’s the last you have. 

You've never encountered a situation this desperate, yet you refuse to throw in the towel. You press on, but worry about your condition creeps in. There must be something close by; you need to seek help or things will only spiral downward. Taking a moment, you pause to examine the map. While sipping the last of your water, you contemplate your next move. Heading straight north from SLC (Salt Lake City) seemed logical once then, but now you’re filled with doubt. This decision wasn’t only yours; William had marked an area around Wyoming on the map, but he never noted what it was. It’s not a safe zone or a Quarantine Zone, so what lies there? The marked region extends into Idaho and encapsulates Yellowstone Park. You find yourself at the edge of that circle right now. You have no idea what awaits you there, but you’re out of options. You’ve seen too much already—or so you hope.

What could be worse than this?

As you push forward, you spot a sign, half-destroyed, reading “Etna Village Estates” at the top. The rest of it is illegible, but you can barely make out the phrase “Single Family Home Sites.” Ironically, the word ‘Family’ is almost obliterated, leaving just the letter “y.”

As you venture down the road, you glimpse a few lodge-like houses and some wooden structures. A market sign catches your eye, and the horses tied up nearby bring you to a halt. Taxi starts growling; someone must be inside. You scan the area, but no one appears to be around. When you decide to sneak around back, a scream pierces the air, followed by a gunshot and more screams.

“They must be fighting off infected,” you mutter as Taxi barks anxiously. You look at him, remembering the hard lesson learned over the years: never help anyone. Every time you tried, you ended up hurt, regretting your choices. As you approach the horses, they grow restless; their owners are surely trapped inside—most likely in danger. Your first instinct is to take one of the horses and make a run for it. After all, one of them has a saddlebag filled with supplies; you could survive a little longer. But your conscience pulls at you.

“Damn it.”

You pull your revolver from your side and peer through a broken window of the market, glancing back at Taxi. “Let’s do this.” Taxi hops inside, clearly more eager than you are. “One day, my fuckin' conscience get us both killed,” you murmur as you enter. Gunshots fire from ahead, though not in a steady stream. Instead, voices spill out, and you inch closer, careful to assess who’s inside and their condition first.

“Where did it go?” 

“Damn it! What kind of infected are these?” 

“Behind you, behind you!” 

“Shoot! Shoot!”

Between the shelves, you spot two men, two women, and a little child. One of the women is pregnant, her belly noticeably protruding.

Shit.

These are the bastards you fear the most, more than the clickers themselves. You must come up with a plan immediately; you know you have to save these people since they stand no chance against them.

“Taxi,” you whisper, and he meets your gaze. You gesture, indicating to approach from behind. One of the stalkers stands right in front of you, his focus diverted to the others—it might be your only chance. Taxi growls softly in agreement and stealthily moves forward while you take the right side. There are more damn stalkers than you realized, prompting you to adjust your strategy. You decide to stalk them from behind, switching to your long-barreled rifle and attaching the scope you found last week for this critical moment. Climbing to a higher vantage point, you feel a sharp pain from the wound in your stomach, but you don’t care—you’ll deal with that later.

From atop the shelves, you take stock of the situation, knowing this drill well. You count five stalkers; the others have surrounded them, poised to attack.

Good.

You settle your rifle on your shoulder, positioning a cloth behind the butt to cushion the recoil, and focus on Taxi. You whistle to get him to pounce, and as he barks, leaping at one of the nearby stalkers, you take a deep breath, steady yourself, and aim. You take out one to the right of the pregnant woman and another behind the child. A third stalker flees between the shelves, but that’s fine—you’ll get it later. As one stalker approaches, you shoot before it can scramble up, dropping it instantly. That’s three down. You quickly dispatch the one struggling with Taxi, making it four.

It’s time to head down.

As people stare at you in disbelief, you grab the shotgun and notice another stalker closing in from behind. “Move!” you shout, aiming and firing.

The stalker goes down—five in total.

“Ugly bastard,” you mutter, eyeing the stalker’s shattered face as it crumples to the ground. The pregnant woman looks at you, a mix of nerves and caution flickering in her eyes as you lower your shotgun.

The others remain frozen in shock, their mouths hanging open.

“Who are you?” the pregnant woman asks.

“The one who just saved your asses.”

They exchange glances, weary and anxious, but a sense of relief washes over them.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, glancing at the dog beside you.

Taxi growls softly; you shoot him a reassuring look. “Shh, calm down, buddy,” you say, gesturing for him to sit. He obeys right away, tongue lolling out.

“Smart dog,” the woman remarks looking at Taxi, then turning back to the group. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” responds one, his voice shaky.

“Thanks to her,” adds another, nodding in your direction.

“Thank you,” another chimes in, eyes filled with gratitude.

You nod, but the ache in your stomach deepens, and you wince as you sense a stitch might have come undone.

“I’m Maria,” the pregnant woman says, extending her hand. “Our town is nearby. Come with us; we have a doctor who can take care of your wound. We owe you.”

Out of habit, you shake your head, trying to refuse. “No, I...”

Maria sizes you up. “You need help. Let us repay our debt. Thanks to you, these people can see their families again,” her hands resting protectively over her pregnant belly.

She’s right.

You need help—a shower, food, water. You couldn’t survive out here like this for even a day. Looking at Taxi, who seems to understand and barks, you can’t help but smile.

Finally, you turn back to Maria and nod. “Alright.”

“Welcome to our town—Jackson,” Maria says, glancing back at you from her horse. You are behind her, captivated by the towering, endless walls made of solid lumber and trees. You can't tear your gaze away. Taxi barks up at you from below, sharing your astonishment and you respond him with a smile. As you draw near, the gigantic doors swing open, and a chorus of voices erupts from inside the town.

“It's Maria!”

“She’s back!”

“Tommy! She’s here!”

“Maria’s back!”

The moment the doors part, you spot a crowd gathering, and a tall man with curly black hair rushes toward your horse. He’s focused on Maria, helping her dismount before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her tenderly. Placing his hands on her stomach, he gazes at her, tension evident in his face. "Ya wanna do me in, don't ya? How in tarnation could ya just up and leave like that?"

“Sorry,” she replies.

You watch as the others rush toward their families, worry etched on their faces, all bombarding them with questions. From your perch on the horse, you take in the scene—their expressions reflecting both joy and concern. You wonder if this is what family feels like; the warmth of being cared for is a foreign concept to you. It feels surreal, almost like a stark contrast to your own shitty life.

As everyone turns to regard you with curious eyes, a wave of dizziness hits. Pressing your hand to your stomach, you suddenly feel something warm spreading across your palm—blood. You groan. The chatter morphs into a buzzing background noise until one word cuts through it all.

“Joel! Help her!”

Despite your struggle to keep your head clear, the moment you lock eyes with him, everything around you blurs.

Damn.

It’s him.

Your fuckin' savior.

You’ve seen his profile before while dealing with fireflies at the hospital, but now his full face is before you. For a man his age, he’s surprisingly handsome—his features clean, but his brow still furrowed, and the look in his eyes is far from friendly, echoing that day.

You draw his face more times than you can count in your notebook, always hoping for the chance to meet him again.

Before you know it, you’re sliding off the horse. Maria is saying something, Tommy is yelling at Joel, and someone's arms catches you just before you hit the ground.

As consciousness fades, you gaze up at the person holding you.

It’s him.

He is hurriedly carrying you effortlessly in his arms. You don’t care where he’s taking you.

It’s strange. 

You feel safe in his arms.

You've never felt safe with anyone before, even with William.

In that moment, you experienced a sensation you never knew existed.

A warmth, but in a strange sort of way.

Or could it be the sensation of blood pouring from your wound?

Perhaps these are the last moments of your life, and your brain is not braining.

You can’t quite discern whether it’s the warmth of dying or the warmth you feel for this man.

But part of you thinks it would be nice to see such a face before you fade away.

But then something shifts, bringing you back to reality.

You’re alive—not dead, at least not yet.

As he notices you looking at him, Joel’s expression changes; a subtle frown appears on his face while he carries you.

You can't help but smile at his reaction. “I can’t die without meeting you, Joel,” you think to yourself, holding onto that smile.

Since it was the first episode, it mostly focused on introducing things. Sorry there wasn’t much Joel this time, but don’t worry—he’ll be all over the next ones!

taglist : @kluvspedro @balhoneysweetstuff @lailathepedritofan @mirandablue1 @mariiearty @soupiemeowmeow @lamartell @berriesarepunk @demuresfangirlblog @rh1nestonecowg1rl @catofash @shinsegismylove @damnedcinderella @ultra-nina-bella @orcasoul @kaliispunk @sunfairyy @lovesbysblog @faith-alons26 @mellymbee @brittmb115 @anothergojostan @tpwk9740 @daydream-believer19 @yawnzzzzzzzz @pedroslut4eva @queenofodds @blackborndue @jisungandpedrolover @giulia1989ts @missladym1981 @a-girl-who-thinks-too-much @madnessofadaydreamer @marauvderss @mystickittytaco @bueschibaby @theanxietyqueen17 @smvtwitchmiller @picketniffler @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @subconsciouscollapse @poppysplayground @fedeffy @madmelz @ithinkimaslutforharry @spookychaossuit @bitchyfestnight @johnssherlock221 @indiegirlunited @marauvderss @hc-geralt-23

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ㅤ lollipop chainsaw

Jason Todd × Fem! Reader

Note | English is not my first language | M.list

A | N / I love Lollipop Chainsaw so much, it's a shame there isn't a remake of the game yet, Juliet I love you

TW | Blood, violence, slight mention of mutilation, sexual themes (nothing graphic), Spoilers for the game (mild), Jason is a suck loser because i said so

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Everything had happened so fast; it was a normal morning in high school.

Jason had finally worked up the courage to confess his love for you after school was over.

You met him because he was your tutor once for a literature exam. You were told that if you didn't pass it, you would be stripped of your position as leader of the cheerleaders.

From that moment on, Jason felt that crush in his heart.

Every time he saw you, he felt his cheeks heat up and his heart beat faster than normal, as if he were running a marathon.

Love was strange and unusual for him. He knew there was a good chance you would reject him, and that would make him the laughingstock of the whole school for believing a nerd like him would have a chance with the most popular and beautiful girl in school.

But dreaming wasn't out of the question. He had prepared everything for this special day.

He had written a romantic note; it was a beautiful poem that he would leave in your locker during first period. Putting at the end of the note that you see him after school.

Nothing could go wrong. He'd been planning for months how he would propose and the things he would say if you rejected him, since he didn't want to look like an idiot after your rejection.

But something went wrong, so wrong.

As he walked through the lonely school field, he heard screams coming from the other side.

Out of nowhere, he saw people starting to run desperately, crying for help.

Was this some kind of joke?

"What the-" Before you could complete your sentence, you heard your voice screaming from afar while you were carrying...

A chainsaw!?

"Jason, watch out!!" You screamed with all your might while running as fast as your legs could carry you.

"Uh? What do you mean...?" He turned his head only to find himself staring at what was supposed to be a zombie, A FUCKING ZOMBIE.

"What the hell!?" He could barely react when he felt the zombie lunge at his arm and then bite him.

He felt his flesh tearing apart; even though he had a jacket on, that didn't mean it fully protected him.

He fell to the ground as a scream of pain came out of his mouth. You quickly approached him and cut the zombie in half.

"Oh my god! Jason, are you okay?!" You knelt next to his injured body; you felt his arm begin to spasm.

It was clear he was infected.

"I... oh shit, this hurts-" He gestured in pain as you held him in your arms. Would he sound like a complete virgin if he said out loud that there was something sexy about you holding him like this?

"God, this feels so bad. Everything's ruined now..."

He felt his body go into small spasms, and his mind began to cloud with pain.

"(Name)...there's someone I need to tell you before I become...well, you know, one of them..." You nodded, distressed. He reached for your hand, and you quickly took it, as if you were afraid that everything you had left of him would disappear.

"I know it's stupid to do this when...when I'm about to die, but..." His voice grew fainter and more tired, and with his last breath, he would say how much he felt about you.

"I...I love you (Name)...I love you so much, and you're the best thing that's ever happened to me..."

Jason felt like a complete loser now. He felt like he wanted to cry.

He didn't know if he wanted to cry because of the pain in his arm or because he knew he would die and never have the chance to see you or hear your beautiful voice again. The smile was too loud for his taste, but he still liked it.

"Oh, Jason... I love you to.."

You gave him one of those smiles you always gave everyone, but this time it was special because it was genuine and meant for him.

"Well... that was quite unexpected... I didn't think you'd accept my feelings." He let out a small laugh before feeling his vision blur and his eyes begin to blur.

"Jason, no!"

You could feel his heart begin to slow down and his skin begin to take on a strange color.

The only thing you could hear in that empty space were your sobs as you hugged Jason's body.

"No! I won't let you die!"

You said, quickly getting up from the ground and starting your chainsaw.

"Uh...? What do you mean by that?"

Jason asked, confused. You two were supposed to be having a sad, yet romantic moment.

"Sorry for what I'm about to do, babe!"

You raised your chainsaw and pointed it right at his neck. Jason felt like his soul had just left his body.

"Wait, what? No! (Name), wait a second, you shouldn't-"

His sentence was cut off by the sound of the chainsaw approaching his neck. All he could hear before closing his eyes was a small "I love you!" Which was almost drowned out by his scream of fear as he felt your chainsaw cut into his neck.

And that's how Jason ended up with a head attached to your hip by a chain.

Jason waited for many fates before becoming a zombie, but he never thought you'd perform a ritual to bring him back to life as a disembodied head.

Jason was starting to believe that becoming a zombie wasn't such a bad option after all.

Although he wouldn't lie, there was something about him that he liked being able to feel your ass on the back of his neck.

God, if he still had his cock, it would most likely be hard...

But leaving those virgin thoughts aside, the view from your waist wasn't so bad.

At least he wasn't a mindless zombie walking around the school looking for fresh meat.

Plus, he was a great help when it came to preventing attacks from behind.

He was like a guide since he knew the high school best; they needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.

The school wasn't a safe place and it was too big, and you could easily get lost if you didn't have a map, but you could be sure that Jason would guide you around the place.

"Honey, a zombie on your right!"

Jason warned, while you were too busy slicing into a zombie that crossed your path.

"Thanks, babe!"

You giggled as you cut the zombie in half with your chainsaw.

Jason sometimes wondered where you got so much strength from. He knew that chainsaw was heavy, but you carried it like a bag.

In addition to your amazing acrobatics and jumps, which would easily humiliate any gymnast.

"You've been very quiet this time. Is something wrong, Jay?"

You called him by his usual affectionate nickname. Jason had been much quieter than usual.

Most of the time, he spent talking about some book he'd read or telling jokes that weren't funny but still made you laugh.

"Oh...nothing, it's just..." He hesitated. These last few days had seemed too strange. He'd never thought about being trapped in a school full of zombies with only his head. "I just haven't gotten used to not having...you know...my body."

You nodded, understanding what he was saying. You knew it was a selfish decision to leave him with only his head, but Jason's body was almost completely infected, and his head was the only thing that wasn't infected yet.

"Relax! When we get out of here, I'll get you a new body. There's nothing magic can't fix!"

Jason just laughed at your comment, sometimes wondering how you were still so optimistic after everything you'd been through.

Something in Jason always wondered if you and he were the only survivors.

You tried using an old radio you found, but it wouldn't connect to any network or signal.

"Whatever you say, princess."

A small blush formed on your cheeks at the nickname Jason gave you. He seemed very resistant to the nicknames you gave him, as if he thought he didn't deserve all your affection.

You walked through the abandoned, blood-soaked halls of the school, humming a little song you'd heard on the radio once with your older sister.

"Uh... did you hear that, Jay?"

You said, sharply turning your head toward the sound. A voice crackled as if trying to speak from a broken radio.

"What do you mean-?"

Jason could barely finish his sentence when you ran down the hallway looking for the source of the noise.

Jason felt like his head was jerking from the way you ran and jumped, dodging the zombie bodies and other things lying on the floor.

He could swear he was about to throw up, even though it was biologically impossible since he didn't have a stomach or organs.

"Ugh, we're here," you said tiredly, stopping at the teachers' lounge. The noise was coming from that place, and you were beginning to clearly understand the words of that mysterious person.

But you saw that the room was full of zombies, some of them seemed to have evolved and become more grotesque than they were.

Disgusting.

That's all you could think about when you smelled that unpleasant odor. You braced yourself and started your chainsaw, holding it as if it weighed absolutely nothing to you.

"Jay, get ready, this is going to get A little shaky!"

You didn't let Jason answer and kicked the door open, sending him flying and crashing into a zombie. Great, you already had one eliminated.

"Pretty legs..."

Was all Jason could whisper when he saw you do. My God, what did the high school feed its cheerleaders to make them so strong?

At that moment, Jason felt like a princess in distress, and you were her prince, coming to save her from those horrible zombies.

Although he wouldn't complain either; the last time he was in your arms felt so good.

Jason was too busy fantasizing about being saved by someone as fucking sexy as you that he didn't notice you just killed all the zombies in minutes.

You hated that zombies were so weak. There were very few zombies in the school worth fighting, and you'd already defeated most of them.

You approached the small radio on the table and looked curious, waiting for the person to speak again.

"Is anyone there?"

The voice sounded like a boy's. He seemed worried but curious at the same time.

That voice was enough to snap Jason out of his thoughts. Had he heard correctly?

That voice was all too familiar.

"Oh! Yeah, I'm (name) from Gotham High School. Who are you?"

Your voice remained as happy as ever. At least you knew you and Jason weren't the only survivors.

"Thank God... I thought no one would answer." The boy let out a nervous laugh. You moved the radio so you could hear better since the signal wasn't the best.

While Jason felt like his soul had left his body again, it couldn't be him...

He couldn't. He would feel too humiliated if the person he thought he was turned out to be who he thought.

There was no way this was happening to him. Was this really supposed to happen to him when he was in such a humiliating and pathetic situation?

There was a moment of silence on the radio until that voice spoke again.

"I'm Dick Grayson. It's nice to know there are still survivors."

You just nodded before speaking.

"Well, the truth is, I'm not the only survivor. I'm with my boyfriend, Jason Todd!"

You were too naive to realize the bombshell you dropped when you blurted out those words.

"Jason... Jason Todd!? Wow, I didn't think he'd still be alive. Can you put me through to him?"

Dick seemed cheerful and eager to talk to Jason. It seemed like he was too important to Dick, since the moment you mentioned Jason's name, Dick's tone abruptly changed.

"Well... there's a slight problem with that..."

Shit

This is so corny omg....

While I was writing this I remembered that I had the game installed so I started playing it while I wrote, I know this has nothing to do with it but Juliet was my lesbian hear me out btw🗣🗣🗣

[narcjsistx]

it’s incredible how seven years can be wiped away after just one glance. the room set up for the ceremony is full, as is the garden visible through the wall sized windows — yet, even though you’re at a distance where you wouldn’t even hear the words of the people between you, his words come through to you clear and strong, sweet but wrong in this moment

"you’re as beautiful as the day i realized i loved you"

you didn’t know he was here, you hadn’t looked into it or asked further after receiving no response to your wedding invitation. you thought his silence was justified — after all, you had been exes for a long time. it wouldn’t have made sense for him to be present on the day you would officially become someone else’s wife, someone other than him. you had sent the invitation out of courtesy, for a last sense of familiarity that you had shared for so long: even if you were no longer a couple, he had been your first kiss, first time, first everything

the first one you had dreamed of marrying, years ago when you still used to run through the school gardens to avoid being seen by the strict teachers. you ran so much that in the end, you took two different paths. far apart now, but once close

he slowly approaches, apologizing to the old high school friends you invited. the crowd makes it a bit difficult for him to get closer, yet the closer he comes, the more the people around you seem to disappear — as if the hundreds of guests suddenly turned to dust. his walk is calm, not awkward, but deeply melancholic. you wish you didn’t drift so far from reality, but the memories that flood your mind are like drums whose only purpose is to disorient you

sweet words, promises, opportunities, kisses — you remember them all, the things that in the end never came true

"he finally got down on one knee, huh?"

"seems like it… how are you?"

"good. i keep surviving"

"oh, don’t get all philosophical…"

"im sorry. but let’s just say that ever since you walked out that door, living became surviving"

you stay silent for a few seconds, lowering your gaze onto your bouquet: it’s made of red roses and lilies, like the first bouquet of flowers he gave you. you raise your eyes, smiling bitterly — you can do it, no one is really looking at you now

"i walked out that door a long time ago. when i simply became an accessory, not a priority. before we officially broke up"

this time it’s him who nods and smiles bitterly, focusing on your pretty white dress and then on your face. you look at each other as if suddenly the promises could come true again, as if suddenly there’s a solution, a compromise you couldn’t find seven years ago — but the more you look into his eyes, the more you understand why, after all, you left years ago

"it went like this. that’s okay. it was a beautiful experience, you gave me so much. i still have to thank you"

"it was such a beautiful experience that i still feel it inside me, but i don’t live it in reality anymore"

this could be your wedding — the one you spent sleepless nights dreaming about during the best years of your life. a lavish wedding, surrounded by people who love you, but most of all, by yourselves

he’s no longer yours. you are no longer his

this is your wedding with someone who gave you love like he did, but who, nonetheless, is not him. you smile at him, this time more honestly, but more aware of the reality

"maybe in another life, you’d be the one to lift my veil"

"i hope so. i really hope so"

just as he came, he left. today, like yesterday, like seven years ago. it only took one glance to relive everything one more time, to feel the chills on your skin again, to feel him again

still, your last name today did not become the same as his

BLUELOCK: reo mikage ; isagi yoichi ; rin itoshi ; sae itoshi ; kaiser micheal ; hiori yo ; bachira meguru ; karasu tabito ; nagi seishiro + your fav !! <3

✶ beautiful dividers by @dollywons !!

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

[meganwritesfanfics]

Tougher than the Rest

At 30 weeks, health scares put both Y/N and Jack on Edge. A companion story to How to Save a Life and You are My Sunshine.

Trigger Warning: Discussion of Pregnancy and complications with pregnancy.

Word Count: 2107 

She could hear the sound of the gunshot and the searing pain in her back. She could also hear the sound of Jack screaming her name. Everything else was fuzzy as the world blurred around her. “Get Langdon!” Robby called. She felt herself get picked off the floor, and could hear the sound of her husband talking to her but her brain couldn’t process the words. All she heard was the sound of chaos, all she kept thinking about was the baby, she wanted them to save the baby, but she knew it was impossible. “I love you Y/N!” Jack screamed as she fell into darkness. 

Y/N woke up with a start. It had been a while since she had a nightmare about the shooting, but everytime she did it was just the same, reliving everything or everything she could remember. She went to take a breath but found her breathing very labored. It felt like something was crushing her chest. Not in a familiar way she was used to an anxiety attack. The minute the sound of her wheezing breath echoed through their bedroom, Jack was instantly awake. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked his eyes panicky , scanning her. 

Y/N opened her mouth to speak but she just made another wheezing sound. 

“Y/N.” He said and he quickly reached over, turning his bedside lamp on before he was back at Y/N’s side grabbing her face in his hands. “Talk to me.” 

She shook her head, tears starting to well up in her eyes another wheezing breath. 

“Ok we are going to the hospital.” Jack grabbed his crutches from by the bed making his way towards his prosthetic. 

The minute he reached the bench at the end of the bed, Y/N took a large breath finally able to  breathe, the pressure vanishing.

“I’m ok.” She quickly said wanting to calm her husband down. 

“You are not ok, Y/N.” Jack snapped as he put his prosthetic on. 

“Jack, look at me.” She said and he turned back to look at her his eyes wide with fear. “I’m ok, I can breathe again.” 

He sighed as he slowly got up and walked over to her side of the bed. 

“I think your kids just thought it would be funny if they crushed their mothers lungs for a second to freak out their dad.” She tried to sooth as she reached out and took his hands in hers. 

“How come when they are acting up they are my kids.” He smiled but he adjusted his grip on one of her hands so he could take her pulse. “Your pulse is still too fast.” He grumbled. 

“Come lie back down with me. That will help me calm down.” 

“I still think we should go to the hospital.” 

“Jack, I promise I’m ok, if it happens again we can go. But right now I just want to fall asleep in my husband's arms.” She pleaded. 

“Can I promise you to tell me when you start feeling the pressure in your lungs again. Before it gets out of hand?” 

“Jack,” Y/N sighed. 

He grabbed her face in his hands as he tilted her head up so she was looking at him. 

“Y/N, please. I am scared shitless right now. I am terrified of something happening to you or the babies. Please just take it easy and talk to me if anything feels off ok?” 

Y/N leaned into her husband's hand, she could feel them shaking slightly. 

“I promise.” She said and he quickly leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Now get back in bed Jack, you and I both have work in a few hours.” 

It felt like mere minutes before the alarm went off. Jack still held onto Y/N tightly, his hand protectively on her extended stomach. He couldn’t help but smile as he felt the small flutters under his hand as the babies moved.  

“Ugh, they are going to be just like their dad, early risers. They have been tap dancing on my bladder for an hour.” Y/N sighed sleepy as she turned to face Jack. 

“Don’t look at me, I slept all the way until the alarm this time.” Jack chuckled as he kissed Y/N. 

“I’m going to need your help to get up again.” Y/N laughed. 

Jack chuckled as he kissed her again before he got up and put on his prosthetic before he reached over and helped Y/N off the bed. 

“I am so ready for these babies to be out of me, I’m ready to not feel like a beach ball anymore.” 

“But you are a hot beach ball.” Jack said as he kissed her neck. 

“Jack!” She laughed as she pushed him away. “Hurry up and get dressed so you can help me get dressed.” 

It wasn’t long before they were back in the Pitt ready for another night shift together. 

As they got onto the elevator heading to the Pitt, Jack turned to Y/N. 

“Remember, if anything feels wrong, you tell me immediately.” 

“Yes, I promise Dr. Abbot, you will be the first to know.” Y/N smiled as she kissed him. 

The minute the elevator doors opened, the chaos began. Just another day in the Pitt. 

It felt like a blur, it wasn’t until around 3am that it finally felt like there was time for a break. Y/N made her way towards the staff kitchen to grab a quick bite. She walked in and found her husband holding her food out for her. 

“You are a lifesaver.” She said as she grabbed it and leaned over the counter to eat it. 

“Your lower back is still hurting you?” 

“Always,” Y/N said as she shoved some leftover pulled pork into her mouth. 

Jack didn’t say a word as he made his way over and placed his hands on her lower back, starting to give her a massage. 

“Ugh,” Y/N moaned. “I love you so much.” 

“Will you hush,” Jack laughed. “Someone is going to think there is something unprofessional happening in here.” 

“I think we are well past unprofessional Doctor Abbot. Let’s not forget how we got in this position in the first place.” Y/N smiled. 

“There is no way to prove the babies were conceived in the supply closet.” Jack whispered as he smiled mischiviously. 

“We have a multiple car pile up on the interstate multiple casualties, and a ton of injuries coming in…” Ellis started as she burst into the break room. “Woah I am interrupting something here.” 

“Shut up Parker.” Y/N teased taking one finally bite of her dinner before she quickly set it on the counter. “Let’s go.” She started as Jack followed her back out into the chaos. 

And chaos was a good term. The wreck had been the worst that the city had seen in a long time. There was a pile up of 20 cars. 7 people were already declared dead at the scene, and the Pitt saw dozens of victims of all ages. They had already lost 2 patients and Y/N had been working on a toddler that had been ejected for almost 4 hours. About 3 hours into working on the little girl Y/N started to struggle to breath, but she couldn’t step away. 

“How is she looking?” Abbot said as he came in, his eyes darting over the little girl’s broken body as well as monitors looking at her vitals. 

Y/N started to reach out for her husband, her breathing raspy, as she opened her mouth to speak, when Robby suddenly came in. 

“Where do you need me?” He quickly said and Jack ushered him out towards a different patient. 

“I think her vitals are stable again Y/N.” Ellis said sighing as she wiped her brow with her forearm. “Are you ok?” She asked looking at the doctor seeing how pale she had become. 

“I need Jack.” Y/N wheezed. 

“Ok,” She nodded as she grabbed Y/N’s hand and started to usher her out into the hall. 

“Abbot!” Ellis screamed and Y/N’s vision started to tunnel. 

Jack turned around just as Y/N’s eyed rolled back in her head.

“I need help here!” Ellis screamed as she caught Y/N as she passed out. 

“Y/N!” Jack screamed as both he and Robby rushed to her side. “She’s going to need Oxygen.” He scooped her up with the help of Robby. “Gurney!” He screamed and Mateo was ready behind them. 

“What’s going on Jack?” Robby asked as he quickly placed an oxygen mask on. 

“Y/N woke up this morning and was struggling to breath, her OBGYN said there could be complications from the scar tissues on her lungs. I tried to bring her in but she insisted she was fine. Can we get a fetal monitor in here!” 

“Jack.” Y/N groaned blinking as she came to consciousness. 

“Hi baby.” He breathed a sigh of relief as he placed his hand on the side of her face brushing his thumb gently across her cheek.

“That little girl is she ok?” Y/N panicked as she tried to sit up. 

“Baby,” Jack started. “Y/N, lay back down. Ellis is working on her.” 

Y/N nodded. “And the babies?” 

Just as she said that Robby rolled in the monitor and started strapping it to her stomach. 

“Y/N when did you start feeling like you couldn’t breath well.” 

“About an hour ago.” Y/N replied meekly 

“Y/N” Jack groaned. 

“I’m sorry Jack, I know I promised, but that little girl she needed me. She is only 2 years old. I couldn’t let her die.” Y/N said tears welling up in hers eyes as her breathing started to get raspy again. 

“It’s ok.” Jack tried to sooth. 

“Robby please tell me the babies are ok.” She sobbed her voice barley audible through the rasping. 

“Y/N look at me.” Robby said grabbing her hand. “I need you to calm down. You are stressing yourself out and it making it harder for you to breath. This is causing your pulse to skyrocket and you know that’s not good for the babies. What can we do to help you calm down?” 

Jack pulled out his phone and started playing a playlist he had made specifically to help with Y/N’s anxiety. The song that filled the room was Bruce Springsteen’s I’m on Fire. 

A small chuckle echoed throughout the room. 

“The Boss, nice choice.” Robby smiled. 

Y/N smiled as she looked over at Jack who leaned forward and kissed her forehead. 

“Alright, your stats are starting to look much better. But I would recommend you see your OBGYN. You see Dr. Greene right?” 

“Yeah, I’ll see if we can get in today.” Jack sighed. “Thank you Robby.” 

“Of course. Now make sure you take care of my niece and nephew.” He smiled.

After finishing out their shift and passing the patients off to day shift. Jack and Y/N made their way up to see Dr. Greene. 

“Now I know you are not going to like to hear this,” Dr Greene said as she sat in front of Jack and Y/N having squeezed them in before her first scheduled appointment. “But I think we are going to need to put you on bedrest Y/N.” 

“What?” Y/N gasped. “But I’m only 30 weeks. That’s so long to be on bedrest.” 

“We always knew this could be a possibility. I think with the babies now getting bigger, they are pushing hard on your lungs, and with the scar tissue, any level of stress is causing too much pressure, your lungs can’t keep up. We need to do whatever we can to keep your stress levels down. And I think bedrest is the best way to do that.” 

Jack took Y/N’s hand pulling it to his mouth kissing it. “It’s going to be ok Y/N. We have to do whatever we can to keep you and the babies safe.” 

Y/N just nodded her mind still trying to catch up with the idea of being stuck at home for months. 

“Cooper is going to be so happy to have you home.” Jack said seeing her mind starting to spiral. 

“That’s true.” She smiled. 

“Plus you have so much trashy tv you can catch up on.” He laughed. 

“Does that mean you will let me watch House Hunters?” 

“Not on your life.” He smiled. “I love you. We will figure this out. I promise you.” 

“I love you, Jack.”

Tag List: @pear-1206

[imnotjustreadingg]

bucky messed up

No one died and there was no major injury, but it had been a split-second decision he made on the field that cost Y/N the shot she’d lined up for hours. She'd been livid. Her glare sharp enough to cut through vibranium, said everything she didn’t because now she wasn’t speaking to him. At all. And that silence was worse than any bullet wound. Back at the compound, Bucky shuffled around the common floor, shoulders tense, watching her from a distance. She ignored him. Not a glance. Not a single word. Not even when he hovered by the kitchen, making her favourite tea. He already missed her laugh. Her teasing. Her touch. Especially her touch.

Bucky wasn’t used anymore to the cold. Not from her. God, it was just a couple of hours, and he already missed her. And he craved her warmth more than anything now. He missed the way she fit perfectly against his belly on the jet after mission. Or the way she leaned on him, injured or not. He’d fucked up. So, he knocked.

Her room was quiet. He didn’t hear movement. Maybe she was ignoring him. Still, he whispered, “Y/N, please…” Nothing.

“Doll, I-I need you.” He was begging. “Please, doll. I know it’s only a couple of hours but I’m going crazy…” The door opened after a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t trust you to take the shot. That was wrong. I know you’re capable. And I should’ve let you handle it.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “It wasn’t just about the shot, Buck. It was the way you looked at me. You decided for me.”

“I know,” he murmured, stepping closer. His voice trembled. “I was wrong, and I hate that I made you feel like that.” Her eyes softened. He looked miserable. Eyes red-rimmed, face puffy.  She reached out, fingers grazing the hem of his shirt. “You hurt me.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me show you.” Her hand slid under his shirt, over the soft curve of his belly. He shivered. “You’ve been pouting since the mission ends,” she whispered, stepping back into the room, tugging him with her. “Poor baby.” Bucky followed without hesitation. The door clicked shut. She pressed her lips to his neck, slow and lingering, and he groaned deep and needy. “I missed you,” he whispered against her shoulder. “Missed everything.”

“Then get on the bed.” He obeyed instantly, large frame sinking into her mattress. She climbed on top, straddling his lap, fingers tracing the stretch marks at his sides. “I love every part of you,” she said, eyes locking with his. “Even when you’re a dumbass.” His hands gripped her hips as she kissed him, hard, teeth scraping his bottom lip. He moaned into her mouth, tugging her closer, needing to feel every inch of her pressed to him. When her hand slipped under his waistband, his breath hitched.

“Y/N—fuck—”

“Beg for me.”

“Please,” he whimpered, eyes blown wide. “I need you, doll. Need to feel you. Need to make it right.”

“You will,” she smirked, pulling off her shirt. “Starting now.” Y/N stood up and went at the edge of the bed, watching him with unreadable eyes. Bucky sat up, cheeks flushed, his thick thighs spread slightly apart, tension coiled in every part of him. He looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered—because she was.

"On your knees," she said softly, but it hit him like a command. He obeyed instantly, sliding off the bed and sinking onto the floor before her. His flesh hand rested on her thigh, trembling slightly, while the cool metal of the other hovered at her hip. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again, eyes locked on hers. “I’ll make it right. Let me show you how much I need you.” She nodded once, slowly. “Then do it, Barnes. Show me.” He leaned in, kissing the inside of her thigh—slow, reverent. He didn’t rush. He took his time, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the soft skin, pausing just before her center. She could feel his breath, hot and shaky, ghosting over her heat. “You’re everything to me,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “I wake up thinkin’ about you. I fall asleep wishin’ you’d touch me. I can’t breathe right when you’re mad at me.” His hands gripped her hips, grounding himself as he buried his face between her thighs, tongue parting her folds with aching desperation. He groaned as soon as he tasted her—deep, guttural, needy. He took her leg, sliding it on the bed. The new position made almost buckled Y/N’s knees. He licked slowly at first, savored her. His beard scraped lightly against her skin as he worked, mouth moving with practiced devotion. He moaned into her, loud and unashamed. His hands didn’t wander—they held her in place, reverent, like he was scared she’d pull away and he’d lose this.

Lose her.

“Fuck, Bucky…” she gasped, hand sinking into his hair. “That mouth should come with a warning.” He looked up at her, pupils blown, lips slick, chin wet. “Yours,” he panted. “Always yours.” Then he dove back in with more intensity, tongue circling her clit before sucking it between his lips. He flattened his tongue, dragged it up her slit, then flicked mercilessly until her leg began to shake. The other one, straight on Bucky’s shoulder. 

When did he put it there? She though.

Y/N bit her lip, head falling back. “God, don’t stop-”

“I won’t,” he promised, mouth still pressed to her. “I’m not stopping ‘til you come on my tongue. I need it. Need to taste you.” He was messy with it now, greedy and desperate. His hands tightened on her thighs, holding her still as he fucked her with his mouth—tongue deep, nose brushing her clit. Every whimper she let out made him groan, hips rutting against the floor unconsciously. And when she finally came loud, breathless, back arching. He didn’t stop. He moaned like she’d just given him oxygen, lapping at her through the aftershocks, murmuring her name like a prayer between kisses. When he finally looked up, flushed and dazed, his lips were pink and swollen. “I’ll spend every day making it up to you,” he whispered, chest heaving. “Just… tell me you’re mine again.” Now both of the legs on the floor, she bent down and grabbed his face in her hands. She kissed him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue. “I never stopped being yours,” she whispered.

[anakinsluvrgirl]

✧ aj x f!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — aj arrives home after a rough and tense day, clearly pissed at something that happened in work . he desperately needs a release and you just happen to be the only one who could handle him like this .

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — smut ! unprotected sex, piv, unprotected sex, rough sex, breasts/nipple play, light choking (consensual), dominant behaviour, dirty talk, slight aftercare .

𝐀/𝐍 — this took me sooo long omg im tired 😭 but finally something about my man aj 🤞 hes so underrated and for what ?!

gif from @mvst4far & divider from @bernardsbendystraws !

AJ slammed the door behind him harder than usual.

You flinched from the couch, looking up from the TV. No words. Just the sharp click of keys landing on the table and the low creak of his expensive leather shoes as he crossed the room like a storm.

His tie was undone, shirt rumpled, brow furrowed and jaw ticking. You knew AJ well enough to know that he was pissed. You didn’t even need to ask. Something went wrong. A delay in the plan? Someone fucked up? Or maybe worse. You knew he had been stressed lately, but today was worse. You’d seen this look before, and you knew better than to push.

“Hey…” you said softly, carefully. “Everything okay?”

He didn’t say a word. His gaze snapped to you. His deep blue eyes dark, burning and focused. You couldn’t help but shiver at the he looked at you.

Then he finally moved.

In two strides he was on you, dragging you up from the couch and pressing you back against the wall with a force that made you gasp. His mouth crashed against yours, all teeth and heat, hands already sliding down your body like he’d been starving for hours. Maybe he really was.

“Don’t say anything,” he growled into your mouth. “I just need you. Now.”

One hand gripped your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist. The other made its way down your body, his fingers found your panties under your nightgown and shoved them aside, slipping through the soaked heat between your thighs with a hiss.

“Already wet? All for me?” he murmured, lips dragging among your jaw. “You just wait for me around like this, huh? Like the good little girl you are… Fuckin’ filthy.”

You whimpered at his touch and words, your body already in fire. He wasn’t entirely wrong, no. You liked when he was like this. Tense, needy, rough. When you were the only thing that could help him relieving some stress, which you were. It made you feel complete. And it was also a good ego boost if you ask me.

AJ slid hands slid down to your ass, squeezing the cheeks roughly. He lifted you up off the floor, holding you close to his chest. Then he carried you upstairs, towards your bedroom. Once in there, he tossed you into the bed, crawling over the top of you. He settled between your legs, pressing his hard, cloth-covered cock against your sensitive and still covered core. He groaned at the contact, his hips rolling forward slightly.

“Fuck, I need to be inside of you,” he said, his voice low and strained with desire.

He leaned back, taking into the sight of you for a moment. His hands made their way to the waistband of your panties, immediately pulling them down, tossing them aside. Then he quickly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off and also tossing it away.

AJ leaned down again, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. His hands slid down to the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up and over your head. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull it off completely, leaving you completely bare and exposed beneath him. He lowered himself, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

He could feel cock throbbing hard against his pants. He couldn’t wait anymore. Today something felt different. He was desperate, needy, and you could feel it. It made all your body shiver.

He sat back on his knees, quickly undoing his belt and unfastening his pants, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, long, hard and thick. The thick head was already leaking with pre-cum, just from the thought of being buried deep inside your tight heat.

He spreads your legs open, settling himself between them. His hands gripped your hips so you couldn’t move. He lined himself up with your entrance, the tip of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Without any warning, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside of you in one swift and powerful motion. He groaned as your walls stretched and clenched around him, gripping his thick length like a vice.

“Fuck, are you always this tight?” He grunted under his breath, his hips in a steady rhythm. He set a hard and fast pace, the bed creaking beneath you with the force of his thrusts. He could feel your tits bouncing with every drive of his hips, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You cried out, nails scraping against his back. He leaned in, biting your shoulder, dragging his teeth along your skin like he needed to mark you.

“Take it,” he groaned, his voice raw. “Take every fuckin’ inch. Just like that.”

His hips slammed into you over and over, with no fear, rough as ever. One of his hands came up to your throat, not tight, just to hold you still, make you feel how helpless you were for him.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he snarled against your ear, his thrusts still punishing. “This body, this fuckin’ pussy… All made for me.”

“Fuck, Anthony- You feel so good..” you gasped, voice breaking as your head tipped back against the mattress, his grip on your throat keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Your legs were shaking, body arching into every deep, punishing thrust.

The hand that was on your throat eventually slid down, palming your breast roughly. He squeezed the soft mound, his fingers sinking into the malleable flesh. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, tugging on it roughly.

His pace turned erratic. Rougher, faster, driven by the way your walls clenched around him, slick and desperate. Each thrust sent you higher, back arching off the bed, chocked moans falling from your lips like you couldn’t hold anything anymore.

“You gonna come for me?” He growled, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes dark and locked on you. “Come all over this cock like you own it?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders, “Yeah- I’m so close.. I can’t-“

“Let go,” he commanded, low and gravelly, his thumb slipping down to circle your clit just right, “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

And you did, with a sharp cry that melted into a broken moan, your whole body shaking as pleasure took over you, blinding and brutal. You clenched around him so hard it pulled a raw groan from his throat, and within seconds, he followed.

“Fuck- Fuck,” he groaned, slamming deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he came. His cock jerked and pulsed as he shot thick ropes of hot cum into your pussy. He filled you up, his essence painting your insides white as he marked you as his. His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, breath hot against your shoulder.

His body pressed into yours, both of you slick with sweat, skin burning, breath heavy. Eventually AJ collapsed next to you. He turned his head to look at you.

“You okay?” He muttered, pulling your body closer.

You simply nodded, too blissed-out and shaky to speak yet. Your whole body will buzzed from the orgasm, pulsing, tender and warm where he filled you.

“Sorry if I was rough,” he said, almost guilty.

You looked at him, smiling a bit, “No need to apologise. I like it when you’re rough.. Keeps things interesting.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, he leaned and kissed your forehead, “Good.”

[prosypepper]

here for a suguru drabble idea pretty pepper… comrade suguru frustrated after a mission during an operation went wrong and angry fucking you in his barracks 🫡 i salute you my raven haired hunk, do what you need with this request

hi bisque😏😏😏😏fancy seeing u around here😏😏😏😏😏😏

a/n: heehesheheh a little dubcon-esque i think, just rough suguru, unprotected p in v, uhh doggy yes mhm thats it i think, 18+ mdni

“how’d it go, sugu?”

you recognize suguru’s footsteps immediately, though this time it’s more of an angry stomp into the room. obviously, something is up with him—his hair is all messy and he’s almost sweating, his brows are knitted together so closely it looks like a permanent scowl.

“those fucking idiots fucked everything up,” suguru says, thrashing around your shared space, grabbing whatever clothes he can before spitting, “i’m going to go take a shower, i just—i’ll be back.”

“are you okay? can i—can i do anything?”

“no. i’ll be back.” he dismisses, walking out the door without even turning to look at you.

your heart and stomach drop. it’s rare for suguru to be upset, so angry over anything, really. his anger is usually quieter, it brews inside of him until he can do something about it—so someone must’ve majorly messed up for him to act like this.

awaiting his return, your eyes flicker up to the door at every creak and scrape, anxiety building up with each minute that passes. finally, he walks back through the door—this time, less heavy, more methodical. shirtless. chest rising and falling with fervor.

still…off.

his eyes are on yours, moving in like a predatory animal, words long forgotten in the back of his head. communication isn’t what he needs right now.

suguru needs you, it’s written all over him.

“sugu,” you breathe, words catching in your throat as he climbs onto the bed, over you, trapping you beneath him. looking into his eyes, you can see his pupils are blown wide, black overtaking the pretty dark brown you were so used to. you try and sink into the bed, away from his face, hoping he will talk to you.

“are—are you okay? you’re being—suguru.”

his name falls of your lips as a moan, his knee pressing in between your thighs, sending a wave of pleasure through you. one arm hooks under your head, bringing your forehead to his lips, a light kiss left as an apology beforehand.

“turn over,” suguru commands, the last bit of his patience thrown out the window long ago. the warmth of his body leaves you, he stands up to rid himself of whatever clothes he has left—and you compliantly roll over and lift your hips a little.

the bed dips under your husband’s weight behind you. suguru’s fingers hook into your bottoms, pulling them down and off your legs in a swift movement. he pulls your hips up—inspecting—and you’re soaked already.

you like this.

suguru smiles for the first time since that morning.

“fucking idiots,” suguru rambles, slipping a finger in you with ease, “can’t believe they kept me away from this all day just to fuck everything up. can you believe that, baby?” he hooks his fingers just right, brushing against that spongey spot and you moan out again.

not the answer he was looking for.

his hand wraps around your throat, not choking, but firm enough to pull your head back. firm enough to answer him.

“can you fucking believe that?” he grits, pulling his fingers out and landing a harsh smack on your ass that’s sure to leave a print.

“no—no!” you sob, the pain blooming from the initial hit.

he’s never rough like this. okay, yes, he’s been less than gentle—but suguru takes his time. never rushes. always thinks before he acts. follows the rules—foreplay, build it up, tease, prep—all before he finally allows himself to feel you.

your cheek rests against the sheets, lungs full of a breath you’re holding. he’s still grumbling, cursing whoever, and—oh.

suguru slides in, one long, thick movement—buried to the hilt.

it’s good, better than good, really. ‘good’ is such a feeble word to describe everything that runs through you at the moment. breathtaking, maybe. you’re not breathing. you forgot.

his hips draw back, sliding out only halfway, and he slams back in. the air held in your lungs is forced to escape. a cry rips from your throat, only to be cut through by suguru’s bruising pace.

there’s no stopping him—this is what he needs.

you better hope no one else walks through the door.

[bradleysass]

will - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 537

“I just don’t understand the appeal of Potter,” Regulus said, eyes narrowed and jaw tight as he stirred honey into his tea like it had wronged him. “I will never understand.”

Barty, lounging on the velvet settee in Regulus’ flat, didn’t even bother to look up from his phone. “Mmhm.”

“No, really,” Regulus went on, voice climbing in volume and irritation. “He’s loud. And smug. He thinks a smile and a wink can solve everything—”

“To be fair,” Barty cut in lazily, “they do solve quite a bit. Especially when aimed at you.”

Regulus’s spoon clinked violently against the porcelain. “That’s not the point.”

Barty finally set his phone down, dramatic as ever, legs sprawled out like he owned the place. “Enlighten me, Reggie. What exactly is the point?”

Regulus turned toward him like he’d been waiting for the question. “He’s insufferable. And he’s everywhere. He somehow ends up at every event I go to, and—Merlin forbid—I say something remotely clever, and suddenly he’s grinning at me like I invented humor.”

Barty blinked. “Tragedy.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” He gave a wolfish grin. “That’s what makes it so funny.”

Regulus crossed his arms. “He complimented my coat last week.”

“And?”

“I told him it was Italian cashmere and out of his price range.”

Barty snorted. “And he still winked at you.”

“He did! Right after saying ‘You look expensive, but I bet you’re worth it.’”

Barty clutched a pillow and dramatically fell backward with a groan. “Oh, how dare he flirt with you in such a straightforward, charming way.”

“I hated it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Regulus threw the spoon into the sink behind him and glared. “I did. He’s arrogant and insufferable and—he wore mismatched socks to a fundraiser.”

“Regulus, you wore an all-black suit to a garden gala in spring.”

“Black is timeless. His socks were bright orange and blue.”

Barty just looked at him. “You're spiraling.”

“I’m venting.”

“You’re pining.”

Regulus visibly flinched. “I am not.”

Barty rolled onto his side and grinned like a cat with cream. “You’re right, sorry. Silly me. It’s obviously hatred. All that intense eye contact and biting sarcasm—it’s textbook loathing. Definitely not sexual tension at all.”

“I hope you choke.”

“On the truth? Already have, darling.”

Regulus groaned and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “You’re no help.”

“You don’t want help. You want me to say, ‘Yes, Reggie, James Potter is vile and you are perfectly sane for thinking about his stupid hair and stupid grin and stupid hands—’”

“I have never thought about his hands.”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “You described them as calloused but somehow elegant last week when he passed you a pen.”

Regulus made a wounded noise. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything. Especially your most embarrassing moments.”

“I hate you.”

“You hate Potter, remember?”

Regulus looked absolutely miserable as he sank into the chair opposite Barty and finally allowed a tiny, traitorous sigh to escape. “He just… gets to me.”

Barty smirked but said nothing, letting the silence settle between them until Regulus quietly muttered:

“And he smells nice.”

Barty chuckled, reached for his phone again, and said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

[notsodelirious]

Can you do jason Todd x gn clown reader? I think it would be very fun and interesting. 🎈🎉

synopsis: When Jason comes home from patrol, he finds you upset

notes: SFW, not much to add tbh

tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, a little bit of emotional angst, clown!reader, gender neutral reader, wc: 1.5k

this one was actually so much fun to write! It ended up a little sadder than I had planned it but it’s still sweet—anyway enjoy <3

Jason quietly raised the window and slipped in silently, boots barely squeaking against the floorboards.

The apartment was dark—usually around this time of night, you’d be messing around in the kitchen, blaring whatever song had wormed its way into your brain, dancing along as you somehow avoided spilling the contents of the pots and pans you were handling.

But not tonight.

It was eerily quiet—aside from the faint smell of a burnt-out candle and soft breeze that billowed in the sheer curtains, the entire place felt untouched, as if preserved in time, a poorly lit Polaroid.

A car drove past below.

Light cut through the apartment, sweeping the walls and still air in a golden glow before it all dissipated into darkness again and Jason was left with a heavy sense of dread blooming just behind his heart.

It was so quiet.

It was too quiet for you.

Even when he’d return from patrol at a fuckass hour, you were up and buzzing around him, greeting him happily and kissing his face.

Silence had never unsettled him quite as much.

His helmet thudded softly against the kitchen counter. He stepped further into the apartment.

Your bedroom door was closed. 

The sign you kept on your door was flipped around.

It was a silly little tradition that had started when Jason began coming around to your apartment more often. He’d always known about your career as a clown travelling with the circus and from what he’d heard you were a good one.

But an impromptu visit and a panic attack later, you’d both decided it was probably best he didn’t accidentally stumble in on you when you were still in makeup. 

So the sign was born.

Most of the time, it was flipped to show the ‘Makeup off :D’ side—but even then, it didn’t matter much because the door was open and you were attached to his hip. But occasionally the sign would be flipped around and Jason would simply linger in the living room before you finally emerged bare-faced and chatting away happily.

The ‘Makeup on :(‘ was glaring at him like a yellow warning sign.

He couldn’t hear you puttering around on the other side.

It was too quiet and everything was wrong.

He knocked on the door, leather gloves softly rasping against the wood.

He tried knocking a little louder when he got no answer.

“My makeup is still on.”

Even through the door, your voice was soft, too gentle and tired.

“I’m coming in.” He pushed the door open cautiously—it’s not like he’d never seen you in makeup: he’d seen pictures and videos of your performances, the only way he could support you from a very safe distance when he felt comfortable.

He still expected his heart to leap and his breath to hitch when he saw you, that remnant of fear to course through him when he laid his eyes on you.

But as he stepped in to find you sat at your vanity, with slumped shoulders and tired eyes, he felt none of that. He met your gaze in the mirror, took in the running makeup and the dirtied wipes.

“Somebody crashed the show,” you explained as you picked up a new wet wipe, beginning to wipe off more of the colourful paint from your skin. The red of your lipstick pulled across your cheeks.

“I didn’t hear of an attack,” he stepped closer as he regarded you—he’d never seen you take off your clown paint. It was actually a little surreal to see the end of the persona.

“I was down in Old Gotham.” And he patrolled the north, closer to Crime Alley—South Gotham had Red Robin’s patrol routes.

“Hecklers?”

“Some man went after the clowns,” your frown deepened, twisting what must have once been a bright smile into more of a grimace, “Something about making a mockery of the real clown prince.”

Ah

Him. 

Aside from the times Jason brought up his own death, the clown prince of Gotham was never mentioned. At least not by name. 

He’d noticed the way your nose always wrinkled when his name was mentioned in passing conversation or on the news. 

You were always aware of him but never spoke of it.

Despite the obvious… affiliation. 

Maybe because of it. 

Hearing your words now, he realised it was definitely the latter. 

“Somebody who can’t even remotely follow the clown code shouldn’t be allowed to call himself a clown.”

“There’s a clown code?”

The glare you threw him was soft, but firm enough to indicate the jab wasn’t welcome. Of course, there was a fucking clown code.

Your eyes flicked back to your own reflection, and your face fell, just the slightest bit as the despair started to slip back into your features, still painted a ghastly white.

“I don’t want to retire the act,” you said softly as you tried to wipe away for paint but the blue and yellow of your tears and stars just smudged across your face—he pulled off his gloves, tossing them onto your vanity, “But he’s stolen the whole show—even outside of Gotham! People just…”

“Hey.” His calloused hand grabbed your wrist gently, stopping the rough motion of your hand. He took the wet wipe from you and held your chin steady with his other hand—it always amazed him how soft you were. Even his family, most of whom were generally considered pretty, were covered in scars and blemishes from their lives as vigilantes.

But not you.

You were so far removed from everything.

It was such a startling difference to settle on.

He cleared your skin tenderly, with much more kindness than he’d ever show himself, holding your face up towards his, your gaze averted.

“I’m sure you bring joy to plenty of people,” he said to you softly, “Or you wouldn’t have so many shows lined up.”

“He’s made it so perverse.” Jason brushed away a tear with his thumb. “He forces people to laugh—he’s twisted everything and put himself in the spotlight. All people ever think off when they hear clown is him.”

“I don’t think of him,” he said softly.

“You have fucking nightmares about him,” you whispered, like it was a secret neither of you wanted to admit.

But it was true—he did have nightmares about the clown. Nightmares when he would wake screaming and in tears—nightmares where the only solution was to bury himself in your arms until the panic passed.

“I don’t willingly think of him,” he corrected himself quietly—and it was true. He’d never thought of him when he heard clown.

Sure, you were never a clown in front of him, but that didn’t mean that your joy and passion vanished the moment you stepped into his eyesight.

He’d watched you entertain a kid for hours in a hospital waiting room while you were both waiting for your turns to be seen—and the time you had patiently taught Jon Kent how to do that stupid little magic trick with the cloth—or the juggling competition you had gotten into with Dick.

Flowers fucking bloomed in your wake and that fucking clown was making you cry.

“I’m not entirely familiar with the clown code,” he continued, “But you seem to follow it a hell of a lot more than he does.”

“He’s set the bar in hell,” you grumbled, before closing your eyes, leaning into his touch, like a touch-starved cat. He wiped away the blue tear under your eye with a soft hand.

“Yeah? Guess you’ll just have to be the best goddamn clown he can’t compete with.”

“You already know I am.”

Your grin was enough to melt his heart on the best of days. But tonight he could only be reminded of how much he adored you.

“I love you.”

Your eyes only lit up brighter at his words—he stepped back as you stood, and ducked his head as you cupped his face.

“I love you too,” you whispered, “I’m going to be the only damn clown you dream of.”

He snorted as he rested his forehead against yours, “Gonna get rid of the nightmares, just like that?”

“I can be really persuasive.”

He laughed breathily before your lips were on his and soon he was kissing you back, pouring all of his affections into you, pressed against in a very practised and loved dance.

You were absolutely the only clown he wanted in his life.

(“Your lipstick tastes like ass.”

“I know, I’m sorry—it’s actually red foundation.”

”Why does it taste like glue?”)

This probably wasn’t the clowniest clown I could have written but I still enjoyed the direction it took <3

Here’s my wips list and masterlist <3 (requests are currently closed as I work through my current ones)

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

Right Beside Me. [chapter 2] l Harry Castillo

Harry Castillo x f!reader

bio : You and Harry had been friends for a few years. When he told you about his plans, despite your concerns, you supported him in his decision. Later, you were there for him as he tried to find his way in a new situation, when he was looking for the love he had always dreamed of. You were looking for the same thing too… But maybe you were both looking in the wrong places?

warnings: spoilers! If you haven't seen the movie The Materialists and don't want to know the plot, skip this story; friends to lovers; self-doubt; complexes and low self-esteem; alcohol; tears; Lucy appears; argument; Reader in poor mental health

a/n : .

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [Right Beside Me. - masterlist]

Harry Castillo had achieved his goal – he'd been noticed. Wherever he went, he felt women's eyes on him and knew he was now a good match for them.

For the next few weeks, he went out at night. He met friends, flirted with women, and notes with phone numbers ended up in the bottom of his pockets. He felt the same way he did when he got his driver's license or could legally buy alcohol. Everything was new and better than before.

He hadn't forgotten you, but your relationship had noticeably diminished. You felt awkward when you went out to dinner with him one day and you sensed the girl sitting a few tables away with her boyfriend looking at Harry, clearly trying to get his attention. Being a third wheel wasn't at the top of your priorities, so you started making excuses to avoid seeing Harry.

He didn't notice. His new life had completely consumed him.

Although you clearly felt his absence, you were happy that he had what he so desperately wanted. Harry's height had always been a huge complex for him. Although he was a wonderful, intelligent, and charming man, his love life wasn't exactly a success, and you thought that was terribly unfair. Now you watched him live life to the fullest.

Mary placed the coffee mug on your desk and then leaned against it, watching you work. Your eyes were practically glued to the monitor, and you barely managed to utter a quiet, "Thanks." It had been that way for weeks.

"Harry hasn't visited us in a while," she finally said, pushing back her black hair. "Is he okay?"

"Yes, I think so," you replied, continuing your work. Mary nodded.

“And… Is everything okay between you two?”

You glanced at her briefly, a slight frown appearing between your brows. “Yes, why do you ask?”

Mary shrugged and took a sip from her coffee mug. “He doesn’t come over to your place after work. You don’t go out. I thought you were friends.”

You stopped for a moment, and an image of Harry flashed before your eyes. It had been over three weeks and several messages since you last saw him. You couldn’t even remember what he’d texted you about, or if you’d even replied.

But Mary continued. “You know, I saw him yesterday. At one of the pubs I used to go to with Jack. Is he seeing someone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You felt a strange tingling sensation throughout your entire body. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged again. “He was flirting with some woman, and I thought you… You know.” Seeing your surprised look, she quickly explained, "He was always so nice when he came here. You seemed happy in his company."

"I was, but he's just my friend. If he was flirting, then great. Harry should find a nice girl who would really appreciate him."

"Okay." Mary took another sip. "That's funny." She snorted, shaking her head. "But I didn't think he was that tall."

You hadn't told her Harry's secret, but after that conversation, your thoughts kept wandering to him. Harry's absence was clearly felt, which was why you pulled out your phone after leaving work.

"So, how are things going with you and Amy?"

"Amy?" Harry scratched the back of his neck and stared down at his drink. "I'm dating Kate now."

"Oh."

"Oh" was the perfect response to many of the things Harry had said to you that evening. You finally managed to meet at a small, intimate restaurant and get a booth. He looked different. Like someone at the top of his game and in perfect shape. Unlike you.

"Sorry." You rubbed your eyebrows, clearly confused. "I was thinking about Amy... But okay. So how's Kate?"

"Okay, I guess. She's nice," he replied. "Actually, I'll see her later."

"Oh."

You quickly glanced at your watch, wondering how much more time he had allotted you. A sinking feeling filled your stomach.

"What about you? Maybe we could go out for dinner this weekend? You could meet Kate."

"I'm sorry, but Matt bought two theater tickets and..."

Harry's dark eyes widened. Had he missed something?

"Matt?" he repeated, surprised.

You took a sip of your drink, feeling the sweet liquid fill your mouth. It gave you a moment of respite. You finally spoke. "Yes, Matt. The same one for weeks."

You hadn't considered how your words would sound, but from Harry's reaction, you knew he might be offended. He shifted on the sofa.

"Not like me, huh?"

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand. "That's not what I meant, Harry." He nodded halfheartedly. "Really. Jesus, I'm sorry."

He raised his hand, signaling you to stop. "You know, I didn't think the fact that I was finally a good match would bother you."

"Wh-what?"

"Is it bad that I finally have the chance to choose, instead of waiting for someone to choose me? I thought you cared."

You looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and in a completely different light. You'd known Harry Castillo for years, but the man only had his face. You swallowed before deciding to speak. 

"I care, Harry. You know that," you said quietly, your hand, which had been holding his for a moment, returning to your end of the table. "You misunderstood my words. I didn't mean to… I didn't think… Never mind."

You leaned back in your chair, suddenly feeling completely exhausted. This whole situation, this meeting, had been a complete disaster. In an instant, you wanted to go back to your apartment and leave it all behind.

Harry saw the discouragement written all over your face. Despite everything, he'd hoped you'd still support him, that as his friend, you'd offer him advice or be involved in his life in some way. Instead, he felt you'd drifted away from him, and he didn't know what to do about it. He'd forgotten about Matt. This was probably the same guy you'd once dated. But Harry didn't think you'd continue dating. You didn't mention it to him. Or did you?

Deep in his memory, he tried to dredge up some information, something you might have said or written. He felt increasingly foolish, realizing he only knew the name and nothing else about the man you were dating. Finally, something dawned on him.

"He works in finance, right?"

You glanced at him. "No," you replied calmly. "In advertising."

"Oh, right." Harry nodded. "Damn, sorry, sweetheart. I've been a bit busy lately. Too much going on."

"Sure, I get it."

A painful lump formed in your throat as you felt ignored by someone so close. This had never happened to you before, not with Harry, and you didn't know how to deal with it. The atmosphere at the table grew awkward, and Harry noticed you glancing at your watch. The rift between you was clear.

"Peter's engaged," Harry announced unexpectedly. You looked at him with mild interest, but it was something. "He met Charlotte through Adore. They do matchmaking."

"Oh." You raised your eyebrows. "And it worked?"

"Apparently." Harry smiled. "His parents are thrilled. They met shortly after the procedure. Love at first sight."

"That's rare, but congratulations." You took a sip of your drink. "My friend from work recently got married. It's a bit unfathomable, don't you think?" Harry looked at you questioningly, so you continued. "I mean, I don't know if I'm cut out for it. I don't mind monogamy, but I don't know if anyone would want to commit to me forever. Until death do us part."

You both chuckled. "I think you're definitely someone's dream come true. You're too hard on yourself." Harry replied, "But I'm wondering... Maybe I'll use their services too. What do you think?"

You shrugged. "I thought you were in top form right now. You said Kate was nice."

"Yes, but I don't know if that's what I'm looking for in a partner."

You looked at Harry with interest, asking, "So what are you looking for?"

He thought for a moment, swirling his drink in his hands. "Soulmates? Someone who will be there for you no matter what, through thick and thin. Someone who will listen and with whom silence won't be scary. Someone I can laugh with and share common goals. Is that silly?"

You shook your head, and Harry felt your expression soften. "I think we're all looking for the same thing. Just maybe in the wrong places."

After that evening, Harry felt like a splinter had been planted in his mind. The look in your eyes, what you'd said, all of it kept replaying in his head. When Kate said she wanted to focus on herself, he hadn't cared at all. He had a ton of work that consumed most of his time, but when he returned to his apartment, you filled his head again.

You exchanged a few messages, but they were nothing more than polite phrases or sentences like, "We have to meet up," "There's that movie you were talking about at the cinema. It looks interesting." "A new restaurant is opening nearby, we should check it out." You were drifting away from him; he could feel it and see it.

For the past few weeks, you'd felt like you were in the eye of a storm. Work had consumed your entire life. When you got home, all you had the energy to do was shower, grab a quick bite to eat, and fall into bed. But it wasn't the kind of exhaustion you could overcome with sleep. Physically and mentally, you were feeling worse and worse.

Yes, you missed Harry, but what you really missed was someone you could fall apart with, tell him you were exhausted, that you wanted to hide under a blanket and stay there forever, or at least a month.

Matt was genuinely kind when he tried to comfort you, but he was also consumed with work. His company was receiving tons of orders, and they were fighting for every customer. You felt it was simply unfair to burden him with your problems.

You were behind on groceries, laundry, cleaning, dentist appointments, and even texting. Your life was a chaos, and you were trying to keep yourself afloat, even though it was difficult.

Your brain hadn't even processed Lucy's appearance.

Lucy was beautiful. Harry noticed that immediately. She was also intelligent, and talking to her was truly enjoyable. She perfectly met all his expectations. This conviction blossomed within him over the next few weeks. He wrote to you about Lucy, even proposed a double date, but his message went unanswered.

And then came the breakup.

Something Harry hadn't expected. Not since he'd already chosen an engagement ring. But Lucy was right. There was no love between them, only an arrangement, and that couldn't work.

He needed you. You were the first person who came to mind that night, and the only one who stayed in his mind after returning from Iceland. Not everyone would be willing or able to accept him in such a bad state. You knew how to handle that. God, you knew how to handle anything.

He returned down the same hallway as before. The soft carpet muffled his footsteps. A woman who had emerged from one of the rooms looked at him with a smile, but Harry continued walking.

"Harry?"

He turned, spotting a familiar face. Mary was heading toward him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

"Oh, hi," he greeted. "I came for..."

"I know," she interrupted, clutching the files she was carrying to her chest. "But she's not here."

He frowned. "She's not here? Did she go home?"

A look of sadness crossed Mary's beautiful face. "You don't know anything?" she asked. He didn't need to answer, because she saw it in his eyes. "She hasn't worked here for almost two weeks."

"What happened?"

Mary glanced down the hall where other staff members had appeared, nodded to Harry, and together they headed in the opposite direction. Her voice was quiet, but her nervousness was clear.

"It was a difficult time for her," she said. "I kept telling her to rest, to take it easy, but you know how she is. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore... After one of the hardest days, she quit. I haven't spoken to her much since; she hasn't replied to my messages." They stopped in front of the reception desk, where Mary finally looked at Harry with concern. "You really didn't know anything? You're friends, right?"

Harry swallowed, feeling as if something heavy had been placed on his shoulders. He knew nothing. Something had been happening to you for weeks, and he knew nothing.

"I..." he began, but had to clear his throat. "I'll go see her. I'll see if she's okay."

Mary nodded. "Please ask her to let me know she's okay. I'm worried."

"Sure, I'll tell her."

This was definitely not what he expected when he arrived at your office. As soon as he left, he picked up the phone and dialed your number, but as expected, it went to voicemail. He had to meet you in person; he had no other choice.

☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @enchantedreader @sarahhxx03 @wencontre @stevie75 @orcasoul @picketniffler @perfectpoetrybluebird @saltyfartdreamland @beaagiannelli @the-curator1 @lillaydee @inlovewithchrisevans123 @chewie-bars @chrrypascal @person-005 @avengersfan25 @tezooks @kakiki3 @beezusvreeland @mallingcalling-blog @wand-erer5 @missladym1981 @sunnytuliptime @purplerain04 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @maryfanson

[lillaydee]

I'm Right Here Part 18

BFF!Joel Miller / F Reader

Sometimes the person we've been looking for has been right there all along.

@copperhalfcent, @demonsasss, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @peelieblue @liciafonseca @ultra-nina-bella @joelmillerpascal @kirsteng42 @heartpatch @capnjaket @formulafun, @avidreadee123 @missladym1981 @titlee78 @joelalorian @sunndroppp @vickie5446

Let me know if you want to be tagged or removed from the tag list

WARNINGS: BFF Joel Miller, Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Angst, Love Triangles, Miscommunication, Past Child Abuse, Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Joel is a Clueless Idiot, Jealousy, Minor Character Death, Implied/Referenced/Supposed Sexual Assault, SEXUAL ASSAULT, SELF HARM, Joel has PTSD, Murder, Child Murder.

Divider by the awesome @saradika

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 17

Okay, the story kinda got away from me and I didn't want to rush the ending, so we're adding 2 more chapters instead of going straight to the epilogue okay? Sorry!

Edward Stevens had to grow up way before every other boys his age had to. The dark realities of life hit him early, while his friends went along in their life not really facing such reality at all. He learnt at the very early age of six that he had to be the strong one to protect his sister. He may have never believed anything his poor excuse of a pair of parents said much – he knew he wasn’t a waste of space. He knew that you, his sister Daisy wasn’t useless. He knew the two of you were not a burden. He knew it wasn’t your faults you were born onto this world. He knew the two of you did nothing wrong, that neither of you chose to be born.

But he believed his poor excuse of a father when the drunkard told him he was a man, and men were supposed to be strong. Men don’t cry. Men take the pain and brush it off. The plastered man had said this to him as he sobbed on the floor from being kicked into the ground for trying to defend you, screaming that he was a poor excuse of a man for crying from a little beating.

He was six.

But he knew there and then he needed to step up. Be strong. For you.

He knew then that he wanted you to have everything you ever wanted, needed. That he would do anything to make you happy. Even if it killed him.

Ever the wise young man he was, he also knew that his best friend Joel Miller cared about you more than he should the moment the little boy from the house next door kissed your cheeks after saying ‘I do’ in the dilapidated garage.

He noticed.

He noticed for the first time that one day about a week or two after the ‘wedding’. You were rooting around for berries in the bushes behind the school because your sperm and egg donors were passed out from spending their entire weekly pay buying everyone at the bar drinks – fuck groceries, not like they had kids to feed – Joel shared his sandwich with you. Divided his sandwich into three, giving you one third of it, before dividing his third further when he saw Eddie gave you half of his. He came to school the next day with three full sandwiches.

Joel watched as Eddie divided his sandwich again, giving half to you when you eyed it, knowing that you would never ask for it. He asked his Mom to put more snacks in his lunch bag the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Joel didn’t know that more often than not, those sandwiches were the only food the two of you got to eat for the whole day. But he was always more than prepared to give you his food rather than see you go hungry, just like Eddie would.

Even when things got better by your standards, when you moved in with Esther and had some semblance of a routine, meals included, Joel made sure to have extra food around every single time the three of you were together. Every single time. All the way up to the day you left for college.

He would wait for you when you finish class, walked you to the next ones. Always carried your books for you.

Eddie always thought that he just cared, like he did for you, as a brother would his little sister.

But then Eddie noticed when Joel got all quiet the first time you received a Valentine’s Day card. You were eight. It was one of those cards that everyone received. The ones where you drew a name from a hat in art class and spent the next 45 minutes making a card for that person. Joel didn’t talk to the boy, poor Jimmy Allen for the rest of the school year, only resuming their friendship when Jimmy went steady with Deborah Johnston.

That was when he realized – his best friend was in love with you.

The book-carrying? Went on even when he started having girlfriends. Broke up with them the moment they complained that he didn’t carry their books instead of yours. Joel would volunteer to chaperone every time you had a date. Told Eddie not to worry about it, he’ll make sure you were alright. Go on to your job, Ed. I’ll take whatshername to the dates, make sure I can see Daze at all time, he had said.

Every single time he reported to Eddie that the boys tried to kiss you, Joel didn’t seem to have a negative reaction. But the day he told his best friend that Eric had kissed you, Eddie noticed that Joel Miller, the chatty class clown didn’t really speak for days. Didn’t really speak to you either, the whole time you were dating Eric. When Eric broke up with you, Joel was so angry, almost beat the guy, only refraining from doing so when you pleaded for him not to.

He helped Eddie vet any boys interested in you ever since – despite telling Eddie to not hover, let you live your life when you’d first gotten attention from boys. And yet, there he was, hovering right next to him. He began asking the ex-girlfriends of the boys asking you out to see if they were trouble, reporting back to Eddie every single time.

When Joel discovered the severity of the abuse the two of you had been going through, he stayed with you at all times when Eddie was in the hospital, riding his bike to Esther’s every morning to pick you up, going to school with you, and riding back with you, staying outside the gate until you closed the door to make sure you were safe. He would volunteer for anything you were volunteering for, telling Eddie it was to make sure no one was bothering you. Even asked him Mom to teach him how to sew to help you with your Home Economics project.

When you went off to college, with the exception of the two durations you were dating someone, Joel practically talked to you every night. He would hop in on the nightly calls you had with your brother, and at one point even got a second job to help pay his phone bill so he could talk to you as well without feeling guilty. He got a third job when your birthday or Christmas was coming just so that he could buy you a nice gift. Eddie was certain he would have gotten a fourth job if Eddie had invited him to fly across the country to visit you. Maybe it was selfish of him, but Eddie wanted to spend those few weeks with you alone.

But yes, Eddie knew Joel would have done anything to go see you himself given the opportunity, even if it meant he had to work job after job to do so.

He knew that his best friend Joel Miller would do anything for you. Except ask you out himself.

Joel gobbled the sandwich he had bought in seconds, eyes looking at the clock in the terminal, worried that he might miss the connecting flight. In his eagerness to get a ticket that would get him to you the fastest, he had to make a choice – get the flight to LA the next day, which would then take him directly to Bangkok the day after, making it a 52 hour trip, or get one that very night, have two layovers where he had to run to make the connections and get to you in 32 hours. He chose the latter. He couldn’t wait. Not anymore. He had wasted enough time when it came to you.

He sat next to a couple heading for their honeymoon. They were high school sweethearts, got married as soon as they graduated college. He’d always wondered if that could have been you and him, had he found the balls to tell Eddie he was desperately in love with his twin sister. But to this day, he doubted Eddie would have been okay with it back then.

He remembered that day, the day you received a Valentine’s card from Jimmy Allen. He felt something he had never felt before in his life. He wanted to punch Jimmy, even though the boy had only given you the card as part of the art class project. He himself had to give one to Mindy Lee, but at the sight of how happy you were to get a handmade Valentine’s from Jimmy, one with a pop-up heart and glitters, he just felt like Jimmy had taken something from him. He wanted to make you that happy.

Eddie, of course, didn’t mind that Valentine’s card, seeing as it was a class project. But he was definitely protective of you, making it clear that Jimmy was never going to ‘get with you’ like that – you were too good for any boys in the whole school. Any time you had a date, Eddie found fault with the boys – he’s too soft, he’s too much of a playboy, he’s too much of a mommy’s boy, the likes. Joel began to identify with everything wrong with the boys that Eddie had listed. He was too soft. He had many girlfriends, he must have been a playboy. He was close to him Mom, he must have been a mommy’s boy.

Eric was the only boy Eddie did approve of. He was smart. His dad was an engineer, his mom a doctor, he grew up wanting for nothing. He had a bright future. The school was abuzz with rumours that he was going to MIT or Caltech, and judging from the way he was acing every single school subjects and the many, many AP courses he was taking, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would get in.

When Eric broke up with you, Eddie did not keep his disappointment to himself. You deserved someone like Eric, he told Joel. Someone who could give you everything you wanted, everything you needed. A smart man, an educated man, one who would have a stable job, one who could provide for you and give you the life you deserve.

It made Joel realize that Eddie would never want someone like him, an uneducated labourer, albeit for the family business that he might run one day, as a brother in law.

So he didn’t ask you out.

But he was not going to let all that insecurity stand in his way now. He had held back long enough. He had a stable job now. A house of his own. He could provide for you and provide well. He was a good man. His late wife and his daughter told him so. He would no longer let anyone stand in the way between the two of you. He was jetlagged, tired as fuck, and smelled like an airplane, but he was going to you. And unless you told him to, he was never letting go.

God, please don’t tell him to let go.

You walked into the lobby of your apartment building feeling like you had worked for a week straight. And honestly, you might as well have. The pitch for this new account was taking up all your time, and then some. The deal was for you to get this account and then pass it on. The company was trying hard to get you to sign a new contract, basically guaranteeing your stay in Bangkok for ten more years.

You were going to sign it. You really were. But you never seemed to have the time to go in and sign the damned documents.

When you got back to Bangkok, you dove straight into work. You needed to. Those few weeks in Austin were a disaster. You couldn’t even try to romanticize it into something positive.

You got injured. Your last living relative dumped a dump of a house on you. The house that ended up being a crime scene. Met a handsome man, someone you could actually like who turned out to be an undercover FBI agent – the man lied to you, held your hand and planned a future with you, all the while knowing the name you were calling him to his face was not even his.

Not to mention the man who played the major role in your moving across the world was married. Moved on. Months after you left, apparently. Sure, the circumstances that incited the marriage was one that left him no choice, but… sigh…

And the fact that you couldn’t fault him for moving on as he did made it worse.

You came back to Bangkok extremely aware how lonely your life was. And you couldn’t seem to shake the reality that despite all these wonderful people who would drop everything for you in your life, you were actually alone. You lived across the world from the people you grew up with. You were literally alone. You were the only living person in your family tree that you were aware of. You had friends, colleagues, obviously, but they all had their own lives to go home to while you went home to an empty condo. Heck, your most stable relationship for the past 16 years was with your doorman. You couldn’t even keep a pet with the amount of time you spent at work. You spent so many nights sleeping at the office you actually bought a sofa bed to put in your office so your nights were slightly more comfortable.

The one plus side to this lonely life you’d been living? Financially, you were doing great. You could actually retire early. But to what? With whom? If Eddie were around, you could spoil him, pay him back for his sacrifices. Make sure he had a good life, never worrying about money ever again. Get him treated with the best doctors money could afford. But he wasn’t. You were too late. You couldn’t save him.

Going on holidays? You literally live in a tourist attraction. But going on holiday alone was no fun. It just made your loneliness more evident. You look forward to invites from Olivia or Eric to meet them somewhere around the world, for them to come visit. And now Sarah had joined the group, the teenager making the trips a lot more fun with her excited wonderment in everything new she experienced and saw. You spent your weekends talking to them on your phone, seeing as your local friends nearly always had plans with their families or significant others.

Other than that, you were either working, or you were just passing time. Alone.

So, no, you hadn’t signed the documents. The idea of spending the next ten years leading this solitary life again just made you feel…

There’s also that job offer.

Thanks to a collaborative project you participated in throughout the years, the business school at UT Austin had reached out and offered you a job. It was extremely enticing. Same pay, a more expensive city, but you would get to work like a normal human being with normal office hours. And you get to spend more time with the people you love without costing anyone an arm and a leg. You also didn’t have to stay up to watch Sarah’s soccer games or pretend to be on an important call in your locked office to watch her recitals. And you get to eat Anita and Aunt Tina’s fabulous cooking every weekend.

But then… Joel would be there.

How long can you pretend? How much thicker of a skin set do you have to put on? It was much easier to pretend to not be hurt by his lack of effort to contact you from two oceans away. It was easier to pretend when you were on a computer screen on zoom with Sarah, or even better, the smaller screen that is FaceTime. It was much easier to pretend you were not hoping to see a glimpse of him when all you could see was whatever area the camera was pointed at rather than being in the same room as him.

Those soccer match and recital FaceTime sessions, you had to remind yourself you were in them to see Sarah, not to hear him whoop and cheer her on. But of course, that was much easier said than done. Your heart skipped a beat every single time you caught a glimpse of him, every time you heard his voice, every time you heard his cheers. And every single time you talked to him, during whatever few seconds he gave you during your talks with Sarah, you felt as if your heart was so full, yet so empty at the same time after.

He never tried to contact you himself.

You understood during those few weeks you were still around after Annie passed. He just lost the woman he had shared the past 15 years with. The mother of his child. His wife. His companion. You expected him to be subdued. Sad. He was in mourning, after all. Heck, even you, who spent the few weeks you knew Annie feeling conflicted, not really sure what to make of her, even got annoyed by her a few times, were grieving for her. She was a wonderful woman. And knowing what you knew about her history, you felt sad for her, sad for Joel and Sarah. What it must have been like for them to lose such a wonderful wife, a wonderful mother. You could only imagine it was the way you felt when you lost Eddie. The only consolation you could think of was to imagine that she was now with her husband and son, the two people she truly loved and tragically lost all those years ago.

So you gave him the space he gave you all those years ago when you lost Eddie.

But he wasn’t willing to give you the chance to be there for him the way he was for you.

If it were not for Sarah, you wouldn’t have heard from him at all.

You knew how stupid you sounded. How self-involved. How could you be thinking about how he was treating you when he had just gone through the unimaginable? But even with that realisation, you couldn’t help but feel slightly offended that he completely ignored you, even during those two weeks you were still around. You were more than aware of the effort he put into avoiding you.

You tried to coax your heart. He was mourning. His life did not revolve around you. He was a father first, a husband. He was burying his wife. He had a grieving daughter to look after. And obviously, whatever romantic feelings he may have had for you shouldn’t even be a blip on his radar at that point. You were not expecting anything from him. It wasn’t as if you were expecting him to come knocking and taking the breaths out of your lungs with a passionate kiss or anything.

But zero acknowledgement?

That day you went to say goodbye to Sarah, you left his house feeling stupid. You should have just left and not said anything. He didn’t even bother to hug you goodbye. Just wished you a safe flight and locked his door. You left thinking that Annie had exaggerated his affections for you. That you had imagined the teary moment of surrender he had allowed you to see in your living room the day before she passed. That you had misconstrued his declaration that whatever he may or may not have felt for you didn’t matter – he was a married man, he couldn’t break his vows. That maybe he didn’t feel anything for you after all. That you were alone in feeling things for him.

And yet, stupidly, you couldn’t let go. And it hurt. You were, above all, ashamed of yourself, holding a candle for a man who obviously did not care.

And somehow, this past year had been even lonelier than ever. You never thought that was a possibility.

So, no. You hadn’t signed the document. You couldn’t go back to living in Austin for him to ignore you to your face. You had a smidgen of pride left in your person, and you needed to hang on to it.

“Good evening Miss Daisy,” Chai greeted, the older man taking your bag of groceries from you as he held the door open for you. “You came home early,” he quipped, looking at his watch, an exaggerated expression of disbelief on his gentle face.

“I’m just tired, Lung Chai,” you answered, rubbing your neck.

“You should go rest. Order food. Watch TV. No more work,” he said, pressing the elevator button for you. “Especially when it’s your special day,” he smiled, going to his desk to get a huge bouquet of daisies and cookies. “These arrived for you,” he took your laptop bag from you, handing you the bouquet instead. He stepped into the elevator with you, smiling all the way, extremely happy to see you receiving a gift on your birthday.

“Sùk-sǎn wan-gèrt lûuk-sǎao (happy birthday, daughter),” he said, handing you a small package from himself. You had never told him when your birthday was, but seeing as he was the person to receive your packages for you, he remembered. And he had never forgotten to get you a small gift, usually keychains and bookmarks.  

“Khàawp khun Lung Chai (thank you, Uncle Chai),” you said, touching your forehead to his shoulder.

He carried your stuff for you all the way to your unit, cheekily reminding you that ramen is not a birthday dinner, closing the door behind him, making you laugh as you opened the card that came with the flowers and cookies.

It was from Sarah. It wasn’t enough that the sweet teenager had sent you a hilarious birthday video of her trying to coax Ellie into singing happy birthday to you, she had taken the trouble of ordering you flowers to be delivered via the local delivery app she for some reason still kept on her phone from her visit. ‘Happy Birthday Auntie Daze,’ the card said, ‘Your real present is on the way. In the meantime, enjoy the flowers and cookies!’

You smiled, finding a vase for the flowers, taking a picture of you hugging the vase, your mouth stuffed with cookies to send to her.

Eric and Benny sent you a video too. So did Will and Olivia. Tommy called you at what he called dawn (it was well past 9 am in Austin) telling you that he would only wake up at such ridiculous time for you. Anita, Jake and Aunt Tina called you together, telling you that they were saving your birthday gift at home, and you could get them when you come back for Christmas, whenever that may be. But worry not, they said, your birthday present was coming soon.

In fact, all of them said that.

But you didn’t have time to wonder what they meant.

Joel didn’t call or wish you a happy birthday.

So that was that, you guessed. After all, this was nothing new. You lived for 15 years without him wishing you a happy birthday. What’s another year? All in a day.

You took Eddie’s urn with you into the kitchen and boiled some water. You talked to him while making your birthday dinner, sitting with him in front of you at the table as you ate your birthday ramen. You were still hungry after, but didn’t have the will to make another bowl, opting instead to lie in front of the TV and watched The Fellowship of the Ring with Eddie, wishing him a happy birthday just before midnight approached, falling asleep with the TV on.

You spent that Saturday doing nothing. Literally nothing. Just… laid on your back in front of the TV sulking at the fact that your life had come to this. Just a woman nearing her forties living alone in a country so far away from home, home being a place you no longer had any connection to, even reluctant to return to, still unable to get over a man who clearly had given up any thoughts of you long ago.

And then you felt bad about thinking of him in that light. The man had gone through so much, and all you could think of was how sad your pathetic life, which you had a direct hand in leading, was. This was your own doing. You chose to be dramatic and left the man at his lowest. Chose to ignore his existence, not wanting to know anything about it. Grow up and face the consequences, Miss Daisy.

You woke up the next morning still in front of the TV, three empty cup of noodles surrounding you, so many mugs and empty soda cans on your coffee table, and crumbs of crackers and empty chocolate wrappers all over you and the carpet. You stood up looking around at the disaster that was your living room thinking maybe it was a good thing you were alone. At least no one would know how much of a mess your life really was. Heck, at this point you were convinced that even Eddie’s urn was looking down on you with judgement from its place on the shelf. All this over the lack of a birthday wish from Joel? Sheesh. Pathetic.

You changed into your running gear and went out running, waving hi to Krit, the younger doorman who worked the morning shift that day. It was still extremely early. 530 in the morning. But you didn’t care. The streets of Bangkok was already beginning to rise, city dwellers heading to the parks for an early morning run or to the wet market to get cheap, fresh produce for the week. The running helped, as you knew it would. By the time you were running back to your condo you were already planning to deep clean your place before the cleaners come in the next day. You would never live it down if they saw your place like that.

Enough with the self-pitying depression. So the man you’re in love with didn’t wish you a happy birthday. You’re alive. Live. Move on. And if you don’t succeed, you try and try again. You have people in your life, so what if he never contacted you again. So long as you don’t end up dying alone in your apartment, only to be found from the foul smell of decomposition, you should be okay. Surely Lung Chai or Krit would notice if you didn’t show your face for a few days, right? At least you didn’t have a cat who could eat your dead body.

So that’s it. No more yearning for Joel Miller. You need to be strong. Focus on other things in your life, whatever that may be.

You stopped at your favourite hawker to get yourself breakfast, getting everything he had on the menu, several servings of each to freeze for the week. Your fingers were strained with plastic bags when you got back, Krit running to open the door for you when you struggled to pull it open yourself.

“Miss Daisy, you have a visitor,” he said in his soft Thai lilt, taking a trolley for you, taking the many, many, many bags of take away from your hands and gently placing them in the trolley, careful not to let any of the contents spill.

Huh? Who? It’s 730 am on a Sunday. Who would come visit you on a Sunday morning?

And then you saw him.

Joel Miller. Asleep on the couch in the lobby, the biggest suitcase you had ever seen next to him.

What the fuck? Was this real? Were you dreaming? Did you make this up in your head? Was your self-pitying mind-rant so loud he heard you all the way from Austin?

“Miss? Should I wake him up?” Krit whispered, looking a bit too excited for your liking. “He arrived about five minutes after you left. He said you didn’t know he was coming. I asked him to wait, but he fell asleep very quickly. He said he had been travelling for more than 30 hours.”

Shit. Poor man was deep in sleep mode. His eyebrows furrowed, his arms across his chest, his mouth open, his clothes wrinkled, his hair all over the place, his scruff messy as fuck. He didn’t even snore, and you know for a fact that he did sometimes. He must’ve been exhausted.

Fuck. You were getting soft on him again. As you always did. You must be a special kind of stupid or something for feeling like this. Why the fuck was he here? You literally just resolved to move on from him. The Gods must hate you. What had you ever done to be punished so quickly?

You cannot be soft with him. He would hurt you again. He had done so many times. He will again. No questions asked.

But he was here. What were you supposed to do? Go up and pretend he wasn’t?

Sigh…

You walked towards him, your footsteps cautious.

“Joel?” you whispered, shaking his shoulder lightly.

He hummed, his mouth closing for a few seconds, lips smacking a couple of times, his body repositioning to the left, taking a few deep breaths before settling again.

“Joel!” you whispered again, a bit more urgently this time, shaking him a bit harder.

“Hmm,” he subconsciously answered, taking your hand in his, placing it under his cheek and nuzzling on it, falling back asleep, a small snore escaping him.

Your eyes began to close from the sensation, the intimacy, even if in his grogginess. No. Open your eyes. No. Be strong. Resolve.

You could hear some snickers in the background, several residents looking on, laughing and shaking their heads at the scene. God this was embarrassing.

“Joel!” you barked, and his eyes flew open. He jumped up, shocking the crap out of you. You stumbled backwards a little, raising your hand in front of you. “It’s just me. Calm down. You fell asleep.”

He straightened up, vigorously rubbing his face, now swollen from his unintended sleep, the one that was meant to ‘rest his eyes for a few seconds’ but turned into two hours of full on sleep, a bit disorientated from the sudden jolt. His eyes were bloodshot, eyebags prominent. He groggily straightened his shirt and pants, ran his fingers through his birds nest of hair attempting to tame it, failing miserably. When he realised he was getting nowhere, he stood there in front of you with his head down, hands clasped against his front, his feet shuffling left and right, not really knowing what to say.

“What are you doing here, Joel?”

“Uhm… I was going to surprise you for your birthday. Uh… happy birthday,” he said, suddenly looking around as if looking for something, closing his eyes in disappointment.

“What are you looking for?”

“I uh… I’ve just realized that I didn’t get you a gift. The shops were closed. I got in at like 4 am.”

Silence.

You didn’t mean to keep quiet, but honestly? You didn’t know what to say. What do you say?

“Uh, okay,” he suddenly blurted out, taking his suitcase. “I should go to a hotel. Happy birthday again, I’ll… I’ll see you around?” he began pulling the suitcase around you to get to the door.

“Where are you staying?” you asked.

“Uh… at the… uhm…”

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you book a hotel?”

He huffed, rubbing his face for the God knows how many-th time, shaking his head. “No. I didn’t really plan this. I just… booked a ticket and flew over. But… it’s not a problem, I’m sure there are hotels around I can check into. I’ll just… go…” he mumbled, turning around once more.

“Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“Come on, I have a guest bedroom,” you said, turning around and headed for the elevators, the trolley filled with take out in front of you. Fuck. You should have a red hot poker inserted up your nose into your brain and swirled around. What the fuck was wrong with you?

“Okay.”

Joel felt like an idiot. In his excitement to get to you he didn’t even think about booking a hotel. Or getting you a present. He just packed a suitcase and left. All he could think of was to get to you, all the while thanking Annie, who kept pestering him to renew his passport despite him never using them ever in the 15 years they were married.

He landed in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport at 4 am, blearily walking around following the crowd until he got into a cab, hardly noticing the time of day, or even what day it was. Never had he been this tired in his life, nor travelled so much to get to one place. None of the shops were open, save for a few small ones that sold snacks and drinks and local sim cards for weary travellers, not that he stopped at any of them. He just wanted to get to you. He arrived at your building not really knowing what he was going to do. Should he just knock and disrupt your life like that? He didn’t even give you notice. Maybe someone already told you he was coming?

Oh shit, what if you refused to see him? What would he do then? Turn around and go home? Check into a hotel and wait?

And what if you had company? He didn’t even know if you had someone in your life. What if you had a boyfriend? Sarah or his family never said anything, but what if they were keeping it quiet from him, a punishment for his attitude towards you? They made zero attempts to hide their disdain when it came to his treatment of you since Annie passed. He wouldn’t put it past them to keep this information from him, if you indeed, had a man in your life. And if that was the case he couldn’t imagine the man being pleased to have him knocking on your door at 5 am.

God, please don’t have someone in your life.

Not that he could blame you if you did. He practically ghosted you, whatever his intentions may have been. Stopped talking to you and let you leave without so much as a hug goodbye. Who was he to stop you from moving on? He did. And as happy as he was that he did, knowing what came out of that marriage, he spent the 15 years he didn’t see you dreading the day you’d find out that he didn’t wait for you.

Oh God, what if you hated him now?

He spent the cab ride with his heart in his mouth, praying hard that you wouldn’t just send him away. But if you did, if you were angry and decided you no longer wanted you in his life, if you had found someone to move on with, he at least wanted to say a proper goodbye. Beg your forgiveness for everything. Begin again with a clear conscience. He needed you to still be okay to be in his life. Sarah loved you. He couldn’t risk you cutting off contact with Sarah, not when the teenager spent her weekends waiting for the perfect hour to call you. Not when his cousins in law were your best friends.

He got out of the cab and stood in front of your building, his heart threatening to jump out of his mouth as he did. A lanky young man was standing just inside the door, eyeing him cautiously. He walked up to the door, the man opening it, greeting him in Thai. The man told him that he had just missed you, you had gone out for a run. “Alone?” he couldn’t help asking, worry flooding his features, relaxing only when the man nodded with a smile. He ushered him to the sitting area in the lobby, telling him to wait. You should be back in an hour or two.

He sat down with his heart heavier than an anvil, his tongue feeling way too heavy in his mouth. He had to wait to see your reaction. To find out if you were even available. If you were happy to see him. If you were angry.

It was two extra hours he hadn’t planned for, and it was torture. Like waiting in line for the gallows. Or that thumb thing those Roman emperors did for gladiators.

He wanted to ask the man if you were still living alone but stopped himself just in time. Wouldn’t that be creepy? The last thing he needed was for this man to call security and kick him out for asking creepy questions about you. Would he even answer? He decided he would just suck it up and wait for you to come back.

The next thing he knew, you woke him up, your expression unreadable.

The ride up to your unit was a quiet one. You stood way near the door, while he stayed as far from it as he could, worried you might bark at him for some reason. His head felt fuzzy, he felt out of his depth, new country, new time zone, was he really here? Was he still asleep on that couch? Or was he actually in bed at home?

You led him to your door, opening it, taking the food inside with you, mumbling something about the mess, pointing at your guest bedroom, telling him to shower and rest while you straighten up, hastily placing the food on your kitchen counter, coming back into the living room. You began picking up some wrappers and empty cups and mugs, running back into the kitchen with them, coming back and collecting the blankets and pillows off the floor before running into your bedroom, tossing them onto your bed. You opened the guest bedroom, beckoning for him to follow, and he did, leaving his shoes by the door. He got to the guest bedroom door, his suitcase behind him, watching you put bedsheets on the bed, followed by a blanket. He reached for a pillowcase to help you, but you grabbed it before he could, muttering that he was your guest, you would do it for him. You worked quickly, got the bed ready, pointed to the bathroom door, giving him a towel, telling him there were some toiletries in the cabinetry. You switched the AC on for him and shut the door behind you, leaving him in the room alone, feeling worse than he had ever felt before.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach that maybe you weren’t too pleased to see him here. He felt as if he was imposing, but he had no idea where to go. Heck, he didn’t even know if he could use his phone here.

He could hear you root around in the kitchen, the sounds of dishes clanging, plastic wrappers being opened. He desperately wanted to go out and talk to you, but that heaviness in his mouth was still there, and somehow, had gotten heavier. Plus, it had been more that 36 hours since he had a shower, and Thailand was humid, even in the few minutes he was outside in the early hours of the morning. He opened his suitcase and took what he needed, going into the bathroom for a shower.

When he got out, there was a delicious waft of something in the air making his stomach grumble. He had never travelled like this before, so he was asleep during most of the meals served on board. The unit was filled with the sounds of a hoover working, followed by a sudden silence, and your footsteps going past the guest bedroom into your own, the door shutting behind you. He quickly got dressed and stepped out into the living room, the cool air of the split unit in the living room making it very comfortable indeed.

It was clear you had cleaned up, something was heating in the microwave, and the small table for four you had was set up with plates and bowls and some cutleries.

He looked around the small space, noticing how empty it was. There was not much personal decor, the shelf that was the TV cabinet had a plastic plant and a jar that he recognized as Eddie’s urn on it. A vase filled with fresh daisies was atop the coffee table, a note telling him it was from Sarah. The whole place didn’t feel like you at all. The furnishings were what he saw the landlords of the cheap apartments used back in Austin when he went in to fix the place up in between leases. Basic Ikea furniture, not even the quality ones. Come to think of it, the bed and closet in the guest bedroom were Ikea too. The curtains and blinds, yep. Even the dishes were Ikea, he recognized them from the many, many, many trips to that store where Annie spent hours cooing at the cheap glassware but never buying them. Those cutleries were the cheapest set, if he was not mistaken, Annie’s exclaim at him, ‘Joel! It’s only 9.99 for a set of 20!’ while brandishing the box the set came in at him fresh in his head.

He searched his memory box for any mention of you moving since you moved to Thailand. None came to mind. Had you been living like this for the past 16 years? He pictured you going about your days, living your life and coming home to this basic… box.

It made his heart sink.

Somehow, he had deluded himself into thinking that you were living in style here in Bangkok. A well earning expat working as a Forensic CPA in a major city like Bangkok, surely you were living well. In luxury, even, Eric telling the family how the cost of living in countries like Thailand, even in a city like Bangkok not a match for what someone as established as you would be earning. He comforted himself imagining you living the glamourous expat life in an exotic country, not wanting for anything, that it was a good thing you left. That everything worked out for you here. That perhaps, he did you a favour chasing you away.

But to see this…

He remembered Sarah mentioning to Olivia that she had to beg you to give her your address to send you a birthday gift. Anytime someone visited you, even Sarah, you had always booked a nice hotel for everyone to stay at, yourself included. You told them your place was too small to accommodate everyone. While true, Joel had an inkling that wasn’t the only reason you didn’t invite anyone over.

Sure, you were definitely not living in destitution, the unit a nice one, the building too, a doorman, security, a tennis court, a rooftop pool, a gym, laundry, smack in the middle of the city, close to everything, the whole shebang.

But he had a hard time leaving out the word ‘lonely’ from a life he imagined he would have if he was the one living here.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your bedroom door opening. You came out, freshly showered, walked past him timidly and went straight into the basic kitchen, taking a bowl of something soupy from the microwave, placing it on the table.

“I only have local food in the house at the moment. It’s filling, it’s rice soup. It’s delicious, I promise, but if you prefer something more routine I could toast some bread for you and maybe make some eggs. I don’t have sour cream though…” you said, your eyes studying the contents of your small fridge.

“No,” Joel quickly said. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he pulled a chair out for you, quietly asking you to sit. He somehow managed to fold himself into the small chair that backed into the wall behind the table and watched as you ladled some of the delicious smelling rice with soup into his bowl, pouring some coffee into his mug.

“Sorry, I don’t have a coffee machine. This is instant, I could order out for a good cup if you want a stronger one, or I could go get you one – there’s a Starbucks around the corner, I usually have my coffee on my way to work,” you quietly offered, not looking at him, starting to stand up to go.

“It’s okay, this is enough,” Joel answered, equally as quiet, taking a sip, placing his hand on yours to stop you. You pulled your hand out from under his as you sat back down, Joel quickly apologizing for his brazenness, not wanting to cross the line.  

The breakfast that followed was a quiet affair. Joel devoured the rice soup, hungry as he was. The fact that it was delicious was not exactly helping his case either. Plus, you didn’t say anything throughout the meal, and he felt as if eating non stop was the only way he could get through that breakfast without bursting into tears. The two of you cleaned that dish, Joel having trouble refraining from sighing contentedly after, feeling so full and warm and heavy. He took a towel hanging from the hook next to the sink to help you with the dishes, but you quietly told him to go get some sleep. He should rest, catch up on Bangkok time. He wanted to argue, but realized that was probably not a good idea, seeing as he had rudely intruded into the life you were obviously keen on hiding from everyone all these years.

“I’ll look for a hotel today,” he said. “Get out of your hair. Let you have your space back. Do you have Wi-Fi? If I could have the password?”

“Uh, no, that’s okay, I’ll book it for you. Rest for now. I’ll take care of it. Wi-Fi’s a little spotty. I’ll get you a sim card later.”

“Daze, I’m sorry for intrud…”

“It’s okay, Joel. Go get some sleep. I’ll see you later.”

Joel found himself at a loss. You were clearly not enthusiastic to talk to him, you definitely did not seem too happy he was there. His worry had come true. He had gone too far, took it one step further than he needed to, stayed away from you for too long, and now you wanted nothing to do with him.

He went into the guest bedroom after apologizing one more time for your troubles, sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands. He had really done it now.

Fuck.

Part 19

(I know! I know! I'm sorry! The story got away from me!)