#hierarchies and the laying of hands

[veri-berri]

women. you understand

[heliosunny]

Hola!

If your doing genshin lucky eggs, could I get a Wriothesley please?

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Wriothesley x Reader

The Lucky Egg Dispenser was meant to be just that—lucky. A silly little machine promising fortune or surprise. At night, you swore you heard something shifting inside. A faint scratching, a soft tap-tap-tap against the shell. The idea of something alive in there unsettled you, yet a strange attachment formed.

Then, on the third day, it happened.

You weren’t even there to witness it fully. You had stepped away, just for a moment. Trouble had found you, as it always did. A group of men, rough and mean, had cornered you in an alley, their intentions unclear but certainly not good. You fought, struggled, but they were stronger.

crack

A rush of cold air surrounded you.

The men barely had time to scream.

When you turned back, the egg was gone. And in its place, standing over the mangled bodies, was a man.

Dark hair damp with the remnants of his birth, eyes gleaming like frostbitten steel. His hands, coated in fresh crimson. His chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

The words hovered just above him, as if the universe itself was assigning him to you. He wasn’t just some random creature that had hatched—he belonged to you.

[Name: Wriothesley] [Species: ???] [Abilities: ????]

The alley reeked of blood. The bodies lay crumpled at Wriothesley’s feet, their faces frozen in terror, throats torn open like paper.

And Wriothesley… He stood there, fresh from his hatching, the remnants of his cracked shell still at his feet, shards slick with whatever strange ichor had birthed him.

"You left me." His voice was deep, smooth like ice cracking over a frozen lake. "They tried to hurt you."

"Are you....Wriothesley? you—"

"I fixed it."

You should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done something. But you didn’t.

Fate wasn’t about to let either of you walk away so easily.

The commotion had drawn attention. Footsteps thundered down the street, voices shouting orders. The air filled with the sharp clang of weapons being drawn. Guards.

You barely had time to react before they surrounded you, their eyes darting between you and Wriothesley, to the carnage at his feet.

"Drop your weapon!" one barked.

You didn't have one. Wriothesley did. Himself.

He didn’t move, his cold stare sweeping over the guards like they were insects. For a moment, you feared he would kill them too.

But then his fingers curled around your wrist,

"I won’t let them take you."

"We can’t fight them all."

He didn’t want to let go. But the odds were stacked against you, and even he knew it. Slowly, he lifted his hands, though his grip on you never loosened.

The guards seized you both, shackling your wrists with cold, heavy iron. Wriothesley let them—for now. But as they dragged you toward the looming silhouette of the Fortress of Meropide, his voice brushed against your ear.

"This isn’t the end" he whispered. "You’re mine. No matter where they take us."

You shivered—not from the cold, not from fear, but from the certainty in his words.

This prison wasn’t your punishment.

It was his territory.

They dumped you both in like criminals, though only one of you had actually killed someone. You should have been terrified. The prison was deep beneath the ocean, its towering iron gates swallowing you whole as you were processed, stripped of anything valuable, and shoved into the main halls where prisoners loitered, eyes watching like hungry wolves.

The first few days were tense.

The prison had its own hierarchy—dangerous men who prowled like predators, others who merely tried to survive. You could feel the weight of their stares, assessing, testing. A few got too close, murmuring crude comments, trying to see if you’d flinch.

But you had him.

Wriothesley never left your side. Despite the loose prison uniform draped over his body, he carried himself like he belonged here—like he owned the place. His presence alone was enough to make most prisoners hesitate.

Well… Wriothesley had no qualms about breaking a few bones.

The first man to try and corner you learned that the hard way. A single glance from Wriothesley sent him to his knees, gasping, clutching his wrist at an unnatural angle.

After that, people kept their distance.

At night, when the dim lanterns flickered, you lay in your assigned cell, Wriothesley’s back pressed against the cold wall beside you. He watched you in silence.

"You don’t have to protect me all the time"

"Yes, I do."

You woke to the scent of iron. It clung to the damp prison air, sharp enough to make your stomach turn.

Blinking against the dim light, your vision adjusted to the sight before you— Wriothesley sat at the edge of the cell, his broad back turned toward you. His loose prison shirt was drenched in crimson, sticking to his skin. Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling onto the cold stone floor. It wasn’t his.

“Wriothesley…?”

At the sound of your voice, he turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his face. His sharp features were calm, as if he had simply gone for a midnight stroll instead of painting the floor red. His knuckles were bruised, his sleeves rolled up, and there was a fresh cut along his collarbone.

He had stayed up all night.

Your gut twisted. This prison was dangerous, but how many threats had he already erased before they could even reach you?

“Did someone try something?” you asked cautiously, sitting up.

His lips curled slightly. “They were considering it.”

Your fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath you. You should have felt uneasy, but you didn’t. He had done this for you. And you weren’t the type to just ignore that.

“Stay still” you murmured, shifting closer.

His eyes followed you with quiet amusement as you reached for the cloth tucked near the water basin in the corner. Dipping it into the cold water, you wrung it out before gently pressing it against the bloodstains on his arm. The warmth of his skin contrasted against the sticky, drying blood, but Wriothesley didn’t flinch. He simply watched, silent and accepting, as you cleaned him up.

“You don’t have to do this” he said after a moment.

“I know”

But it felt like the right thing to do.

“You take care of me, and I take care of you. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away. The truth was, you didn’t know if fairness had anything to do with it anymore. You weren’t sure when—if—you’d ever get out of here. But Wriothesley? He didn’t seem concerned.

To him, it didn’t matter where you were, as long as he was with you.

If this place unsettled you, he’d fix it.

And the first step?

Establishing dominance.

“We need people” Wriothesley mused, stretching his fingers, the remnants of blood cracking along his knuckles. “Loyal ones. If you’re uncomfortable here, I’ll change that. But I need men under me first.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“By showing them what happens when they don’t follow me.”

Wriothesley was patient, like a wolf stalking prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The first step was simple: make a statement.

The bodies from last night had already sent a message, but words faded fast in a place like this. Strength had to be reinforced. And so, the next morning, Wriothesley found his first target—Orin.

Orin was a brute. Thick-necked, cruel-eyed, and one of the self-proclaimed big names in the prison. He controlled a handful of men, ruled over the food lines, and made sure the weak stayed weak. The type who thought himself untouchable.

Until Wriothesley put him on his knees.

It happened in the middle of the mess hall. A calculated move—right where everyone could see. Orin had swaggered up to you, muttering something under his breath, but he never got to finish the sentence.

One second, Orin was standing tall, smirking. The next, he was choking on his own breath, Wriothesley’s fingers clamped tight around his throat, forcing him down onto the grimy floor. The entire hall froze.

“Didn’t quite hear you”

Orin’s face darkened as he struggled, but Wriothesley held firm. The power imbalance was clear. He wasn’t just showing off strength—he was proving a point.

Silence stretched before Wriothesley leaned in and whispered something in Orin’s ear. You didn’t hear the words, but whatever he said made the man’s face drain of all color.

When Wriothesley finally let go, Orin stumbled back, gasping, his hands trembling. He didn’t fight back. Didn’t even speak. Just left.

After that, the whispers started.

No one wanted to challenge the man who took down Orin like he was nothing. Some men even approached Wriothesley afterward, subtly seeking protection, offering favors.

By the end of the day, he had a small following.

By the end of the week, he had control over the food lines.

And by the end of the month, Wriothesley wasn’t just another prisoner—he was someone in here.

Someone feared.

Someone who owned this place.

And through it all, he stayed by your side.

“You don’t need to worry anymore” he murmured one night, “No one will touch you. Not while I’m here.”

Even with Wriothesley’s presence looming like an unshakable shadow, you couldn’t ignore the way prison life slowly wore you down. The cold air, the damp walls, the constant tension—it was exhausting. Every step felt like treading carefully over thin ice, never knowing when it might crack beneath you.

Wriothesley made things easier, sure. But he wasn’t always by your side.

Lately, he had been busy. Busy building something. You knew what he was doing—gathering men, establishing his power, shaping the prison to fit his rules. He had a vision for this place, one where you wouldn’t have to worry.

But you did.

Because even if you were under his protection, you were still here. And the weight of that fact sat heavy in your chest.

So you took some time for yourself.

You wandered through the prison halls, avoiding trouble where you could, dodging the curious glances. You tried to focus on adjusting, getting used to the food, the routine, the idea that this place might be your life for a long time.

And when exhaustion took over, you finally decided to do something you should have done days ago.

You checked the status board.

Bringing up the system wasn’t hard—it flickered to life the moment you willed it to appear. And just like before, Wriothesley’s name was displayed at the top.

[Name: Wriothesley] [Species: ???]

But there were new things listed now.

[Abilities Unlocked: - Dominance (Passive): Influence over others grows stronger through intimidation and power. - Territorial Instinct (Active): Establishes a ‘domain’ where physical abilities are enhanced. - Tracking (Active): Can sense and locate wanted individual at all times.]

That last one

“Found you.”

His hair was slightly damp, as if he had been moving fast. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing bruised knuckles and the faint traces of a fresh fight. But more than that, there was something intense in the way he looked at you.

Like a hunter who had just found what he was chasing.

“Where were you?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I just needed some space.”

"You should've told me."

"I don't have to tell you everything."

He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep his patience. “Maybe not everything. But when you disappear, I will find you.”

“...You were looking for me?”

“I’ll always look for you.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. The weight of everything—the tension, the exhaustion, the sheer stress of surviving in this place—pressed down on you all at once. And now, on top of it all, Wriothesley was here, standing too close, acting like you had done something wrong just by stepping away for a moment.

"You need to stop" you said flatly, eyes meeting his.

"Stop what?"

"This. Acting like I need to be under your watch every second."

"I was looking for you."

"And I didn’t need you to." Your voice came out sharper than intended, irritation creeping in. "I just wanted some space, and instead, I find out you've been hunting me down like I went missing. Do you even hear yourself?"

His lips parted slightly, but you didn’t give him the chance to respond.

"You’re so damn focused on controlling everything around you, making sure nothing touches me, but have you even considered how suffocating that is?" You took a step closer, eyes burning into his. "I’m already dealing with enough as it is—being stuck in this place, trying to figure out how to keep myself together. The last thing I need is you breathing down my neck."

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "...Fine."

That was it. No excuses, no justification. Just a single word.

You studied his face, looking for any trace of mockery, but there was none.

You should have felt victorious. Instead, all that anger left you drained.

"I'm going back."

"To where?"

"Our cell." You rubbed your temple, fatigue settling deep in your bones. "I need sleep."

By the time you collapsed onto the hard prison bed, your body ached for rest. You barely reacted when Wriothesley sat down on the other end, leaning against the wall.

"You’re not going anywhere, are you?" you muttered, voice heavy with exhaustion.

"Not unless you tell me to."

You didn’t have the energy to reply. Within seconds, the world faded into darkness.

When you woke up, the exhaustion that had weighed you down for days finally loosened its grip. Your mind felt clearer, body lighter. For the first time since being thrown into this place, you didn’t feel like you were running on the edge of collapse.

You sat up, stretching out the stiffness from your limbs. Across the cell, Wriothesley sat exactly where you left him, leaning against the wall with his eyes half-lidded.

Standing up, you ran a hand through your hair. "I'm going to eat"

Wriothesley immediately shifted, ready to stand.

"Alone" you added firmly, shooting him a look before he could even open his mouth.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared, searching your expression for any room to argue.

You held firm. "Stay here."

"...Alright."

You half-expected him to follow anyway, but to your mild surprise, he didn’t.

With that, you left.

The meal was nothing special. Just the same stale food, the same dull murmurs of prisoners eyeing each other across the hall, the same tension that never fully faded. But at least you got a moment to yourself.

By the time you returned to the cell, your body felt settled. But the moment you stepped in, you stopped short.

Wriothesley was still there.

Still kneeling.

On both knees.

Right where you left him.

His head was slightly bowed, hands resting on his thighs, his entire form eerily still. Like a loyal dog waiting for its owner to come home. The sight would have been unsettling if not for the way his shoulders were slightly tense, the way his fingers curled subtly as if restraining himself.

You took a slow step forward. "You—”

His head snapped up the moment he heard your voice, eyes locking onto you like a desperate, guilty puppy that had been caught after making a mess.

"You're still kneeling?" you asked, your voice softer than before.

"You told me to stay"

"I didn’t tell you to kneel like this the whole time."

"You didn’t tell me not to" he countered, but his voice lacked any bite. If anything, there was a strange mix of guilt and uncertainty in it.

You stared at him for a long moment. Despite everything—despite his strength, his violence, his cold control over the prison—right now, he looked like nothing more than a scolded dog.

Your resolve wavered.

"...I didn’t mean to be so harsh earlier" you admitted, shifting awkwardly. "I was just—tired. Angry."

"Get up already."

For the first time since you returned, something in his shoulders relaxed. He rose smoothly to his feet, still watching you carefully, as if unsure of where you stood with him.

You shook your head, crossing your arms. "Next time, just sit like a normal person."

"...If that's what you want"

You looked away, feeling something uneasy settle in your chest. This man—this person who had torn through the prison hierarchy with his bare hands—had been sitting there, waiting for you like this the entire time.

You weren't sure how to feel about that.

But for now, you let it go.

"Come on" you muttered, finally stepping further inside. "Let's just rest."

----

It happened fast.

One moment, you were just moving through the prison halls, minding your own business. The next, a rough hand clamped over your mouth, and your body was dragged into the shadows before you could react.

A fist slammed into your stomach. Pain shot through you like fire, knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could even recover, another hit followed—a sharp blow to your ribs, sending you to your knees.

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to lift your head.

Three men. No—four.

They stood over you, sneering. You recognized them—part of another faction in the prison, one that had been growing restless ever since Wriothesley started taking control. They hadn’t dared to act before.

But now, they had you.

"Bet he’ll come running" one of them chuckled, crouching down to grab your chin roughly. "Let’s see how tough he is when his little pet gets put through hell, huh?"

You glared up at him, refusing to show fear. But inside, a cold weight settled in your chest.

They were right about one thing.

He would come.

Wriothesley had been busy.

Establishing order in a place like this took effort. Negotiations, displays of power, making sure his growing influence didn’t slip the moment he turned his back.

But then, the whispers started.

"They got Y/N." "Ain’t looking good—think they’re gonna rough ‘em up bad." "Wriothesley’s gonna lose it."

The moment he heard your name, everything else ceased to matter.

He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand details.

He went alone.

The gang barely had time to react before Wriothesley stepped into view, his presence swallowing the space like a storm.

His knuckles were already cracking.

"You."

The leader of the group barely had time to smirk before Wriothesley moved.

The first punch landed so hard it sent a man crashing into the wall with a sickening crack. Before he could even hit the ground, Wriothesley was already onto the next, driving his fist straight into his gut, lifting him off the floor before slamming him down.

The others scrambled back, but it was too late.

One by one, he tore through them. Bone crunched under his fists. Blood splattered against the cold stone. Their screams echoed through the halls, but no one came to help.

By the time the last man fell—gasping, barely conscious—Wriothesley stood among the wreckage, his breathing slow, controlled. His knuckles dripped red.

And then—his eyes found you.

Without hesitation, he crouched down, hands hovering near you, hesitant for the first time that night.

"...Did they break anything?"

You winced slightly, shaking your head. "Nothing serious."

"You’re hurt."

You sighed, giving him a tired look. "And you just crushed a bunch of guys with your bare hands."

Wriothesley didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached out, carefully wiping away a trace of blood from your lip with his thumb.

"...They won’t touch you again."

And judging by the bodies around you, you believed him.

The next day, the entire atmosphere in the prison shifted.

Word of what Wriothesley had done spread fast—how he had taken down four men alone without breaking a sweat. But what came next was what truly cemented his rule.

He made them clean. Bruised, broken, and still limping, those same men who had laid their hands on you were now scrubbing the floors, wiping down the filthy walls, and polishing every rusted bar until they gleamed.

The mess hall, the corridors, even the corners everyone ignored—he had them working like dogs under his watchful eye.

When you saw it happening, disbelief flickered through you. The place had been a decaying wreck for as long as you'd been here—dirt-streaked walls, the constant stink of sweat and grime. Now, the floors were shining, the air clearer. It was almost surreal.

You leaned against the wall, watching as one of the men wiped down a row of benches with shaky hands. Wriothesley stood nearby, arms crossed, his eyes locked onto them with cold detachment.

"Didn’t think you’d care about something like this"

His head turned slightly, gaze flicking to you.

"You like things clean."

"You… did all this just because of that?"

"If we're going to be stuck here... it might as well feel like home."

Even after everything. Even after clawing his way to the top of this place, breaking bones and spilling blood—he was still the same creature that had hatched from that egg, bound to you by something neither of you fully understood.

You looked away, pretending the warmth rising to your face wasn’t there.

"...It’s not bad."

"You’ll like it better when it’s done."

You hated how easily he could disarm you with simple gestures like this. How he could make you feel safe even in a place like this.

But maybe that was just what he was meant to be.

A protector.

Later that night, when the whole prison finally settled into uneasy silence, you caught Wriothesley watching the clean walls with a small, almost satisfied smirk—like he had carved out something just for you in this pit.

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you curled up in the makeshift bed, feeling the faint scent of soap lingering in the air, and let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe this hellhole could become something close to home.

If he kept his promise.

The air in the cell was quieter than usual. The faint scent of soap still lingered from the forced cleaning earlier, and for once, the place actually looked livable. You wouldn't call it comfortable, but compared to what it had been before, it was a damn improvement.

You exhaled, stretching your sore limbs before sitting on the edge of the bed. The events of the day weighed on you—your body still ached from the earlier fight, but at least you could breathe without feeling the grime of the prison clinging to your skin.

"Wriothesley....You’re staring"

"I worked hard today" he said plainly.

You glanced up at him. "And?"

"I deserve a prize."

"A prize?"

Wriothesley stepped closer, his movements slow but deliberate. The space between you shrank until he was right in front of you.

"You like it, don’t you?" he murmured, "The clean floors. The fresh air. I did that for you."

"You made a bunch of guys do it for me" you corrected.

"Same thing."

"What do you want, Wriothesley?"

"Something from you."

His hand reached out, fingers grazing the underside of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

The heat radiating from him felt suffocating, his presence swallowing all the space around you. But what unsettled you most was the look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for you to understand something he hadn’t said out loud.

"You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me" he murmured, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you."

"Doesn’t that mean I deserve a little something?"

"...What are you asking for?"

"You’ll figure it out."

His hand lingered for a moment longer, before he finally pulled away, as if giving you the chance to decide.

Days passed, but Wriothesley’s words still lingered in your mind.

"I deserve a prize."

You hated how it stuck with you—how every time he looked at you, there was that quiet, expectant patience. Like he was waiting.

You had tried ignoring it. Acting like it never happened. But Wriothesley wasn’t the type to forget. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, but that made it even worse. Because the longer you didn’t acknowledge it, the more it felt like he was winning without even trying.

So instead of giving in, you distracted yourself.

The status board had been something you hadn’t checked much since ending up in this place, but with no other way to escape your thoughts, you finally pulled it up.

The glowing screen hovered before you, listing various stats—yours, Wriothesley’s, and even a shop tab you hadn’t noticed before.

Curious, you scrolled through it.

There were items—strange ones, some practical, some completely useless. But what stood out the most was that there was no listed currency. No gold, credits, or anything that made sense.

"Then how the hell do you buy things…?"

Your eyes flicked over the options, barely reading before your finger accidentally tapped on one.

—[Collar + Chain] Purchased.—

The moment the message popped up, a sudden weight jerked in your hand.

Cold metal. A chain.

And at the other end—

Wriothesley stood in the doorway. The black collar wrapped snugly around his throat, a sleek silver chain extending from it—straight into your grip. You both stared at each other.

"...Well," he finally murmured, voice lower than usual. "You should’ve just told me."

Your mind screeched to a halt. "What—"

"You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?" He took a slow step forward, the chain shifting slightly, the tension between you tightening.

"I—this isn’t—"

He didn’t look upset. Not at all.

"You picked this" he reminded.

"You think I picked it—"

"You did pick it" he corrected, and this time, there was a slight curve to his lips—something satisfied.

Like you had just unknowingly handed him his prize.

And worst of all?

You still hadn’t let go of the chain.

The situation was getting worse.

Wriothesley’s fingers lazily traced the collar around his neck, his expression unreadable but undeniably smug. The chain still dangled from your grip, the cold metal far heavier than it had any right to be.

You needed to get it off. Now.

Your fingers fumbled, desperately trying to find a way to remove it through the status board, but nothing was working. Worse, from the outside, it must’ve looked like you were adjusting the collar on his throat—your hands moving over his skin, the chain shifting as you struggled.

The cell door creaked open.

A man stepped in, looking utterly confused at the sight before him.

You—practically pressed against Wriothesley, hands on his throat. Wriothesley—staring at you with an expression that could only be described as possessive satisfaction.

To anyone else, it was exactly what it looked like.

Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. The temperature in the room plummeted. The way he turned his head, the slow, deliberate shift of his jaw—everything about Wriothesley in that moment reeked of murder. Like he had just been rudely interrupted in the middle of something sacred and was now considering bloodshed.

Before Wriothesley could so much as move, you frantically signaled the man to get out. Your wide eyes and sharp hand gestures practically screamed— "You saw nothing. LEAVE. NOW."

The man bolted. Smart choice.

You let out a breath before finally managing to erase the damn collar, the chain disappearing from your grip like it had never been there.

Relief flooded through you—only to be ripped away when Wriothesley suddenly leaned in, his lips pressed against yours.

It wasn’t a slow, teasing kiss—it was punishment. Payback for making him look like that. For removing what he had already accepted as his.

"That," he murmured, smirking, "was for taking my prize away."

Wriothesley just looked at you, utterly pleased.

You had no idea if you had won this round—or if he had just claimed something even worse.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 10) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Lewis had always been a man who controlled his environment—every variable calculated, every contingency planned for, every outcome anticipated. It was how he'd survived twelve years in a world where most operators barely lasted five. It was how he'd built an empire from nothing while others with family connections and inherited power had fallen.

But standing in the sprawling pool house of Salvatore Ricci's estate, watching snow flurries dance against the darkening November sky, Lewis was acutely aware of how many variables now lay beyond his control.

The call had come three days after Naomi and Miles had been close to identifying exactly who was feeding information to Suarez; Salvatore's demand interrupted their progress—his daughter was to return to New York immediately. There was no negotiation, no discussion, just a father's edict delivered with the absolute certainty of a man accustomed to universal compliance.

"My daughter returns home where she belongs," Salvatore had said, his voice carrying that particular blend of paternal concern and barely veiled threat that had built his reputation across three decades. "My territory, my protection. This is not a request, Hamilton."

Lewis had wanted to refuse. Every tactical instinct screamed that moving you across international borders while an active threat remained unidentified was a risk not worth taking. But Paolo had privately confirmed what Lewis had already suspected—Salvatore's "request" carried implications far beyond simple family reunion. It was a test of Lewis's understanding of power dynamics in their new alliance, a measuring of whether the British operator appreciated the delicate balance between respect and independence.

"Careful, my friend," Paolo had warned. "This is not just about her safety. It's about hierarchies that predate your involvement."

So here they were, installed in the pool house of the Ricci estate—a "compromise" that Salvatore had presented as generous accommodation of Lewis's desire for operational independence while keeping you under the umbrella of Ricci family protection. The pool house itself was larger than most luxury apartments, equipped with every comfort and convenience, including private security systems that Lewis had personally enhanced upon arrival.

The French doors leading to the hot tub steamed slightly in the cold air, the contrast between the heated water and November chill creating a ghostly veil that seemed appropriate for your current situation—existing between worlds, neither fully in Ricci territory nor fully independent of it.

"You've been staring at those trees for twenty minutes," your voice came from behind him, pulling Lewis from his thoughts. "I'm starting to think you're trying to burn holes through them with your mind."

Lewis turned, taking in the sight of you wrapped in one of his sweaters that hung nearly to your knees, a mug of something steaming held between your hands. The simple domesticity of the image created an unfamiliar tightness in his chest—a reaction he'd been trying to control with limited success since Scotland.

"Just checking the sightlines," he replied with a half-smile. "Your father's security team has cameras pointing at us from at least three spots in those bare trees."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, casually bumping your shoulder against his arm. "Ah, classic Ricci trust issues in their natural habitat. He doesn't spy because he thinks we're up to anything. He just can't stand not knowing everything."

"Smart man," Lewis said, allowing his hand to rest lightly on your lower back. "Information is survival."

"Says the guy who has Miles sweeping for bugs twice a day," you countered with a laugh. "I've seen him crawling under furniture with those weird little devices."

Lewis didn't deny it. "That's different—"

"I know, I know. It's not personal distrust, it's professional necessity," you finished, your eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've heard that one before."

Something about your easy teasing made it increasingly difficult for Lewis to maintain the careful distance he'd built his reputation on. Every day, the strategic arrangement that had defined your marriage's beginning felt more distant, replaced by something he wasn't yet prepared to name.

"Miles is coming after dinner," he said, shifting to more practical matters. "He's got some leads on which member of my security team has been talking to Suarez."

"How's he liking the servant quarters?" you asked, curling up on the plush couch with your legs tucked beneath you. "I'm sure it's quite the downgrade from your usual accommodations."

Lewis smiled despite himself. "He texted me this morning saying, 'Mate, these "servant quarters" are nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, and your father-in-law stocks the good whiskey.'"

Your laugh warmed something in Lewis that had been cold for longer than he cared to admit. "Papa probably doesn't know what to make of him."

"Few people do," Lewis agreed, finally moving from the window to join you on the couch, though he left a small gap between you. "People underestimate what's behind that charm."

"Like they do with you," you said, studying his face. "Except you use that whole stoic, controlled thing instead of charm."

The observation was accurate in a way that still occasionally caught him off guard. You had a knack for seeing past his carefully constructed walls.

"Different approaches to the same goal," he acknowledged. "Miles learned to put people at ease while getting what he needs. I learned to plan for every scenario."

"You rarely ever talk about your military days," you said, curious but careful.

Lewis considered how much to share. His military career was something he rarely discussed, not out of secrecy but from habit of keeping parts of his life separate. But something about you had been breaking down those barriers.

"Special operations," he said finally. "Miles and I were in Afghanistan, sometimes places we officially weren't supposed to be."

"And unofficially?" you prompted, trying to sound casual but clearly interested.

"We handled situations when diplomacy failed," Lewis said simply. "Miles gathered intelligence from people. I planned how to use it."

"That explains a lot," you said thoughtfully. "About both of you."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Miles is so good with people because that's how he survived. Reading what makes them tick." You took a sip from your mug before continuing. "And you plan for absolutely everything because that's how you kept people alive. Control as a survival thing."

The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Few people had ever connected those dots about his past and present.

"We were good at it," Lewis said simply. "Until we weren't."

"What happened?" you asked, your voice gentle.

Lewis rarely discussed Kabul. The mission that had ended his military career was a wound that had scarred over but never fully healed. Yet something about the moment made the story easier to tell.

"Operation went wrong in Kabul," he said evenly. "Bad intelligence. We were sent to extract a high-value target who was supposedly willing to give us information, but it was a setup."

You remained quiet, giving him space to continue.

"We lost three men in the first five minutes. Miles noticed something off about a supposedly 'friendly' checkpoint. His instincts saved who was left, but we still had to fight our way out across fourteen kilometers of hostile territory."

The memories were still vivid—the smell of dust and blood, the sound of gunfire echoing through narrow streets.

"Miles took a bullet to the shoulder. I took three in the leg," Lewis continued, his hand unconsciously moving to his thigh where the scars remained. "Medical discharge for both of us. The operation was classified, erased from the records, and we were told to find new careers."

"Told?" you repeated, catching the euphemism.

"We could either keep quiet and take a payout, or face charges for things that officially never happened," Lewis clarified. "The government needed deniability. We needed to disappear."

"So you built new lives," you concluded. "Miles with his charm, you with your planning. Same skills, different world."

"Yes," Lewis acknowledged. "Though in many ways, our current world is more honest about its brutality."

You moved closer, eliminating the gap between you on the couch. "Thank you," you said simply. "For telling me."

Lewis found himself taking your hand, a gesture that felt increasingly natural despite his usual aversion to casual contact. "Not a story I share often."

"I know," you replied, your fingers lacing with his. "That's why it matters that you did."

The implication hung between you—the growing trust, the boundaries falling, the strategic arrangement evolving into something neither of you had anticipated.

The moment was interrupted by Lewis's phone buzzing with a text from Miles: Heading over in 30. Found something in those financial trails. Also, your father-in-law invited me to Sophia's birthday dinner tomorrow. Should I be worried?

Lewis showed you the message, watching your expression shift to amused concern.

"Poor Miles," you laughed. "Sophia's going to eat him alive. She's been changing her birthday plans every day since we got here."

"How's she handling the scaled-down celebration?" Lewis asked, genuinely curious about your sister's adjustment to the security constraints.

Your expression softened with affection. "Better than I expected, honestly. Finding out there might be international crime lords after the family has actually toned down her dramatics. She's settled for a small gathering at the house instead of the club event she'd been planning forever."

"Eighteen is a big deal," Lewis observed. "Even with everything else going on."

"In the Ricci family, it's practically sacred," you confirmed. "The formal 'you're an adult now' moment, though Sophia's been acting like she's grown since she was about twelve. I'm glad we made it back for her birthday, even if the reasons are... complicated."

The mention of your return to New York brought Lewis's attention back to the tactical situation. Salvatore's demand had coincided with intelligence suggesting Suarez's surveillance of your movements had intensified, with the added complication of still not knowing exactly which member of Lewis's security team had been compromised.

"Any word on when your father plans to move on De Garza?" Lewis asked, shifting to operational concerns.

Your expression grew more serious. "Paolo says he's gathering final evidence. Wants everything in place first. You know how Papa works—big dramatic justice moment for maximum impact."

Lewis did indeed understand. Salvatore Ricci's approach to betrayal was almost ritualistic—carefully staged confrontations that served as warnings to anyone else considering similar disloyalty. Different from Lewis's own preference for quick, clinical elimination of threats, but effective in its own way.

"Your father has asked me to be there when it happens," Lewis noted, still uncertain about the implications. "Unusual for him to include outsiders in family business."

"You're not an outsider anymore," you said simply. "Not to him. Asking you to be part of De Garza's judgment is his way of acknowledging where you stand."

Lewis considered this. "As your husband."

"As family," you corrected. "Which in my world means more than just paperwork. He's bringing you into the inner circle."

The observation aligned with Lewis's own assessment, though hearing it directly brought the implications into sharper focus. Accepting Salvatore's invitation meant acknowledging certain traditional power dynamics that Lewis had always avoided—family loyalty above strategic advantage, ritual above efficiency, tradition above innovation.

Yet he recognized the necessity. New York was Ricci territory, and certain concessions to Salvatore's methods were both tactically sound and strategically advantageous for the longer-term alliance.

"I'll be there when he's ready," Lewis decided. "But I'm going to handle Suarez and our leak my own way."

"That's fair," you agreed. "Papa respects clear boundaries when you're upfront about them. It's when things are fuzzy that he can't deal."

The conversation shifted to more immediate concerns as you both prepared for Miles's arrival, but Lewis found his thoughts returning to the evolving dynamics of your relationship—both with him and within your family structure.

The woman who had entered his life as a strategic alliance was proving far more complex and compelling than any arrangement could have anticipated. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life was eroding in ways that both concerned and intrigued him. Each day brought new variables beyond his control, yet he found himself increasingly unwilling to restore the boundaries that would reinstate that control.

It was... unsettling. And strangely exhilarating.

Snow kept falling outside. The bare trees were now covered in white, shining under the security lights around the property. Winter had arrived in New York, bringing familiar patterns and possibility for new beginnings.

Miles arrived right on time, his natural charm making the tactical intelligence briefing feel almost casual as the three of you settled in the pool house's living area.

"Financial traces definitely lead back to Petrov's network," Miles confirmed, spreading documents across the coffee table. "He's using shell companies to pay someone in our security division. The pattern matches his usual methods. He's actually being less careful than normal, which suggests he wants us to know it's him."

"Aleksei Petrov doesn't get sloppy," Lewis noted, studying the transaction records carefully. "If we can see his involvement, it's because he wants us to."

"The question is why," you added, leaning forward to examine the papers. "What's the gain from letting us know he's working with Suarez?"

"Gets in our heads," Miles suggested. "Makes us divide our attention between finding the mole and watching for him."

Lewis nodded. "Classic diversion. Create multiple threats at once, stretch our resources, then exploit the weaknesses."

"Have we narrowed down who's selling us out?" you asked Miles while casually leaning against Lewis's shoulder.

"Down to three possibilities," Miles confirmed. "All had access to the compromised protocols, all showing weird money movements in the last six months."

"Names?" Lewis asked, mentally reviewing potential connections.

"Davis, Hernandez, and Cruz," Miles replied, sliding personnel files across the table. "All cleared when you hired them, all clean until recently, all positioned to access the systems when the breaches happened."

Lewis studied the files, calculating possibilities with practiced precision. "Cruz worked Lagos operations before London. Possible connection to Suarez's Nigerian distributors."

"Already checking that angle," Miles confirmed. "Hernandez has been hiding some health issues—big medical debts that magically disappeared three months ago."

"And Davis?" you prompted, picking up the third file.

"Former military intelligence, perfect record," Miles said with a hint of personal connection. "Served in our region, different unit. Honorable discharge after getting hurt. No obvious weak spots, but had access to everything that was compromised."

Lewis considered each possibility methodically. "We need proof before we move. Keep watching all three, but focus resources on Hernandez. Medical debts are the most obvious pressure point."

"Already on it," Miles assured him. "Naomi's team is tracking their communications in real time. We should know for sure within forty-eight hours."

The tactical discussion continued as plans formed and contingencies were established, the three of you working with the easy cooperation that came from shared understanding of both threats and objectives. By the time Miles departed back to the main house, a clear path forward had emerged despite the complications of operating from Ricci territory rather than Lewis's own secured locations.

*******************************************

Later that night, as snow continued to fall outside, Lewis found himself drawn to the hot tub on the pool house's private deck. The steam rising from the heated water created an otherworldly effect against the darkened sky, the snow melting instantly as it touched the surface. A strange counterpoint of elements that somehow seemed appropriate to his current circumstances.

He had just settled into the water, the heat easing the persistent ache in his leg where old bullet wounds protested against the winter chill, when he heard the sliding door open behind him.

"Room for one more?" you asked, wrapped in a robe against the cold air.

Lewis felt that now-familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of you—hair in its natural curly state and in a low bun, face free of makeup, eyes reflecting the soft lighting from the pool house behind you. A version of yourself few ever saw.

"Always," he replied simply, watching as you slipped the robe from your shoulders to reveal a black barely-there bikini. The sight sent heat through him that had nothing to do with the water's temperature.

You slid into the water across from him, sighing as the warmth enveloped you. "I forgot how brutal New York winters can be," you said, sinking deeper until the water reached your shoulders. "Scotland was cold, but this hits different."

"Damp cold versus dry cold," Lewis observed. "Different physiological response."

Your laugh echoed in the night air. "Only you would analyze the scientific properties of being cold."

"Habit," Lewis acknowledged with a small smile. "Hard to turn off."

"I've noticed," you replied, but your tone was affectionate rather than critical. "Though you're getting better at it. The Lewis Hamilton I met in London would never be sitting in a hot tub talking about the weather."

The assessment was accurate. Since Scotland—since you—certain rigid patterns that had defined his existence for years had begun shifting in subtle but significant ways. The control that had been both his greatest strength and his most impenetrable barrier was... evolving.

"Different situations call for different approaches," he said simply.

You moved through the water toward him, settling beside him rather than maintaining the distance across the tub. "Is that what I am? A different situation?"

The question cut to the heart of what was developing between you—the strategic arrangement that had begun your relationship now transformed into something neither of you had named but both increasingly acknowledged in small actions and quiet moments.

"You're..." Lewis paused, searching for the right words. "More complicated than that."

"Complicated," you repeated with a smile. "Not exactly what every girl dreams of hearing."

"But accurate," Lewis replied, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. "What started as strategic has become... personal in ways I hadn't expected."

"The great Lewis Hamilton, faced with something he didn't plan for," you teased, though something serious lingered in your eyes. "How do you even cope?"

"I'm adapting," he admitted, finding honesty easier in the steam-wrapped privacy of the moment. "And finding unexpected value in the surprise."

Your expression softened. "Value, huh? At least I've been upgraded from 'complicated' to 'valuable.'"

Lewis found himself smiling—another change you had gradually worked in him. "Always precise with language."

"Some precision is overrated," you suggested, moving closer until your thigh pressed against his beneath the water. "Sometimes it's better to... improvise."

The implication hung between you, heavy with meaning beyond the words themselves. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life—the control that had defined his reputation and ensured his survival—becoming increasingly difficult to justify when faced with the growing connection between you.

"Improvisation has its merits," he acknowledged, his hand finding yours beneath the water, fingers intertwining with natural ease.

You studied him for a moment, your perception cutting through his careful composure as it increasingly tended to do. "You've been pulling back since we got to New York."

The observation caught him off guard—another demonstration of how effectively you'd learned to read him despite his lifetime of practiced control.

"Not pulling back," Lewis clarified after a moment's thought. "Reevaluating. Being on your father's territory changes things."

"This isn't about my father," you said with quiet certainty. "This is about you being afraid of what's happening between us."

The directness of the assessment was uncomfortable precisely because it contained elements of truth Lewis wasn't yet prepared to fully examine. The connection developing between you had progressed far beyond strategic alliance into territory he had carefully avoided throughout his professional life—genuine attachment with its accompanying vulnerabilities.

"I wouldn't call it fear," he said finally. "Caution, maybe. In our world, personal attachment creates potential weaknesses."

"Or strengths," you countered, squeezing his hand beneath the water. "Have you considered that?"

The concept wasn't entirely foreign to Lewis's strategic thinking—alliances had always been part of his operational approach. But this was different. This was personal in ways that defied tactical calculation, emotional in dimensions he had deliberately avoided since leaving military service.

"It complicates things," he said, the admission costing him more than it should have.

"The best things usually do," you replied, your free hand coming up to rest against his cheek. "But that doesn't mean they're not worth it."

The touch of your palm against his face, warm from the heated water, broke something in Lewis's carefully maintained control. His arm slid around your waist, drawing you closer against him as his mouth found yours in a kiss that carried nothing of strategic calculation and everything of genuine desire.

You responded immediately, your body molding against his as the kiss deepened, your hands sliding into his braids as his tightened at your waist. The steam from the hot tub enveloped you both, creating a world apart from tactical considerations and operational necessities, a space where only this connection mattered.

When Lewis finally pulled back, both of you breathing harder, his forehead rested against yours. "We should go inside," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "It's getting cold."

The practical suggestion carried deeper implication, and you studied his face carefully. "Are you sure? You've been keeping some distance since we got here."

"Some battles aren't worth fighting," Lewis admitted, his hand coming up to touch your face with careful tenderness. "Even for me."

Your smile in response was warm and knowing. "Finally something we completely agree on."

Inside the pool house, the warmth enveloped you both as water droplets fell to the floor. Lewis reached for towels, handing one to you with practiced efficiency that couldn't quite mask the heat in his gaze. The memory of Scotland—of that night when his careful control had finally broken completely—flooded back unbidden, sending heat through you that had nothing to do with the hot tub.

"You're thinking about Scotland," Lewis observed, his perception as acute as ever despite his own evident distraction.

"How can you tell?" you asked, though the warmth in your cheeks probably answered the question.

Lewis's smile held dangerous promise. "Your expression. The same one you had that night in the library when I—"

"Yes," you interrupted, the heat intensifying at the reminder. "That night."

His eyes darkened slightly, pupils dilating in a way that suggested his mind had gone to the same memory. "You've been... restless since we arrived in New York."

"Restless is one word for it," you agreed, moving closer despite the towel still wrapped around your shoulders. "Sexually frustrated might be more accurate."

"Patience has never been your strong suit," Lewis replied, though his tone suggested he was reminding himself as much as you.

"Not a Ricci family trait," you countered, deliberately closing the distance between you until your body pressed against his. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you didn't mind my impatience in Scotland."

Lewis's hands settled at your waist, neither pulling you closer nor pushing you away—suspended in that careful control that both frustrated and fascinated you. "Scotland was different."

"Different how?" you challenged, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath damp skin. "We're still the same people."

"We're on your father's property," Lewis pointed out, though his voice had roughened slightly as your fingers traced patterns against his skin. "With his security team watching every move."

"We're in the pool house," you reminded him, leaning up to press a deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, just below his jaw where you'd learned he was particularly sensitive. "Which you've personally checked for cameras twice today."

A small sound escaped him—barely audible but deeply satisfying given his usual iron control. "You're being difficult again."

"Bratty, you mean?" you suggested with a smile against his skin, your teeth grazing gently along his collarbone. "We both know what happened last time I was bratty."

Lewis's hands tightened at your waist, a flash of something dangerous and thrilling passing through his eyes. "Is that what you're trying to provoke?"

"Obviously," you replied, holding his gaze with deliberate challenge as you stretched up to capture his mouth again, your teeth catching his lower lip in a gentle bite that drew another of those quiet sounds from him. "Is it working?"

"This is your father's house," Lewis said again, though the protest sounded weaker as your hands continued their exploration of his chest.

"We're in the pool house," you repeated, pressing kisses along his jaw between words. "A very private, very secure pool house."

Lewis's control was visibly fraying, his breathing less even, his hands less steady at your waist. "You're playing a dangerous game."

The warning, spoken in that low tone that never failed to send heat spiraling through you, nearly broke your own composure. "I did warn you," you murmured against his lips, "that I'd never take no for an answer."

"Such a brat," Lewis replied, something dark and promising entering his voice as his hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently but firmly to tilt your face up to his. "Always pushing limits."

"Only yours," you assured him, your breath catching at the deliberate control in his grip—firm enough to direct but never to hurt, exactly the way he'd held you in Scotland while his mouth...

The thought was interrupted as Lewis finally broke, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by focused desire as he backed you slowly against the wall, his body pressing yours in a way that left no doubt about how effectively your provocation had worked.

"You win," he murmured against your lips, your towel falling open in the process. He paused only to glance down at the sight of you: bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips, top snug across your chest, the towel forgotten at your feet. His hand slid lower, tracing a path that promised to recreate exactly what had happened in Scotland. "For now."

Your smile was pure triumph before it dissolved into gasps as Lewis proceeded to demonstrate that his tactical precision extended to far more interesting applications than mere security operations.

"You look like sin," he said, his voice rough as his hands traced the bare lines of your waist. "And you act worse."

You grinned, breathless. "And yet, here you are."

Lewis slid one thigh between your legs, spreading them gently, pinning you without needing to say a word. You gasped when he shifted just slightly, the pressure of his thigh against your center making your knees wobble.

"You know what I should do?" he whispered, leaning in to kiss the curve of your neck. "I should leave you like this. Wet and wanting. Learning a lesson."

"Or," you offered, rolling your hips the tiniest bit, "you could just admit you need me just as bad."

He laughed once, low and dangerous, before pulling back just enough to look down. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, slowly sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

But he didn’t go far. Just let his fingers rest there. Warm. Possessive. Teasing.

"You're soaked." His voice was quiet now, like he was marveling at it. "All this for me?"

You couldn’t answer. Not properly. Not when he dipped his fingers inside, slow and deliberate, sliding them through your folds like he had all the time in the world.

"Keep your eyes on me," he said.

You did. You had to.

He pulled his fingers free after only a few strokes and held them up in front of your face—slick, glistening, undeniable.

"Open."

You obeyed.

He slid his fingers into your mouth, slow, watching every movement as you sucked them clean.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice dropping an octave. "You're going to behave now?"

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Words."

"Yes," you whispered, dazed and aching. "Yes, Lewis."

A wicked smile curved his lips as he stepped even closer, his hard length pressing against your belly, straining through his swim trunks.

"Eyes on me," Lewis said, voice low but razor-sharp, dragging your gaze back to his as his fingers hooked the ties of your bikini bottoms and tugged them free. The air hit your skin, cool in contrast to the burn in his stare.

Fingers brushing deliberately slow over your thighs, the dip of your waist, before he undid the knot at your back, letting your top fall between you. His hands never left your body—just shifted upward, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before his mouth replaced them, warm and commanding.

He licked, kissed, and sucked at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, until your breath turned to soft whimpers. Then lower. His mouth traced a path down your stomach, slow and wet, leaving glistening trails along your brown skin that made your legs tremble.

But just as you thought he’d keep going, give you what your body was aching for, Lewis stopped.

He rose to his full height, the heat between you stretched taut. You pouted without thinking, your lips pressing together in visible disappointment.

He chuckled darkly, rubbing a thumb across your lower lip as he stepped back, nodding toward the floor. "Let’s put that smart mouth to use."

Heat rushed through you. You knelt slowly, spreading the towel out beneath you for cushion, eyes never leaving his.

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking your cheek with a knuckle. Then came the next instruction, smooth and clear: "Untie my shorts."

Your fingers worked the drawstring, slow, trembling slightly with anticipation as you tugged his trunks down just enough. Your breath caught at the sight of him—hard, thick, heavy in your hand.

"Open your mouth for me."

You obeyed instantly, lips parting.

But instead of giving you what you craved, he hovered the tip just above your lips, skimming it across with maddening control. He cooed at the sight of you, eyes dark with amusement and arousal. "Look how pretty you are like this," he said, low and fond and wrecking you. "Lips all soft and parted, waiting so sweet."

Your thighs pressed together for relief, and still he didn’t relent. Just held himself there, letting the heat between you build.

You were dying for him. But at the same time, you were savoring every second—every inch of dominance he poured into this moment, the power he held even while baring himself.

"Still so impatient," he murmured, brushing the head of his cock gently along your bottom lip. "And so desperate. You don’t like when I make you wait, do you?"

You hummed softly, the sound vibrating with want and frustration.

And then, finally, he allowed you a taste.

You wrapped your lips around him, slow and reverent, letting him slide in just enough to savor the weight and warmth of him. A groan slipped from his throat, low and strained, his hand coming to rest gently at the back of your head.

"That’s it," Lewis breathed. "Nice and slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth."

He rocked forward, guiding the pace. His voice didn’t falter—he kept talking, kept praising, kept controlling. "You look so good like this," he whispered, hips shifting as he started to thrust gently, deeply. "Moaning like that… fuck, you feel perfect."

You moaned again, overwhelmed in the best way—his rhythm, his voice, his hands in your hair.

And all the while, his control never slipped. You were completely undone, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.

Your moans vibrated around him, sending a deep shudder through his body, but Lewis didn’t lose focus. His grip in your hair tightened—not harsh, just firm enough to remind you who was guiding this.

"That’s it," he murmured. "Just like that, baby."

You hollowed your cheeks, taking more of him, reveling in the way he breathed out a curse under his breath, jaw tense. The slow grind of his hips made your eyes flutter shut.

"Don’t close your eyes."

The command was soft but sharp. You blinked up at him immediately.

He looked down at you, eyes dark with something primal, but also proud. "There she is," he said. "You wanted to act grown, didn’t you?"

You nodded as best as you could with him in your mouth, a muffled sound of agreement rising in your throat. You were soaking wet, your thighs slick and clenched with nothing but air and need between them.

Lewis exhaled sharply, then slowly pulled out of your mouth, a line of spit connecting you to him. You pouted again, lips swollen and shiny, chest rising and falling.

And he just smiled. That smug, devastating smile.

"Fuck," he whispered, thumb swiping the corner of your mouth. "You look wrecked already."

Your hand instinctively reached for him, but he caught your wrist, shaking his head. "Uh uh," he warned, pulling you gently to your feet. "You don’t get to decide what happens next."

You continued to kneel before him, naked, glistening, panting—and he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Just let his gaze roam down your body, slow and hungry.

"You’re dying for it," he said softly, brushing his fingers along your breasts. "But you still haven’t earned it."

The protest caught in your throat, lips parting, but he leaned in close—breath brushing your ear as he spoke.

"I want you to remember this ache," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I want it so deep in your bones you dream about it."

You whimpered, thighs pressing together again out of instinct.

"And when I finally fuck you,” Lewis whispered, hands grazing your neck, "you’ll know you earned every second of it."

You were trembling. Every nerve lit up. And yet all he did was kiss your shoulder, slow and deliberate, before pulling you up, grabbing the towel and wrapping it back around your body like you hadn’t just had his dick down your throat.

"C’mon,” he said, eyes twinkling with that infuriating, perfect control. "Let’s get ready for bed." He smirked when he saw your mouth agape in surprise. "Don’t look at me like that, babygirl. You wanted to play. I’m just teaching you the rules."

***********************************************

The next day, Salvatore Ricci was ready to move against De Garza, and Lewis's presence was expected at the dock warehouse in Newark where the confrontation would take place.

"Traditional location," you explained as Lewis prepared for the meeting, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. "Papa believes certain things should be handled on the docks. Old-school symbolism."

Lewis understood without requiring elaboration. The docks represented the historical foundations of the Ricci family's power—the entry point of their influence in America, the place where Salvatore's father had first established the connections that would eventually build their empire.

"Will you be there?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

You shook your head. "Family business, but women aren't included in this particular tradition. Mama will take Sophia and Maria shopping for birthday preparations while I join them as cover, and the men will handle the... business."

The gender division was another old-world approach that Lewis had deliberately avoided in his own organization, but he recognized the deep roots such traditions held in families like the Riccis.

"I'll tell you what happens," he promised.

Your expression carried concern despite your understanding of what was happening. "This is important to Papa—having you there. It's his way of saying you're family, not just an ally."

"I get what it means," Lewis assured you, his hand coming up to brush your cheek in what had become a habitual gesture between you. "And I'll respect the tradition."

The drive to Newark was conducted in silence, Lewis seated beside Salvatore in the back of a bulletproof SUV while Paolo drove and two additional security vehicles flanked them front and back. Tradition dictated certain appearances be maintained, but practical security ensured those appearances didn't create unnecessary risks.

Salvatore himself was exactly as Lewis remembered from their initial meetings—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit despite the grim business ahead, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, his hands adorned with the heavy gold rings that signified his position. A man who had built an empire through both brutal efficiency and meticulous attention to the appearances of power.

"My daughter seems... content," Salvatore observed after miles of silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than on Lewis. "Despite the circumstances that brought her home."

"She's remarkably adaptable," Lewis replied, recognizing both the observation and the implied question beneath it.

Salvatore nodded slightly. "A family trait. Though she has always been the most... independent of my children. Never easily directed, even as a young girl."

The assessment carried both pride and frustration—a father's complex relationship with a daughter whose capabilities matched his own while existing within the constraints of traditional family structures.

"Independence is a valuable quality to have," Lewis noted, careful to acknowledge the trait without directly challenging the traditional values Salvatore clearly held.

"Perhaps," Salvatore conceded, finally turning to study Lewis directly. "But she seems to have found focus under your guidance."

The suggestion that Lewis had somehow "directed" your independence would have amused you greatly, Lewis suspected. But he recognized the framework within which Salvatore understood the world—patriarchal structures where the appearance of male guidance was necessary regardless of practical reality.

"We've developed an effective partnership," Lewis said diplomatically, the truth of the statement extending far beyond the strategic alliance that had initially defined your marriage.

Something in Salvatore's expression suggested he understood more than Lewis had explicitly stated. "Partnership," he repeated, a hint of something like approval in his voice. "An interesting choice of words for a marriage."

"An accurate one," Lewis replied simply.

Salvatore studied him for a moment longer before nodding once, as if confirming a private assessment. "Tonight you will stand with me as De Garza faces the consequences of betrayal," he said, shifting back to the immediate business at hand. "This is a family matter, not a business arrangement. You understand the difference?"

"I do," Lewis confirmed, recognizing the significance of the distinction in Salvatore's world. Family matters were handled with ritual and tradition, while business arrangements followed more practical considerations of profit and loss.

"Good," Salvatore said with finality. "De Garza will understand too, before the end."

The warehouse appeared on the horizon—an unassuming structure among dozens like it along the dockyard, its exterior giving no indication of the scene prepared within. Three additional vehicles were already parked outside, Salvatore's most trusted captains having arrived earlier to secure the location and prepare for their boss's arrival.

Inside, the space had been arranged with deliberate theatrical effect—a single chair positioned under bright lights in the center of the open floor, surrounded by shadows where Salvatore's men stood in silent attention. De Garza himself was already secured to the chair, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, evidence of rough handling visible in the bruises marking his face.

Lewis followed Salvatore into the space, positioning himself slightly behind the older man's right shoulder—the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant in such proceedings. Paolo moved to the left, completing the tableau of authority facing the betrayer.

De Garza's eyes widened slightly at Lewis's presence, clearly not having anticipated the British operator's inclusion in what would traditionally be internal family business. The recognition seemed to intensify his growing desperation as Salvatore approached with unhurried deliberation.

"Antonio," Salvatore said, his voice carrying that particular quality of disappointed authority that transcended mere anger. "Twenty years in my service. Twenty years of trust, of opportunity, of family connection. And yet here we are."

De Garza's expression shifted between fear and defiance, the calculation of a man seeking any possible avenue of escape. "Salvatore, there's been a misunderstanding. Whatever you've been told—"

"Silence," Salvatore interrupted, the single word carrying absolute command. "The time for your words has passed. Now is the time for you to listen."

The room fell into complete stillness as Salvatore circled De Garza's chair, his movements carrying the weight of ritual performance rather than mere interrogation. This was justice as theatre, designed to communicate messages far beyond the immediate punishment of a single betrayer.

"I took you into my home," Salvatore continued, his voice deceptively conversational despite the underlying steel. "Gave you a place at my table. Trusted you with my business, my family, my legacy. Treated you like a son when your own father was too weak to raise you."

De Garza's eyes darted around the room, seeking any ally or escape route, finding neither as Salvatore's men watched impassively from the shadows.

"You sat beside me at my daughter's confirmation. Stood as godfather to my nephew. Represented my interests in meetings where only family would normally be present." Salvatore's words fell like carefully placed blows, each one highlighting the depth of the betrayal. "And yet you sold information to Suarez. Endangered my daughter. Compromised operations that feed the families of a hundred loyal men."

"It wasn't like that," De Garza protested, desperation evident in his voice. "Suarez had leverage. He threatened my sister's family in Miami. I had no choice!"

Salvatore stopped his circling, standing directly before De Garza with cold assessment. "There is always choice, Antonio. You could have come to me. I would have protected your sister, punished Suarez for his presumption, preserved your honor."

The truth of this was evident even to Lewis, who understood enough of Salvatore's code to recognize that family loyalty would have superseded business considerations had De Garza sought help rather than betraying trust.

"Instead," Salvatore continued, "you chose cowardice over loyalty. Betrayal over family. And now you face the consequences of that choice."

De Garza's composure finally broke entirely, fear overtaking calculation as the full reality of his situation became undeniable. "Please, Salvatore," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "For the sake of our history, for the memory of me taking care of your father—"

"Do not speak of my father," Salvatore interrupted, cold fury replacing the disappointed authority in his voice. "His name does not belong in the mouth of a traitor. He taught me that loyalty to family is sacred above all things. That betrayal of that sacred trust demands the highest price."

Salvatore turned slightly, his eyes finding Lewis with deliberate significance. "Family protects its own," he said, the statement carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface simplicity. "And punishes those who threaten what is protected."

With smooth precision, Salvatore withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket—an older model, beautifully maintained, clearly carrying symbolic as well as practical significance. "This gun belonged to my father," he explained, his voice carrying that conversational quality that made the moment more chilling than any theatrical rage could have achieved. "He used it to establish our place in this country when others would have denied us opportunity. A tradition of protection that has sustained our family for generations."

De Garza sobbed openly now, all pretense of dignity abandoned as Salvatore approached and pressed the weapon into Lewis's hand with deliberate ceremony.

"Now my son will take care of the trash," Salvatore said, the designation carrying unmistakable significance to everyone present. Not son-in-law, not ally, not partner—but son, with all the familial recognition such terminology carried in Salvatore's world.

Lewis accepted the weapon with appropriate gravity, understanding both the practical task assigned and the symbolic acceptance being offered. This was not merely execution of a betrayer but formal acknowledgment of his place within the Ricci family structure—a position earned through marriage to Salvatore's daughter but solidified through demonstrated loyalty to family interests.

De Garza's pleas increased in desperate intensity as Lewis stepped forward, the weight of the pistol in his hand significant in more ways than one. The man's eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down his face as he begged for mercy that tradition dictated would not be granted.

"Please, please, I have children, a family—I'll disappear, you'll never hear from me again—"

Lewis maintained his composure, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as he raised the pistol with steady precision. This moment was about more than simple elimination of a threat—it was ritual acceptance of a place within a structure that operated on traditions far older than his own organization. Strategic respect for Salvatore's methods while in Salvatore's territory.

"Antonio De Garza," Lewis said, his voice calm despite the gravity of the moment, "your betrayal endangered my wife and her family. That alone would warrant this response."

His finger settled on the trigger, eyes locked with De Garza's in a final moment of acknowledgment—not personal hatred but necessary conclusion to actions that had violated the most fundamental trust.

The shot echoed through the warehouse, followed by absolute silence as De Garza's body slumped in the chair, the bullet having entered precisely through the center of his forehead. No hesitation, no unnecessary drama, just the efficient finality that characterized Lewis's approach to all operations.

Lewis lowered the weapon, turning to offer it back to Salvatore with appropriate respect. The older man studied him for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

"Keep it," Salvatore said, his voice carrying genuine approval. "It's a classic. A family heirloom that should stay with family."

The significance of the gesture wasn't lost on anyone present—the symbolic transfer of both weapon and trust from father to accepted son-in-law marking a transformation in Lewis's status within the Ricci hierarchy.

"Thank you, Mr. Ricci," Lewis replied, acknowledging both the gift and its deeper meaning with appropriate gravity.

Salvatore's expression shifted into something almost warm, a smile briefly transforming his usually severe features. "Call me Sal," he said, placing a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "You're family now."

The drive back to the estate was conducted in different silence than the journey out—not tense anticipation but satisfied completion, the ritual of justice having been performed according to tradition with appropriate participation from all parties. Lewis found himself reflecting on the evolution of his position since first entering the orbit of the Ricci family, from strategic ally to accepted member with all the obligations and protections such status entailed.

It was not a transformation he had anticipated when arranging the marriage that had brought him into Salvatore's world. Yet here he was, a British operator with his own empire and methods, now carrying a symbolic family weapon and acknowledged as son rather than merely business partner.

You were waiting in the pool house when he returned, your expression a mixture of concern and curiosity as Lewis entered. You'd clearly been watching for his arrival, positioned near the window with clear view of the driveway, though you'd made no move to approach the main house where Salvatore would be returning to his regular routines as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"So it's done?" you asked, your voice quiet as you studied his face.

"Yes," Lewis confirmed, removing his jacket and carefully placing Salvatore's pistol on the side table. Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, immediately recognizing it.

"He gave you Nonno's gun," you said, surprise evident in your voice. "I've never seen him let anyone even touch it."

"A gesture of acceptance," Lewis acknowledged, moving toward you with natural grace. "Though I think you knew something like this might happen."

Your smile was knowing but warm. "Papa doesn't do anything without thinking ten steps ahead, especially with his symbols and traditions. Asking you to be there for De Garza wasn't just about punishing a rat."

"Family politics," Lewis noted with a hint of dry humor. "Another kind of strategic game."

"Look at you, starting to get how the Riccis operate," you repliedl. "How are you feeling about all this?"

The question was careful but genuine—concern for how he was processing both the execution and his deeper integration into your family's world. Lewis took a moment before responding, wanting to be honest rather than just saying what might sound right.

"It needed to be done," he said finally. "De Garza had to go, and doing it your father's way made sense there. Not how I'd normally handle it, but it worked. Though we're definitely beyond what either of us thought we were signing up for with this marriage."

Something in your expression softened. "Beyond what we planned, sure," you agreed, fingers lacing with his. "But in a bad way?"

The question had a vulnerability beneath its casual tone—wondering if he was truly willing to accept not just you but your entire complicated family with all its traditions and expectations. Lewis heard the real question behind your words, and found himself wanting to answer honestly.

"Not bad," he assured you, his free hand coming up to touch your face in a gesture that had become natural since Scotland. "Just...different territory than I'm used to navigating."

You laughed, warm and genuine. "Only you could make joining a family sound like adjusting a battle plan."

"Old habits," Lewis acknowledged with a hint of a smile that appeared more often around you lately. "But I'm learning to be flexible."

"Flexible," you repeated, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Wow, such sweet talk. I'm swooning."

"I'm being precise," Lewis replied, the teasing lighter than it would have been weeks ago. "It's another—"

"—of your things," you finished, grinning. "Yeah, I've got your user manual pretty much memorized by now."

This easy back-and-forth still surprised Lewis sometimes—how comfortable you'd become with each other since Scotland. How he'd gradually let down walls he'd maintained for years and actually found himself enjoying it.

"Your sister's birthday dinner is tomorrow," Lewis said, changing the subject but keeping hold of your hand. "Your dad made it clear everyone's expected to show."

"Sophia would literally murder anyone who tried to skip," you confirmed with a nod. "Especially since she had to cancel her big club plans because of all this security stuff. The family dinner is the centerpiece of her entire existence. Mama's been on the phone with caterers all day."

"Miles seems pretty worried about his invitation," Lewis observed, remembering how his friend had looked almost panicked when mentioning it.

You laughed with obvious delight. "Oh, he should be! Sophia's been grilling Papa about him non-stop since he got here—like, very specific questions about his background, his military service, where he trained. She's always been obsessed with spy stories and now there's a real former operative under our roof."

"Miles has handled worse," Lewis said, though he didn't sound convinced. Even in the short time they'd been here, Lewis had witnessed Sophia Ricci's legendary determination when she wanted information.

"Has he though?" you said with a mischievous grin. "We're talking about my baby sister on her 18th birthday with a new mystery to solve. Papa might protect his business associates from international criminals, but I'm not sure even he can protect Miles from Sophia when she decides she wants answers. She's like a bloodhound once she gets curious about something—she won't stop until she knows every detail of his entire career."

You both shifted to planning for tomorrow's party, but Lewis found himself struck by how strange his life had become—here he was discussing birthday parties instead of security protocols and operational risks. Sometimes the contrast with his former existence was so stark it gave him mental whiplash.

But there was something valuable in this new reality—what had started as a strategic marriage was turning into something real. You were becoming a true partner, not just an alliance on paper. And somehow, he was becoming part of something bigger than his own carefully built empire.

Family, it turned out, was just one more area where you were changing him in ways neither of you could have predicted when you signed those marriage papers. And for the first time in his life, Lewis was okay with not being in complete control of where things were heading—as long as you were by his side.

The morning after De Garza's execution dawned bright and crisp, the snow from the previous days having given way to clear skies that cast brilliant sunlight across the white-blanketed grounds of the Ricci estate. Lewis had risen early as was his habit, completing a security check of the pool house perimeter before you'd even stirred from sleep.

By the time you both made your way to the main house for what you'd described as "traditional birthday breakfast," Lewis had already received three updates from Naomi confirming her arrival with the requested item, a detailed analysis of Hernandez's communications from the previous week, and notification that Miles had survived the night without further journalistic interrogation from Sophia.

Nothing in Lewis's extensive tactical training or operational experience, however, had prepared him for the scene that greeted you both when you entered the Ricci family's private dining room.

Salvatore Ricci—the man who less than twelve hours ago had orchestrated a rat's execution with the cold precision of a general—sat at the head of the table wearing dark silk pajamas and a fluffy pink feather boa draped around his neck. The family patriarch's severe expression remained largely intact, creating a surreal contrast with the frivolous accessory.

Flanking him were Maria and Gabriella, both similarly attired in matching pink silk pajamas and identical feather boas. An elaborate spread that resembled a high-end tea party more than breakfast covered the table—tiered trays of pastries, decorative bowls of fruit, champagne flutes filled with what appeared to be mimosas, and multiple silver tea services.

At the opposite end from Salvatore sat Francesca, elegant even in casual morning attire, a subtle pink scarf around her neck her only concession to the theme. Her Jamaican-American heritage was evident in her warm complexion and the slight lilt that still colored her speech despite decades in New York. She maintained an air of amused tolerance for the proceedings, clearly the steadying influence that prevented the celebration from descending into complete chaos.

And in the center of it all was Sophia, perched in her chair with the confident entitlement of someone who knew this entire production was in her honor. She wore a glittering plastic tiara with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in rhinestones, her pajamas matching her sisters' but with additional embellishments that marked her as the day's honoree.

Lewis paused almost imperceptibly at the threshold, his expression betraying nothing of his internal recalibration. You squeezed his hand briefly, leaning close to whisper, "Papa's a hard-ass every other day of the year, but birthdays make him soft. It's the one day we can get away with almost anything. Just go with it."

Before Lewis could respond, Sophia spotted you both and squealed with delight. "Finally! Everyone's here!" She bounced in her seat with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Birthday breakfast can officially begin!"

"You're late," Salvatore observed, though without the edge that typically accompanied his critiques. The feather boa somehow failed to diminish his authority.

"Sorry, Papa," you replied, moving to kiss his cheek before taking your seat. "We were up late reviewing security protocols for today."

The excuse wasn't entirely untrue—Lewis had indeed spent part of the night analyzing potential vulnerabilities in the estate's defenses given the influx of extended family expected for the evening's formal dinner. The fact that this analysis had been conducted between more intimate activities was a detail best left unmentioned.

Lewis took the seat beside you with practiced composure, nodding respectfully to Salvatore. "Good morning, sir."

"Sal," your father corrected, the single syllable carrying the weight of yesterday's shared experience at the warehouse. "And good morning. Coffee?"

Before Lewis could respond, Gabriella leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Oh my God, what happened to your neck?" she asked, her question directed at you with deliberate innocence.

You instinctively reached up, your fingers brushing against what you suddenly remembered were several distinctive marks just below your collar—evidence of last night's activities that your hastily selected sweater had failed to conceal.

Maria feigned shock. "Are those bruises? Should we be concerned?"

Heat flooded your face as Lewis maintained his usual impassive expression beside you, though you caught the slight tightening of his jaw that suggested he was not as unaffected as he appeared.

"Girls," Francesca admonished lightly, her dark hands elegant as she gestured dismissively, eyes dancing with amusement despite her maternal tone. "Leave your sister alone. It's Sophia's day."

"Oh, I don't mind sharing the spotlight for this," Sophia chimed in, her curiosity now fully focused on the situation. "I have so many questions."

Salvatore cleared his throat, the sound immediately commanding attention despite the absurdity of the feather boa. "Leave your brother alone," he said, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Lewis.

The designation—brother rather than brother-in-law—hung in the air for a moment before Maria seized on it with delighted precision.

"Ooh, he's our brother now," she said, her teasing directed at both you and Lewis. "Papa has spoken."

"I always wanted a brother," Gabriella added with exaggerated wistfulness. "Someone to intimidate my boyfriends and teach me how to play poker."

"I'm quite capable of both those things," you pointed out dryly.

"Yes, but now we have a real brother," Maria countered, raising her mimosa in Lewis's direction. "Welcome to the family chaos, brother dear."

Miles, who had been silently observing this exchange from his position near the window—clearly having been invited but choosing to maintain a safe distance from the family dynamics—caught Lewis's eye and leaned over to murmur, "This could be your future if you two have a daughter someday. Pink feather boas and tiaras."

Lewis nearly choked on the espresso that had appeared before him, recovered with his usual efficiency, and replied in an equally low voice, "Let's focus on eliminating Suarez and our mole before considering further familial expansions."

Miles grinned. "Tactical priorities. Got it."

Meanwhile, Sophia had shifted her attention fully to Lewis, her expression transitioning to the purposeful look you'd warned him about. "Well, brother," she said, emphasizing the title with clear enjoyment, "did you get me a present?"

"Sophia!" Francesca and Salvatore exclaimed in unison, parental disapproval momentarily uniting them despite their distinctly different approaches to family management.

Lewis, however, appeared entirely unruffled by the direct question. "Of course," he replied with calm assurance. "I was planning to present it at dinner, as is traditional."

Sophia's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing this new obstacle with the strategic acumen she'd inherited from her father. "I want it now," she declared, a statement rather than a request.

You caught Lewis's eye and silently mouthed, "I warned you," your expression a mixture of amusement and resignation.

Lewis studied Sophia for a moment, recognizing in her the same determined focus he'd observed in you on numerous occasions—the Ricci trait of absolute certainty that one's desires were reasonable and should be accommodated.

"It isn't properly wrapped," he said finally, a token resistance that both of you knew was merely procedural.

"I don't care," Sophia responded immediately, her attention now entirely fixed on this new objective.

Lewis nodded once, rising from his seat with the smooth precision that characterized all his movements. "I'll get it. Naomi delivered it earlier this morning."

As he left the dining room, Maria turned to you with undisguised curiosity. "What did he get her? And when did he have time to shop with everything going on?"

"He has people for that," you replied with a small smile, not bothering to hide your pride in Lewis's efficiency. "And I'm not telling. You'll see in a minute."

Lewis returned shortly, carrying a distinctive orange Hermès bag that prompted an immediate reaction from all three sisters.

"Shut the fuck up! No way!" Sophia squealed, leaping from her chair with all pretense of sophisticated adulthood abandoned. She bounced up and down, hands making grabby motions toward the package, her reaction pure, unfiltered eighteen-year-old excitement.

Lewis, ever in control, held the bag slightly away from her reach. "Sit down, please," he instructed calmly. "It's heavy."

The effect was immediate and somewhat comical—Sophia dropped back into her seat with surprising obedience, hands now folded in her lap in a parody of patience that barely contained her vibrating excitement.

Lewis placed the box carefully in front of her, stepping back with the cautious respect of someone who understood he was witnessing a sacred ritual. Sophia attacked the packaging with focused intensity, tearing through the careful wrapping to reveal the distinctive shape of a Birkin bag in a deep, rich green that complemented her coloring perfectly.

Her scream of delight could likely be heard beyond the estate's iron gates where your father's men patrolled. "OH MY GOD!" She lifted the bag reverently, turning it to examine every angle. "IT’S PERFECT! JUST THE ONE I WANTED!!"

"Your sister mentioned this was the one you picked out," Lewis replied with characteristic understatement that failed to acknowledge the weeks of constant texts and threats from Sophia.

"Holy shit," Maria breathed, leaning forward for a better look. "That's not just any Birkin. That's the limited forest green with gold hardware. There were only fifty made."

Gabriella whistled low. "Brother has excellent taste," she observed, her teasing tone now tempered with genuine respect.

"He does," you confirmed, squeezing Lewis's hand when he returned to his seat beside you.

Even Salvatore appeared impressed, though he masked it with a gruff, "I hope you didn't spend too much. She's only eighteen."

"It's an investment piece," Lewis replied smoothly, meeting your father's gaze with calm assurance. "And a suitable acknowledgment of a significant milestone."

Sophia finally tore her attention from the bag long enough to launch herself around the table and practically tackle Lewis with a hug that clearly caught him off-guard. His momentary stiffness gave way to an awkward but genuine pat on her back, his expression reflecting the unique challenge of navigating physical affection from someone who wasn't you.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sophia exclaimed, squeezing him once more before releasing him. "You're officially my favorite brother now."

"I'm your only brother," Lewis pointed out with unexpected dry humor.

"Even better," Sophia replied instantly. "No competition."

The breakfast continued with the chaotic energy that seemed to characterize Ricci family gatherings, conversation flowing freely between serious topics like security arrangements for the incoming relatives and frivolous debates about whether Sophia's new Birkin required its own Instagram account.

Lewis observed it all with his usual analytical attention, cataloging the family dynamics and adjusting his understanding of the Ricci hierarchy with each new interaction. You watched him watching them, noting how he was gradually relaxing into the boisterous atmosphere despite its stark contrast to his own carefully controlled existence.

At one point, Francesca appeared at his side while you were engaged in heated debate with Maria about something entirely inconsequential. Your mother leaned down slightly, her voice pitched for Lewis's ears alone.

"Thank you for yesterday," she said simply, her gaze steady and knowing. "Salvatore told me what happened. What you did."

Lewis met her eyes with quiet acknowledgment. "It was necessary."

"Yes," she agreed, surprising him with her directness. "But more importantly, it was loyal. That matters more to this family than you might yet understand."

Before Lewis could respond, she straightened and moved on, rejoining the general conversation with seamless grace. But the brief exchange added another layer to Lewis's evolving understanding of the complex family structure he had married into—a system where violence and tenderness, business and family, tradition and adaptation all existed in precarious balance.

You caught his eye across the pink-festooned table, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Lewis gave you the smallest of smiles in response—a private communication that needed no words. In this moment, surreal as it was with feather boas and birthday tiaras, Lewis Hamilton was finding his place in a world far different from the one he had built for himself, yet somehow increasingly comfortable despite its chaos.

*********************************************

By seven o'clock, the Ricci estate had transformed from morning's intimate family breakfast into a full-scale celebration. The main house glowed with strategically placed lighting, security personnel blended seamlessly with catering staff, and the steady arrival of black SUVs and luxury cars announced the gathering of extended family from across the tri-state area.

You'd changed into a deep burgundy gown that complemented the gold cross at your throat, while Lewis had opted for an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that somehow made him look both approachable and dangerous—a combination you'd noticed worked particularly well with your family. The unspoken message: respect me, but don't fear me unless you give me reason to.

"Ready for the real interrogation?" you asked Lewis as you both stood at the window of the pool house, watching another vehicle pass through the security checkpoint. "Morning was just the warm-up. Wait until my great-aunt Lucia gets hold of you."

"I've survived professional interrogation techniques," Lewis replied, though there was the faintest hint of apprehension in his usually confident tone. "How bad could an elderly Italian woman be?"

You laughed, the sound genuine with just an edge of warning. "Nonna Lucia made two FBI agents cry during a raid in '92. And they weren't even asking her questions—she just decided they looked too smug."

Lewis raised an eyebrow, the subtle gesture speaking volumes. "Noted."

The walk to the main house felt like crossing a demilitarized zone—the calm before inevitable conflict. It was strange how much had changed since you'd made this same walk months ago, back when your marriage was still fresh and purely strategic. Back when Lewis had been Mr. Hamilton to you, a business partner rather than the man whose bed you now shared willingly.

You'd barely made it through the door when the first ambush occurred.

"There she is! With the Englishman!" Your cousin Vinny's voice boomed across the foyer. At thirty, he still possessed the subtlety of a freight train and the confidence of a man who'd never faced consequences for his volume level.

He approached with the characteristic Ricci swagger—designer suit, too much cologne, and a smile that had charmed countless women before they recognized the red flags. Behind him trailed your other cousin Gia and Vinny’s younger brother Carmine, all wearing expressions of barely contained curiosity.

"Vinny," you greeted with a measured smile, accepting his enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. "Gia, Carmine. You all remember Lewis."

"How could we forget?" Gia said, her eyes moving over Lewis with unabashed appraisal. At twenty-six, she'd already been married and divorced twice, each time emerging with better real estate and jewelry. "The mysterious Englishman your father arranged for you. Though you two seem much more... comfortable together than at the wedding."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the perfect balance of respect and self-assurance. "Good to see you all again. Happy to be here for Sophia's celebration."

What happened next surprised you. After the polite but distant greeting you'd have expected from him, Lewis's hand settled possessively at the small of your back, drawing you subtly closer to his side.

Carmine, just twenty and already working his way up in your father's business, shook Lewis's hand with a grip that was trying too hard to assert dominance. "Yeah, you too, 'bout time my cousin isn't flying solo to these things."

The subtle dig wasn't lost on Lewis, whose expression remained pleasantly neutral even as his fingers pressed slightly firmer against your back. The casual intimacy of his touch and the deliberate "us" in his response registered immediately with your cousins, whose glances at each other spoke volumes. The arranged marriage they'd all whispered about obviously had evolved into something else entirely.

"Well, you're practically one of us now," Vinny declared, slapping Lewis on the shoulder with fraternal presumption. "Especially after that thing with De Garza. Word travels."

Before Lewis could respond to this blatant fishing for details, a commanding voice cut through the foyer.

"Is that my niece finally coming to greet me? Or do I need to wait all night while you gossip in the hallway?"

Nonna Lucia sat enthroned in the main sitting room, a tiny but formidable figure draped in black silk and gold jewelry that announced both mourning and prosperity—the perfect combination for a woman who had been the family matriarch since your grandmother's passing five years ago. At eighty-seven, her mind remained razor-sharp, her tongue sharper still.

"Nonna," you said warmly, crossing to kiss her papery cheek. "You look beautiful."

"Flatterer," she dismissed, though pleased. Her dark eyes, sunken but alert, shifted immediately to Lewis. "And you. The husband who keeps my fiore away from her family."

"Not by choice, Mrs. Ricci," Lewis replied smoothly, approaching to take her extended hand. Instead of simply shaking it, he bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles—a gesture of old-world respect that clearly caught her off guard in the best possible way.

"Hmph," she sniffed, though the ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "At least he has manners. Better than the others Salvatore was considering. That Sicilian—" she made the sign of the cross dramatically, "—may the saints preserve us from such men. Like looking at a shark with a bad tailor."

You bit back a frown, remembering your own similar assessment when your father had first presented Lorenzo Bianchi as a potential husband.

"Come, sit," Nonna commanded, patting the sofa beside her. "I want to look at you both properly. Together. The light in here is better."

You recognized the examination for what it was—not just curiosity about Lewis, but assessment of your relationship. Nonna Lucia had negotiated three of her own daughters' arranged marriages, and her approval could shift family opinion more effectively than even your father's declarations.

As you sat beside Lewis, he surprised you by casually taking your hand, his thumb stroking absently across your knuckles in a gesture too natural to be calculated. The simple touch shouldn't have affected you after everything you'd shared, yet warmth bloomed in your chest at the public claim it staked.

"Now," Nonna declared, leaning forward to study you both like specimens. "You are good together. The coloring—his darkness, your warm tones. Very complementary. Your children will be beautiful."

"Nonna!" you protested, heat rising to your cheeks despite your usual composure. "We're not—it's too soon to—"

"Nonsense," she waved dismissively. "I was married at twenty, first baby at twenty-one. And that was an arranged match too! Your great-uncle and I didn't even meet until our wedding day. At least you two had time to get acquainted first."

Lewis, rather than appearing uncomfortable with this direct discussion of your potential reproductive timeline, seemed almost amused. "We're taking things one step at a time, Mrs. Ricci. But I appreciate your vote of confidence in our genetics."

His response—polite but gently deflecting—surprised you. Even more surprising was his arm sliding around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.

Nonna nodded approvingly. "Smart man. Patience is important. But not too much patience, eh? I'm not getting younger, and great-great-nieces and nephews would be nice before I meet the Madonna."

"You'll outlive us all, Nonna," you deflected with practiced ease, though your mind was spinning at Lewis's unexpected public display of affection. This was more than your arrangement had ever called for, more than necessary for appearances with family who already knew yours was a strategic match.

Before Nonna could continue her reproductive interrogation, your cousins returned with drinks and renewed determination to extract information.

"So," Gia began, settling across from you with feline grace, "Sophia mentioned you two were staying in the pool house instead of the main guest suite. Very... private."

The implication hung in the air, reinforced by her knowing smirk. You'd forgotten how quickly information traveled through the family network, and how little remained truly private.

"The pool house offers certain security advantages," Lewis replied smoothly, his arm still comfortable around your shoulders. "Separate perimeter, controlled access points."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Carmine snickered, earning an elbow from Vinny that did nothing to diminish his grin. "Security advantages?"

"Some of us prefer discretion, Carmine," you replied coolly, though the marks still visible on your neck somewhat undermined your dignity.

"Speaking of discretion," Vinny leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "word is you and the Englishman here have gotten a lot... closer lately."

You stiffened slightly, wondering exactly how much detail had spread through the family grapevine. Lewis's hand squeezed your shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence.

"The best arrangements evolve naturally," Lewis offered, his tone giving away nothing while confirming everything.

The deliberate ambiguity in his response made Gia laugh delightedly. "Oh, I bet it has. Remember when you were telling us how much you dreaded this whole arranged marriage thing? Funny how things change."

"Life is full of surprises," you replied with sweet venom, years of practice at these family dynamics keeping your composure intact despite your rising embarrassment.

Nonna Lucia cackled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Let them be, vultures. When you all find someone who looks at you the way this one looks at her, then you can talk—arranged or not."

The observation startled you, your eyes darting to Lewis to find him already watching you with an expression that made your breath catch—something intense and genuine that transcended any performance for your family's benefit. Something that hadn't been there in those early days when your marriage was still just a business transaction between families.

Gia, undeterred by Nonna's scolding, slid closer on the pretext of refilling your wine glass. "So," she whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, "is it true what they say about Englishmen? All that proper exterior hiding something much more... interesting? Because those marks on your neck tell quite a story. Not bad for an arranged match."

You opened your mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a scathing response when Lewis suddenly rose, extending his hand to you with impeccable timing.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, nodding toward the adjacent room where music had begun playing and several couples already moved across the floor.

The rescue was so perfectly executed that you immediately placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you smoothly to your feet.

"If you'll excuse us," Lewis said to your family with that subtle charm that somehow managed to be both polite and dismissive. "I promised my wife at least one dance before her sister monopolizes the evening."

"Go, go," Nonna waved you off with obvious approval. "Young people should dance. Builds passion. Even in arranged marriages."

Lewis led you toward the music, his hand warm against yours, leaving your cousins to their speculation and Nonna to her evident satisfaction with your match. The moment you were out of earshot, you exhaled with relief.

"Thanks for the save," you said as his arm circled your waist, pulling you into a proper dance hold that felt surprisingly natural. "My family is..."

"Exactly what I expected," Lewis finished, that hint of a smile you'd been seeing more often since Scotland appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Bold, protective, and determined to know everything about us."

"They never quit," you agreed, finding your rhythm with him easily as you moved across the floor. The way your bodies synced felt nothing like the stiff, formal dance you'd shared at your wedding reception, when you'd been practically strangers bound by contracts and family alliances. "But you handled them better than I thought you would."

Lewis guided you through a smooth turn, his movements precise but relaxed. "Necessary adaptation."

"Is that all this is?" you asked, suddenly very aware of his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, how naturally your body followed his lead. "Just adapting to the situation? Part of our deal?"

Something flickered across his face – a moment of unguarded emotion that vanished almost instantly, but not before you caught it. "Not just that," he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Some arrangements turn into something more than what was on paper."

The weight of his words hung between you, full of implications neither of you had openly discussed despite how much had changed since Scotland. This wasn't the strategic partnership you'd agreed to anymore, or even just convenient physical comfort. It had become something neither of you had anticipated when you'd signed those marriage documents in your father's study.

"My cousins think we actually fell for each other," you said, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart picked up speed.

"Your cousins might be smarter than they look," Lewis replied, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Though that's not saying much."

Before you could process what felt dangerously close to a confession, the music changed and suddenly Sophia was beside you, looking radiant in her birthday dress with the Birkin bag still proudly displayed on her arm despite how out of place it was with evening wear.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. "Papa's ready for the toast! I need you both front and center right now. Family photo time!"

Lewis kept his hand at your back as Sophia dragged you both toward the main dining room where your father stood waiting with champagne. Whatever vulnerable moment you'd been sharing had passed, but something had definitively shifted between you – another step away from your arranged beginning toward something neither of you had planned.

As everyone gathered around Sophia, Lewis stayed close beside you, his presence no longer that of the outsider who'd walked into your father's study as the fourth suitor. He'd somehow found his place within the chaos of Ricci family dynamics, marked most clearly by the pistol that now resided in your pool house. When your father's fingers closed around his champagne glass, Lewis's fingers laced with yours, the simple touch communicating what neither of you had found the words to say.

Salvatore's commanding presence drew immediate silence from the gathered family members and associates. He stood at the head of the room, elegant in his tailored suit, looking every inch the powerful man who had built an empire through calculated decisions – including the strategic marriage that had brought Lewis into your life.

"Twenty-five years ago," Salvatore began, his voice effortlessly carrying through the space, "I welcomed my first daughter into this world. Eighteen years ago today, I welcomed my youngest. Each arrival changed our family in ways I could not have anticipated. Each daughter brought different gifts, different challenges, different joys."

His gaze moved to Sophia, genuine paternal affection softening his usually commanding presence. "Sophia, from your first breath, you have been a force of nature. Determined, passionate, impossible to ignore or direct against your will." Appreciative laughter rippled through the guests who knew your sister well. "You remind me daily of your grandmother—a woman who knew her own mind and refused to be anything less than exactly who she was meant to be."

Sophia beamed with pleasure at the comparison to your beloved grandmother, whose strength had helped build the Ricci empire alongside your grandfather.

"Eighteen years marks traditional entry to adulthood," Salvatore continued, his tone shifting to acknowledge the milestone's significance. "Though in truth, you have carried yourself with the confidence and clarity of purpose of someone far beyond your years for as long as I can remember."

You felt Lewis's silent attention beside you, watching your father with the careful assessment that was second nature to him. But there was something else there too – a growing understanding of the complex family he'd married into. Not just the business side he'd initially negotiated with, but the deep bonds and traditions that sustained it across generations.

"To Sophia Ricci," your father concluded, raising his glass higher. "May your determination serve you well, may your passion bring you joy, and may you always know that behind you stands a family that will support and protect you through whatever path you choose."

"To Sophia," everyone echoed, raising their glasses in unified celebration.

As tradition dictated, Sophia rose to acknowledge the toast, her expression momentarily serious despite her usual vivacity. "Thank you, Papa," she said, her voice carrying the emotion the moment deserved. "And thank you all for being here tonight, especially given the... adjusted circumstances."

The delicate reference to the security concerns that had necessitated scaling back her original plans was handled with surprising maturity. For all her youth and apparent impulsiveness, Sophia demonstrated the family's innate understanding of appropriate public presentation.

"I've been looking forward to this birthday since I was little," Sophia continued, her natural confidence evident as she addressed the gathering. "Not because of parties or presents, though those are excellent bonuses—" appreciative laughter rippled through the room "—but because in our family, eighteen means being truly included. Being trusted with the full reality of who we are and what we do."

Her gaze found your father briefly, something passing between them that transcended words. "I've waited a long time to be fully part of this family's legacy. To contribute, not just benefit. To protect, not just be protected."

You felt Lewis's hand tighten slightly around yours, a subtle recognition of the weight her words carried in your world. Unlike many outsiders who married into families like yours, he understood completely what Sophia was really saying – she was officially being welcomed into the family business, trusted with secrets and responsibilities that had been shielded from her until now.

"So tonight," Sophia continued with a bright smile that somewhat masked the significance of her words, "I not only celebrate turning eighteen, but also officially joining the family business. Thank you all for being here to mark this milestone with me."

She raised her glass in a gesture that mirrored your father's. "To family—by blood, by marriage, and by choice. Our greatest strength and most sacred responsibility."

The formal dinner transitioned to more relaxed celebration as tables were cleared to create space for dancing, a small orchestra positioned at one end of the room beginning a selection of music that bridged generational preferences. Salvatore led Francesca to the floor for the traditional first dance, their movements together demonstrating decades of partnership both in dancing and in life.

"They still love each other," you remarked, watching your parents with quiet admiration. "Through everything, all the complications of this life—they've never lost that connection."

Lewis studied the couple with analytical interest, noting the easy synchronicity of their movements, the way your father's usually commanding presence softened in your mother's company. "It's rare," he acknowledged. "Especially in our world."

"But not impossible," you added, your fingers still intertwined with his.

The comment hung between you, weighted with implications neither of you had fully addressed despite the evolving reality of your relationship. Other couples joined your parents, the formal space filling with movement and conversation as the celebration shifted into its next phase. As you scanned the room, you caught sight of Sophia cornering Miles by the bar, notepad in hand and expression intensely focused as she fired questions at him.

"Should we help him?" Lewis asked, genuine concern for his friend evident beneath his usual composure.

"Absolutely not," you replied with sisterly mischief. "She's been dying to talk to someone with his background. He's the perfect subject with that mysterious military past. Besides, it's good for him."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Good for him?"

"Miles relies too much on that charm of his. Sophia won't fall for it – she'll just keep pressing until she gets real answers. He needs the practice dealing with someone who isn't immediately charmed by that whole routine he does."

Your assessment of both Miles and your sister drew another of those rare almost-smiles from Lewis. "Tactical weakness identified," he observed dryly.

You laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby family members who were still adjusting to seeing you so at ease with the man they'd originally viewed as just another of your father's business arrangements.

As the evening progressed, you found yourselves circulating through the gathering, accepting congratulations from family members who'd heard about Lewis's recent "promotion" to family status after the De Garza situation. The news had traveled quickly through the Ricci network – Salvatore giving Lewis his father's gun, calling him "son" rather than son-in-law, bringing him into inner family business that went beyond the original alliance parameters.

At one point, your father appeared at Lewis's side, two glasses of his special reserve whiskey in hand. You excused yourself to let them speak privately, but watched from across the room as they stood in quiet conversation, their body language telling its own story. Your father no longer maintained the careful distance of a business partner; there was respect there, and a growing trust that went beyond strategic necessity.

"They look good together, don't they?" your mother said, appearing beside you with her usual quiet grace. "Your father needed someone like him – young enough to adapt to changing times but experienced enough to understand our world."

"Is that why he chose Lewis from the others?" you asked, curious about your mother's perspective on the arrangement that had changed your life.

She smiled knowingly. "Partly. But I think he also saw something in the way Lewis looked at you during that first meeting. Something different from how the others looked at you."

"Different how?"

"The others saw what they wanted from you. Lewis saw who you actually were." Her dark eyes, so like your own, studied your face carefully. "And now you see him too, not just the arrangement."

"Lewis! It's your turn to get in the photos!" she demanded, waving imperiously. "Family picture time, and you're not escaping!"

You watch him tense slightly – these domestic rituals still pushed him out of his comfort zone despite how far he'd come since your wedding. But to your surprise, he nodded and moved toward the gathering without hesitation, his hand finding yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As your sister organized everyone into position, you watched Lewis navigate this new territory with the same precision he brought to everything. The family photographer directed you all into position, with Sophia centered as the birthday girl and the rest of the family arranged around her. Lewis stood beside you, tall and composed, no longer the outsider cautiously maintaining strategic distance. When his arm slid around your waist, the gesture felt both protective and possessive in a way that had nothing to do with your original agreement.

"Perfect!" the photographer declared after several shots. "Beautiful family portrait."

Family. The word hung in the air between you and Lewis as the group dispersed back to the celebration. Not business partners, not strategic allies, but family – with all the complicated obligations and unexpected connections that entailed.

"You're officially one of us now," you said lightly as you moved away from the photography setup. "No escape possible. The Riccis have claimed you."

That ghost of a smile appeared again, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I'm discovering there are worse fates," he replied, his eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "Some arrangements have unexpected benefits."

As the party continued around you, that simple statement settled somewhere deep in your chest. What had begun as your father's strategic decision, a business arrangement between families, had evolved into something neither of you had anticipated. Something that felt increasingly like a choice rather than an obligation.

..........tbd

[twistedpink]

Mc inserts x TWST characters (Part two)(Part three)

(basically non-yuu pairings I think about instead of my inbox :p)

Ignyhide vice!Mc x Jamil Viper

Mc is probably twisted from one of the little demon goons, and it makes your contrast with Jamil charmingly obvious. You’re both vices in the basketball club with an outside connection to your wardens (you figured a physical activity’ll ward Idia’s eye away) and you both hate your jobs to a comedic degree. The connection is actually really sweet and subtle!! Atleast until book 6 when Mc is complaining about their ego trippy boss while basically eating out of Jamil’s hand, feeding him information like the layout and hierarchy of styx,, as Idia’s super exclusive assistant it’s only fair to give your guests a full tour!

“geez! And he just gets so flippy-floppy, yknow? He’s got this thing about energy drinks now so I’ve been diluting them, it’s such a pain!”

“It might just be a defect with housewardens. Have you ever heard of the incompetency theory?”

Card soldier!Mc x Malleus Draconia

okay picture this- Mc is comepletely wasted and coming off the high from a holiday party that was totally killer. You wander into the woods past campus and find yourself at a little abandoned cottage, it’s like 100% cozy enough to chill in before stumbling back to the dorms. You continue heading there for pregames/drunken shenanigans, meeting up with some hot guy that hangs around sometimes. You’re fully blindsided when your “little buddy” is kicking heartslabyul ass during a spelldrive tourney..

“Yoooooo, Mally, you must be really fun at parties. Want ta’ go with me?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been invited to a “rager” before, but it sounds.. enjoyable. I accept.”

Ignyhide freshman!Mc x Deuce Spade

You’re a shaking mess during your first track meet. It’s a graduation requirement to take at least one gym class before the end of freshman year, and you’d rather die than take flight class with all those scary seniors!! Your vice had enough sense to convince you into not dropping out, he’d said that “track is low stress!” And “you’ll enjoy it” >:( you can’t believe he’d lie to your face like that!! (Is this the AI revolution??) You guess it’s not too bad though, you’ve even started strength training with a new friend. He’s a little short tempered, but it could be a lot worse.

“hey, I had no idea ignyhide kids were into track! I thought it’d be too much sun,,”

“We’re not vampires. I wouldn’t clown on you for the tea in your thermos, so lay off.. heh, there’s totally a dormouse in there.”

Scarabia housewarden!Mc x Leona Kingscholar

It’s pretty rare to see Leona of all people in your reserved pool chair, but plenty of weird stuff’s happened during your senior case study. You’re this close to getting your big shiny diploma- and a little rest now and then won’t hurt anybody! Savanaclaw’s housewarden has only had his position since last year, and you’ve held yours through all four. After knowing of each other for so long, it’s only logical that you’d become good friends! (Not that he calls you that)

“So you’re graduating, huh? Hope that brat you chose’ll fill your shoes, you’ve worked pretty hard.”

“awh, you’re such a sap,, I’m sure you’ll like Kalim, he’s no idiot. I promise to visit whenever you decide to graduate, but it’ll be a lot easier if i get that job in the castle!”

Octavinelle sophmore!Mc x Jack Howl

Poor Jack has to deal with everyone else’s business on top of his own education, when does he get a break? That ramshackle prefect’s looking for leads on how to beat those twins in the water, and only one face comes to mind. You’re his coworker at his temp job, and you owe him a favour (atleast from your perspective, he doesn’t hold it over your head) because with your grades Azul’s got it out for you. He’s begging for you to help him out- and who are you to deny those puppy eyes?

“Jack you can’t tell him! The housewarden’ll make me quit, I need this job! :(((“

“woah, it’s not like I’m gonna blackmail you.. what kind of guy do you think I am?”

Savanaclaw freshman!Mc x Epel Felmier

You’re lost, stressed and so confused in your first year :( it feels like everything is going wrong all the time!! It’s probably like 10x worse because you’re very tall and so built, but nobody cares to peer up at the cute giraffe ears on your head! You’ve been challenged by so. many. seniors. (and you win against all of them, you’re no pushover) but you’re tired of the beef. Epel just thinks you’re the coolest person in the room, and is always saying he wants to get freaky fridayed with you. But he doesn’t get the struggle!! Atleast Jack cares enough to tell him you’re just not liking it at school, and it makes Epel kick into action- he’s not letting you drop out, so please wait until he transfers!!

Pomefiore Junior!Mc x Rook Hunt

You’re convinced that Rook c. Hunt is the worst guy in all of twisted wonderland (C for creep)! And it SUCKS because he went from your rebellious savanaclaw boytoy to.. whatever he is. (How’d you miss the warning signs when you were tongueing him??) You can always see his stupid bob in your peripheral- but you’ve rationalized that if you watch him, then he only sees what you want him to see! It’s keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, just until graduation. And it does work, until you realize you’ve given Rook an inch that he’s turned into a mile. You’ll probably never get rid of him now, but what’s the point anymore?

“Ah, mon cher! You always enchant me with your passionate gaze, I’m honoured to be the object of your attention!”

“uh.. sure thing, hon. Whatever you say.”

Diasomnia Senior!Mc x Idia Shroud

You’re a highly educated noble from the mysterious land of Briar Valley. You are poised, weirdly formal, and utterly incompetent with your newest area of study- contemporary technology. You’ve tried to convince yourself that it’s pointless, they don’t even use it at home! But if you want to travel anytime before the collapse of human civilization, it must be done. you’re insatiable with your thirst for knowledge, and completely enamoured with having first hand experience with every era of mortal tech. It also happens to be almost impossible to revive your “Kno-Keya” once it has decided to die. That is where Idia Shroud comes in.

“In exchange for the revival of my electronic mailing device i am willing to offer an extensive dowry befitting of your station and technological necromancy skill. Will it suffice?”

“I literally only charged your phone, uh.. WOAH, A DOWRY?? I don’t have the space for five horses!! I’m totally not prepped for the marriage route, I haven’t seen the wiki yet!”

[revelboo]

I hate to always be asking for things, but is there any chance we could get some more Steve

Sure!

Coin Operated Boy Pt 4

Vehicons x Reader

• Dragging into the kitchen in a tank top and shorts, you get coffee going and nearly scream when a shadow falls across the window. And it’s your alien friend, his head tilted as he stares in at you and reaches to tap against the window. Heart racing, you lift a nervous hand and he eases back slightly. Why is he back? Nervous, you toe on your sneakers and step outside. Hesitating when you see Steve’s brought friends. There’s two more of them, crouching to stare at you. “Hi? You look better,” you manage, fighting the urge to turn and run for the door.

• Aware of his cloned brothers studying you with bemused curiosity, he offers you an energon goodie and you just stare at it, then him. Bending to offer you the rare treat, when just getting rations to begin with is never a sure thing, he needs you to be repaid for your kindness and knows this isn’t nearly enough. Vehicons are the lowest in the Decepticon hierarchy. Expendable. Often forgotten. “For you,” he insists, and you finally reach to take it, but don’t try it. Saving it for later, maybe, but he’s pleased anyway even if he’d wanted you to eat from his hand. To trust him as a protector.

• Hugging the glowing thing to your body, you offer him a smile. Have no idea what it is, but you don’t want to offend him or risk hurting his feelings. “Thank you so much. It’s… lovely.” And you really hope the glow isn’t radioactivity. “And you brought friends.” Watching him glance at the other two, like he’d forgotten they were there for a moment, you fidget. “Hi.” Waggling your fingers at the two newcomers they exchange a look and one hesitantly waves back.

• Venting as B3N waves at you and N31L just shakes his head like he can’t believe he’d given you the rare treat, Steve kneels so he’s not looming over you. Except, you’re so small, he still is. Short of lying flat on the ground, he’s going to be looking down at you and it bothers him. “For your assistance,” he says, reaching out a hand, hesitating and extending a servo. Staring up at him, you tuck the treat against your hip and cautiously lay a soft hard on his servo and he bends forward until he can brush his masked face against the back of your hand. Needing you to understand that no one cares about Vehicons. No one mourns them, tries too hard to save them when they’re wounded. You’re not even Cybertronian, though and you’d seen him. Cared. For that he owes you. For that, he’ll protect and watch over you. And his brothers reach out, extending you the same honor.

• Going still as the other two edge closer and each brush a servo against you, you try to figure out what’s happening. There’s almost a reverence in the gentle way they’re touching you that makes you nervous. Maybe this is just how they thank someone? A weird, alien cultural thing? All three of them touching you before drawing back. Transforming into vehicles to startle you and just driving away. Leaving you standing in the dew soaked grass with a glowing mystery object and more questions than answers. And you wonder if they’ll come back.

Previous

Next

[quasi-normalcy]

I do think that the rise of fascism is directly tied to the decline of communal values.

So on the one hand, you have capitalism, which relentlessly tells you that everything is a competition, your value as a person can only come at someone else's expense, some people are just intrinsically better than others, and your position on this hierarchy is determined by what's in your bank account. On the other hand, individualist liberalism can only answer this with a sort of weak-tea "self-esteem" discourse, which at best amounts to "try your best! Do what you love! It doesn't matter!" and at worst amounts to shouting "Everyone's a winner!", a position that even children automatically view with cynicism.

Never is there any discussion that maybe value shouldn't be intrinsic to the self. Maybe your value is in how much you make life better for other people. Like, do you make a worthy and necessary contribution to society that helps other people? That adds to the net happiness of the world? Then congratulations, you should take pride in that. Someone who plants a bee garden for free is worth more than a hedge fund manager who only contributes misery to the world, even if he makes a lot of money doing it. Someone who uses their body to block, however temporarily, the export of weapons or the laying of pipeline is infinitely more valuable to society than the skilled engineer who makes his living designing them. Even simple activities like telling jokes or doing chores are worth infinitely more than developing advertising software that only makes people annoyed and parts them from their money!

Like the moral of that movie It's A Wonderful Life wasn't that the guy should go on living because he really tried his best and maybe he'll finally get to do what he wants with his life once he saves up his pennies; the moral was that he should go on living because he'd made life materially and spiritually better for his community. We need that energy!!

[beenbaanbuun]

hierarchy w/ poly hohong

words - 3.1k

genre - smut

warnings - dom!yunho, akita hybrid!yunho, soft dom!hongjoong, human hongjoong, sub!reader, unknown dog hybrid!reader, mentions of past abuse, mentions of scars (from fighting), reader is a brat, cunnilingus

i wrote this ages ago and idk if i like it or not but rather than sitting and stressing about that, i decided to post it instead 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

——————————————————————————

your dinner looks entirely unappealing as you push it round the plate with your fork. the peas are an unsettling shade of green and as they float upon the thin layer of gravy at the bottom of your dish, your stomach can’t help but churn a little. it’s nothing like the instant ramen and microwave meals your old owner used to feed you, and for that reason you simply won’t touch it.

there’s a sigh from across the table and you lift your gaze to see where it’s coming from. you’re met with two pairs of eyes, both of them equally as fed up at the other. there’s hongjoong, staring you like you’re the sole reason for everything bad in his life, and there’s yunho, watching with a tight jaw and hungry eyes. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think that the giant akita-hybrid is more seconds away from jumping your bones and taking you right there and then. you’d be lying to yourself if you said the idea doesn’t appeal to you. it just so happens that you are an exceptional liar.

“you haven’t touched your food,” hongjoong sighs as he lifts a hand up to brush over his tired expression. the so-called ‘experienced hybrid trainer’ is clearly losing his patience with you, although you’re not entirely sure why. you’re not even trying to be a nightmare; he should see you when you’re not on your best behaviour.

“i don’t like it,” you reply, putting your fork down just so you can fold your arms petulantly over your chest. yunho scoffs, his muscular arms shifting until his position mirrors yours.

“how do you know you don’t like it if you won’t even try it?” he says in the same tone he’d use if he were talking to a child. you can’t help but scoff that that; you’re not a child.

hongjoong reached over to place a hand on yunho’s arm. it’s a silent direction for him to be quiet and let hongjoong do the talking. he is your owner after all; a sentiment that fills you with a strange mixture of sadness and annoyance. you were perfectly fine in your old home. you didn’t have to be ‘rescued’ from them and you certainly didn’t have to be rehomed here.

“i know what i like,” you spit as you push the plate away from you, not even blinking an eye as gravy spills over the edge onto the mural painted upon the top of the wooden table. you’d found out on your first day here that yunho had painted it for hongjoong upon his one-year anniversary of being adopted; you hope you won’t be around here long enough to even think about doing something so utterly pathetic.

honestly, as yunho growls and lays his fluffed up ears flat against his skull, you can’t imagine him doing something so pathetic. all you see now is a highly trained attack dog, nothing like the precious puppy that hongjoong makes him out to be. you almost cower in your seat as he glares at you, but you’ve faced far worse than being pinned by an overgrown akita—you have the scars to prove it too.

“please, hyung,” he begs, voice far too soft to be coming from such a dangerous looking individual. “please let me put her in her place,” his eyes flicker down your form as another growl makes it way up his throat, “pups like her need structure; they need to know their position in the hierarchy.”

hongjoong hums, clearly contemplating it. obviously they’ve had this discussion about you before and whilst the thought of them talking about you behind your back makes you more than a little moody, you can’t help but feel like this has some deeper implications. does it mean that they’re planning on keeping you around? if they want to establish your place in this made-up hierarchy they seem to have, then surely they’re not planning on getting rid of you any time soon. your tail flicks in annoyance at that revelation.

“are you sure, yunho?” the hybrid nods and hongjoong resigns all too quickly for him to not have already been considering it. “fine; we can try it your way.”

and just like that, yunho’s expression transforms. the snarl on his lips changes from one of annoyancs to one of authority. you feel like a disobedient pup getting put in its place by an overbearing adult; one that doesn’t know the meaning of the word mercy. you suck in a shaky breath, the anxiety of facing the unknown becoming far too apparent. you’re the only one at this table who has no idea what’s going to come, and that frightens you to no end.

yunho stands up and stalks his way around the table. it takes an annoyingly short amount of steps for him to reach you, and once he does he wastes no time in grabbing your jaw with one huge hand. it tugs at your face until your neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle and your gaze is on his face. his pupils flicker over your expression, searching for any signs of discomfort or fear. you’re anxious, sure. uncertain, absolutely. but scared? not at all. you’ve been through worse and once you’re out of here, you’re almost positive you’ll go through worse again.

he leans down until his face is mere inches from your own. the smirk has fallen, morphed into something far more serious. he inhales, deep and calm and you can’t help but try and mirror it. it never twigs that his intention is exactly that; to soothe you before whatever is yet to come. if you were more aware of what he was doing, perhaps it would’ve made you spiral further. why would he want your defenses lowered?

“puppy,” he says in a tone deep enough to send a shiver down your spine, “i need you to remember that what is going to happen isn’t out of your control; if you don’t like it, you tell us. it shouldn’t be difficult for you. you’re good at telling us exactly what you don’t like, hm?”

“what’s going to happen?” you ask, your voice probably the least defiant it’s been since stepping through the doors of hongjoong’s home.

“you’ll find out sooner or later ,” he says with a soft smile, “now be a good puppy and wait upstairs in hongjoong’s room, alright?”

you furrow your brows. hongjoong’s room? you’ve never been allowed in there before. it was one of the rules that was set in place when you first arrived here. ‘hongjoong’s room is his, your room is yours. stick to your own space unless it’s an emergency.’ you remember it very clearly and it’s one of the ones you’ve tried your hardest to stick to. privacy is something you appreciate and hongjoong respects yours. the least you can do is return the favour.

“i’m not allowed in there,” you state the fact as though it’s law. to you, it practically is, “i’d be breaking the rules.”

“says the little brat who’s been stealing our possessions for her nest since the first day you got here. what, you’ll steal my ratty old sweaters but you won’t go in my room?” hongjoong’s smile is apparent in his voice. he sounds fond, for some reason, as if he hasn’t just—rightfully—accused you of stealing from him. “it’s okay to break the rule this once, sweet thing. i give you my explicit permission, okay?”

yunho gives you a smug smile. it’s a small ‘i told you so,’ even though you hardly think the situation is worth it. it’s not like you were trying to avoid whatever fate awaits you in hongjoong’s room—although maybe a little—you were simply trying to stick to the one rule you actually believe in! in a childish huff, you stick your tongue out. that ought to show him…

“cute,” he chuckles, “now do what you’re told, alright? go upstairs and wait on hongjoong’s bed,” a few seconds tick by as you contemplate whether or not you want to resist him even more. on one hand, you’re still anxiously unaware of what’s to come, but on the other, you’re almost positive things will get worse if you don’t comply. sure, yunho told you that you’re the one in control, but you really don’t feel it. no, this time it’s better to obey than to be a brat.

you push yourself to your feet, slowly enough to allow yunho to straighten up too. there’s a pleased hum fall from his lips as he scans you up and down, honing in on the small details. the way your speckled ears twitch nervously atop your head, the way your fluffy tail tucks itself between your legs, and most importantly, the way you subtly bare your neck in a subconscious show of submission. he knows it’s more of a safety thing than anything; the scars that litter your body tell him that you’ve learned how to stay safe the hard way. it hurts a little, but it’s a start. it shows him that you know you should submit; now he just has to make it so you submit because you want to, not just because you feel it’s necessary.

you side step him, careful not to brush past him accidentally. shaky legs guide you to the stairs, the anxiety of what's to come mixing with the knowledge that you’re being watched, studied, by the two men that are in charge of your fate. it’s safe to say that you’re grateful to finally get your hand on the banister that leads up the stairs. without it, you can almost guarantee that you’d have tripped and fallen.

the seconds tick by as you climb them and make your way towards the room at the end of the corridor. perhaps it’s your nerves that make it seem as though the door is getting endlessly farther and farther away with each step you take closer. it seems so far, almost like you’ll never reach it. step after step and still you’re not there yet. it gives your brain too much time to think, filling itself with ‘what if?’ questions and worse case scenarios.

until, of course, you do reach it, and then everything seems like its come to fruition all too quick. you suck in an anxious breath, placing your hand on the doorknob and counting to five before pushing it open and forcing your feet to carry you to your doom…

but it doesn’t feel like you’ve reached your doom in here; it’s far too cosy for that. in fact, it’s safe to say that you’ve probably never seen a room quite like this one, littered with soft colours and warm blankets, plants hanging from every surface and some even dangling from the ceiling. it’s a far-cry from everything you’ve ever seen before and yet it makes so much sense. hongjoong had been so eager to fill your room with things when you first arrived, none of which you’ve bothered to unpack. you told him you didn’t need them since you were certain you wouldn’t be around for long. the man had insisted upon buying you more and more until the pile of unused blankets and soft furnishings in the corner of your room could be arranged into some sort of seat that you sometimes use as a change of scenery from your bed. you didn’t understand why he wanted your room to have ‘warmth��� but now you see it; you’d be happy to spend an eternity in this room.

in some sort of giddy haze, you stumble to the bed and sit upon it, just like yunho had instructed. that pit at the bottom of your stomach is still very much there, but as your thighs sink into his soft quilt and your fingers spread themselves across the soft cotton, you find that the awe you feel is far more prevalent than your nerves right now. again, if you took the time to think about it, it might have made you panic more. the odd sense of security you feel from this room should have left you utterly terrified, and yet there you sit, a small smile upon your lips as you let the comfort of the room wash over you.

but just as fast as you made yourself at home, it’s all torn away from you. the door clicks open once more and everything positive you'd briefly felt is torn away in seconds. socked feet fall heavily against the wooden floor, followed by a softer step that you can only assume to be the smaller of the two men. your breath shudders as they grow closer, hitching when a large hand once again finds its way to your chin and pulls at it until there’s nowhere to look but yunho.

“you’re a good puppy at heart, aren’t you?” he purrs as he strokes your cheek. in your peripheral you see hongjoong crawl his way onto the bed and up to the headboard. “i know it’s hard when all you’ve known is neglect, but you deserve to have a family. you just need to learn your place.”

the hand slips from your cheek down to your shoulder and with a gentle shove, pushes you back against the mattress. your body is pushed and pulled into position until you’re lay exactly where they want you, head resting on one of hongjoong’s thighs and your legs spread just wide enough for yunho to slip between them on his knees. hongjoong wastes no time in lacing his fingers through your hair, nails catching against the base of your ear. it’s been a long time since anyone has scratched your ears like that and the sensation has your eyes fluttering shut. he chuckles at your satisfaction and while normally that would earn someone a harsh nip to whatever exposed skin you can access, you let it rest for now.

“remember, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he scratches your scalp, “this is all up to you,” yunho’s hands make their way to the waistband of your shorts, fingers dipping just below the hemline. it’s enough to have your breath hitching in your throat, and while you know you can stop this, you don’t. not because you feel like you can’t, but because you don’t want to. not yet, anyway. perhaps curiosity killed the cat, but it’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this.

besides, satisfaction brought it back.

yunho hums in agreement as he begins to tug gently on the fabric, catching your underwear with his fingers as they make their way down past your hips. “if you want me to stop, you tell me,” the air of the room is cold as it hits your exposed pelvis, and it sends a shiver down your spine as yunho lifts your hips to pull them past the swell of your ass. it’s a little uncomfortable when your wetness is uncovered but yunho is quick to remedy that with a swift kiss to your clit. it’s enough to make you moan a little, but it’s gone just as soon as it’s there. half of you is tempted to buck your hips up in a silent request for more, but you figure your safety is more important than your pleasure. you press your hips back down to the bed.

it takes him very little time to completely tug your shorts free from your legs, tossing them somewhere vaguely behind him. they thud as they hit the ground, but he has no interest in seeing where they went; not when your naked lower half is spread out on the bed for him. he tries to ignore the scars on your thighs, simply smoothing his hands over the remnants of your previous life. they don’t matter anymore, anyway. you’ll never have to fight ever again.

he lets his hands travel to the apex of your thighs, your pussy waiting, ready for him to take as his own. he must be doing something right since it’s already practically dripping. all he wants is to lean forwards and taste it, but he hesitates, gaze travelling to your face first.

“can i?” he raises a brow in question.

“can you what?” you respond.

“taste you, puppy,” you eye him up suspiciously, not quite sure why he’s asking you that. he wanted you to submit, didn’t he? so why is he asking for permission to take what he wants from you? “i want to taste you.”

“yes, but—”

“the answer’s yes?” yunho cuts you off, hands massaging your thighs heavily. there’s a sly look on his face, one that tells you you’re in for more than you you bargained for; more than just saying ‘yes’ to a simple question. you swallow thickly as you nod. “good,” he says, “now ask for it like a good puppy.”

you tip your head to the side curiously, your ears flopping as you shift your position on hongjoong’s thigh. there’s a chuckle from the otherwise quiet man, and with a quick flick of his wrist, your ear is back where it’s supposed to be.

“ask?” he nods.

“like a good puppy,” you feel a shiver run down your spine as his hand brushes against the length of your tail, not stopping until it reaches the base. he tugs upon it gently a couple of times. it’s annoying and anyone else wouldn’t have gotten away with it. you’re not exactly in a position to fight, though, so you let him tease you in the most childish of ways hoping that when all this is over you find an opportunity to tug on his tail instead. “like hongjoong always tells you; don’t tell,” he tugs, “don’t take,” he tugs again, “ask. politely.”

you grit your teeth, “can you?”

“can i what?” he leans in close, breath fluttering against your wet folds as he spurs you on. he’s so close to giving you what you want; a single buck of your hips would brush your aching clit up against his nose. you could get what you want if you really tried hard enough, but somehow you know it won’t end well for you.

“can you eat my pussy?” your words come out defeated and sad, and you have the expression to match. hongjoong coos from behind your head, fingers moving swiftly against your scalp to try and help you feel better about your surrender to yunho. it doesn’t quite work as well as when the hybrid lays his tongue flat against your slit and obscenely slurps up your juices.

“now you’re getting the hang of it, puppy,” hongjoong says, voice sweet and caring like it always is, “all you ever have to do is ask.”

[elysianightsss]

Vicissitude | Part One

You’ve always been the apex predator in today’s society. An animal that naturally hunts others. A wolf enjoying the sight of pretty prey quivering with their tail between their legs; it brings a sense of peace to your mind. You’re the top of the food chain. The royalty of the wolf hierarchy. The better option.

That’s, what an Alpha is.

The only thing that differed from you and other Alphas was military rank. Big muscles or not, you were all on the same level until it came to your rank in the work place. And for you as a Lieutenant, life was pretty good.

Alphas towered above others, top tier. first class. Betas were the middle class, not useless. In fact they were very helpful, pushing their calming pheromones out to those who needed it most. They were usually the ones who became medics, Alphas too intimidating for a patient to handle.

Omegas in today’s society are lower class, pushed under someone else’s thumb. Born to be less than. Regardless of the time any effort they put into a career or life, they were only really viewed as one thing; breeding stock.

Unless of course they were mated. Mated Omegas that had an Alpha wrapped around their little finger were dangerous. Not respected, but walked on eggshells around out of fear of upsetting their Alpha.

You’ll never have to worry about that, you don’t want an omega and you’ll certainly never take one as a mate. You prefer to stay a free butterfly, to flit around and flirt. You were simply not wired that way, you didn’t want to own someone.

You just wanted to simply be.

When the pretty beta medic in front of you starts to speak, you realise you’ve been daydreaming. She blushes under your gaze and stutters telling you that you have the all clear for the upcoming mission. She flutters her lashes at you, heart jumping in her chest when your arm brushes against hers as you walk out of the room with a smirk aimed in Johnny’s direction.

“Y’might wanna lay on the charm mate, she’s a sweetheart.” You say, opening with an air of confidence, the sort of attitude and amusement twinkling in your eyes that only an Alpha can possess. Something Johnny shares when he hears the squeak of the medic behind you, her cheeks burning red with his animalistic grin aiming itself at her when he stands.

His fist bumping yours when you begin to walk past him and down the hall. The building is stale, void of any real colour, greys and blacks and whites. The nothingness of grey brick buildings gives a certain stability you find calming. The constant state bringing an ease to your Alpha.

You feel the respect, rolling off of the people on base as you walk past in your military issued boots. Tight cargos that shape your curves, a gun shoved in one of the holsters strapped tightly to your thigh. You don’t feel the need to hide, never have, it’s something quite spectacular when you’re not afraid to show off. Not scared of someone looking too long and staring too hard. You don’t worry about what they might find.

Not when you’re sure you can win the fight, gain the upper hand. The only threat that really mattered was that of another alpha, but you usually stuck together. All of you understand your place unlike the others in the hierarchy who believe they hold the power. You turn your nose up at the omega barrack bunnies who believe they can claw their way up just because you use them for a slight relief during a rut.

It’s pathetic.

Your alpha is one you can control, in your head she is free of shackles or cage, wings spread wide, she roams free. Prowling back and forth, watching for any warning signs that you may be in danger. A good wolf, the best inner beast in your opinion.

John’s is far too serious, so strict and all about the rules. No exceptions. Johnny’s is a little sinister but an excitable puppy all the same. Kyle’s wolf is interesting, quiet yet deadly, easily able to crawl under your skin and fester there. Simon’s, on the other hand is loud, screams non stop, how Simon can remain so silent is truly a mystery to you all.

But you’re all bonded, in a way that no one else on this base understands. Bonded like how an Alpha and an Omega bonds during mating, but it’s not romantic and blissful. It’s in your bones, connected like where your humerus meets your radius and ulna. Bending as one, moving as one. You’re all still unsure how they did it, how they made it this way but you’re not to question it.

It’s the job.

Walking into the mess you grab a tray, piling your food on and making your way to the usual table. Kyle’s there stirring his coffee with one hand, a book open in the other, nose shoved in it as usual. John’s sitting next to him, a file open in both hands as his eyes scan the white paper that’s mostly redacted with black patches all over.

You drop your tray on the table, grinning a little when they both grunt with disapproval. “Where’s iron giant?” You ask as you sit, picking up your spoon and taking your first mouthful of rice.

“Prepping the jet.” Kyle answers without looking up, an air of uncare sitting around him.

“You get the all clear?” John asks his head lifting in your direction but his eyes don’t move either, glued to the file.

“When do I not?” You smirk, biting off the end of a sausage. John’s eyes lift to meet yours finally, a smirk of his own; definitely more cocky than yours.

“Easy was she?” John tilts his head slightly.

“Relatively.” You reply with a shrug.

“Easy on the eyes.” Johnny comments smugly as he drops his own tray onto the table, his food bounding slightly causing Kyle to tut and cover the top of his mug.

“Priss.” You scoff, but it doesn’t affect him. Kyle simply removes his hand and brings the coffee up to his plump lips to finish it.

“Finish up you two, wheels up in fifteen.” John points at you and Johnny before leaving, Kyle leaves too grimacing a little when he sees you and Johnny inhaling your food like wild animals on his way out of the mess.

You race Johnny to the jet and beam with pride when you beat him; you may have tripped him up but that’s by the by. Johnny is so animated in his annoyance that he may as well have a cartoon black cloud above his head. Muttering to himself about how you cheated as he trudges onto the jet, you follow closely behind.

“Everyone set?” John calls out, each of the guys responding with a yes sir. You nod with a pat to John’s arm as you move into position, sliding into the pilot seat. Flicking a few buttons here and there before you deem yourself ready for take off.

Being a pilot was just one of the many things on your mostly redacted resume that got you picked for task force 141. It came as a shock to you that you were the only woman when you first met the guys and they already had history with one another whereas you had spent your years of service either undercover or hidden away in remote areas of the world doing the kind of things that you don’t even have access to read the report of.

You thought you’d be the outsider, the odd one out and a little part of you didn’t mind that too much as you’d spent so most of your life alone. You rather enjoyed it at times. But when bonding was mentioned and then became a direct order all of that went flying out of the window.

Bonding with them was painful. Being scented by another alpha was hard to swallow, then the bite which is usually done when the height of pleasure is achieved during an omegas heat to mask the pain.

But having to do it with another alpha in a cold, sterile, white room was excruciating. Eight sharp canines piercing through your skin, a pair at a time. You felt weak when you whimpered at the last pair, the guys having not made any noise at all. But John was quick to comfort you with a soft smile and a pat on the arm while a drop of your blood rolled down his chin.

The scar you carry is not pretty but it is proof of your loyalty to not only your task force but to the military. Each of you bears the same mark. You were bonded, it allowed things to run smoother out in the field though. It had even saved Johnny’s life at one point so you were all begrudgingly grateful.

You feel what they feel, just dulled compared to your own feelings.

Their scenting being the only one you accept, the smell of others, even the thought of being scented by someone outside of your pack made you feel sick. One time a private tried it on a dare and you actually threw up all over his shoes, a migraine weaving its way behind your eyes and only did it go away when Johnny scented you.

A curse and gift.

The flight wasn’t long, the usual pre mission rituals happening behind you. Soap praying and pressing his fingers to his body in a cross. Simon with his headphones on, Cello Suite No. 1 in G major blaring so much that you can all hear it over the hum of the jet engine. Kyle reading a few chapters of whatever book he is currently engrossed in. And John’s eyes are glued to the building blueprints on the table in front of him, not moving, not even a glance away from the paper. Studying it like that will make every aspect of the mission go smoother.

You huff a small laugh at the sight over your shoulder, “Whatever is meant to happen will happen Cap, giving yourself a headache won’t make it any easier.” You hear John grunt but relent, stepping away from the table with a sigh.

His hand lands on your shoulder, standing next to you. There’s appreciation pulsing through the bond, aimed at you from all of them. It pulls a small smile from you.

“Approaching the drop zone.” You comment, eyes on the hologram map that hovers in front of you. You hear the rustle behind you of your pack readying themselves to leave the jet. Body armour strapped on tight, weapons at the ready as you land the jet, slotted carefully between some trees and turn off the engine.

Slipping out of your seat you put on the bulletproof vest that was set out for you, the Great Britain flag in black and white printed on your chest as you strap it on. Grabbing your M249 SAW, not standard issue but you gave Simon the puppy dog eyes and he convinced Price to allow it for you. Even if the rounds are unreliable and it jams a lot, you love it.

“Stick to the plan. Nothing we haven’t done a thousand times before. Rendezvous in two hours. Minimum casualties. Let’s move out.” John is sharp with his words, something that makes your Alpha scratch at your brain, a challenge brewing in her belly. But you shush her, letting her simmer and hiss at you.

As soon as your feet hit the dirt you first bum Johnny and head west, gun tight in hand. The forest you landed in was the perfect cover, it was tall and thick and covered with moss. Big Douglas firs taller than the sky gave you and your team plenty of camouflage, the wide trunks were enough for you to hide behind.

The dirt beneath your feet was damp, cold winds blowing gently even though the twilight sky is completely clear with stars shining almost as brightly as the moon. If you were someone else, you might even stop and admire them. If you were something else.

But your only focus was the leaves and twigs crushing beneath your boots as you surveyed the area surrounding you. The concrete compound reared its head when you made it to the tree line. Crouching, you brought your gun up and looked through your scope, watching. Waiting.

The moment came when one of the men on guard became distracted. Knocking him out with the end of your gun to the back of his neck. Once he was down slipping inside was easy, fighting the men in your way was easy, reporting to your team that you’d made it in was easy. Finding the gas canister was not easy.

It was eerily quiet, the only rustle of life came from you. Goosebumps prickled on your body as you walked slowly forward trying to push the memory of that stupid horror movie Johnny had made you watch to the back of your mind. ‘This is always how the first girl in the movie dies, alone and in the dark’ You think as you open a door on your left, thinking you’d find it empty again but to your surprise and slight relief it’s there.

The red swirling gas glowing inside of a glass canister, you’d never moved so quick. Your gun at the ready, you survey the room. It’s still eerily quiet- then the hair on the back of your neck stands on end after a shiver runs down your body.

You feel like you’re being watched.

Fingers twitching against your gun, wanting to switch on any light you can to get a full glimpse of the room. To take in that you’re alone and there’s no reason for this feeling. But even when you’ve checked every inch of the room you still feel it.

Someone’s eyes on you.

You radio your team that you’ve found what you’d been sent there for but their reply is static, unreadable. You feel panic begin to rise in your throat like bile, it pushes you to rush toward the canister and grab it before something, you don’t know what, happens.

But when your fingers wrap around the handle, the thing rumbles, vibrates, like it’s protesting your touch. You have all of two seconds to recognise the cracking sound before the canister explodes. You jump out the way. Fast, agile but the gas is already flowing out and spreading towards you quicker than you can move.

You do your best to hold your breath, ignoring the ache inside your chest. The nagging feeling that comes with no air as the red mist fills up the space around you. You’re suddenly frantic, eyes searching for a way out through the thick gas but you cannot see an end. The door is shut. You’ve no way to escape.

It’s only when your vision starts to blacken at the edge and you know you’re going to pass out do you take a deep breath in, coughing and spluttering on the suffocating red air. You feel the effects immediately; a feeling akin to headrush shoots its way inside your skull. Your body feels weaker, like your muscles relax against your will. A shooting pain rolls itself through your abdomen. A lightening sensation pulsing in your cunt. A stabbing agony passes over your body before it’s gone, just like that.

Like it never happened. Like you had hallucinated all of it, except you’re on the floor panting. Sweat clinging to you, sticking a few bits of hair to your forehead. But the same as the pain, the gas is gone too.

And as if by magic, “Veil come in! Veil come on talk to us!” You hear your Captain’s panicked voice in your ear, comms no longer static, no longer silent. A coincidence?

Your hand shakes as you lift it to your ear, tapping on the device a few times, you hear that familiar buzzing that means it’s on. It’s working even if when you needed it, it wasn’t. You go to speak, to say something, anything even if it was just a noise but out of the darkness, like an angel, Johnny is there in the doorway panting heavily. Only when he sees you on the floor does he let out a huge sigh of relief.

You were alive.

But his big hopeful eyes aren’t what get your attention…….the door is open.

Part two

Series masterlist

Taglist | @aldis-nuts @gazsluckyhat @evans-dejong @bearyark @tinythebunni @ramp-it-up @madsothree

[nemesyaaa]

fake you out // academic loser!rafe x academic weapon!reader

summary ; dark academia au where you are at the top of the school, always getting the best grades and being in the good graces of your teachers, which leads you to gain privileges and power over the academy. and on your opposite side, there is rafe cameron. certified boring loser and pathetic asshole, who is fed up with this stupid system, and always feels the need to make you work harder.

warnings : no kooks/pogues. toxic unbalanced school system. hierarchy. threat. academic pressure/failure. suggestive content but no smut. dark academia aesthetic and classic rules/education. teacher's pet nickname. mentions and threatening of murders. intimidation. slight mention of stalking. be aware of the warnings before reading.

author's note : i will add later, im too lazy.

“ God, you're such a loser, Rafe. ” You muttered under your breath, as you gave him his exam results. “ I would sincerely love to praise you but it's not like you can do anything better. ”

“ F ? You underestimate me ” He replied with a noisy chuckle. “ I can do far worse. ”

“ You like being the last student ? ”

“ I'm fine with your smart ass being above me. ”

The Kildare Academy has always been a prestigious school, well known for having the best students over the island. They had strict rules, and favored a classical and elitist education system, a return to the old one to make this generation full of young prodigies. And you were one of the brightest students in the academy, outshining your classmates and earning a position above the rest. You proudly held the title of leader.

In this establishment, the leaders are considered the dominant ones, those who govern, this means your classmates had no choice but to follow the rules of the ‘ regime ‘ - a system enforced by you and the other two leaders.

As the status indicates, you were one of those who embodied the law, and who enforced it.

These privileges reinforced the school’s strict hierarchy, fostering both inequality and resentment.

You wore the academy uniform, a perfectly ironed white shirt with a pleated skirt that was maybe even a little too short. But you were the mistress of the rules, the head of this unfair system so no one dared to reproach you, not even the teachers who always ensured the good behavior of each of the students.

If you were among the best, it was because you worked hard. It wasn't desire that pushed you to study so much, to stay so late in the library with those endless and quiet shelves of books in the dark silence of the room and the almost discreet murmurs of your classmates, but pressure and fear. You had no right to make mistakes, no dare to be a failure . You were your parents' trophy, the child forced to shine and be perfect to be loved. Without your academic results, you felt like you were worthless to your parents, so it was for this reason, this ridiculous justification that you fought as much as the others, that you refused any level of competition by being the biggest and the best.

It was surely one of the main reasons why you hated RAFE CAMERON so much. You didn't even understand how teachers could be so kind with him when he didn't do anything in class except being an asshole or a troublemaker. He didn't care about being tagged as an academic loser, never beating the lazy ass allegations. always sleeping, making a mess or missing classes. certified cheater, not an A+ mindset, always getting the worst grades, collecting F- like rewards.

He mocked classes but especially he took down every one of your rules. you were everything he hated with your perfect grades, your impeccable know-how and your exemplary behavior. you looked so fake with your smile, and your superior girl ways.

Also, you were his favorite classmate to bully. because you were such an easy target with your exemplary attitude, perfect manners, but also your good girl behavior, always laying your hand up to answer the teacher, asking for homeworks and some insane bullshit.

“ Think you're gonna have a treat for being such a good pet ? ” he mocked you with a soft tone. he was sitting behind you, so his voice just brushed your ears.

“ Think you can be quiet for a damn minute or should i buy you a sweet muzzle to get your mouth shut ? "

He loved calling you a good girl for this sweet puppy attitude of yours, but his favorite nickname for you was teacher’s pet because you've always been so eager to please your professors. But it was always full of annoying sarcasm and dark humor. He especially made fun of your attraction to perfection and discipline.

“Keep staring at me like that and you're gonna be late for school, teacher's pet. ” He commented while you were on your way to classes.

“ Don't take your dreams for reality. I'd rather have my eyes gouged out than have to look at you. ”

"I already have a nice knife in my pocket. How about we make this happen right now since it is your dear fantasy ?”

"Get out of my way, Rafe."

He had smiled at your annoyance, knowing full well that he was blocking your path. He had cut you off with an amused laugh.

"Asked like that? I think you're going to have to be nicer than that if you want to get anything from me. Where are your manners, teacher's pet? "

You had swatted away his hand that had come to grip your chin, putting some distance between the two of you.

"There's nothing you can teach me, Rafe. You know damn well I'm better than you."

"Daddy issues so hard that you're so eager to be called a good girl by some stupid teachers? Tsk, pathetic."

"Mommy issues are so hard that you're so eager to do anything to have my precious attention. Fine, I got it. You had it. Now, can I go to class?”

“ Should fix that skirt before. Isn't it a little too short for a girl whose acting is so prudish and decent ? ” he suggested before clicking his tongue on the tip of his lower lip.

“Aren’t your cheeks too pale, Cameron? Want me to make it blush a little ? ”

“ For someone who hates me, you're very eager to touch me. How do they call it already ? ” His head leaned toward you, before answering his own question with a proud face. “ Opposites attract. But you already know it, smarty pants. That big brain of yours knows everything. ”

And you hated those stupid jokes, but especially that nonchalance. He always had his hands in the pockets of his tweed pants, and his tie completely loosened if not untied. And he didn’t even bother to button the pants of his shirt.

“ Don’t keep yourself frustrated with that look, sweetheart. You're allowed to touch me. ”

You had looked up to catch the arrogant smile on his face. It was fake and indifferent. He was playing with you as he knew so well how to do, knowing perfectly well how much he was getting on your nerves. His blue eyes were shining with a bright flame like a spark crossing his pupils .

“Why can’t you be a good student like everyone else and follow the rules?”

He laughed noisily, stepping more firmly toward you, forcing you to step back until your body had hit the wall behind you. You swore as your books fell to the ground, and when you wanted to pick them up, he had crushed his foot on your pile of books.

“That’s not a good student you want, miss teacher’s pet.”

You were about to answer but he had cut you off. “You want me to be a good dog, to be able to stay on a leash and do what you want with me. But you see... obeying others, barking when asked, nodding... that’s more of a pathetic thing for a sweet pet like you.”

Ouch, that kinda hurts. Your eyebrows had furrowed but you knew that somewhere, he was right. You may have been one of the leaders, but you were the teachers' pet for a reason. You never stood up to them. It was easier for you to pick on your classmates.

"Now." He had started sharply. "Kneel those pretty legs."

"I'm not gonna play your sick games."

"I mean, kneel to take your books back." He mocked you. "What were you thinking?"

"You're so infuriating."

"I know. That's why you're gonna have to work harder if you want me to follow your rules. ”

On another day, when you got up earlier than the others to take your shower because you wanted to be sure to be quiet since everyone was asleep, you headed to the showers reserved for girls. Since there was no one in the hallways, you could afford to walk around in your underwear, plus access was reserved for women so no boys around.

Well... that's what you thought before seeing Rafe and a few other friends' faces in front of the shower door.

When he saw you, he turned his chair back, while sitting down, his legs stretched out on each side in your direction, his arms resting on the edge of the chair. His smirk was too bright, too fake and calculated.

"You're not allowed to be here, Rafe. " You warned in a cold and threatening tone. “ And you know it. ”

“ Do you hear that guys? Teacher's pet told us we couldn't be here...”

“ I just want to shower, Rafe. Don't start a fight. ”

“ And yesterday, I just wanted to go to class but you stopped me because according to you, my uniform was badly worn so that gave you the right to refuse me in class. Some kind of your favorite bullshit, isn't it ? ”

“ Oh, so you want revenge just because you're angry? You know that makes you an even more pathetic person to me ! If you wanted to scare me or impress me, you failed. ”

“You may be a leader with the teachers but here, there is no one, which means that I can do absolutely anything I want to you... And by absolutely anything I want, I can do terrible things...” He had stood up to walk towards you.

There was nothing reassuring in his walk. His shadow was imposing in the darkness as much as his huge size. You were in a totally weak position and you swallowed hard.

“And you know, I'm not really the kind of guy who is good at doing ‘kind things' but believe me... when it comes to doing terrible things, I am much better than you.”

“Are you thinking of something in particular, Rafe?” A black man had answered in the back of the room.

“I can have you fired if you come near me.”

He chuckled before running a hand around his mouth. “You’re unbelievable. Do you really think you’re that untouchable, y/n? Do you know who I am, what family I come from? If there’s anyone untouchable here, it’s me and only me. I could kill you right now.”

You laughed, glaring at him before approaching the tall guy while using the same alarming tone. “You think I’m afraid of you, Rafe cameron? Do you really think you can kill someone? Then, do it. Show me. Don't make me wait with such useless suspens. ”

“Oh sweetheart, this isn’t fun if you want to be prey.” He cut you off with a mischievous look.

“You’re sick.”

“Shut your damn mouth. Don't forget what you're pathetically standing for right here in front of us. I think you're going to have to be a lot nicer, and especially cooperative with us if you want to come by."

"How could you have known that I was going to take my shower right away?"

"I'm disappointed. You're so busy that you don't even notice how much I'm watching you. It's crazy all the things I know about you by looking at you so closely. Starting with the things you like....like that black coffee from the coffee shop, that book that you mark with post-its of all your favorite passages, that boy that you spend your time looking at but who doesn't see you...or we can talk about the things you like to do...in your room...for a girl who claims to be clean, you're dirty, teacher's pet..."

Your jaw was tense. He was going too far. Constantly.

"You're going too far."

He shushed you quickly. “Too far? Come on, I haven't even started yet.”

“I'll report you.”

“Here's the thing, teacher's pet. You should have paid more attention to what I was saying, I've been watching you. Not for a week, but since you were elected leader. So, you can report me but I also have things against you including one thing that wouldn't be good for your reputation. It's about a test..."

And you knew what he was talking about. And you hated the fact that you knew what he was talking about. You caught on quickly and your lips started to tremble, your heart beat to a rapid pulsation, and your skin quivered slightly. It was exactly the same fear you felt when you had to tell your parents about a bad grade. It was nerve-wracking and unsettling.

“Now, I'm gonna smoke. Just a little. And you're gonna watch it and shut your mouth.”

“You're not gonna make her smoke?” Said one of his boys.

“No, I want her to be an accomplice to a school infraction…”

“ You think it's a punishment ? I'm just watching you getting closer to death. ”

But you weren't really there anymore. All you could think about was what Rafe had just told you. You didn't feel good.

You had your eyes glued to him. He had the cigarette in his mouth. He had just lit it, the smoke coming out of his face, blowing quietly around his mouth.

His blue gaze was also on you. He knew that he had beaten you at your own game and that now you wouldn't dare say anything.

You were convinced that what you had done was your secret but it was also his.

It was pure humiliation. And even if you had been able to take a shower at the end, you were unable to stay calm. It was a gratuitous provocation. In the end, all he knew how to do well in this academy.

He was strangely quiet, taking an annoying time to finish his cigarette, knowing that it would obviously get on your nerves.

Frustrated, you had decided to do something you never usually did. Research a student. Rafe. You needed evidence against him, a means of intimidation to turn the situation around. You had to stop him before his little rebellion went too far, and your status faltered. There had to be something to find on someone like him. He was not a nice guy.

After the courses, you had passed the ivy-covered stone walls into the dark corridors of the academy. You had gone to the library that you knew by heart before disappearing into the school archives. All Kildare cases within this establishment were filed inside.

There were a lot. Harassment, theft, violence and fighting, but what had struck you most was the word disappearance. The disappearance of a student.

It was curious. Because no one had ever talked about that here.

You had closed the book with a sharp snap. Just out of curiosity, you had gone to ask the students around you.

“Hey, do you know anything about this girl who disappeared?” you had asked a student.

She had barely looked at you. You didn’t know if she was avoiding you or the question. You had also asked a group of people but once again, no one had answered you. Okay, you could understand that the subject was taboo but from there to not looking you in the eye, leaving and even disappearing, it was clearly exaggerated.

And the last person you wanted to see or question about it had come towards you as you were heading towards class.

"You're not going to ask me what I know? I could help you with your little investigation."

"Oh yes, I'm sure you know something."

He had frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh I don't know, you really have the perfect profile of someone who could make a body disappear and act in the most normal way even with blood on your hands. But even if you were the culprit, you wouldn't tell me. It would be too easy."

"What makes you think it would please me to make a poor girl's body disappear?"

"Innocent." You had corrected dryly. "That's good to point out. You have the profile of a guy capable of making the body of an innocent girl disappear."

"What makes you say that, teacher's pet?" He laughed. But that was also hugely fake. "The fact that I threatened you earlier? Let's be serious."

"No, Rafe, it's not your threats."

"So what is it? Just because I'm not the good dog you want me to be?"

You had laughed sarcastically. "Oh but think again, Rafe. You are one of my dogs. I just need to train you properly, and soon you'll be barking my name every time you see me.”

Finally, you had a bit of an answer for him, and he liked it. “Red.”

“Red?” You repeated, puzzled as you looked at him with wide eyes.

“For the color of the leash. But also for your safeword. you know, I tend to bite really hard, teacher’s pet.”

He was so annoying. Even more so when he played along with you. You rolled your eyes. He stared at your lips for a bit, the ice fierce of his blue gaze trailing down the curve of your mouth.

“ Stop staring. ” You warned.

“ So should i kiss ? ”

“ Try it and you're gonna have a free ticket for the infirmary for the rest of the week. ”

The thrilling sound of the academy bell rang to signal that classes were about to start again.

“Your uniform.” You commented. “Put it on properly if you want to go to class. At least tie it.”

“Do it if you care that much about my presence in class.” He scoffed.

“I’ll rather strangle you with that tie.”

“Sounds more like a kink than a threat. You really want to kill me, don’t you?”

“About that...”

You approached cautiously, lifting yourself up on the tips of your loafers until you could feel his breath on your neck, before making his tie. You were so close that Rafe wanted to tear his hands off because the temptation to wrap them around your waist was growing harder. Instead, he’d let your fingers slide around his tie, your mouth so close to his that every breath you took was a caress on his. He hung on your lips, waiting for a word to come, rather than a tempting breath. It was hard.

Hard to play your game when you were too close.

“I’m sure it’s your fault. People avoid me when I talk about that girl, so someone’s pressuring them not to say anything. And you’ve always made sure to tell me how untouchable you are, Rafe Cameron.”

You finished tying the knot, moving on to the buttons of his shirt, knowing full well the effects of this proximity on him. That was why you took your time, so he could feel every touch of your fingers on his body.

"But untouchable doesn't mean unbeatable. It means you can fall, and believe me, not only would I witness your fall, I would have participated in it. You're not a king child, Rafe Cameron. And you and I both know it."

He swallowed hard, very hard.

He grabbed your hand, stopping you from doing the last button.

"Enough."

"What?" "

He leaned in, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel the quiver of his breath against your earlobe. Now that he was in a position of strength against your small size, he was no longer destabilized. “Be careful because I already have an advantage over you.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“I can see you shaking.”

“That’s because you’re too close to me.”

“It’s the perfect proximity to make you the next body to disappear, teacher's pet.”

You never swallowed so hard in your life after his sentence.

[dearestzaychik]

Missing Posters.

Rehabilitation AU

Silly little AU I thought of with my friend, Meos!

TW : Maybe a bit ooc, Cussing, Violence, Blood, and an attempt that was made to harm reader.

WORD COUNT : 5k+ words!

NOT PROOFREAD

(Once again I can't be bothered.. Please do point out any mistakes you can spot once more!)

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READERS POV.

Each day was the same as always. wake up, get ready, go to work, come back home, eat, sleep.. Although you were grateful to be able to actually work at Roblox World HQ, the work that was assigned to you was starting to burn you out a bit. Looking at your own desk of piled and messy papers, you couldn't help but feel even more exhausted.

It all started on the sudden disappearance of the Administrators of Roblox, and it wasn't just an easy task either. After that, there has been a chain of disappearances that began a few months back, starting with some admins like Builderman and Shedletsky, then a top employee of the Builder Brother's Company disappeared. More over a big problem considering a big portion of the works at a Pizza Place suddenly slowed and that said employee was actually the son of one of the builder brother's, then right after was another Administrator, Dusekkar.. Then it just kept going, ranging from either Administrators or Normal Robloxians that were just trying to live a normal life and It was just a lot to take in. Who ever was causing these disappearances didn't seem to only go after Big Models for the community or Normal Robloxians too, as even robloxians that were banished to the Banlands suddenly disappeared as well. Such as 1x1x1x1, John Doe, 007n7.. you name it.

This was a genuine problem for the state of Robloxia, it dug itself deep to the point where your own superior, Roblox themselves doesn't know anything about the situation nor can they even get anything to start as an investigation. You could only glance at the Missing Posters that were at the center of your desk, seeing the familiar faces too much every day you go to work. Like this casino owner named Chance, or this sleeveless shirt with a spawnpoint symbol wearing civillian, named Two Time.. Okay, now that you think about it their names sound pretty weird, but that wasn't the point nor was it uncommon, especially knowing Robloxia's very odd law when it comes to names.. You weren't even supposed to be here at this time. It was already late at night, and usually your shift ends during the afternoon or so. You were practically the only person in the office of your batch, and it gave a empty feeling that setted in you once more. Although you practically did have a great work and future ahead of you, it was hard to interact with other co-workers in the office or to just other people in general knowing how the social hierarchy works. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk. Especially knowing you had a bigger problem at your hands, but that sounds like a problem for future you as you decided then and there that enough work was done for today. You were definitely not staying in this office for any longer, stretching your body as you cracked a few joints.. Feeling your body finally relax after a while. Genuinely, whichever deity was looking upon you right now.. You hoped that every single one of these missing people will come back soon. Technically, its not for the selfish reason of finally being able to lay off work after a while but it's to also ease the tension and fright within the Town of Robloxia itself.

Getting up from your office chair, you didn't bother cleaning up your messy desk. You'll be in the same situation all over again anyways, so not being able to clean up after yourself was the least of your worries. Getting the keys that were left to you by the Janitor as you closed the office for the night, practically disassociating with reality through out the entire process as you snapped out the moment when you were finally outside the building. It looked so peaceful, seeing how there was no people that can be seen outside since nobody was usually up at this hour. Exhaustion crept up to you once more, burnt out from your core as you begrudgingly had to drag and force your body to move through the empty streets.

Although the journey was peaceful, it was definitely quiet.. Almost too quiet. Its been a long while since you've actually took the time to take care of yourself now that you've realized it. Looking at a window of a random, already closed building as you took in how disheveled you looked. You definitely need to schedule some sort of spa day for yourself. Although, looking at the reflection of the window.. You could've sworn something moved in the background of the reflection you were looking at. Looking behind, seeing the deep forest as you observed the landscape. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it, until there was a rustle from the bush. A hand came out, clutching onto a tree as the figure revealed themselves to be injured. It didn't take a genius, especially one in your situation where you'd have to look at missing posters 24/7 to know who this was. Having a burger on top of his head and on top of that said burger was a little noob head..- This was 007n7, one of the Missing People. Locking eyes with him as he looked to be relieved upon seeing you, as if he hasn't seen someone else in a long time. (More on so of a face he specifically hasn't seen.)

"..P-please!- We need help!-"

He stated, stumbling upon his words yet he rushed and pushed his body to run up to you. He was practically battered with wounds and was on the verge of passing out. Before you can even reply to him in any way, you noticed how much he trembled as he held your arms in desperation, practically holding onto you as if the world was ending any minute. You were sure he was in no shape or form to respond right now, so you had no choice as you pulled up your phone and called your boss. The moment you mentioned that you found one of the missing person, There was sudden crash and movement on the other side as Roblox hung up on you. Seems like he'll be disturbing some other workers schedule, and soon enough there were a lot of other employees and even whole entire helicopters and other machinery that you didn't recognize off arrived as they pulled you away from 007n7, taking you both away for questioning. But of course, your interrogation was short compared to 007n7's and you were let go. It was a mess, but at this point seeing the amount of cameras and deconstruction going on.. Yeah you slipped away from everything, you couldn't be bothered to stay any longer.

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It turns out, every single missing person was found that night. The others were found deep in the woods, as the forest was practically taken down to find every single one of them. They even started checking out every robloxian that was on the missing person list and making sure that nobody was left behind or forgotten. The case was solved, but not without problems. Some of them like 007n7 were greatly injured. then some of them gave weird behaviors that isn't usually like them back before they went missing like John Doe. The News rung loud on the Small TV that you owned before you turned it off, closing the door of your bedroom as you crashed down immediately onto your bed, not even bothering to take any of your work clothes off as you were too exhausted to care.. But none the less, whatever deity was listening to you heard your wishes, so that means you'll finally be able to rest, right?.. Maybe you should actually schedule a self-care day for yourself tomorrow. After all, you definitely deserved it.

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As you stood infront of the facility that Roblox themselves quickly made for these 'survivors', you couldn't help but internally die a bit as you couldn't have been more wrong than ever. Turns out, being the person that found them will bring you to be the head lead on this new project, and now you'll need to figure out what the hell happened, especially considering how all of them to be in a terrible state after being found. If they weren't physically harmed, they were mentally fucked up thats for sure.

None the less, keeping your head high as you tapped the Identification Card at the scanner. It gave the green light, as the doors opened upon your entry. The moment you entered it seemed to be just a small room first, yet before you knew it your own face was blown by white mist, practically 'sanitizing' you before you actually come in the facility. They might as well purify your entire being with the amount of things that were being sprayed and blown onto you. It was an annoying surprise, yes. But when were you to decide and complain about the facilities made by Roblox themselves? You would practically loose your job if you ever spoke the words that you thought about in your head.

After being sanitized, you finally got into the actual facility. There were many faces that you didn't recognize, the other workers probably coming from other departments in the company. But then again, who were you to bother recognizing your co-workers faces when you don't even interact with them outside of work? Someone came up to you, bowing as they handed you a few folders before they took their leave. Wow, people here really didn't like talking. Oh well, that wasn't a problem you'll need to worry about. Looking through the folders, you realized that these contained the files of each missing person that you once experienced headache's on. One folder seemingly being the main folder as it told you the Instructions for the job and your objectives.

FILE 01 :

OBJECTIVES.

1.

Find out what happened during the span of the 10 months of them being missing.

2.

Check on their behaviors and health daily. Make sure their sanity and health is improving, not deteriorating.

3.

Don't make bonds or relationships with the Robloxians while in confinement. Wait upon further instructions for interactions or when your presence is requested by them.

STATISTICS

Observe, Learn, and Investigate on the survivor's..

• SANITY

• BEHAVIOR

• HEALTH

• KNOWLEDGE ABOUT THE SITUATION

• ANY EVENTS THAT MAY HAPPEN DURING INTERACTION.

Made by Roblox™.

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Well, even though it was explained in a simple and easy-to-understand way, you couldn't help but be uneasy about it. There were definitely some strict regulations when it comes to interacting with the missing robloxians, but it even applies to the Administrators that went missing along with them? You definitely needed to be careful, if your life isn't in the line then certainly your job is. Looking through the other folders, your eyes landed on a familiar name once more. 007n7, perhaps you can start with him considering you already met him last night.

Walking to the confinement rooms, you can notice from the window of the doors that each room was designed for the comfort of each person. You didn't bother looking yet though, as you made your way through the set of doors before your eyes landed on one. The Name Plate on top of the door stating 007n7. Putting out your ID as it was scanned, you were granted permission inside.

Walking inside, your greeted with a room that's seemingly the control room. In front was a bunch of buttons and switches you definitely shouldn't press and a Glass Panel on the wall. It seemed to be a one-way glass panel, seeing how 007n7 didn't react upon your entry. He was just staring at a wall, with that wall having frames of Him and a little red child. None the less, you went up to the control panel and sat on the chair, placing the rest of the folders you had on a place where it was far away from the buttons and switches. You didn't want to mess anything up when you haven't even started, that would be embarrassing and so not your style. Anyways, you should really stop with this inner monologue you have in your head, it makes you look AND sound crazy. you focused on 007n7's file folder, as there were many things to fill up on that's for sure. The only thing that was really filled up here was the Basic Information, such as 'Name', 'Height', 'Last Seen before Missing', type things like that. You adjusted the microphone to your liking first before you pressed the Mic button, enabling the microphone for 007n7 to hear.

"Hello, Can you hear me?"

Your voice rung out through the room, snapping 007n7 from his thoughts as he looked at the one-way glass panel. He recognized that voice from the night before, remembering how he saw a robloxian when he finally found a way out of the woods. Although he didn't heard much, when he was asking for help he could vaguely remember hear whispers of voice from that person as they called someone up, and then rescue finally arrived after that. It was no doubt that the person talking to him right now was the same person he met during that night.

"It's.. you-"

He stated, looking at the glass panel as he looked to be recalling the events that happened last night. You could only let out a sigh, scanning through his files as you thought about what to reply. It was only rational for you to interact with 007n7 first, considering you already met the guy. He was the safest individual to start off this whole entire fiasco with.

"Yes, it's me. How have you been feeling since last night?"

You said, Looking at him as you inspected his wounds. His wounds seemed to be patched up, but it was obvious it was still healing. After a moment of pause, the silence lingering in the air as 007n7 seemed to be thinking about his response before he finally replies..

"It's.. been fine. I-if I can ask, How long will we stay here?.."

007n7 stated, looking at the glass panel as he awaited your response. Although he couldn't actually see you, the way he stared at you felt like he could. As much as you like to answer his question, you didn't even know what to say yourself. And either way, it was forbidden to have any bonds during their confinement. You shouldn't get too comfortable with any of them.

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that, nor can I give you the answer your hoping to look for if I did have an answer. I'd like your full cooperation at most for this meeting, consider it as compensation that you can give me for last night."

You stated, dying a bit with how formal you seemed to be right now. You really couldn't stand professionalism, even more so when you had to keep up an act like one. He seemingly contemplated what you said, a deal he can't really refuse considering his current circumstances. After all, if it weren't for you he wouldn't have been found along with the others, and he actually did something to help them after all this time.

"..It sounds reasonable enough."

007n7 said, seemingly finding the statement you said quite reasonable. You could've sworn you can give yourself a pat on the shoulder, but none the less you looked through the file that gave the instructions. There was a part of the file itself that had multiple sets of questions laid upon you. These were probably the questions you can only give, considering the earlier instructions before this. But the thing was you were only allowed to ask 3 questions of each survivor every day, and you weren't even sure why. What was even more interesting is the fact that there were a set of instructions that was telling you to record the interaction. As you yourself were provided with a record log to keep track of the events that will happen. This job is definitely asking a lot from you, and you weren't even sure what they saw in you. You would prefer to be in your bed more than anything at this point.

Either way, you didn't have a choice as you finally turned on the recording. After all, you couldn't proceed with the interrogation if you didn't do so. You might as well get over it so that you could leave early.

- Start for log record of 007n7. -

2025 / 10 / 18, 12:31:07

"What happened during the months you and the other survivors went missing?"

"We were transported to some otherworldly realm. We decided to name the times each survivor got transported in the realm as being Forsakened in the realm. We came at different times and some in different locations, but it was still all in the same realm. Some were.. unfortunate enough to get forsakened as something else entirely."

Although his voice was quiet and calm, there was a hint of turmoil inside his eyes. Yet he looked like he was used to it long ago, and it was frightening to think about to say the least. Noting down his response, you moved onto the next question.

"What did you do inside the realm itself?"

"..We were forced to play rounds of games that required us to turn on 3 to 5 generators in order to survive. There was someone.. no, something always after us everytime. And if we were unfortunate enough to get caught, we will be killed."

That last sentence made you freeze for a minute. What did he mean by killed? Was he trying to pull something? But his expression didn't give off any hints that he would be lying right now. Just what did they really experience in that realm?

"..Elaborate on that.-"

WARNING :

The question the interviewee provided wasn't in the list of questions, This will take up one question attempt. Please try again.

Thank you for your Cooperation.

The voice of an intercom stated out loud, both to you and 007n7. It hasn't even passed a minute yet, you didn't know why they would restrict the only way to gain access to information.

- End for log record of 007n7. -

To be damned with these strict regulations. The information you were given was a whole entire different situation, and these strict regulations were simply just holding you back from doing your job properly. You could only let out a frustrated sigh as you finished up your observation, looking at 007n7 as he looked confused. It seems like any questions that wasn't allowed to be asked wasn't detected on the mic. Especially noticing how the Microphone was suddenly disabled the moment you even muttered the first letter. You couldn't turn it back on either since you already used up three questions.. You could only grumble to yourself, seeing 007n7 in the other window as he stopped looking at the panel itself, looking back to the frames on the wall once more. He probably thought you left already considering the intercom stated the interrogation was done, and for some reason you can't help but feel bad for the poor lad. But what's done is done, you'll make sure to interact with him tomorrow to both check out how he's been doing and get more answers considering he's pretty compliant.

Picking up your files, you stood up and left quietly. After all, there wasn't really a use staying in that room if you couldn't talk to the man anymore. You weren't the one to complain about Roblox's set of rules, but sometimes these regulations suck ass. Going through your files, you landed on a familiar face. Guest 1337. If you were right this was the very Guest that fought during The Last Guest... Wasn't he supposed to be dead? At least presumed dead, since during the ultimate sacrifice his body was never found, so it was never confirmed if he actually perished during it. He looked sane enough to interact with, you'll probably be alright when you talk to him. You needed more information on what really happened after everything, because what 007n7 gave you wasn't enough for your undying curiousity.

As you exited the confinement room, you walked along the hallway as you were searching for Guest 1337's confinement. Along your way, you saw something move in your peripheral vision. What was that? your gaze looked at another door, looking at the nameplate on top of it. 'Two Time'. You remember their name that's for sure, as while you were dreading on your work last night you could recall looking at their missing poster that was on the entire mess you would call your office table. Something was moving inside that door, and you didn't know any other employees that could have access to this part of the facility either. None the less, you went near the door as you looked through the small window that was given at the upperhalf of the door. Nothing seemed to be inside though, was your mind fooling you? There was a part of you that wanted to explore further, but another part of you wanted to leave and move on. Curiosity kills the cat, but you only live once, don't you? Driven by your curiosity, you pressed your identification card on the scanner as you gained access through the door, stepping inside as you were greeted with the similar control panel like the ones in 007n7's confinement room. Although, the only difference was the room at the other side of the panel. The Room was pretty plain besides for the fact that some of the furniture or decor had the.. Checkpoint Symbol? No, they were called something else for sure but you didn't bother thinking about it. All you knew about that symbol was the times you participated in many Obstacle Course events during your youth, it always appeared when there was a dangerous and deadly obstacle coming up.

The more you examined the room, the more it looked like a shrine for it at this point. but you did recall about seeing some information about this said Two Time person being in a Cult or whatever during your work with the missing posters, so it somewhat made sense if that information were to be true. Wait... Speaking of the occupant of the said room, Nobody was in the room of the other panel. Before you can even react and call authorities about the sudden disappearance, a hand covered your mouth as you felt a sharp pain behind you. Someone had the audacity to fucking stab you. Before this said person made any more moves, you held a tight grip on the stack of files that you carried as you turned around and swung them at the one responsible for this, making sure you hit them right on the head. You grunted, feeling the pain in your back as the dagger was still and most definitely lodged behind you. Looking at the person, you could only stumble backwards as you tightened your grip on the files even further. Two Time can be seen on the floor, as they seemed to have stumbled upon the hit you just gave them. Although they didn't seem to look hurt though, they were smiling through out all of this as they seemed to actually be enjoying this...

"..The Spawn seemed to have blessed me with encountering such an Individual that's just... Like Him."

Two Time muttered out, looking at you with a wide smile. This person was definitely insane. Hell, even the way they look at you with such... Enthusiasm scared you. They recovered from your blow, standing up as they continued to look at you with such glee. They were unarmed right now, but that definitely doesn't mean they aren't dangerous anymore just yet.

"You almost have the same presence as him. It's almost nostalgic, really."

Two Time mentioned, still looking at you as their smile faltered. Leaving behind a blank expression as for a moment before they smiled again. Just what were they talking about? Who's Him?

"The Spawn has blessed us both to meet on this very day, and I, for one will be forever grateful about their mercy... Shall we thank them with a dance?"

Two Time stated, and before you could even react they took advantage of the opening laid upon them, as they shoved your files away from your hands, the said files scattering everywhere. They grabbed the Dagger that was lodged into your back, seemingly twisting it before pulling it off from you. You could only wince in pain, especially when this little shit decided to twist the dagger. Blood was on the very dagger as they took a moment to inspect it. You could've sworn their sick smile grew wider from it. Stumbling onto your feet, you grabbed your ID as you ditched the files, slamming your ID onto the scanner as the door opened before you as you ran out of the room. The door was about to close before a hand stopped it from closing, activating the sensor system as the doors opened again. You already knew who that individual was, so you shouldn't bother to look behind you. Although... The more you ran, the more you realized of the fact that you went the wrong way, as this was the way to the security room, not the exit to go to the main facility. Cursing yourself, you could only move forward as your own blood was dripping onto the floor. There were footsteps behind you, following you and with eyes that stalked your every move.

Reaching the end of the hallway, you slammed your ID on the scanner once more, opening the door to the security room as you made sure to shut the door. Relief washed over you for a minute, stumbling onto the ground as your wounded back leaned onto the control panel right behind you. Although the door to the Security Room didn't have a window, There was a camera outside of the door. You could only look at the screen as Two Time stood there menacingly outside the door... They couldn't possibly get in, right? After all, they needed access. An ID, which you had and they didn't. You'll be safe for the time being... Looking around the security room, you scanned for any items that can be used to defend yourself. Your eyes locked onto a gun, but the problem was it was locked behind a glass case, and you didn't have anything to break it. Nor did you know the code to the glass case itself, and you were too weak to break it with your bare hands. Cursing yourself, you stumbled back on our feet once more, glancing at the monitors that displayed different things. Each screen displayed each of the rooms that were in this very hallway, this was probably a seperate security room to the actual security room of the Facility, specifically made to monitor their behaviors. But one monitor caught your attention, the very screen that was monitoring the place outside of the room.

You could see Two Time seemingly kneeling, as they managed to pry out the scanner and looked to be connecting the wires of what's left with the scanner. Hell, how do they even learn how to do all of this? It even looked like this wasn't their first rodeo either. This place definitely wasn't safe anymore, and you needed to find a way to get out, fast. Looking at the control panel at your disposal, none of them looked like it can help you. Well, except for the big red button at the very top that even had a case on it. Without much thought, you opened the case and absolutely slammed your hand onto the button. There was nothing to loose, its either you die at this maniac's hands or your own stupidity. Who knows, maybe this said button was a self-destruct button.. or more reasonable, an alarm button. But you hoped for the first thought was right.

Alarms went off as the entrance to the confinement rooms opened up, it wasn't long before a set of guards raided into the area. Muffled Shouting can be heard outside, but you couldn't care much longer about it. Slumping back down onto your knees, your vision was starting to black out, your forehead pressed onto the control panel's side. You definitely lost too much blood, as you can feel the large wound that was inflicted upon you. Yes, it was only a stab at first but that damned Two Time twisted the dagger, making the damage even more impactful and painful to deal with. Hell, you could've sworn your own spine almost got crushed as well. As chaos ensued, you blocked all the noises away as you felt your body relax further and further. The last moments you can remember were that of something wrapping around your legs and arms, with black tentacles coming into your vision and wrapped itself around your eyes... As if ushering you to take the rest you deserved already. Although it was unfamiliar, it didn't feel threatening and soon enough, you found yourself going unconscious. Before you completely blacked out, you know one thing for sure... You were definitely gonna complain about this to the community board of the workplace after this.

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???'s POV.

He could only scoff at the pathetic sight that was infront of him. But none the less, they were impressed on this individual's quick thinking skills during the whole entire mess that was made despite the overbearing irrationality that came along with it. But he knew whatever this individual pulled off will definitely rat out is disappearance for to his own room as well.

Looking up at this person as he raised their now unconscious body up. Seems like that freak managed to wound their back pretty badly. None the less, he looked back at the security feed before right back at this individual. As much as he hated individuals that were gullible and naive... Nobody deserved to have a similar fate like his. Much to his own dismay, they made use of the medicinal plants that was provided in his room that they took with them for safe measures, and started treating the wound this individual had on them. Making sure that he didn't cause the wound to get even worse as they took their time during the process. After all, there was no more reason to rush considering they'll be caught red handed anyways.

This individual definitely owes him big time after this, and he could only think about the possibilities that he can make with this oh so kind favor he's giving. Considering the fact that they could've used this time to escape and avoid the mess they have made. They'll find a way to escape this damned place another time. For now, he'll have to make do with the choices he made and plan this escape plan another time.

After a while, he finished up on the treatment. Right as soon as he finished, the doors to the Security Room was opened. Guns were pointed right at him yet the gazes that befell upon him were ones of fright. He doesn't blame them, after all, Who would love or appreciate a monster like him? Although he could easily wipe this whole entire team away, he knew the consequences of the action. Especially with how much information he found just by staying around this security room, he raised his hands as he was apprehended as well and lead back to his room for further questioning.

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NOTES

Thank you all for waiting! This is a different fic from the Our Forsakened Destiny series because I wanted to experiment a bit on a different setting! Considering most fics take place in the realm and the reader seems to know about the fact everything is a game, etc, etc.. How about we make the reader actually be apart of the Robloxia as one of the employees of Roblox HQ working under Roblox type thing!! ( that was alot of roblox mentioned. )

I've seen all of your decisions, and I was definitely surprised on how close of a battle the other two choices had.. Hell, while i was even observing through out the time of the poll there were times were Truth was in the lead. But in the end, Silent won!

Its great to finally start writing again after a bit of a lengthy hiatus, so to celebrate this I will be opening my requests as well! If you have any ideas or things you guys want written feel free to send either an ask or request! Once again, Thank you for your everlasting patience and thank you for reading!

( could you tell I'm going through a desperate azure phase )

P.S... I'm not sure if this is a series I will continue though! I'll have to wait and decide for myself if I will actually make this another series compared to the one im working on rn

[trulyumai]

Looking Past the Fire

Paring: Messmer x Reader

Synopsis: Between the shadow lands, laid Messmer. And between that? His darling wife.

Warnings: Talk of Death

A/N: Ive officially began the DLC and I am WASHED. Also this big nosed fella has been taking over my mind please send help. (I love it)

Enjoy!

For whom could ever love him as much as his wife once did? 

She would be there, to carry his heavy soul, kiss the bruised skin and wipe away the rotting blood. 

His wife was ever so patient; wiping at his dirtied frame carefully, cautiously. Like he was someone who deserved it, needed it. He got used to such loving touches, it was dangerous. His family scoffed behind his back- mumbled about his newfound weakness. But between his own blood was a wall of fire, and between that was her. 

In truth, he craved coming back home, to her, and her adoring frame and sappy expressions. 

He would always call out to her. 

“My love?” His voice was so soft, much more than one would ever guess a man like him would- could carry. 

A man of death and flame. 

“Over here, darling!” And he would see the back of her head, peeking up from the windowsill that laid just in front of their kitchen. 

She would always be in the flower filled garden, tending to each plant with care until her fingers were overtaken with blackened dirt.

She’d lift herself high then, peek over at him with blinking lashes. A serene expression always to be seen when gazing upon the red haired man. 

Messmer without thought would walk forth, to her, and her sun kissed cheeks. 

As if in a daze the man wouldn’t dare avert his eyes; for the goddess in front of him was enough to hold the attention of such a man of power. 

His head ducked under the wooden back door. His back would crack loudly almost every time, and sometimes a groan of protest would leave the pale man’s lips. 

And he would reachout, gently coaxing the woman to him once more, he wanted- needed to feel her soft skin against his rough and war torn body. 

She’d listen of course, and would press her frame to his without further delay. 

Messmer would allow his arms to wrap around her, with his nose digging into her neck to smell the sweet scent of sweat sticking to her damp skin. 

“Husband,” she giggled, hearing his sighs of contentment. 

“I’ve missed you, has the trip fared well?” 

The wind picked up, the giant yellowing trees swayed with the breeze and Messmer could no longer subdue his mind to the stress it was in mere moments ago. 

Right before he placed himself in his wife’s presence, the worries of the palace laid upon his shoulders. 

His command, his power, his reign- 

“Husband?” 

How would she react to the bodies littering the field, the broken families, the hierarchy?

Her fingertips grazed his cheek.

“Hm? Oh, yes, the trip was easy, my wife,” 

The knight picked a fallen leaf that had laid upon her hair carelessly. 

“I’ve established safe perimeters. None shall lay harm to the south for quite some time.” 

She smiled. 

“Of course you did, my strong Knight. For who could be more of a protector than you?”

Bile reached up to the man's throat, it burned his insides with spite and regret. 

His wife was ill informed, she hadn't heard of the burning castle walls- with its soldiers laying crumpled and burnt in his wake. 

In fact, he hadn’t been a knight for the order in many moons, his siege had taken over much of the shadowlands, in which he was close to winning.

For none could stand the fiery ambition held between his sword and gaze 

He was a protector yes, but only for her. 

Messmer let out a deep laugh, it was short and muffled by his lips. 

The knight leaned down and began to trail kisses down his wifes temple, to her jaw, then finally, her lips. 

With a tilt to the head their mouths met, he placed a pale hand on the back of her head, pushing her to meet his lips with more strength. 

Nipping lightly the girl's hands fisted upon his armor, lightly trying to push herself away from the man- most likely for air. 

He complied, and smiled as she let out a gasp for air with pink cheeks and lidded eyes. 

Taking his thumb he brushed it upon her chin, clearing up the saliva that had dribbled down. 

She leaned into his palm, and Messmer once more felt the bite of regret nip at the edges of his mind. 

“Are you staying the night?” Her voice, barely above the howling wind, brought him back. 

Messmer hummed, his hand found the back of her waist. 

“I have dinner going, i'll make your place at the table.”

He only nodded his head as she padded off, not taking his eyes off the darkened clouds approaching their vicinity. 

From the corner of his eye, Messmer eyed the rising smoke. 

The south let out a plethora of darkened fumes, the village there laid in smoldering, blackened ash. 

Of course the south laid safe and ill of enemies; for he had cleared its population down to nothing. 

The land may never return to its original state with its burnt hills and mountains.

“It's ready, my love!” 

Messmer turned back, meeting the gaze of his lover by the doorframe. 

Little drops of rain plopped onto his loosened hair, no longer did light shine through the gray skies, but muffled streams of sun. 

He turned his back to the village, the smoke and bodies. 

For a more important matter was at hand now; the happiness of his wife.

[lostintransist]

This Bunny Bites | Part 11

Part 1 | AO3

CW: Nada this time.

Price had listened when you requested that your brother not accompany you to the salon. Ghost, as it turned out, had a face under that ugly mask he wore. Did you get to see it? No, but you at least got a view of his eyebrows and a scar above one of them between his medical mask and his ball cap pulled down low.

Several of the chairs at the salon were filled beyond the wall separating the floor from the reception area. A young woman with a bright smile had led the two of you back to Alicia. Price had booked you with one of the up-and-coming stylists in the area for wealthier clientele. The shifting hum of voices, water, and hair dryers settled over you like a warm towel from the dryer.

The biggest surprise of the appointment was the quiet jokes that caught you by surprise and had you biting back your full laugh. Once when Ghost had caught you with a particularly well-timed joke you snorted into your hand as the stylist, Alicia, removed more foil from your hair. Glancing up her you found the woman also smiling and rolling her eyes.

“Good bodyguard you have there,” she said when she caught your eye as your head lay in her sink.

“He’s decent company, which is more than I can say for most people I meet,” you offer back with a smirk.

There is a glint of understanding in her eyes but any connection you could have made is curtailed when a shrill voice starts up at the front of the salon. The verbal abuse goes on and on, I won’t be paying for this, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.

Alicia started rinsing the bleach from your hair, warm water easing the burning itch on your scalp. Efficient hands soothe the ache and wash and condition your hair. You watch with squinting eyes as Ghost stands from the stool he had been directed to and walks with those purpose-filled, silent steps until he is beyond the reach of your vision.

The shrill voices stuttered as Ghost’s deep, commanding voice reached you only in murmurs. Alicia looks down at you, brow cocked in question. She rinses you quickly, wrapping a back towel around your hair as both of you move closer to the front. The two of you are joined by several other nosy ladies. At least two women have curlers half removed and another has half an updo completed.

“Here is your card ma’am. Now stop disturbing the receptionist.” Ghost’s firm tone reeked of command.

You didn’t know enough about military levels to confirm where he stood in the hierarchy but no one got that comfortable giving orders unless they had practice.

The woman, older dark roots blasted away with a hefty dose of chemicals and toner, stood opposite the receptionist counter small purse resting in the elbow of her pants suit. She would have furrowed her eyebrows at Ghost but from the firm plumpness of her face, you knew she had too much Botox to even attempt it.

“Well I never—” she began before Ghost cut her off.

“Now you have. Take your card and go,” he held the black card out to her as if the color came from mold.

A sniff from the receptionist had you glancing at her. The petite woman hid completely in the width of Ghost’s ribs.

“Who is your boss? I demand a word with them.” She snatched the card from between the tips of Ghost’s fingers, shoving it deep into her comically small purse.

If anything he seemed to expand, taking up more room than a single breathing man should be allowed to.

“When you get through to the King send him my regards won’t you?” Ghost replied almost casually.

The hag would have pursed her lips if she could as she turned with a huff and threw herself out the door and onto the street.

Two deep breaths you let yourself watch as his ribs stretched his shirt before he turned and caught you staring. Every lady, and the one male stylist who had shimmied in next to you to watch the show, all squeaked and scurried away. The clattering of trays and combs hitting the floor followed like the chorus follows a verse.

Throwing your body into Alicia’s chair the two of you make eye contact in the mirror. She is fanning herself with a hand, cheeks pinked. You also felt overly warm but all your heat had traveled south to settle in your belly. Quirking a smile at her you offered a joke.

“Best guards are guard dogs.”

You and Alicia are still laughing when Ghost appears in the mirror, settling into the stool he had abandoned earlier.

No one mentions the brutish way he handled the upset customer until you are settling in the back seat of the car. When you catch his eye you speak.

“Did she at least pay for her service?”

“Tapped her card and tipped well for her.” He winks when you continue to stare at him in the rearview mirror.

The next several days are filled with you stuck on a couch being drilled on names, faces, opinions, and top priorities of an unreasonable number of people who you would be mingling within less than two weeks. You claim ownership of a cushion next to the armrest each day to avoid your brother trying to sit close to you.

Price, Ghost, and Kyle all take turns buffering the two MacTavishs. You wondered if they worried one of you might snap at the other and draw blood. Avoiding confrontation with John, Johnny as they called him, became a game you played with yourself. Throat tight you would open the bathroom door and stare at him until he moved, letting you pass without commentary. He followed you with his eyes though, tracking your movement as if it would reveal some unknown knowledge. It wouldn’t. The depths of your pain were not cenotes to explore.

You stood from the couch, hours have passed since you were moving last. Every one of your joints protested the stationary existence.

“Ah fuck,” your back popped as you stretched a smidge further, “I need to get back to dancing. All my joints hurt.”

“Dancing? Why not just hit the gym?” Johnny lobs the question like a live grenade in your direction.

You snap a glare at him as he stands in the kitchen popping grapes off the stem and into his mouth. Sometimes when you looked at him you prayed you would find the kid with a split lip and no stubble to speak of, each time instead you found a man you didn’t recognize. One with sorrow and anger in the eyes that matched yours.

“Why would I go to the gym when I can get a full body workout with a skimpy outfit, a pole bolted to the ceiling, and no men to try and talk to me?” You shake the stretch from your arms as they lower to your side.

“Doubt you can get a full workout from that,” Johnny cocks an eyebrow as he pops another grape.

“Can’t be that hard, ladies do it and in heels,” Price doesn’t turn from the TV where he had been disconnecting his laptop and turning off the electronics.

He tosses his thoughts like coins into a fountain, mindless and so sure of his aim that he doesn’t look back to see the plunk of the water swallowing his words.

Gaz chimes in now, “I will say, some of the flips I’ve seen birds do were impressive. Can’t see them taking that much muscle though.”

Holding your lips together you look from Gaz to Ghost, knowing his comment would follow.

“Can’t really call it a workout unless you are lifting plates or busting noses,” he stands, turning to head into the kitchen as he continues. “Good thought that; better train you in self-defense. Price, I’ll get your thoughts on that later.”

Keeping your tongue behind your teeth saw an act of will akin to holding back an earthquake. Starting a fight wouldn’t help keep you safe when you started to mingle at parties. You needed them to want to keep you safe. That meant silence.

“No thoughts Bunny?” Price probed. “You’re not one to keep your thoughts to yourself.”

Mmm. You hadn’t realized that you had been so clear about your opinions and personality with them. Too late to change that now. Best to play it off.

“Not in much of a mood for an argument today, so no. No thoughts.” You busy yourself pulling your phone from the crack in the couch and shoving it into your back pocket.

When you straighten up you find four sets of eyes evaluating you.

“Did something happen?” Gaz asks the question.

“Nothing you have clearance to discuss,” you replied, tone syrupy. The lying smile on your face wouldn’t have fooled your brother. Too bad for him he couldn’t force the issue without risking your wrath.

Something had happened. Taking a leap you signed up for a writers’ conference six months from now. Wanting to have a story fully written, at least the finished first draft, you went through your old ideas. You were digging through old scraps of stories, ones that you had plotted in big strokes on paper and always swore you would come back to. After the seventh damsel in distress gets saved theme you put the notebooks, scrap papers, napkins, back in the box and set the lid down gently. Your fingerbones ached to tear all the pain on those pages asunder. Rend them to shreds and then light them ablaze to free the girl who had always been trapped.

A hiss of air triggered the human need to identify. Ghost caught your gaze as you locked onto the sound coming from him. If he saw the vulnerability there he didn’t comment on it in front of your face.

“Do you need an escort to your car?” Johnny offered, crunching another grape between his teeth when you glanced at him. 

“No.” Without elaborating you head for the front door, beyond the digging gazes of trained soldiers.

Parking down the street gave you space to think, to move your body, and exchange the swirling awfulness in your chest for air tinged with petrol and not musk.

Slipping on your shoes and locating your purse leads you to digging around for your keys. Finding the long lanyard you pull it out. A business card flutters to the floor, flung from your careless yank on the keys.

“Oh! Lover boy!” Peering around the corner from the front hall you crook a finger at him. “I forgot I had something for you.”

You had forgotten Cara’s card in your bag. She had asked you to do her a solid and give it to Gaz. It was no skin off your back if anything did or didn’t come of it. If it tweaked your brother’s nose in the process? All the better.

Gaz appeared both hands shoved deep in his pockets, elbows tucked tight to his ribs as if he expected a fist to make a home there.

“Here,” you hold the card out to him.

“Quit trying to use me to get under Johnny’s skin. He is my best friend; I won’t be part of this game.”

“Game? This isn’t a game,” you deny quickly. If this were a game there would be a winner, not two bleeding hearts on the floor.

“Mm. Either way, leave me out of it.” Kyle plucked the card from between your fingers, pushed past you, and turned into the kitchen.

“I’ll tell Cara you said hi then!” You chirp voice as sweet maraschino cherries.

No response comes from the men, all hidden from your eyes by walls made of wood and brotherhood. The darkness spotted with lights of windows and passing cars welcomed you as you clicked the door shut.

When you made it home a large cup of tea and your computer kept your secrets as you wrote women who saved themselves and left their brothers to be eaten by the dragons instead.

Part 10 | Part 12

Bunny Masterlist | Masterlist

Cute divider from @/jimzittos

@leahnicole1219 @notsochillnerd @darling006 @harperstyles @lucienofthelakes @redkarmakai @demothers-empty-blog

[vyainide]

ㅤㅤㅤgratefulness (i'm sorry, can this be over now?)ㅤ౨ৎㅤ12.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

oneㅤ/ㅤtwo synopsis. luffy loves you— you know this with how abundantly clear love is in every ministration of his outstretched hand and a grin— yet your traitorous heart demands more, even though you're in no place to give him your loyalty. you know this so you do not demand his love nor to be saved, even when met with a relentlessly stretched hand.

warning(s). gn! reader, hanahaki disease, but some creatively liberated variation of it, angst, hurt/some comfort, slow burn, but does it really count if nothing happens?, unrequited love, pining and the works, background character death, blood, violent imagery, vague allusion to an unspecified mental disorder that involves eating habits (pls be careful!!!), luffy tries his best to be kind but it's cruel, reader spirals 🙏; minimal editing and proofreading (these are basically my thoughts raw and unadulterated)

from vyon. the card game they play is a vietnamese one also known as smth like thirteen in english and has too many rules to explain but it doesn't really matter :3 i was a beast at that game though i fear; this fanfic has been in my drafts for so long, it also grew into too big of a project than it was meant to be. i also had to split this up into two parts, it was getting too long, i'm sorry ＞︿＜

do not repost / copy / translate.

Once you know Monkey D. Luffy, you'll know his heart not a few minutes after. He's welded the unmoving, burning ingot to his bicep, always on display due to his amassing collection of armless vests; rubber skin melted around the golden gem, oozing past the lines of his beating heart to staple it there, an anomaly on the expanse of skin not otherwise susceptible to bullets or cannons. Your captain is a man that lives with his heart on his tongue, always ready to dictate the lay of your next move with an irregular beat that drums against the skinned men of war and an impulsivity that makes his crew scramble after him exasperatedly; oxygen taken from his cerebral arteries to his brain are stained in the grease and oil that stick to the meat he handles so carelessly. In the same endearing way, he's careless with his heart, allows for the small stuff to momentarily prick his heart, for judgement to cloud into anger before it picks up on the bitter taste of agony.

It's always easy to get a frown onto Luffy's face. Feign disinterest in his stories; make yourself too busy to help him look for strange insects; force him to shower, scold him after he does something he wasn't meant to; keep him away from something he seems interested in; starve him for more than five minutes— he makes it all exceptionally too easy. You're not audacious enough to claim to know Luffy any more than the Strawhats, especially not those that he had met in East Blue; you try not to let it bother you that they managed to meet a younger Luffy who had so many holes in his defence, whose smile threatened through skin more, who had yet to find scars in his palm from how hard he had to clench his fists.

To you, it seems unfair that Luffy had managed to uncover so many of your firsts. His unwavering presence by your side as you learnt how hard it was to live on sea, the intonations of your screaming when a marine canon was pointed at you, to live so freely away from the confines of restrictive justice, how it felt to have a hand in yours to promise forever and then some. Luffy has no preferential treatment when it comes to people he loves; he treats them all the same, no hierarchy could dream to disrupt that.

With the same sandals he uses to stomp on the faces of Marine's, he could demand food from Sanji, money from Nami, Zoro to play with him— instead, you watch him whine Sanji, food and dissolve into a puddle when his cook orders him to wait, he allows Nami's fists to fall onto his head when he makes any financially impulsive decision (or even thinks them), and he idles himself with drawing on Zoro's face with Usopp and Chopper, with the previous two of them taking the psychical brunt of their consequences. (Chopper is let off with a mere promise that he won't join in with their shenanigans again when it involves making Zoro into a fool and a growing bump underneath his hat.)

Luffy, from second to fourth gear, is tender aggression when it is love.

His form is bizarrely respectful when the door opens and light dawns upon your face; you see him through the gaps of Nami and Sanji's legs and towering forms over him, his hands on his thighs and feet tucked underneath his bottom. He slurs out an I'm sorry that lets you know that his face is definitely messed up and then follows up with an I was hungry though!

Then Nami messes him up some more for his shitty justification.

She leaves him— some caricature of her anger— on the floor with her hands on her hips and Sanji trailing after her with hearts in his eyes at her dominant display of power. As she passes Brook, he asks for the colour of her underwear and earns himself the same treatment. It's then that you laugh. Luffy snapped his head up, following after the trembling air of your laughter and then calls out your name, the syllables are all messy around his swollen cheeks and a missing tooth that will come back after a few minutes but you cannot rid yourself of the thought that it's sticky with love that you only remember hearing when you were just a babe, screaming and crying in the arms of a tired and ill mother in a hospital. You were introduced to a group of midwives with same love you hear now, their idle finger catching into both your small hands; Luffy's hand dances across the air, breaking apart your laugh with urgency and catching onto your wrist.

You're not sure if it's you who had been pulled to him or if he'd managed to catapult himself into you but you both end up a mess on the floor regardless. Limbs tangled around each other in a wave as you both fall to the deck, Luffy does not correct the length of his arm and takes to wrapping the limb around you like a vine snaked around the trunk of a tree. You don't know a start nor an end as Luffy nuzzles his beat–up face on your shoulder. "Hey captain," you raise your head to look down on him, trying to wrench a hand through the tight spirals he's coiled around you.

"I'm hungry," he whines in lieu of a response, "and I'm bored, Usopp kicked me out after I ate one of his ketchup stars." He doesn't relent with his hold on you, simply loosening the coil that you're trying to work your hand through before tightening again once your arm makes it past to trap it against your side. You don't question the fact that Usopp's ketchup stars may be laced with gunpowder or what the small dose of gunpowder may have done to Luffy's internal organs.

You guess even Usopp has his limits when it comes to his childish captain. "I can't do a lot about either of those things if you're keeping me hostage here." He looks up at you, his exaggeratedly large lips in a pout that matches the swelling of his cheeks and then says your name again, like you’ve done him wrong. It's a disordered collection of the letters again but you find you can't really do anything to fight against it. Instead, green tendrils sprout from your trapped arm, each vine wrapped in a light of leaves and strain against his extended limb before he gives in and, instead, laughs as he wraps his rubber arm around the spindly, twisted branches splitting open layers of skin on your bicep. His skin coloured against the green runner keeps the bine from wilting down to meet gravity.

You let Luffy do whatever he wants, with an expression that you're not sure you're too familiar with etched out on the lines of your face. Thinking back on it, you could've simply done as Nami had or Usopp, ignore or scold him enough into submission but his fingers catch one of the fronds and it curls between the meat of his fingertips, reaching out to tickle his palm and something soft blooms inside you. You know it must be you, not the work of your devil fruit, because as much as you've tried in your lacklustre pursuit of beauty, you've never been able to sprout any kind of flowers.

When Luffy finally lets you go, you find your way into the kitchen and give Sanji a smile. You apologise for interrupting him and tell him that you know that lunch had been served only an hour ago but, if he wasn't too busy, you were still a little peckish. Sanji shoots up immediately and asks you what you've got a taste for— you assure him any leftovers from lunch will do and he tells you, though this doesn't come as any surprise, that Luffy had worked his way through any grain of leftovers with a laugh. You laugh along with him and well, you seemed to be craving meat right now.

The plate he prepares seem to be more about quality rather than quantity, with sauce underneath the red meat drizzled across the white ceramic, a slab of meat already cut into bite sized pieces for you and a decorative herb stuck between the fatty slices but when the light oozes down into the stretch of meat, you don't think Luffy will complain too much.

You, of course, were right about that.

The shattering grin he greets you (the plate of meat, however small it seemed) with gives you the faint smell of sticky rain drenched in the light of the sun, and you almost give him your hand when he reaches out for the plate. Brook's guitar strums in the background and your heart shakes in time with his strings and Luffy's incessant chewing.

You've really no problems with Usopp asking you to help him with target practice, it's fairly common for you to help the crew with their unique fighting style— save Nami and Franky for fear of losing your life with their less than particular aimed area of damage— it's easy enough really. You don't even have to be mentally present for it; shaking through layers of flesh, vines grow across the deck of the Sunny and rise up straight to tower over Usopp as he fixes his goggles over his eyes. You keep a quarter of your mind instilled in every chloroplast that shivers across the skies so you can keep them moving but the other three quarters are focused on the card game you play with Robin, Chopper, and Franky.

You hear the snapping of elastic and your finger twitches against the back of playing cards as the particular vine shot to the left, glancing curiously at Chopper's hand across from you when he turned to Franky and accuses him of looking at his cards.

"It's not my fault!" Franky frowned, fixing his comedically small glasses to perch on his metal nose. "Your cards just happen to be in my view when I'm looking at the pile 'cause you're tiny!"

Chopper takes to this horribly (you reshape a vine that has fallen to one of Usopp's stones and keep it relentless across the wave of air) and he grows into the much less cute and broader, more human version of himself to hold his hand out of Franky's view. (Two vines snap together and they take the path to slice through air to where Usopp stands, you hear the cracking of wood as Usopp shouts at you, saying he only wanted to focus on offence. An apology is drawn out with the green arm in the air.)

"Ivy," your eyes flicker to Robin and she gestures to the pile of discarded where the two of spades had been placed on top. "It's your turn." You glance down at your hand, eyes flickering over the collection of 7's in your hand. 

"Bomb." (You feel a vine break apart into pieces, think about the fact that it's lucky you've no nerves attached to the tendrils, and keep the one down to give Usopp a little win.) Franky curses your name as Robin chuckles.

Chopper glances at the four 7's with a sense of wonderment that you're sure is too dramatic for the moment. "No wonder I had no sevens!" You give him a sly grin and watch Robin pass her turn, ignoring Franky's levelled glare behind his glasses.

In the end, Robin wins anyways, ridding herself of her hand with her final card being the two of hearts. The loss is taken bitterly by both you and Franky though you think Franky definitely takes it worse than you do as when he stands to sulk away, cards fall out of his speedos, and they leave a trail after him. Robin, in all her morbidity, laughs behind a hand as you and Chopper drop your jaws in disgust.

Chopper collects the cards, hesitating with the ones that had been on Franky until Robin points out that you've all played many rounds and there's a chance that all of them had shared the same fate. (Another vine shutters down to the floor, broken apart and particles flown across the deck.) The cards slowly fall to the floor as Chopper cries out in disgust. Shaking your head with some colourful amusement, you use the two vines fallen to pick up the cards and start shuffling them.

Responding to Chopper's call, Luffy shoots his way from Sunny's figurehead. "What're you guys doin'?" He falls graciously to where Franky had previously been sitting; his eyes are ever so impatient to glance over the cards being shuffled. "Oh," he says with great interest, "are you guys playing 'go fish'?" He leaned towards you— the cards in your possession, actually— and blinks at the shuffling. "Lemme in!"

"We weren't playing 'go fish', Luffy." The little doctor has since calmed down, taking a seat between Luffy and Robin and shaking his head. "We were playing—" he turns his head up to Robin, to which she supplies 'bài tiến lên' with the intricate accents and all, "that!"

A flash of thinking places itself on Luffy's face, crossing his arm and tapping the side of his sandals on the deck, then it's gone. "Let's just play 'go fish' then."

Chopper whines, saying that 'go fish' is boring and that Luffy always snatches more than one card from other people's hands, which is cheating, and that he doesn't want to play.

Luffy turns to you with a pout, eyebrows furrowed at the dip where his nose bridge starts and then straightened out towards the end. The two vines that had been expertly dodging all of Usopp's shots and taunting him by doing silly dances and twisting into words in the air both crumple down to the floor at the same time, they follow the curve of your spine as you double over, a breath stuttering in your throat. You hear Usopp call your name and the deck of cards slip out from the vines that had been shuffling this entire time, your hand wraps around your throat and you hack out a cough you've managed to choke on.

"Are you dying?" Chopper shoots up, frantic as you keep coughing and choking— both violent in temperament, and scampers around, shouting for a doctor.

Footsteps tap closer as a shadow forms over you, Usopp's hand patting your back ferociously comes after the sound of shoes stop.

The blur that came with tears invading your eyes gives you the confidence to look at Luffy again before you're calling Chopper to a stop. "I'm fine, just choked on air."

You don't mention how it felt like you were breathing through a cheesecloth, how your lungs feel so restricted with every inhale as you all compromise on 'chase the ace' and how easier it feels when Usopp pushes his way between you and Luffy, too intimidated to pick from Robin's hand; when you all finish up for dinner, Robin is looking at you in a way that makes you think she's caught onto how you've been struggling.

Dinner is a strange ordeal. It's characterised with its usual events: Luffy sneaking his hands into people's plates though his stands full, Usopp trying to hold his plate out of his way, Zoro tending to his glass bottle of beer, Sanji making some quip about Zoro's show of alcoholism, Nami getting increasingly annoyed by the noise around her, Brook's laughter, Zoro escalating the situation with Sanji, Chopper screaming when Luffy clears Usopp's plate and then goes for the doctor's, Robin watching the scene with the patience of a saint, Franky pretending he was better than the rest, Usopp exacting revenge on Luffy by swapping their plates. It all ends with Nami telling them all to shut up and Luffy taking one final chicken leg from Zoro's plate. You stare down at your plate and count the missing bits, Luffy hasn't really touched any of the potatoes or asparagus, so you finish them up.

Two chicken thighs sit in stark contrast to the plate, thinking about having them anywhere near your mouth makes you a little sick for some reason, the weight of them in your stomach, the taste of caramelised skins, crisped with wells of juice sat next to a tinge of burnt flesh; you push the plate over to Luffy and detest the way he can take the colour of well–done oranges between his teeth and not care about the juice dribbling down his chin.

Luffy says thanks with his mouth full of chicken; Nami glares at him and turns a more concerned face to you (that also makes you sick) and inquires about you not eating. You mumble out some excuse about not being hungry, not feeling well, having a little bit of a headache, feeling tired— something along those faux lines, you don't remember but you remember that you don't tell them the truth exactly. "Sorry Sanji," you fix into your shitty excuse after, running a hand through your hair, to make yourself feel better about the entire ordeal.

He offers to make you a more palatable porridge or soup instead.

You take a cigarette and a red apple, going to bed hungry and angry at some unknown thing that brews on the tip of your tongue.

The next island is of great interest to Luffy.

The entire crew knows that its history nor culture was not either reason behind his excitement, only the mere prospect of digging his sandals into new, uncharted land is why he's running around the deck, filling up the empty spaces with bubbling laughter. Sanji finishes up bentos for those that are leaving, taking unnecessary extra care with Nami’s, and wishing he had it in him to starve Zoro whilst Nami is giving everyone an allowance. You take two bentos, yours and Chopper's, and head out onto the deck. Luffy only seemed momentarily sad that you were going with the doctor but bounced back immediately after when the trees come closer enough to intimidate so you push down the offer to join him instead. Franky joins up with Usopp, Luffy'll run off alone regardless of who he ends up going with, Nami ends up going with Zoro (to Sanji's displeasure), and you and Chopper make plans to find a pharmacy and a library for Robin.

Being around Chopper is easy enough with this unsettling prick of poison that's forced minimal responses, curt words, a flurry of tiredness, a sickening chill through your days recently. The little doctor is a lot more mindful of changes in mood, it's not any imminent injury either so he doesn't press to know why. Out of guilt (for being a brooding asshole lately), you ask him about his rumble balls and all his different forms. He answers cheerily and you can only pick out every other word with a persistent headache as the smell in the air changes from salty skies and bloody fish to sweetened foods and something unfamiliarly clean.

It's a bright island. You hear a faint bell in the distance that is traced over with the sound of children and stall owners; Chopper's hooves rhythmically sound beside you on the pavement and you find yourself counting them in groups of four. "Ah, there." You pick up your head and turn to follow the direction of Chopper's eyes. A sign is hung on the side of the building, the library. "Robin wanted a book of North Blue diseases for some reason," Chopper mumbles to himself as you two push open the door.

It's a small bookstore, walls lined with books and the paths carved with more standalone bookcases. "North Blue diseases?" You repeat, confused, "do they have North Blue exclusive illnesses?"

Your question goes unanswered, though it looks like it opens a vault of new questions for Chopper. Books aren't of great interests to you, so you follow behind Chopper as he walks through each section and grab whichever book he tells you to bring down for him. On the way back, you tell Chopper to keep going and change your course in search of something you're not too sure of.

You stray away from the town centre and head deeper through the small alleys of the town, there's no destination in mind; without the urgency of a fights and with the domesticity of a small knit community, you wander adrift. There's a dampness in the air to the walk around a shadowed hide of the place that loosens up the tension below your ribs, many different eyes follow after your form as the heel of your shoes click against a null path; shadows ooze around the soles of your shoe and lacquer up between the carved maze of black rubber of your soles until you find your way into a dead end.

It's a little bit of a cliché to be met with a ragtag group of delinquents when you turn to go back. Your eyes trace over them. In the hand of the one closest to you sits your wanted poster.

Something blooms inside you again— it's a much more pleasant feeling than the unmoving sap of ire that's been invading lately. Each man before you is physically bigger, towering over you ominously and shadows eating you but they all have swords and guns in their hands and that's why they lose. You, to the detriment of all life around you, are a weapon in and of itself; you choke out the vitality from others and steal their nutrients. They strained against their confines as their skin blossoms through shades of blooms, you are not the merciful rubber of a human, so your constraints don't relent, they squeeze and squeeze until the bark splits apart, until blood is cut off at the source, until they wither, until you are full.

On the way back, you buy a gift for everyone with the money you hadn't used and when they take to it, all in their varying degrees of joy, you feel less bad about the dead end alley full of brothers and sons. You tell yourself, handing Zoro a gift of alcohol, if not them, then it'd have been you.

You end up staying anchored to the island for a week to your displeasure. The longer you're stuck there, the closer you are to exploding; you always keep an eye out on the log pose strapped to Nami's wrist like you could quicken the process if you stare enough. Usopp starts avoiding you out of fear you'll blow like a poorly constructed cannon, Zoro makes you train with him to see if it'll help blow off some steam, Sanji brings you iced drinks at a rate that keeps you dizzy but you always feed it to Luffy or redirect it to Chopper's or Usopp's office with a little note.

On the third day, you follow in Zoro's example and sprawl out on the deck to rest your tireless mind. You've always wondered how sleep was ever a possible option for him when the feet thundering across the deck came with obstructive vibrations, no doubt slapping any chance of sleep away from his mind, but you find that it's almost pleasant. Beats all from familiar loves translates through the groves of wooden planks and etch through the back of your spine, you feel a bone fall back into place after Nami's heels against the floor and the thunderous kick that lands where Zoro was standing manages to work its way up your head to ease a headache.

The sun burns cries into your eyes and the skies move fluidly, they don't ripple as clouds shrivel against a light blue you're unfamiliar with; even as you close your eyes, you continue to feel the burn of the sun. The slapping of weaved straw against a sticky, sweaty sole then the deck comes as you slip into sleep.

Dreams have never been so amicable enough to become a recurrent in your life; more often than not, you're shown memories all blended together into a mess that leaves you sick, the abhorrent now and the nostalgic then bleeding past their confines until you see your mother stood next to that deceitful Marine admiral, both with that same look in their face. You wake up with a start when a loud bang scours its way through a flurry images you're unfamiliar with and then your body escapes you. Your head weighs with the heaviness of the bodies dropped to the floor, arms cold as if dipped into the river Styx, bones locked in place with a restrictive pain, muscles burning, aware of every breath that shivers through your suddenly odd body.

"Owww," three Luffys blur around each other as you pushed a hand to the floor to straighten up, you try blinking away the other two, but they're glued to the captain reflecting in your eyes; he looks down at what he's tripped on and follows it back to you. Your hand is met with something curved in shape when you go to push yourself up and when you look down, you see vines underneath you. You realise then that a burst of them had grown beneath you, splitting through the lawn deck and uplifting some of the planks underneath the greenery and inching upwards towards the guard rails of the ship. They take the form of something you think you met in your most recent sleep.

Luffy has managed to crawl his way towards you in the time you spend wondering why your devil fruit had been acting up— in your sleep no less and he wraps a hand around your ankle to get your attention. "Hey, you're really cold." He pointed out, eyes flickering down to the flesh between his fingers and then trailing his fingers up your thigh as he shifts closer to you on his knees.

The touch makes you violent and tender. "Really?" You managed to puff out, giving too much air back to the world with how much you're panting, "I feel a little warm though."

Luffy hums, clapping his hand over your cheeks with gentleness he only shows to those he loves, and it feels wrong. You get an itch underneath your skin that urges you to move, move, move but you can only push Luffy away with a ferocity he'd never shown you as you tremble under the bursting of violent air hacking up your throat, your shoulders strain as you wrapped your arms around your stomach, trying to heave out something that wasn't there.

Luffy scrambles back immediately, not caring for you shoving him away, and soothes away the rattling of your core with his clammy hands on your arm. "Are you sick?"

No, you think as a retch comes up your mouth; maybe, you correct as the path is marked by drool slipping down your chin and tears streaking across your cheeks. You shake away Luffy again. He's less submissive this time, his legs open over yours to plant his knees by your thighs. You hear him call for Chopper and it's obvious he has something of a frown marked on his face; you keep burning beneath your skin, but Luffy keeps rubbing his palms over your arms like you're cold.

You realise what your vines had drawn underneath you when Chopper comes out, fretting over you as he takes Luffy's place close to you. A grave. The image makes you laugh as the reindeer instructs his captain to haul you up after you'd ignored his inquires on if you could walk; your arm bends around the shape of Luffy's shoulder and your laughter erratically convulses into a collection of coughs from the skin on skin high.

You forced into bed rest after Chopper does a preliminary round of tests on you and declares you've simply gone down with a cold. You take to the diagnosis apprehensively, though in Chopper's defence, how was he meant to accurately diagnose you if you don't tell him all your symptoms? Instead, you sit in his office and spend the minutes, all alone, trying to retch out the feeling of having a piece of hair down your throat; you claw at the blanket and keep hacking until you've got a blanket full of tears and spit. The feeling does not pass.

At lunch, you get a visit from Franky who comes by to complain that you've made unnecessary work for him. "—seriously, how did you manage that in your sleep? Were you having a nightmare?" He ranted, legs crossed and leaned back in the visitor chair in a way that pushes his skinny, hairy legs close to your face.

Scrunching up your face, you sit up. "It was the future." You rebut, in between all his fantastical stories of his nightmares and talking about how he'd never attack Sunny even if Chopper grew a mechanical, giant arm and overthrew Luffy to become their captain. "A future," you correct yourself before turning to Franky with eyes judgemental, "are you scared of Chopper?"

"You weren't there at Enies Lobby," he tells you, which serves as a cruel reminder of sorts. You think about all the scars you've seen littered on the crew's skin and wonder which ones they've collected while they were with Luffy and who knows of which. The faint, protruding marks underneath Nami's tattoo, the stitches around Zoro's ankles, the ones pulled across his chest; you wonder if Sanji's got one hidden underneath his bangs. "The future?" Franky repeats after a moment, "are you a prophet?"

"It's a working theory," you brush off instead. "Though I can see in my mind's eye that Luffy is currently eating all the food and you’ll be left to starve if you don't go back."

Franky scrambled up from the seat not a second after your words.

With him gone, you settle back onto the bed and wonder about too many things to recall.

Between the hours after lunch and before dinner, Luffy comes by. He settles himself on the bed and forces you up as well, the shifting causes another cough to burgeon in your throat and you turn your head the other way to spit it out in an uncontrolled group of four. "You're not feeling better?" He frowns.

You see now that he's holding two pieces of barbequed meat in his hand, he's got the bone in his palm as he holds it upright like a sword, juices from the flesh dripping down to his hand and the smell gives you a headache. "Do you want this?" You move your eyes to Luffy, he's got his eyebrows furrowed together and his lips straightened out in a line when you don't answer. "Both?" He looks over at you, then the meat, and then you. "You," he swallows, "you can have them," his knuckles turn red around the bone, "since you need energy and you're sick." You think he's trying to convince himself to give them up.

You reached out and watch Luffy's face turn sour as his expression squeezes altogether around a midpoint trapped in his nose; you retract your hand and watch his face relax and his body unwind, you think he's moved his hand back a little. You repeat it again a few more times until laughter comes up and dislodges the uncomfortable feel of hair set deep in your throat. "It's fine, Luffy, you can have 'em."

"Really?"

"Mhm, go for it."

He moans around a bite of meat, crying your name as he chews and says thank you. The feeling is back as soon as it left.

No one comes to visit after that. Chopper comes by before he heads off to bed to make sure you're all set for the night and tells you that he expects to be woken up if you feel any symptoms get worse. You agree to his conditions, though can barely make yourself seem like you were taking him seriously with his cute face scolding you, but it seemed to work well enough as he's gone after he leaves a cup of water by your side. Sleep lingers around the corner, shirking away from your twitching fingertips and restless eyes; you give up after a few minutes, thinking about Robin who'd been thrown on watch tonight.

After going back and forth on the details, you bundle up yourself in the blanket (not wanting to have to mimic any semblance of serious guilt to get through Chopper's less than intimidating scolding if you get any sicker in the morning) and wander to the deck. The darkness of the sea would be safe for you, twisting around every limb extended to grope your way through your chosen path and oozing out from strands of hair to empty at your feet if not for the lamp of the moon ahead of you. Its light a forecast of tragedy, reflecting off a blade that would drive through the blood of a man who faced an unlikely love with only disgust and betrayal. "Robin?" The light hangs onto your word with a vehemence to uncover your unjustifiable deeds.

"Ivy," a shudder of surprise rattles your head to duck to your shoulders as you turn around. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

You give Robin a frown, tugging your lips down. "Yeah, my weakened bones nearly fell to the floor." She huffs a laugh. "Please announce yourself before you appear." Robin traces over your palish face and your features soften into a smile when your eyes meet.

"Can't sleep?" She asks once you two settle at the side of the Sunny where you'd napped earlier today, some of your vines still wedged between planks and parts of the floor haphazardly missing. You lean your back against the side of the ship and lower your eyes to the floor.

It's a total void, welcoming you back home. "No," you answer, a little breathless. The moon doesn't shuttle into the hole of the deck and something reaches a hand out for you between the atoms of a black hole. Roots twist out, easing close to your feet and sinking beneath the soles of your shoes. "I napped a little earlier." It's safe.

Robin hummed— I know rattles through her hum— and her elbow falls onto the guard rail of the ship. For the next few moments, you regret coming out. Robin's always been more receptive to the details and fine lines; it's not surprising that she can nitpick through a flurry of fronts and covers to the feelings you want to hide. They beckon out to her, wanting to fill that hole that's grown smaller with every day she wakes up to the open seas and the lively sound of her crew. "Chopper said you were sick?"

"A cold," you sniffle, bringing the blanket closer to you. Finding some semblance of confidence inside you, your eyes flicker over to Robin but she isn't looking at you— only turns when she feels your gaze levelled on her. You hesitate, searching for something to say and land on extending an arm and opening the blanket to invite her into your bundle. "You cold?"

She laughs, "it's fine, you should go back in if you've got a cold though." Her head tilted with a smile, "it'll be bad if the night air makes you worse."

Not wanting to find yourself softened in moonlight nor her eyes, you nod and bid her a goodnight before shivering your way back into your room. The door opens and light from Sunny's hallway is swallowed into the darkness of your room before it's banished out with the slam of your door, you shuffle around odd things thrown on the floor and slip into bed.

Your sleep is broken through with intervals with coughing, curling into yourself, shivering still though you burn in the night like a sibling of a star. When you wake up, sometime in the afternoon, you're heaving and reaching out your arms all around your duvet to haul together the skin that feels like it's melted down. Your palms prick against the leaves of vines that have overtaken your room, they fluoresce around your body and branch outwards to all corners of your room. The mess all blur together as your brain thrashes in your head with every splutter, you shake and twitch, trying to make sense of anything. Skin burned raw as you attempt to kick away the shrubbery that's keeping the blanket contorted around your body.

Your throat skinned and crude with its imminent thoughts of water.

A hand reached back blindly to grope at your bedside table for the cup that Chopper left for you last night. What you find instead is the burning touch of the sun, it seeps through the micro wounds stabbed through lines of your fortune and inflames every nerve straight to your heart. Your hand snaps back towards your body, the bones shivering from the imminent heat. Your entire body twitches at different paces, an invasive and hungry need drowns your senses. You need water, you need not for this to happen, water, you need for your sleep to be calm, you need to stop burning, you want to stop losing control, water first. You want water. Water— you turn your head to find the water, you need— Luffy?

Luffy is sat on a chair that you don't remember being there and when you look a little closer, you see that your vines had granted him a throne to comfortably lay on, other than that, they avoid him like the near plague. His body is leaned forward, his chest laid against the side of your mattress and arms crossed on your bed to sleep on like a pillow. You retch up some acid and, like the bowed head of a priest, a gentle petal disrupts the stream, flowing against the tide. It's a beautiful purple colour that's light against the transition to white towards the middle and an eye-catching yellow streaking against the white; lines of a deeper hue stretch through the petal and it's oddly reminiscent of veins.

The petal sits on the puddle of stomach acid that warms your thighs, your head bowed down to stare at it; you feel your soul unfurl at the sight of it, branches stretched outwards over a riverside, the heavy head of buds pulling weighted branches down to drink from the stream. Everything else blurs with a ripple, the petal is withstanding no matter no much you try blinking away an oncoming headache. The river near dries up in your attempt to wash down this unnerving disgust; you hunger for more.

Little changes when you find out what this 'cold' truly was. The lighting in Sunny's library is several shades warmer than the light of the sun, it draws upon the hunched shoulders down to your back as you tilt your head to hear the bones crack under your ear. Four syllables, that's all your death is. A lot of words are four syllables. Anonymous; unfortunate; hilarious; adventurous; hanahaki. It doesn't mean a lot by itself, so you try giving it some context. You pretend to tell Chopper that you're dying, you have hanahaki and that it's something he can't cure in a way you'll accept and you still feel nothing. You think about Chopper's face. He adamantly tells you that he'll cure you, he'll do it. The you in your imagination tells him no. Faced with your refusal, Chopper cannot do anything. In the end, it is a grave that cures you.

Death, as it stands, was something you had accepted when you stepped onto a pirate ship. Even someone with as stubborn a character as Zoro could be welcomed in by death, even Luffy. For a while, you wonder about death. The air in the room pauses as if to grace you with the silence to ponder on it, all you hear is the sound of your own breathing.

The closest thing to death comes searching for you a few minutes later.

You've always been interested in Brook. A skeleton with nothing but a sword; he has no lungs yet still sings, no heart and still smiles, dead but human in all his actions and behaviours. "There you are." He sneaks up behind you, bones falling onto your shoulder as you think, he smiles down at you. "Luffy asked if I’d seen you earlier.” He looms over you for a moment before he's straightening back up and calling out loudly, "but I'm a skeleton so it's not like I have eyes to see anyone anyways!"

It's the two syllables 'Lu–ffy' that shakes you the most. You stifle a cough in your chest and feel it tear through your ribs instead, searching for a path out. "For what?" The breaths rattle in your chest and shudder through your words.

"He wanted to show you a beetle." He takes the seat next to you, peering down at the picture book that you have open. You wait for him to make a comment about seeing what you were reading before disregarding it all with a lack of eyeballs so he wasn't seeing it really but he doesn't say anything, so you're forced to talk instead.

"Brook."

"Yes?"

It takes a single breath to prepare you to say this, it's warm and evident that you've not yet truly succumbed to your illness. "Do you see yourself as dead?"

Death is the art of those who do not live. It's something that keeps people tethered to the moment; it's the one thing that keeps humans humane. It's evidence you've lived, no matter how full nor how long. She's beautiful in her own right.

"I cannot see myself as anything because I am a skeleton with no eyes!"

Brook does not get to elaborate because Luffy shuttles in moments later, whispering loudly. (He'd learned somewhere that you're meant to be quiet in a library when he was younger but his whispers still manage to shake the room somehow.) "You're here! I found a beetle to show you!" He tip–toes to your side, "what're you reading— oh, hi Brook! The flowers here are pretty!" He points a finger down to a sunflower; his index covers an entire petal and he strokes it upwards to the middle. "Do you think they're edible?"

He turns to you with a smile.

You meet him with the same, "their seeds are." He gasps and picks up the book to scour through the letters in search of a name of these seeds. You take in a shuddering breath and when you feel another urge to cough, you cannot stop it.

When vines splatter around the room, they uproot the place; they've always been disruptive in this way. A wave of them washes various bouts of furniture to the floor, through the pounding of your ears, you hear the sound of books thudding as green appendages snake through bookcases and rattle them at the base; Brook's chair collapses as a vine chokes out one of its legs into splinters, the world blurs into a hue of greens and purples. A hand reaches from down in your throat, you heave around gaps of allowance for air and gag, cough, retch up more acid and some tea that Sanji brewed earlier this morning in lieu of breakfast. It's unpleasant. It's ugly in a way death should not be, though you guess the dead don't get to choose how to live in the same way the living cannot choose their death.

You're hauled off to Chopper again.

Chopper's voice comes as the hollow sounds of keys on an old piano. He does another round of tests on you— this set lasts a little longer than the previous and he takes extra caution with some. He finds that your heart is a little faster than it should be, he nitpicks at the bluish tint around your fingers and notes the concerning amount of weight you've lost in the past few weeks. When he asks you, what's wrong, you tell him that that's what he should be telling you.

Hypoxia; another four syllables for your cause of death. "Some of the symptoms are there," Chopper frowns, mumbling to himself. "It's when your tissues aren't getting enough oxygen, do you have difficulty breathing?"

You placed your cheek into your palm, elbow on Chopper's desk. "You're a pretty good doctor, Chopper."

The effect is immediate, he starts blushing and kicking his legs in his seat, a hoof goes to rub at the back of his head and nervous laughter comes from him. "That isn't distracting me at all, you bastard." You smiled and watched the compliment break any semblance of professionalism in him.

He gets back on track a little while later, placing a stethoscope on your chest and asking you to cough. You're not sure exactly what he's looking for but you give a soft cough into your elbow and you can say for certain— just based off the way he jumps back and looks at you a little quietly for a second, it's nothing good. Chopper spends a few minutes looking at your fingertips, then your lips, then some other parts of skin already exposed and humming to himself, troubled.

For now, he says, he wants you to try not to exert yourself— maybe leave fighting to everyone else and focus on resting until he can figure out a better way to confidently diagnose you. His lips are pulled into a frown, hands in his lap and trying his best to be professional and keep his emotions at bay. Before you know it, your hand is on top of his pink hat and fondly rubbing over the material softly. "Thanks Chopper, I'll keep that in mind."

He nods. You hesitate for a second before you're getting up to leave so that everyone else can see that you're not dying— or maybe you should tell them you are, you're not sure you could take another session of Franky accusing you of destroying the Sunny to create more work for him.

Your hand wraps around the doorknob and twists, stopping when Chopper speaks again. "You're not hiding something from me," he accuses gently, "are you?"

Your hand tightens around the doorknob. A flash of that imaginary Chopper comes back to you— heartbroken and confused at your refusal to be cured— you steal an unnecessarily large breath from the world. "I get sudden cravings for sweet things if that means anything."

Chopper, unbeknownst to you, takes those words and carves them true and raw into himself. His eyes are unwilling to leave you for more than necessary during the times you eat together, he watches you push aside the food on your plate, tearing small bits of meat off the bone to chew on it for a couple minutes too long before swallowing. He makes note of the way you have no problems finishing up everything but any sort of meat, sliding them over to Luffy, or one of his victims.

You're met with another blossom soon after lunch. You've made a bad habit of leaving the table early to escape the smell and resign yourself to the open deck, sprawling out on the grass like Zoro usually does. You're certain you're about to fall asleep shivering but the slap, slap, slapping of your captain's sandals are nearing closer so your brain kicks awake with a start; your eyes twitch, eyelashes shuddering in the wind. The darkness over your eyes morphs into a shadow of Luffy hovering over you, head tilting with a hand on his hat— your mind supplies you with the frown— and then you hear him taking a step back and sitting down next to you.

A troubled melody hums through his lips and when you open an eye to peek at him, you see his hands wrapped around his ankles, legs loosely crossed; he turned back to you and you quickly close your eyes. Here is where you finally learn that when Luffy touches, he's never placated with a simple tap, a light knocking between skin— no, he must stroke, he drags his fingers up the side of your thigh, he shivers from the coldness of your flesh and, even then, crawls closer. Then he's silent for a worrying amount of time and for a moment, curiosity takes you over. You find yourself wanting to draw light upon the disgusted features when he's met with someone he thinks close to him is growing closer and closer to a grave amongst the roots.

He leans his forehead against yours whilst you shuffle through the despicable crawl of your heart through your bones, something shifts in you and when you reach to itch at your side, it dislodges. It takes no more than a simple flip for your entire world to shift; you think you saw Luffy hovering over you momentarily before you had snapped to the side.

A fragment of the world greets its end.

Something strangles you, a hand of a giant pressing two fingers against the sides of your neck until everything in you bursts and splatters against parts that have gone unknown until now. There's nothing new to the tremor of vine that erupts through your skin, bubbling through the surface of flesh like a geyser; the tentacles claw their way your throat until you're choking around them, searching for an allowance for air. Your knees shuffle up to find some balance, head ducked to meet the lawn across the deck and elbows digging deep into the dirt. Your spluttering comes in time with the sound of Luffy calling your name, shouting for Chopper; there's a knot tied inside your mouth, you shake away tremors and tears all the same. You erupt yet there's nothing to be burnt, it's only ash that leaves your mouth— only the colourful petals of the wisteria plant that wash over the green of the open deck, burnt in hues with blood.

The next island is a spring island, known for their sweet peaches and sweeter music.

You watched Luffy devour two peaches in his hands, the ripe skin melting underneath his teeth— pale with a dusted blush until it snapped into a bloody red, melted at the pit. Then he's gone with a rustle of mikan trees as you held out a basket for Nami to delicately place her mikans in; apparently, she'd managed to catch the attention of some peach vendor with her sweet tangerines and swindled the poor man out of his money for a basket.

The streets are lined with lively hums and a strumming of odd instruments, music escapes through every crevice of a worn-down building as Luffy jumps from stall to stall, drooling over the goods before you're beckoning him back with his lunchbox and a promise of meat after you finish this errand for Nami. On your way to the stall, you hear faint chattering that doesn't interest you but Luffy straightened up beside you and turns to stare at the people as they argue on who had managed to grow the biggest peach this year.

You sigh, grabbing hold of Luffy's collar when he stops to stare at them and drag him off to the stall vendor who had fallen victim to Nami's schemes. The exchange is easy enough— give him the basket (ignore the fact that Nami had managed to make it look like it was overflowing by artfully bunching up a cloth on the bottom and filled gaps between the fruits with flowers) and make sure you've got the correct amount of money. It's when Luffy asks the stall vendor who has the biggest peach this year that things begin to go downhill.

Rather than answering Luffy's question, the man goes on a tangent about some kind of festival for a God and how the biggest peach will be the offering to said God this year— apparently, Shumi (the woman who owns the fabrics shops) had managed to get her hands on this, that, or the other to help her husband grow a peach large enough to bring doubt to the fact that Gyupuri had managed to grow the largest peach (again) this year.

Luffy insists on tracking them both down to help the people come to a decision as he wiped away the drool on his chin. Resigned, you managed to find Shumi first with her shop being the only one in town that sold fabrics and she denies you both permission to see the peach; Gyupuri, on the other hand, is more than happy to show you to the peach he grows. He takes you straight out of town, into the forest, and then up the mountain to where there's a clearing full of nothing but flesh coloured peaches.

As you listen to Gyupuri's story on how he was merely taking after his father to grow these strangely sized peaches, you have to keep Luffy in your hold so he doesn't go running to the giant peach and take a bite out of what could be for a God. Somehow though, he manages to get a handful of flat peaches when you weren't looking and when you attempt to apologise to Gyupuri, he doesn't seem to be fazed, shoving a few more peaches into your hand and telling you it's fine.

"So, who is this God anyway?" Luffy asks, his legs wrapped around your waist and chin hooked on your shoulder as he leaned back, satisfied with cheeks full of the peach you were holding in your hand. You turn to give him a look, but he merely stares at you back.

The people here must have made a unanimous decision to answer questions from the left side of the field because Gyupuri only tells you the name of this God when he drags you and Luffy up a hill to stare at a statue of this God carved out of generic stone.

To be polite, you call the statue pretty; Luffy feels no need to be polite, so he says it's not really. When you look at him to furrow your eyebrows at him, he's already looking at you.

When you're back on the ship, money handed to Nami, you think about that moment so much that it grows moss in your mind and vines burst through the crevices of the worn–down artifact you've made out his gaze to be. You throw up everything you manage to eat and feel hollow and worthy when you meet Luffy's eyes in Chopper's office again.

There's a chill that follows your days after that.

It's persistent and stubborn in a way that cruelly reminds you of Luffy. On a brighter side, you've got an excuse to be lazy in bed though it irks your bones not to have the weight of you walking thrumming up your body. You get visits from the Strawhats, get your food delivered to you, some of the crew shuffling into your room to keep you entertained with some card games and the likes— you get Luffy consistently making his way into your room and treating it as any other room on his Sunny. He comes in, always makes himself home on the bed, and talks about what he did today. At some point, it becomes less endearing and more annoying to be treated as though you were actually dying. (You hadn't told them for a reason.)

Four days after Chopper had resolutely punished you with bed rest, Luffy decides that he was going to start sleeping in your room. Apparently, your face had translated over what your head was thinking too quickly because he starts whining, saying that he wouldn't get to see you enough if he doesn't do this and, well, since you've always had a tender, raw, skinned soft spot for the boy, you end up saying yes.

He spends his first night telling you what he was going to spend tomorrow doing and you come to the realisation that every other sentence contains you. (Going to find more beetles to show you... Chopper told Sanji it'd be good to get more meat into your diet... Zoro accidentally cut snakes and ladders in half so Nami is giving me money to see if we can find one for you so we can play... Robin said there's a really pretty flower on this next island… For you… For you...) It’s all there laid bare and you cannot face it. You hide your face into the crook of your elbow and wretch out a cough. Luffy frowns but doesn't mention it. He talks himself into sleep and you lay awake to him, trying to keep yourself from blooming throughout the night so he doesn't wake up, cold and still.

When you're startled awake with misty embrace in a dream, you see that Luffy has gone.

What he has left is his straw hat and a mouthpiece of his greatness. The straw is rough against your fingers, resembling the thorns that grows along roses and you stare at it in your lap until you can feel the roughness in your throat— just when you think you need to get water, Sanji shows up with breakfast. You eye the cigarette in his lips and ignore the settling of the tray on your bedside table, watch the smoke fight the smell of scrambled eggs and bits of bacon to take over your room.

"We're at an island?"

Sanji walks around your bed, finding himself comfortable on the couch across the foot of your bed. "We docked early this morning," you watched his smoke rise, ash falling to the wooden floor of your room, waving and grasping hands up to God. Sanji keeps himself entertained by looking around your room, his foot pushing around odd leaves and petals on the floor before he nods over to the plate. "Eat." Then he's gone.

You stare at the tray, settling Luffy's straw hat aside, you shuffle to the end of your bed and take the fork in your hands— you look at the plate until you swear you can taste the eggs in your mouth and the slight bursts of saltiness that'll come from the bacon and you have to wash it down with the glass of water he's given you. You push it aside and opt to go back to sleep.

You dream of a still life on top of a hill, overlooking a dock as the Sunny pulls back out into the sea; you thrash but find every part of you rooted down to one spot, the wind picks up and you feel tangles of what could be hair or leaves hitting against a part of your body. You're still rooted despairingly in a garden of silks and duvets when you wake, Luffy had found himself unable to keep away from your breakfast but when you sit up and look a little closer, you see a pile of the diced bacon bits shoved off to the side as he shovelled eggs into his mouth.

Shattering free from the earth with a faltering cough broken into four, you shuffled yourself up and spit out a cluster of wisteria. At this point, you do not need to look at Luffy to know what his face looks like; he turned to face you, cheeks full and quickly finishing the eggs to shuffle closer to you on the bed with a book in his hands. "You left your book under the plate."

It's a hardback children's book, pulled out of Sunny's library and coloured a light blue that resembled the sky and broken apart by a sunflower in the middle and petals around it, the title curled around the sunflower. You know that the book was left in the library when you were having your episode. The cover is smooth to the touch as Luffy gives it to you and ends up knocking his shoulders against yours in his attempt to get closer; your eyes moved over to the tray of food and you think of Sanji, who'd grown up in the North Blue where this children's story was more popular amongst the romantic commonwealth. 

He knows, you think, and it fills you with a dread that the wisteria blossoms feast upon delightfully; he knows, and he could tell everyone, the vines throb over your heart as Luffy opens the book over your lap and looks up, expectantly at you.

Myrsa was a pretty girl, enough so that praises sang for her ended up calling upon the scorn of love's Goddess. The depiction of her getting cursed is almost comical, stricken by lightning as she returns from a forest with a basket full of flowers and mushrooms. "What happens next? What happens next?" Luffy pushes his face closer to the book, tangling a rubbery leg with yours as he moves impossibly closer. "How does Myrsa beat up the God?"

It's the certainty he holds that Myrsa will beat up God that makes you laugh, it's the fact that she does not beat anything that makes you tremble, shaking coughs and petals out your throat. Luffy seems to think that the book is too excitable, trying to pry it away from you and saying that he can ask Robin to read it to him later so you should just rest. "Don't you want to know if Myrsa will beat up the God now?" You ask instead, knowing the answer will be yes.

Perhaps they were the wrong words to convince Luffy because when you're on the last page, Myrsa buried in a forgotten land and her love used as fertiliser for a field of sunflowers, he's threatening to beat up a God made up to exact revenge for Myrsa. It's a lot more cheerful than you had expected— all the characters drawn with round faces, small bodies, and black dots as eyes. It makes death seem redeemable. 

After Luffy hauls himself out of your room, in search of the God had turned Myrsa into sunflowers, you force the bacon down your mouth and bring the tray out to Sanji. You linger in the kitchen, eyes watching him as he scrubbed the dishes and danced around the kitchen, no doubt knowing why you were there. He doesn't seem to want to be the one to approach the topic just based on the way he refused to stop even for a moment for the past fifteen minutes you've been there.

You know nothing about Sanji past the fact that he's blond, he's a cook, and he used to be a prince from North Blue's Germa Kingdom.

"You know Myrsa didn't die because she had hanahaki." Your hip meets the edge of an island, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Sanji finally slow to a halt, throwing a glance over at you. He takes his cigarette between two fingers, breathing in for a moment and then takes it out, holding it out to you. "What she was cursed with, wasn't ever meant to be able to kill her."

"I know."

Sanji takes the cigarette back after you shake your head, shrugging a little as he continued. "Myrsa died."

You laugh a little, "I read the book."

There's a point he's trying to make that's as foreign to you as the notion of a love that doesn't hurt but he turns a glance to you that almost reads like he's disappointed in you and it settles nicely against the vines choking you through. You straighten up, uncrossing your arms and his visible eye wanders back over the pots he has boiling on the stove. "You liked the ending?" The ending of the North Blue story was a two–page spread of a sunflower field, a planet of bright yellows and a dull light blue, clouds breaking apart overwhelming tones of sunny golds and drowning diamonds.

A tree split awkwardly in half due to the spine of the book, curved in shape and pinched in the middle until you held the pages at the edges and pulled to straighten in down. "It was pretty," a gentle breeze running through the leaves shedding from the tree, a shiver to the wooden flesh that split apart if looked at the right way by the right man. Myrsa was beautiful, even in a death she didn't pick treated her well.

How could you hope to live when she did not?

You find a lot of things pretty now; you wonder if that's the dead crawling in you that is beginning to appreciate the life around. Robin sat on the deck with a cup of cooling coffee on a table in front of her and a book in her hand, Nami stood between her rows of mikan trees, Zoro straining under the weights of his responsibilities, Brook with a violin to his shoulder. The sky drowned over the ocean as Luffy leaned his head against you on Sunny's figurehead, his voice a soft beat over the water rushing against the hull of the ship. He's talking about Shanks and his dream and your heart aches selfishly; his skin gulps down the orange light of the dawning sun and you resigned yourself to a death loving him.

You wonder if Luffy still thinks of his dead brother, your tongue slips against the bark of your gums, and you open your mouth without thinking. "Luffy," you hear spoken into the wind, "will you tell me about your brother?"

"Sabo?" He's clapping his feet together excitedly, turning from the sky to you with a large grin on his face, "he's a part of the Revelation Army— no, wait revocation? Revenge Army? Renovation Army! Wait— that's not right."

"No, the other one." A whisper haunts the wind, 'the dead one' written in its movement.

There's a certain hesitation to his words that brings you to the realisation that being loved by Luffy is a wonderful thing. He's never been one to be articulate with words, picking the simple ones that come to mind first without a moment's hesitation but strangely the simple–minded way served him well when it came to love. Love is not articulate either— it's one of the simplest things in the world— so when it's met with someone like Luffy, it blossoms into an art form of all things beautiful.

You regret have not meeting Luffy when Ace was around. Dancing around his features is a tender skip of tightness; his shoulders pulled up to his ears, head ducked down, lips awkward and tongue thick as he told you the story of being accepted to be Ace's brother. Hues of embers fluoresce, dripping down on Sunny's figurehead as you reached an arm around him; his words are stained in blood and adoration, strained and slow but Luffy persists, his love persists.

"You should've met him!" He finishes, turning to you with a light chuckle. "You would've loved him."

Your hand falls onto his shoulder, pulling him closer despite the crawl of vomit up your throat and you leaned your head against his straw hat. "Maybe I will."

Death is another thing you think is simple. It's as easy as slipping into Chopper's office to find him hunched over his desk, his hooves holding onto a pestle as he circled the butt around in a mortar. "Ah, you're here?" He glanced over his shoulder as you walked around him and settled onto one of the beds he has in his room. "Give me a second! I nearly have your medicine ready."

"Chopper," you think you've played this out in your head before, "I have hanahaki."

His arms slow down to a halt, his face dropping by several degrees; the previous petals that made up his hopeful and cheerful expression flutter to the floor, guided by the winds you'd altered with those four words.

"Hanahaki?" Chopper's words are slow as he settled the pestle down, "I thought— but it doesn't exist?"

"Funnily enough, it died off." You tell him with a little laugh. "As more people took to the seas and chased after the one piece, less people fell victim to hanahaki." The Chopper you've told this to before in your mind was definitely less devastated and surprised to be greeted by the fact that you have hanahaki.

He's stumbling over his words, trying to pick something to focus on first as his face was scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed, and lips open into disbelief. "How long have you known? Why didn't you tell me? You'll have the surgery, right? You can trust me; I'll definitely save you. When did it first start?" Your head is pounding with the incessant questions he spits at you, unable to answer any of them as any allowance for a response was filled in by another inquiry. Suddenly, he's pulling his mind to a stop as he turned back to you, solemn and sad and asks, "who is it?" 

It's easy to tell how Luffy has touched people, Chopper makes note of the way your head tilts and you smile and it's obvious that there was no one else capable of calling upon your love.

"And the surgery?"

The look on your face, although foreign to you, tells him all he needs to know.

That doesn't stop him though, he keeps himself by your side and urges (pleads) you to have the surgery; his constant presence becomes a problem when he makes a point of forcing Luffy away from you. It's small at first, trying to distract Luffy with other things, claiming to want to be the one to watch over Luffy when you all dock so you're not given the chance, clinging onto your arms and demanding your attention when Luffy threatens to take it away from him. Then, when Luffy notices that he's been holding onto this flower for hours, fingers pinched around a sunflower stem to ask you how you get seeds from the flower to eat, and every time he's seen a speck of your colour from corners, Chopper shows up to drag you away or points a finger somewhere to shout about a meat mountain, he has a problem.

You notice it's about the meat mountain at first though.

He's slamming the door to Chopper's office after the fourth time, shouting, "Chopper! Where's the meat mountain you keep talking about?" He doesn't seem to care about the fact that Chopper is checking up on you as he stomps into the room, plopping himself down right next to you. Chopper pushes him away when your shoulders brush against each other and you're coughing out bloodied petals. His attention diverts when he hears the shaking of your cough, how you knock into him uncontrollably as your torso leans to meet your thighs, hands deep into the foam edge of the mattress. Petals splatter onto your shoes, clinging to the leather with saliva and re–painting the laces in a sickly red. Luffy’s touch is intrusive, a hand tightened on your thigh that burns your skin to ash and forces vines to splutter out your skin. They attack him, you reel yourself away from Luffy in hopes that they don’t reach him but in some disgusting way, they force themselves to new lengths to coil around his limbs. Spindling up and up and up and you can’t see his face anymore as a thick rope of vines in the shape of his hand reaches out for you, they keep moving up until you only see his hat— your back knocks against the wall. You sternly tell yourself this death is acceptable; the vines grow limp.

When you’ve calmed down enough, the first thing Luffy asks you is, “why aren’t you better yet?” And you feel as though you’re being scolded for some reason; your eyes flicker over to Chopper, fingers tangled together in front of your thighs from the corner of the room you’ve forced yourself into. When Luffy catches the wandering glances— as if you’re trying to keep him out of something— he treats you exactly how you’re acting. Like a criminal.

“Chopper?” It’s unnerving how his eyes are still on you, no trace of expression on his face, “out.”

“But—”

“Out.” Chopper throws you an unhelpful glance as he passes you to get to the door.

You’ve always had the wrong impression of Luffy— everyone that doesn’t know him has the same image; he’s a pirate that has taken down warlord after warlord, who has brought horrifying change and shifts the balance of authority wherever his feet take him. Hearing hushed whispers of him and his close affiliates in the lightened haze of booze, to distract from a tooth getting knocked out of place never does much for his image either. Though it wouldn’t be right to say that Luffy is wholly good either— he’s selfish. Selfish and impossibly kind and downright disgusting with the handling of his own needs; the sound of your name fizzing between his teeth has you startled, nodding your head back to him on the bed you’d left him at.

“You’re hiding something.” It’s not a question nor is it an accusation of any kind. It’s an observation. Luffy slides himself off the bed, his sandals comically slap against the floor of Chopper’s office, “tell me.” His hands fall onto your shoulders, one stays there and the other slides down. He treats your skin like an amusement park for his pleasure; his nails drag across the goosebumps of your bicep, pressing down on raised scars and then splashes into the palm of your hand, dragging ripples in the centre.

You hesitate, twisting your fingers together and pulling as if to attempt to dislodge the odd feeling that follows his fingertips. “Are you asking as a captain?” Despite how general expectations of Luffy remain pretty low to those who do know him, it’s also known that Luffy has a nerve in him that’s impossibly receptive to hurt. There’s a certain way to activate it and when it’s on, it doesn't quieten down until its idiot owner is pleased. Luffy scrunches his face up in an odd way, displeasured at your question as if he couldn’t believe you’d ask him something that hurtful, and his head tilts.

“Tell me.” You’re met with an unwavering stare, the hand on your shoulder tightens and there’s a hardness to it that you’ve never associated with your rubber captain— you can feel the bone in his fingers, stern and undeniable. Your eyes trace over the exposed, tanned skin of his bicep and you wish that you could force your vines through his skin to crawl into his chest and listen to the tremors that’ll run up your devil fruit from his beating heart for some kind of answer. There’s a sudden breath that’s available to you that isn’t tainted and clogged, trapped before it even meets your lungs, but it burns in a new way as you stare at Luffy, scared and terrified of a new life that’ll be forced upon you if you tell him what’s wrong with you.

You open your mouth with an excuse, but Luffy huffs and the words shrivel in your mouth, collapsing to a grain on your tongue and when you close your mouth, you taste dirt. “Luffy,” you beg, “I can’t— just, I’ll be fine.”

There’s a hint of some anger in his gaze before it turns into a haunting realisation, “Chopper knows, doesn’t he?” He pushes you aside, “I’ll just ask Chopper.”

There’s a ringing distant in your ears that chimes like the bell of the church from that place two islands ago, maybe three— you haven’t been too good with time recently. Sunny shakes like the earth as a body hits the pavement, you feel disgusting and heavy and an itch claws through your palms where Luffy’s hand has just been. You’re sure it’s Chopper he’s shaking an answer from but you hear Robin’s voice, calling for him to calm down and when that doesn’t work, Sanji cuts in. It all gets further and further away, you think about the planks of Sunny opening to welcome you back into that darkness from nights ago, you think about being choked by one of your vines, you think about the wisteria blooming whole in your lungs— you think and you think and think and suddenly, it’s all nothing. You’re dying, you think, that’s a fact, what else? Luffy is the reason. Or maybe you’re the reason.

“Luffy,” were you the one talking? “Luffy.” The voice comes again, stern and your eyebrows furrow with the same tension that the voice is carrying. “Thank you for being my captain.”

Not that it surprises you, Luffy punches you.

[eepwtf]

MY ATOMS HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOURS.

jock!ben x nerd!reader

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

tw; boarding school au, slight academic rivals, homophobia, toxic masculinity, might make this a continuation perhaps, ben being a big gay yearner, slight cannibalistic imagery used, shotgunning, weed hazy make out sesh… no actual smut like i said, i’ll probably make a continuation for that! wc; 12k...

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⎯⎯⎯  𖣂 ⎯⎯⎯

THE boarding school was a monolith of old money and grandeur, tucked away in the rolling countryside where the world felt muted and distant. the architecture itself seemed to loom over its occupants, cloaked in ivy and perpetually blanketed by a haze of mist. it was a place meant for the finest, the best, where boys were molded into men who would conquer whatever battlefield lay ahead, whether in the world of business or the trenches of war.

you didn’t belong here—not really. you were the outlier, the scholarship kid among pedigreed names that dripped from tongues with the weight of generations. yet, even in a world built to dismiss you, you excelled. your mind was a razor, carving through equations and essays, leaving the sons of wealth and privilege scrambling to keep up. you had a knack for reducing their inherited confidence to a quiet simmer of insecurity, your brilliance a sharp contrast to their entitled mediocrity.

then there was ben, the golden boy of said school.

ben had everything: the chiseled features of a carved from marble, the charm that made others forgive his outbursts, and a physicality that turned the sporting fields into his personal stage. he thrived in the chaos of competition, the thrill of victory lighting him from within. but you—oh, how you irritated him.

it was in the classroom where his temper simmered, where his smirk faltered just enough to reveal the cracks. he hated the way your hand shot up before anyone else’s, the way your answers came not with arrogance but an ease that suggested you didn’t even need to try. every time you walked past his desk with another perfect score, another commendation from the professors, ben felt the bitter taste of inadequacy curl on his tongue.

he wasn’t used to losing, least of all to someone like you—a quiet, unassuming boy who didn’t play by the rules of their unspoken hierarchy. he couldn’t pin you down, couldn’t challenge you to a fistfight on the quad and settle it like he did with everyone else. you lived in a world of ideas and intellect, a realm where his strength and bravado were meaningless.

and so, ben did what he did best: he turned his frustration into cruelty.

it started small. a snide remark as you passed him in the hall, his voice low but cutting, designed to stick in your mind. then came the more deliberate acts—your books knocked off your desk when he sauntered by, a "careless" shove in the crowded dining hall that sent your tray spilling to the floor. his friends laughed, their amusement a chorus that fueled his superiority. but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

he wanted to break you.

he couldn’t stand the way you remained steadfast, unshaken by his efforts to knock you off your pedestal. your defiance wasn’t loud or confrontational; it was in the way you picked up your books without a word, the way you returned to your seat and continued to outshine him. it was maddening, a mirror held up to his own shortcomings, reflecting a boy who was not the best, not even close, despite everything he’d been told his entire life.

the tension between you grew like a festering wound, unnoticed by the professors who were too enamored with ben’s charm and too indifferent to your quiet suffering. in the dormitories, where the shadows stretched long and the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and boyhood sweat, ben would corner you with his pointed glares and low mutters. you could feel his hatred radiating off him, a scorching heat that threatened to consume you both.

and yet, beneath the animosity, there was something else. something ben didn’t understand and refused to acknowledge. a fascination he couldn’t shake, an obsession born of the way you refused to yield to him. it gnawed at him, this unwanted fixation, turning his frustration inward even as he directed it at you.

for your part, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long, the way his anger seemed almost personal, as though he despised not just your intelligence but something deeper, something he couldn’t name. you began to feel the weight of his gaze like a tangible thing, pressing against your skin, making your pulse quicken in ways you didn’t want to admit.

THE lacrosse field was a battlefield, churning with the restless energy of aggression. the boys moved like packs of wolves, bodies colliding in fierce pursuit of the ball, cleats tearing into the damp, overworked earth. you didn’t belong here. not really. the game wasn’t yours, not in spirit nor in skill. your talents lay elsewhere—in the orderly realm of equations and analysis, where every move was deliberate, not reactionary. but the school demanded bodies as much as minds, and so you played, driven not by passion but by necessity.

ben, on the other hand, owned the field. his movements were fluid, muscles taut beneath his jersey, every step bursting with the kind of confidence only bred from years of unearned praise. the coaches shouted his name from the sidelines, their booming voices dripping with approval. he thrived on it, fed off their praise like a starved beast. and yet, even in his glory, his focus was fractured, his gaze drawn to you like iron to a magnet.

it was infuriating.

you didn’t belong on his field, didn’t deserve to occupy even a sliver of his thoughts. but there you were, darting past him with that maddening air of quiet competence, your presence a thorn in his side. he loathed you, not just for your brilliance in the classroom but for the way you existed in his world without bending at his will. He couldn’t stand it.

you weren’t fast, and you weren’t strong, but your sharp, calculating mind had a way of slicing through the frenzy of the game. you saw patterns where others saw chaos, predicting movements before they happened, slipping through gaps in the defense like a shadow. it wasn’t enough to make you a star, but it was enough to unsettle ben. to remind him that even here, in the one place he should reign supreme, you found ways to upstage him.

he couldn’t stand it.

the game had reached a fever pitch, players shouting, the ball whipping between sticks like a bullet. the air was electric with sweat and tension, the faint tang of impending rain mingling with the iron bite of blood from scraped knees and bruised lips. you were darting forward, the ball cradled neatly in your stick as you made for an opening.

ben saw you, and something snapped.

it wasn’t enough to win. it wasn’t enough to be the best. he needed you to know you didn’t belong here.

he moved in, a predator stalking prey, his green eyes locked on you with singular intent. his shove was perfectly calculated—not enough to earn him a foul but more than enough to send you staggering. you stumbled, feet slipping in the mud, but you didn’t fall. you were steadying yourself when his stick came down, the blunt edge catching your face with brutal precision.

the sound was sickening, a wet crack that silenced the field as you crumpled to the ground. pain exploded across your face, sharp and immediate, a fire that spread from your nose to your temple. for a moment, the world narrowed to a single point of agony, the coppery tang of blood flooding your senses as you pressed a shaking hand to your face.

and then the laughter started.

it began with ben, his cruel bark of amusement breaking the tension. he leaned casually on his stick, grinning like a boy who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. his friends joined in, their laughter swelling into a chorus of mockery that filled the air like smoke.

“didn’t think lacrosse was a contact sport, huh?” one of them jeered, the others howling in response. ben chimed in, his voice dripping with venomous charm. “guess it’s not a game for delicate types. better stick to books, nerd.”

the words hit harder than the stick had.

you stayed on the ground for a moment, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the blood dripped steadily down your face, soaking into the white of your uniform. the grass beneath you felt cold and damp, grounding you in the midst of the humiliation crashing over you like a wave. but you didn’t cry.

when you finally pushed yourself to your feet, your knees shaking, your vision swam with the effort. your face was a mess of blood and bruises, the metallic taste thick on your tongue. the coaches had yet to intervene, their eyes blind to the golden boy’s cruelty.

ben’s laughter faltered for a split second when your gaze met his. there was something in your eyes—defiance, yes, but also a quiet strength that made his stomach churn. he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, drowning out the cheers and jeers of his friends. for the first time, he felt something other than triumph in your presence.

it was guilt, sharp and unwelcome, gnawing at the edges of his bravado.

ben forced himself to laugh again, louder this time, shoving the flicker of shame deep down where it couldn’t touch him. his grin widened, and he turned back to his friends, letting their approval wash over him like a balm. but as the game resumed, the image of your bloodied face lingered in his mind, a grotesque reminder that even in victory, something about you made him feel defeated.

he told himself he didn’t care. but the knot in his chest told another story.

YOU dreamt of ben’s teeth in your skin that night, or at least you think it was a dream. the memory lingers too vividly, too viscerally, as though your subconscious left it smoldering just beneath the surface of your waking mind. in your dream—or nightmare, perhaps—it wasn’t the boy you knew from the halls and the fields who loomed over you. it was something else. something primal, something that wore ben’s face but moved with a hunger that no human being could possess.

his green eyes burned bright at first, clear and sharp, their intensity the only thing anchoring you to what little humanity remained in him. but then the green began to darken, swallowed by black until his pupils eclipsed everything else. his grin followed, shifting from the boyish smirk you had come to associate with his cruelty to something far more animalistic. it wasn’t a smile anymore—it was a snarl, predatory and sharp, his teeth bared like a beast ready to strike.

you remember the feel of his hands on you, strong and unrelenting, pinning you down with an ease that made your breath catch in your throat. his fingers dug into your arms, their grip just shy of painful, but it wasn’t his hands that truly frightened you. it was his mouth.

his teeth found your flesh, and for a moment, the world became nothing but sensation. you felt the pressure first, the sharp edge of his canines pressing into your skin, threatening to pierce it. then came the pain—hot and electric, spreading through your body like wildfire. your breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, your senses overwhelmed by the strange, horrifying intimacy of it.

and yet, even as your dream-self writhed beneath him, a strange thought took root in your mind. it wasn’t just fear you felt. it was something darker, something that churned in your gut like a sickness. there was a perverse fascination in the way he consumed you, a twisted part of you that reveled in his domination, in the way he claimed you as his prey.

when you woke, your body was slick with sweat, the sheets tangled around your limbs like the remnants of a trap you had barely escaped. your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breathing, the phantom pain of his bite still throbbing beneath your skin. your heart raced, not just with the adrenaline of the nightmare but with something else—something you didn’t want to name.

you told yourself it was just a dream, a grotesque product of your mind’s restless wanderings. but as you lay there in the predawn darkness, your room quiet except for the faint rustle of wind against the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been more than that.

because when you thought of ben, when you recalled the way his gaze lingered on you during the day—those fleeting, almost imperceptible glances—you felt a similar unease, a similar pull. he thought you didn’t notice, but you did. you noticed the way his jaw clenched when you outpaced him in class, the way his hands gripped the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

you noticed the frustration in his voice when he barked orders on the field, the way it always seemed sharper, louder, when directed at you. and, most unsettling of all, you noticed the way his anger gave way to something else entirely in those rare moments when your eyes met.

it wasn’t just hatred that burned in his gaze. there was something deeper, something raw and untamed, something that made your skin prickle with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. it was as though he was waging a war with himself, his fury at you battling against some unspoken truth he refused to acknowledge.

maybe your dream had simply dredged up all the pieces of him you couldn’t reconcile—the cruelty, the rage, the intensity that bordered on obsession—and twisted them into something monstrous. or maybe, just maybe, your subconscious had glimpsed something real, something lurking beneath the surface of ben’s golden-boy façade.

you lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling as the first pale rays of dawn crept through the window. the memory of his teeth haunted you, the phantom sensation of his bite refusing to fade. you told yourself it was absurd, that you were letting his presence in your life warp your thoughts.

but deep down, in the quietest corners of your mind, you couldn’t deny the truth. you had seen the way ben looked at you. and worse still, you had felt the way his presence made something inside you stir—a festering thing, raw and ugly, that refused to be ignored.

the morning air felt heavy, clinging to your skin with a dampness that did nothing to ease the lingering unease from the night. you shook yourself off, trying to dispel the fog that clung to your mind, your hands coming up to rub at your eyes in a futile attempt to erase the dream—or nightmare—that still burned at the edges of your memory. the pressure of phantom teeth seemed to linger on your flesh, a strange sensation you couldn’t quite shake.

your uniform hung stiff and scratchy against your skin as you pulled it on, the starched fabric doing little to comfort you. the ritual of dressing, buttoning and tucking with practiced efficiency, was almost enough to settle you. almost. but when you glanced at your reflection, bleary-eyed and pale, the faint shadows under your eyes told the truth you couldn’t ignore. you looked like someone who hadn’t slept, not properly, not peacefully.

the hallways were already stirring with life as you stepped into them, the low murmur of voices mixing with the squeak of shoes on polished wood. you kept your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary interaction, your thoughts still churning with the vestiges of the dream. your skin crawled at the thought of ben—not the boy from the nightmare, but the one who existed here, in the real world. the one who seemed to take up far too much space in your mind, even when you weren’t asleep.

you were halfway down the corridor, lost in your thoughts, when a hand gripped your shoulder, pulling you to a sudden halt. the touch jolted you, your pulse spiking as you turned quickly, your body bracing instinctively for something worse than what it was.

“don’t you know it’s rude to creep around?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could soften them. your voice was rough, gravelly from the lack of proper rest, but the irritation in it was genuine.

your friend raised an eyebrow, unbothered by your tone. “you look like shit,” they said bluntly, their arm swinging casually around your shoulders as if to soften the blow of their words.

you rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching in faint exasperation. “i was studying,” you replied, the lie slipping out easily, though the weight of it settled uncomfortably in your chest.

studying. sure. if “studying” meant spending the night caught in a cycle of half-sleep and vivid, unsettling dreams about ben—dreams that left you waking with your heart pounding and your skin clammy. dreams that made facing him now feel like a task monumental enough to deserve its own place in Dante’s Inferno.

your friend gave you a knowing look, their gaze sharp despite their casual demeanor. “studying,” they repeated, dragging out the word as if testing its weight. “rightt.”

you shrugged them off, stepping out from under their arm and continuing down the hall. “drop it,” you muttered, not looking back.

but as you walked, the knot of unease in your stomach only tightened. you didn’t want to see ben today, not after last night, not after the way his imagined teeth had sunk into your flesh with such terrible intimacy. but you knew you would see him—of course you would. he was everywhere, an unshakable presence in your life that clung to you like a shadow. and despite yourself, a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would feel like if the dream wasn’t entirely a fabrication. if the pressure of his teeth wasn’t just some cruel trick of your subconscious.

you shook the thought away, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you forced your feet forward. it was a new day, you told yourself. you would face him, endure his glances, his comments, his presence, and you would survive. even if the memory of his grin haunted you all the while.

of course, your friend, blissfully unaware of the strange, festering thing coiling tighter in your chest, slung their arm around you again, jostling you with a kind of ease that only highlighted your growing sense of unease. their presence might have been grounding if it weren’t for the chaos swirling behind your eyes, the dream—or nightmare—still clinging to your thoughts like cobwebs you couldn’t brush away. each step down the corridor felt mechanical, your body moving on autopilot as the slick, oily remnants of the dream seeped deeper, threatening to consume your focus entirely.

christ, you thought bitterly, why couldn’t your mind just give you peace for once? the dream’s claws had sunk deep, its venom spreading even now, and the weight of your friend’s arm was a tether you couldn’t decide whether to cherish or resent. you couldn’t even focus on their words, the low hum of their voice turning into static, a meaningless buzz drowned out by the feverish imagery curling through your mind.

that is, until their voice cut sharply through your spiraling thoughts:

“she has, like, a nice fucking ass.”

the vulgarity slapped you out of your haze, and you blinked, frowning instinctively. the raw disbelief on your face was almost comical as you turned to your friend, your voice rough with irritation. “what the hell are you talking about?”

your friend snorted, their bark of laughter echoing through the otherwise quiet hall. they shoved lightly at your head, their hand ruffling your already unkempt hair with an irritating kind of fondness that only deepened your scowl. “jesus, man, how long did you study last night?” they teased, their tone dripping with faux concern as they rolled their eyes. “i’m talking about the new teacher. you know, the one half the guys are practically drooling over.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head as they continued to chatter, unbothered by your lack of engagement. their arm stayed slung across your shoulders, anchoring you to their easygoing rhythm, their words spilling out in a cascade of exaggerated admiration. descriptions of the teacher’s figure, her looks, and the collective hormonal obsession of the student body filled the air. it was almost laughable how much they cared about something so fleeting.

but their words served their purpose—they drowned out the dream, tamping down the ghost of green eyes and imagined teeth, pulling you further into the mundanity of the day. you grunted noncommittally, letting their words wash over you without actually processing them. you didn’t care about some teacher everyone was ogling like a piece of meat, but their chatter had pulled you far enough from your own thoughts to notice the weight pressing against your ribs had shifted. something darker, heavier, had begun to bloom there.

and then, like a blade of glass slicing through skin, you saw him.

ben stood further down the corridor, leaning against the wall with the kind of casual confidence only he could pull off. he was flanked by a few of his cronies, boys who lingered like shadows, echoing his movements and amplifying his presence. but it wasn’t his posture or his pack of admirers that stopped you dead in your tracks. it was his eyes.

they were locked onto you, glinting like shards of polished emeralds in the muted light of the hallway. you froze under the weight of his gaze, something sharp and disquieting curling in your stomach as he looked—not at you, but at the arm slung so comfortably over your shoulders. his jaw shifted slightly, tension flickering at the corners of his mouth, though his expression remained infuriatingly neutral.

your first thought was that it was hatred. of course it was. what else could it be? ben had spent months making your life a quiet misery, his snide remarks and calculated glances digging under your skin like splinters. the idea that his stare could mean anything other than disdain didn’t even cross your mind.

his lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile—not really. it was more like the barest hint of teeth, a silent warning that you couldn’t quite decipher. and yet, something in his eyes felt different, something darker and unfamiliar, like the faint glimmer of green fire.

your friend, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in the air, kept talking, their voice a low hum in the background as you stood frozen, caught in the snare of ben’s gaze. the weight of their arm around you, once grounding, now felt suffocating, a heat rising in your chest that had nothing to do with your lack of sleep.

ben shifted slightly, his frame leaning off the wall as his gaze flickered back to your face. it lingered for just a moment too long before he turned away, his attention snapping back to his friends as though the moment had never happened.

you exhaled shakily, realizing you’d been holding your breath. the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a strange mix of unease and... something else. whatever it was, it made you feel raw and exposed, your skin prickling with the faint sensation of being watched, even as you forced yourself to keep walking.

your friend gave you a nudge, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. “earth to you,” they said, their voice teasing. “you okay? look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

you forced a shrug, your movements stiff. “i’m fine,” you muttered, though the tremor in your voice betrayed the lie. fine. sure. if you ignored the way your heart still raced, the way ben’s stare had burned itself into the back of your mind. fine, if you ignored the strange, festering feeling that had been planted in your chest and was now threatening to bloom.

ben sat across from you, his body a picture of restless arrogance, sprawled as though he owned the desk and everything around it. his fingertips tapped a jagged, uneven rhythm against the varnished wood, a staccato counterpoint to the droning monotone of the professor’s voice. the lesson, whatever the hell it was about, was already a blur in his mind—some dull lecture he’d never bother to commit to memory. he let out an gratuitous sigh, sinking lower into his seat with an air of theatrical boredom, the edges of his lips curling in a smirk as a few nearby classmates glanced his way.

but the act was just that—an act. his attention wasn’t really on the class, nor the eyes that occasionally flicked toward him, drawn like moths to the flame of his ever-present bravado. no, his focus was on you.

it always came back to you.

his green eyes found the back of your head as they so often did during these torturous classes. you sat two rows ahead, perfectly aligned to torment him with your quiet diligence. he watched the way you leaned slightly forward, the slight tension in your shoulders betraying the focus you poured into every word spilling from the professor’s lips. your hand moved quickly, a blur of determination as you scrawled across the page in front of you. he couldn’t see exactly what you were writing, but he knew it was notes.

of course, it was notes.

you always took notes, didn’t you? like some kind of academic machine, recording every detail, every thread of information the professor dared to offer. and for reasons ben couldn’t quite articulate, it infuriated him. or maybe “infuriated” wasn’t the right word. maybe it was more complicated than that—more warped.

his fingers stopped their tapping as his gaze narrowed, following the precise movements of your pen. he imagined the lines and curves you etched into the paper, the careful way you transcribed thoughts into words, words into meaning. the idea of it made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t entirely understand.

ben wanted to see it.

no—he needed to see it.

he needed to know what went on inside that overactive mind of yours, what ideas and thoughts swirled in your brain like storms. what made you so goddamn meticulous, so disgustingly perfect in your execution of everything you did? his teeth clenched, his jaw tight as he stared harder, as though sheer will alone could penetrate the barriers between his mind and yours.

he didn’t just want a glimpse into your thoughts—he wanted to crack you open.

the intrusive image came to him unbidden, vivid and visceral: his hands on either side of your skull, his thumbs pressing into the delicate curve of your temples. in his mind, the bone would give way beneath his strength, splitting like an overripe fruit. he’d tear through the lining, past the fragile casing of your brain, his fingers sinking deep into the valleys and folds of sulci and gyri. he’d feel the sticky heat of your thoughts, the pulse of your consciousness against his fingertips.

and maybe then—maybe then—he could understand.

understand how you worked, what made you tick, why you were always so goddamn far ahead of him. why, no matter how hard he tried to best you, to shake you, to drag you down to the level where he felt safe, you always managed to stay just out of reach. it was maddening. it was humiliating.

and it was intoxicating.

ben’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his fixation on you tightening its grip around his ribcage. he wanted to hate you—god, he wanted to hate you. it would have been easier if he could. but there was something else, something darker, slithering in the spaces where hatred should have lived.

infatuation wasn’t the right word for it, but it was close.

you were perfect in a way that was almost grotesque to him, a reminder of everything he lacked, everything he could never be. and yet, he couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop wanting to pull you apart piece by piece until he understood the atoms, and cells inside you.

the professor’s voice droned on, a dull hum against the roar of his thoughts. his eyes didn’t leave you, not for a second. to anyone else, ben looked like a bored boy enduring another tedious class. but inside him, something wild and restless clawed at the walls of his chest, something primal and impossible to name.

SOMETHING about you clung to ben like a splinter buried deep under his skin. no matter how much he tried to scrape it out, it remained lodged there, a constant irritant—and yet, perversely, he didn’t really want it gone. it was the kind of ache that grew familiar, even welcome, as though having a piece of you stuck inside him, digging in, was better than losing the connection altogether.

he told himself it was nothing, just a weird, passing fixation. but mondays tested that lie in ways that made his jaw clench and his heart pound harder than any game ever did. mondays meant your ritual: the library. the coffee beside you, still steaming faintly as you leaned into the table, your head bowed over a fortress of books that seemed to grow taller with each passing hour.

he wasn’t sure what you read—probably something mind-numbingly boring, some dense intellectual nonsense he wouldn’t bother to crack open even if someone paid him. but you, with that maddening concentration etched into your brow and your soft, barely-there frown tugging at your lips, made it look like the most important thing in the world.

and when you read, oh god, when you read—you spoke. not loudly, no. just the faintest whispers, as if the words spilled from your mouth by accident, a soft, private litany that no one else was meant to hear. but ben heard. he always heard.

it wasn’t fair, the way your voice wrapped itself around the silence of the library, low and melodic and unbearably intimate. it felt deliberate somehow, like a knife turned just for him. it was as though you knew he was watching, knew he lingered there in the shadows of the shelves, pretending to look for some book he’d never even crack open.

if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you were reading for him.

he should be at practice. that thought nagged at him like a coach’s whistle in the back of his mind, sharp and insistent. practice, where his teammates would already be warming up, their easy camaraderie and loud laughter filling the field. that’s where he belonged, where he thrived. that was his kingdom. but mondays had become something else entirely.

mondays were for you.

ben found himself lingering near the library door, his shoulders slouched just enough to blend into the background. his bag hung limply off one arm, forgotten, as his green eyes tracked every movement you made. the way your fingers flicked over the pages, precise and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. the slight tilt of your head when you paused to scribble something in the notebook you always brought with you. the way your lips, soft and just barely parted, formed each word you whispered like a prayer.

you were calm and focused, untouched by the chaotic energy that always seemed to coil beneath his skin. you looked... at peace. it made him burn.

ben clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. he hated this feeling, this raw, inexplicable pull toward you that felt less like attraction and more like possession. you weren’t doing anything to him—just sitting there, existing, being you. and yet, it was as if you’d reached inside him and turned something vital upside down, leaving him unsteady on his feet.

he didn’t want to care about your stupid coffee cup, the way the steam curled up and caught the faint light spilling through the high library windows. he didn’t want to notice the way your glasses slipped slightly off the bridge of your nose, how you’d brush them back with an absent-minded grace that seemed so effortless it made his chest ache.

and yet, there he was, still standing there.

still watching.

still pretending to give a fuck about some random book he wouldn’t even bother to carry out the door.

ben shifted on his feet, the weight of his indecision heavy in his chest. he should leave. he should walk out, get to practice, and stop wasting his time on you. but the thought of leaving, of stepping away from this quiet moment where he could just... see you without consequence, felt like tearing that splinter from his skin. he’d lose the ache, yes, but he’d also lose the maddening comfort of its presence.

so, instead, he lingered.

and when you whispered another word, your lips brushing the silence like a kiss meant for no one in particular, ben’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag. because deep down, in the part of himself he refused to acknowledge, he wanted to believe it was for him.

it was stupid, reckless even, the way ben’s feet moved without permission, as if something unseen was yanking at invisible strings tied to his ankles. he wasn’t sure why he let it happen, why he allowed this force—this festering pull inside him—to steer him closer and closer to where you sat. he could have stopped himself, forced his body to obey logic, but something in him resisted the idea of turning back.

the quiet sanctity of the library enveloped him, all hushed whispers and the soft rustle of turning pages. the faint, bitter aroma of coffee mingled with the musty scent of old books, filling his lungs as he neared your table. it was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet strangely intoxicating. the closer he got, the more he felt like the world narrowed to just this: you, the fortress of books around you, the steam curling from your cup like it held some secret.

it was too much. too close.

ben swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly dry as he hovered behind you. from this distance, he could see the tiny grooves in the back of your chair, the faint scuff marks on the floor where your restless foot tapped. his pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the low hum of the library’s fluorescent lights.

what the hell was he even doing?

he didn’t have a plan. of course, he didn’t. ben didn’t do plans; he acted. he relied on brute force, sheer confidence, and the kind of charm that usually bulldozed any obstacle in his way. but here, now, standing behind you, those weapons felt dull and useless.

you shifted slightly, leaning forward to jot something into your notebook, and ben’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching its prey. his stomach tightened, not with hunger, but with something worse—something sharper, more desperate.

and then, like some unthinking beast lurching forward, he moved.

the table loomed in front of him, the edge digging into his thigh as he planted himself there, far closer than he should have been. his shadow fell across your books, an expanse of muted light eclipsed by his frame. the breath hitched in his throat, and for a fleeting, wild moment, he considered bolting. running back to the lacrosse field, to the safety of shouting and fists and controlled chaos.

but the thought passed as quickly as it came, crushed beneath the unbearable weight of his need to say something—anything.

he opened his mouth, and what escaped was not a clever remark, not the smooth confidence he wielded on the field or in front of his friends, but a sound. a low, guttural grunt that made him cringe internally the second it left his lips.

you turned at the noise, your brow furrowing as your eyes flicked up to meet his. your expression was a mix of curiosity and mild irritation, as though you were trying to decide whether this interruption was worth your attention.

ben’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his palms damp and cold despite the heat radiating from his body. the words he’d been grasping for, the half-formed excuse to explain why he’d crossed the boundary of your space, caught in his throat.

what the hell was he supposed to say? that he couldn’t stay away? that your stupid books and coffee and concentrated pout had been haunting him for weeks?

no, he needed something else—something neutral, something that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

“i, uh…” his voice came out rough, rasping like sandpaper against the quiet of the library. he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “i need tutoring. in, uh… math.”

the words hung in the air like a poorly thrown pass, wobbling and uncertain. it was a flimsy excuse, half-true at best. sure, he wasn’t exactly excelling in math, but he could’ve asked any of his teammates for help. hell, he could’ve charmed one of the teachers if he’d wanted to. but none of them were you.

you blinked, your lips parting slightly as if you weren’t sure whether to laugh or take him seriously. ben felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck, his pride warring with the strange, gnawing feeling that he might just implode if you said no.

“i’m… not great with numbers,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his posture stiff despite the casual tone he was struggling to maintain. “figured you could help. since, y’know, you’re always… doing all this.” he gestured vaguely to the books and notes sprawled across the table, his movements broad and almost clumsy.

there. it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. a lifeline, thin and fragile, tossed out into the silence between you.

the air is dense, clinging to the library like an unwanted second skin, thick with the sour tang of aged paper, spilled coffee, and the faint decay of something almost alive. it’s the kind of air that wraps itself around your throat and sinks into your lungs, suffocating and intimate, a silent predator. ben breathes it in deeply, like he needs the burn to keep himself tethered to this moment, to you. but there’s something else here, too, something sharper, something that cuts through the miasma and lodges itself inside him.

it’s you.

it shouldn’t be so distinct, yet it is. a clean, woody undertone, with a hint of leather that somehow feels ancient and personal, like it carries stories older than either of you. it threads its way through the stagnant library air like an interloper, lacing itself into ben’s senses until it becomes the only thing he can taste. it doesn’t belong here. it doesn’t belong in this quiet, suffocating place of rot and whispers. but it belongs to you. and that’s enough.

he swallows hard, his throat tightening as though the scent has wrapped itself around his neck like a noose. it fills the hollows of his chest, seeps into the marrow of his bones, and carves itself into the darkest corners of his mind. It’s a scent that shouldn’t linger, but it does, a ghost that haunts him in the silence. you’ve branded him, burned yourself into him without even trying, and he can’t tell if he resents it or if he craves it more than his next breath.

“didn’t think you’d need a tutor,” you had said, a faint smirk on your lips, sharp enough to cut. but you didn’t say no.

and that’s how he found himself here.

the silence between you is a strange kind of beast. ben isn’t used to silence—his life is noise, chaos, endless sound that fills every corner of his world until there’s no room for anything else. his father’s voice, sharp and grating, tearing through the walls. the roar of the crowd on the field, his teammates’ shouts blending into a cacophony that drowns out the sound of his own thoughts.

but this silence isn’t like that.

this silence is alive.

it breathes. it stretches. it crawls into the space between you and grows, not oppressive but thick and full, like it’s waiting for something to happen. it hums with potential, a quiet pulse that syncs with the rhythm of his own heartbeat, and ben finds himself leaning into it, letting it wrap around him.

this silence isn’t empty. it’s full of you.

you sit beside him, close enough that he can feel the faint warmth of your body bleeding through the small gap between you. the edge of your sleeve brushes his forearm when you move, and it’s enough to send a spark of something sharp and electric jolting through him. he shouldn’t be able to feel you this acutely, shouldn’t be so hyperaware of every tiny shift in your posture, every soft inhale you take.

but he is.

the scent of you still lingers, curling around him like smoke from a burning altar, like something ancient and sacrificial. it feels alive, like it’s slithering into his veins, infecting him with the ghost of your presence. he breathes it in and lets it take root, lets it crawl through him and fill the hollow spaces he didn’t even know were there.

and the silence stretches on.

it’s not the kind of silence that demands to be broken. it’s a language all its own, a secret shared between you, full of things unsaid and unspoken truths. ben doesn’t need words to fill it. he doesn’t need to speak to know that you’re here, beside him, so close he can feel the heat radiating from you.

but the quiet is also dangerous. it lets him think. let’s his thoughts spiral into darker, hungrier places.

ben’s gaze flickers to you, catching on the curve of your jaw, the faint furrow of concentration in your brow as you scan the open book in front of you. he lets himself linger there, drinking you in like a starving man given his first taste of water. there’s something almost holy about the way you look right now, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of the page as though the words have bewitched you.

but ben doesn’t feel holy.

the hunger inside him is sharp and unrelenting, a gnawing thing that writhes beneath his skin. it twists through him, dark and consuming, and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to pull you apart, to see what makes you tick. it’s not obsession. not really. obsession implies something fragile, something rooted in longing or insecurity. this is something deeper, more primal.

ben doesn’t need you. not in the way that people talk about need. but he wants you. he wants to unravel you, to pry you open and dig his fingers into the soft, vulnerable parts of you. he wants to understand what makes you sit here every monday with your coffee and your books, what makes you whisper to yourself like you’re reading something meant only for him to hear.

it’s curiosity, he tells himself. nothing more. just curiosity, burning hot and insatiable, spreading through him like wildfire.

but curiosity doesn’t feel like this.

curiosity doesn’t feel like his chest tightening every time you glance his way. it doesn’t feel like his hands itching to touch, to hold, to possess.

THATS how it went. mondays transformed into something entirely different, a new ritual that ben couldn’t explain and wouldn’t dare question. practice? a memory. the familiar rhythm of drills, the roar of his teammates, the barked orders of the coach—it all faded into insignificance the moment you came into focus. he told the coaches he was studying, his voice steady, unwavering, despite the lie rolling off his tongue like poison disguised as honey. they believed him, of course. why wouldn’t they?

ben didn’t bother telling himself he cared about the material. the textbooks, the equations, the neatly drawn graphs—they were background noise, static that faded into nothing the second you started speaking. he told himself he was there because it was convenient, because it was an excuse to escape, but deep down, in some festering corner of his mind, he knew that wasn’t true.

it was you.

you, with your quiet focus, the way your lips would move ever so slightly as you read aloud to yourself without realizing it. you, with your unwavering concentration, the crease that formed between your brows as you worked through a particularly complicated problem. you, who seemed completely oblivious to the way your presence had carved itself into ben’s very bones, anchoring you there like some unwanted parasite he couldn’t bring himself to kill.

ben would sit there, his body rigid and his mind anything but, trying to focus on the numbers sprawled across the page but failing every single time. he wasn’t looking at the work. he was looking at you. watching the way your fingers skimmed the edge of the paper, how your pen would tap against the table in rhythmic little bursts as you thought. every tiny movement, every subtle shift in your posture, dug deeper into him, threading itself into the marrow of his being until it felt like you had become a part of him.

when you spoke, your voice soft and even as you explained some mathematical concept that should have been straightforward but felt like greek to him, ben didn’t hear the words. he wasn’t listening to the numbers or the logic. he was too busy taking in the way you looked. the curve of your mouth as you formed each syllable. the way your eyes would light up, ever so slightly, when you solved something particularly tricky.

fuck, it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how easily you filled the empty spaces inside him, how effortlessly you seemed to occupy the corners of his mind he didn’t even know existed. you didn’t just exist in the same room as him; you invaded it. you seeped into him, into the cracks and fractures he thought he’d hidden so well, spreading like rot until you were everywhere.

and he let you.

even as he told himself he didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that this was just about studying—just a convenient excuse to avoid practice—he knew the truth. he cared too much. he cared in a way that scared him, a way that felt too big, too heavy, too impossible to contain. he cared about the way your voice would drop into a lower register when you were focused, the way your laughter—soft and fleeting—would bubble out when you realized you’d made a mistake and corrected it.

he cared about how you made him feel.

like he was tethered. like he was drowning. like he was alive in a way he hadn’t been in years.

and maybe, just maybe, a part of you already knew. maybe you sensed the way he hung onto every word, every glance, every accidental brush of your hand against his when you passed him a paper or a pen. maybe you could feel the weight of him sitting across from you, silent and heavy, his presence wrapping itself around you like an unspoken confession.

or maybe you didn’t notice at all.

maybe it was all in ben’s head, this strange, suffocating thing that had planted itself inside him and grown wild and unruly, its roots digging deeper with every passing monday.

but it didn’t matter.

because mondays weren’t about practice anymore. mondays weren’t about drills or games or any of the things that used to define him.

mondays were you.

this monday was different. this monday, you were in his dorm. the space felt alien with you in it, as though your presence had shifted the walls closer, warped the air, and made the small room hum with something electric and volatile. you sat on his bed, legs crossed, one deft hand tapping against the spine of a book you hadn’t opened yet. ben’s eyes were drawn to your fingers, tracing the slow rhythm of your movements, catching on the faint smudges of ink and the tiny doodles that crawled over the back of your hand. they looked like they were singing to him, little glyphs alive with secrets, symbols carved straight from your soul and offered up to him like a taunt.

he couldn’t stop staring.

the thought came unbidden, crashing through him like a breaking wave: if i could, i’d swallow you whole.

not in some grotesque, animalistic way—at least, he didn’t think so. no teeth or sinew or blood. it was something deeper, stranger, something even more horrifying. he didn’t want to eat you; he wanted to absorb you. to make you a part of him. he wanted to pull you inside him, past skin and muscle, past the fragile shield of his ribs, until you were tucked deep into the raw, pulsing places no one else could see. he wanted you to haunt him, to bury yourself in the cracks and crevices of his very being, until you became inseparable from the rest of him.

that’s what connection is, right? the swallowing of one soul into another. taking them in, letting their essence burrow into your flesh until you couldn’t tell where they ended, and you began. like a splinter, painful and irritating, but impossible to remove. that’s what you were to ben: a splinter digging beneath his skin, refusing to let go.

he wondered, if he did it—if he somehow consumed you, if he allowed the essence of you to dissolve into him like sugar in water—would a part of your soul become his? would it taint him, change him, twist him into something unrecognizable? and, more importantly, would it leave anything of you behind?

would he be carrying the ghost of you forever, absorbed into his marrow, etched into the fabric of his being? would you haunt him in every heartbeat, every breath, every restless night spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling and tracing the memory of you through the air?

ben’s gaze drifted back to your hands, to the tiny movements of your fingers, the way they danced against the book like they were keeping a secret. his own fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to press his palm against the back of your hand and feel the warmth of you seeping through his skin. would it burn? would it leave a mark?

his chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, the sound loud and awkward in the thick, oppressive silence of the room. you didn’t look up. you were so focused on whatever small thought was flitting through your head, your brows furrowed, your lips pressed into a soft line. you had no idea, did you? no idea that you were unmaking him with every passing second, tearing him apart piece by piece, leaving him raw and exposed in a way he’d never been before.

maybe this was what ghosts were, he thought. absorbed parts. fragments of someone else clinging to the living, refusing to let go. maybe you were already haunting him, slipping between the cracks in his thoughts, curling around the jagged edges of his mind.

and maybe that was all ben wanted—to let you haunt him completely. to be tainted by you, stained in ways that could never be undone. to let the memory of you—the presence of you—sink into his skin, his blood, his bones, until he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the ghost you’d left behind.

maybe he was already swallowing you. piece by piece. moment by moment.

and maybe you didn’t even notice.

ben turned toward his bedside locker, moving with a calmness that betrayed the storm inside him. his hands, rough and deliberate, fumbled just slightly as he tugged the drawer open and reached beneath a clutter of barely concealed items. a tin rattled faintly as he pulled it free, his movements revealing a quick flash of glossy porno mags and a half-used tube of KY jelly. he didn’t flinch at the sight; shame wasn’t something he had much room for these days. instead, his fingers found the prize he was looking for—a small plastic bag filled with neatly rolled joints, their pale paper taut and waiting.

the tin hit the desk with a soft thud, and ben’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace as he turned back to you. the dim dorm light caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his voice came out smooth, easy, coaxing. “you should relax,” he said, rolling a joint between his fingers as though it were the most casual thing in the world. his green eyes flicked over you, your expression caught somewhere between curious and wary. “we’ve been at this all week.”

it sounded reasonable enough, like he cared about the tension in your shoulders, the furrow of your brow, the way you kept pushing yourself harder and harder. but it wasn’t reason that fueled him—it was desperation. he wanted to see you like this, to be the one who unraveled you. the idea of you finding comfort, your edges softening under the haze of weed, made his pulse quicken in a way that felt dangerous, electric.

he thought about it as he pulled a lighter from his pocket, the small metallic click breaking the thick silence between you. the flame danced for a moment before he brought it to the end of the joint, inhaling deeply, the embers flaring bright red. he let the smoke roll out slow, curling upward in tendrils that hung heavy in the air between you.

ben could almost feel it already—the way the weed would soften your movements, blur your sharp edges, make you pliant and lightheaded. the image lodged itself in his brain, searing there like a brand. he didn’t just want you to relax; he wanted you to sink into his orbit, to feel like the world outside his dorm didn’t exist anymore. he wanted you in the palm of his hand, trusting him with that quiet, unspoken vulnerability.

he held the joint out toward you, fingers brushing yours as you took it, and he didn’t miss the way the slight contact sent something sparking through his veins. you hesitated for a moment, your lips parting like you were about to protest, but instead, you leaned in, bringing the joint to your mouth.

ben watched, captivated, as your lips curled around the paper, as you inhaled slow, tentative. he wondered if you could feel him watching you, if you knew the way your every move seemed to carve into him, marking him deeper and deeper.

he leaned back against the edge of the bed, feigning nonchalance, though his body felt taut as a bowstring. smoke curled lazily around you, and ben’s voice cut through it, low and coaxing. “better, right?” he said, the words deliberate, his green eyes glinting like embers in the low light. he wanted to keep you here, tethered to him, letting him smooth out your edges until there was nothing left but the two of you and the thick haze of smoke.

and maybe—just maybe—you’d feel it too. that pull, that invisible thread that kept bringing him closer to you, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

ben’s breath hitched as he watched you, utterly transfixed by the way your eyelids fluttered shut while the smoke swirled slow and steady from your lips. you looked at ease in a way he’d never seen before, and the sight carved into him, leaving grooves he didn’t want to smooth over. when you handed the joint back to him, the faint dampness of the paper and filter from your saliva caught his attention like a beacon. it wasn’t just a joint anymore—it was touched by you, part of you lingering there. that tiny, fleeting connection left his pulse skittering wildly beneath his skin, though he’d never admit it.

“would you believe me if i said this was my first time?” you asked, your voice light, tinged with nervousness but carrying that easy charm that made ben feel like you’d handed him a piece of yourself. he took the joint from your fingers with a nonchalant shrug, though his heart thundered like a war drum beneath the surface.

“yeah,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he brought the joint to his mouth. the ember flared red as he inhaled, using the moment to steady himself. “i don’t doubt that for a second.” he exhaled slow, the smoke curling between you, a fragile wall of haze that couldn’t stop the pull he felt toward you. as the words left his mouth, ben forced a smile, throwing it your way in what he hoped passed as charming. but his smile faltered slightly when he caught the way your cheeks flushed, a soft bloom of red spreading over your skin.

god, red looked so good on you.

it wasn’t just the color—it was the way it transformed you, made you seem more tangible, more real. the heat rising in your cheeks told him he’d affected you, that his words, his smile, had reached you in some small, undeniable way. it was addictive, watching your reaction, seeing how you twisted under the weight of his gaze without even realizing it.

ben’s grip tightened on the joint, his thumb running over the paper as he took another hit, letting the sharp burn fill his lungs. he needed the edge of it, the distraction, because the truth was threatening to claw its way out of him. the truth that he wanted more than this. more than just mondays, more than stolen moments of proximity. He wanted to press closer, to watch the way that blush deepened when he was too near, to feel your breath against his skin as you stumbled through words you didn’t yet know how to say.

“you’re a natural, though,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, smoke coiling in his throat. “could’ve fooled me.”

it was a lie, of course, but he said it anyway, watching as your lips twitched into a small, bashful smile. and he wondered—did you know what you were doing to him? did you know that with every glance, every word, every touch of your fingers against his when you passed the joint back, you were branding him, marking him as yours?

"yeah, whatever, man," you mutter, the words slipping out on a breath of smoke, your tone carrying that threadbare edge of disinterest. disbelieving. coy. ben’s ears latch onto the inflection like a predator catching the faintest rustle of prey in the underbrush. coy he can work with. coy feeds his craving in a way that’s both maddening and exhilarating, like the sharp burn of whiskey sliding down a raw throat.

coy is fragile. it’s the flickering light of a candle before the flame gutters out. it’s a wounded fawn—big, trembling eyes and wobbling legs—abandoned in an open meadow where every shadow hides teeth. vulnerability wrapped in a thin veneer of bravado. It invites, dares, the predator to inch closer, closer, until there’s nothing but a gasp between them. you, he realizes, are his own personal Bambi. and he, the beast in the long grass, stalking, waiting, savoring the taste of the moment before the pounce.

“no, really,” ben murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a warmth that shouldn’t be there, a softness that belies the feral pull beneath his skin. he watches you carefully, the way your lips curve slightly around the filter of the joint, how your lashes cast soft shadows against your cheekbones in the dim light of the dorm.

something inside him sparks, an idea crawling up from the depths of that writhing, unnamed thing he keeps locked in his chest. before he can think twice, he’s moving. “here, let me.”

the joint burns between his fingers as ben takes a deliberate, slow drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs until it stings. and then, before you can react, his hand comes up, warm and sure, and it cradles your jaw like he’s done it a hundred times before. his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, just barely, but it leaves a trail of heat that lingers, sets your pulse stuttering in your throat.

you blink, caught off guard but not pulling away, and that’s all the invitation he needs. ben leans in, the space between you vanishing in an instant, his breath warm against your lips as he exhales the smoke directly into your mouth. it’s intimate in a way that feels invasive, his lips hovering a whisper away from yours. the smoke curls between you, sliding over your tongue, into your lungs, leaving its bitter trail in its wake.

your eyes widen, and ben feels the way your breath catches, just barely, but enough. enough to tell him you’re unsteady, uncertain, caught in the moment like a fly in a spider’s web. your vulnerability is intoxicating, your wide-eyed stare a silent surrender.

his lips barely graze yours, not enough to call it a kiss, but enough to blur the line between audacity and desire. his grip on your chin tightens ever so slightly, grounding you, tethering you to him in this suspended moment.

the seconds stretch thin before he finally pulls back, his eyes dark, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself together. “see?” ben’s voice is rough now, a low rasp that scrapes at the edges of silence. “easy.”

ben doesn’t get the chance to say anything—doesn’t even get the time to process the swirl of thoughts clawing at his mind—because your lips crash against his. the force of it sends him sprawling back into the pillows, his head hitting the worn fabric with a muffled thud.

oh.

oh, this is something he can work with. this is something he’s dreamed of, imagined in fragments during sleepless nights when the thought of you wouldn’t leave him alone. but this—this is better.

this is you. raw. over him. devouring him like he’s something worth breaking.

ben’s always been a master manipulator, a professional at weaponizing sexuality, at using it to tilt the odds in his favor. it’s a game to him—one he always wins. and now? now he has you, ravenous and unrestrained, a perfect storm pressing him into the mattress. he knows how this should go: make you pliable, make you vulnerable, use your hunger to turn the tides in his favor. but the second your lips meet his, it’s like the script is ripped out of his hands, and all he can do is follow where you lead.

and god, are you leading.

you don’t taste like he expected. ben thought you’d taste bitter, sharp, like the sting of smoke lingering on the back of his tongue. but instead, there’s something sweeter, softer beneath the haze of weed—something that feels like a reward he hasn’t earned. the thought sends a shiver through him, his hands gripping at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world.

you’re relentless, teeth dragging across his bottom lip, tugging with a force that’s just shy of painful. a sharp gasp escapes him, swallowed by the heat of your mouth. you’re moving now, climbing on top of him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. your weight settles over him, and he’s distantly aware of how you’ve slotted yourself perfectly between his legs, forcing them open, pinning him in place with nothing but your body.

the desperation in your movements is a mirror of his own—hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, deeper, harder. until he wonders if you mean to tear him open and climb inside. it’s messy and frantic, all teeth and tongues and muffled moans, the kind of kiss that’s more a battle than an embrace. but ben loves it. He loves the way your hands roam across him like you’re mapping him out, pressing against his thigh, his waist, his chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

your fingers find his throat, wrapping around it with a precision that makes his breath catch. it’s not enough to choke him, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold him still, to remind him who’s in control. and that—oh, that sends a spark of something electric racing through him, pooling low in his stomach. his neck has always been a weak spot, something he’s never fully admitted, and the way your grip steadies him, grounds him—it’s almost too much. it feels like you’ve reached inside his chest and curled your fingers around his ribs, cracking them apart to get at the soft, beating thing underneath.

a small, breathy whimper escapes him before he can stop it, barely audible but undeniably there. it’s embarrassing, humiliating, but he can’t bring himself to care when your mouth is on his again, swallowing the sound like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his hands find your back, sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press against the bare skin beneath, feeling the way your muscles shift and tense under his touch.

ben’s lips part, his tongue sliding against yours in a move that’s both practiced and desperate. you both moan at the contact, the sound muffled but unmistakable, a shared release of tension that only feeds the frenzy between you. his heart thrums in his ears, loud and insistent, and he can’t help but think of prey animals in their final moments, blood pounding as the predator’s jaws close in.

“if i’d known you’d like shotgunning this much,” ben pants against your lips, his voice rough and uneven, “i would’ve done it sooner.”

the words are punctuated by a low groan as you press into him harder, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. the scent of you—smoke and sweat and something uniquely yours—fills his senses, drowning out everything else. it’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and ben can feel himself unraveling beneath you, his carefully constructed facade slipping away piece by piece.

your lips travel from ben’s mouth to his jaw, teeth sinking into the flesh like you mean to strip it away, gnaw it clean from the bone. it’s violent, carnal, the sound of your bite wet and obscene, and ben feels the sharp pressure like a knife slipping under his skin. he’s powerless to stop the groan that escapes him, low and guttural, as your hand clamps down on his jaw, your fingers digging into the hinge with a precision that feels surgical, deliberate, inhuman. he’s the mangy dog under your heel, and the dull ache of your grip feels like worship.

his green eyes squeeze shut, his breath hitching as the pain shifts to something addictive, something alive. every nerve in his body sparks to life beneath your touch, the sensation of your nails scraping against his flesh leaving a trail of fire in their wake. his blood sings for you, a desperate hymn to the beast in you that has claimed him for its feast.

“and i think you don’t hate me as much as you pretend,” you growl against his throat, the words coming out like gravel churned in a rusted, grinding machine.

ben laughs, the sound ragged, hollow. “i think you’re full of shit,” he manages, but the way his head tilts to bare his neck betrays him. your hands are satin-soft as they explore him, but the sharpness of your intent is anything but. ben’s hands, by contrast, are rough, leather-worn, and scarred—hands made for tearing, clawing, and surviving. yet here, under you, they’re useless, twitching at his sides as if unsure where to land, as if afraid to touch the thing consuming him.

your hips grind against him, deliberate and cruel, and he feels every drag like it’s carving him open, splitting him down the middle. the pressure is maddening, a firestorm radiating from every point of contact. “oh, fuck,” he breathes, the words barely more than a rasp. his head falls back, exposing more of his throat to your hungry mouth, his body betraying him further with every grind of your hips.

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your hands grab at his shirt, tugging with a force that feels like you’d tear it clean off him if it wouldn’t come loose fast enough. “take this fucking thing off.”

ben’s too far gone to resist, his laugh airy and broken as his fingers fumble to obey. “mm, yes, sir,” he teases, the words forced through a grin that barely holds together. he doesn’t miss the flash of something dangerous behind your irises—a flicker of control you’re savoring like a wolf tasting the first blood on its tongue.

ben’s known guys like you. guys who’ve been crushed, splintered into jagged pieces by the weight of the world. broken little boys fumbling to piece themselves back together but too desperate, too fucking hungry for control to do anything but burn. and ben? ben’s always been the kindling, the spark, the gasoline-soaked rag ready to go up in flames for someone like you.

your hands work with fervor, helping him strip the shirt off his body. it’s discarded to the ground like the wrappings of a fruit too ripe to resist, and your fingers trace the lines of his chest. your fingernails rake across his chest, leaving pale, raw lines in the tan expanse of his skin. they sting, those scratches, like ghost wounds from some darker thing, as though you’ve marked him for death. ben doesn’t care. he wants to wear your marks, wants to let them fester, to let a part of you be with him.

your mouth crashes against his again, desperate and sloppy, all teeth and tongues. he can taste the bitterness of smoke still clinging to you, mingling with the salt of his own blood where your teeth have nicked his lip. the metallic tang hits his tongue like a blade, and he moans into your mouth, a sound thick with surrender.

as one hand pops the button of his pants and slips beneath the waistband, the other wraps around his neck, digging into his flesh like it’s meat you intend to rip apart. your lips travel down his throat, sucking, biting, leaving bruises that bloom like rot beneath his skin. you pull back long enough to mutter against his neck, “i’m guessing you’ve done this before.”

ben can barely suppresses an eye roll. don’t get respectful on me now. he doesn’t need your reverence, your curiosity. he needs you to keep consuming him. he nods, the motion jerky and strained. “obviously.”

he reaches for your belt, his fingers trembling as they tug the leather free from its loops. he’s rushing now, frantic to get it off, his hands moving like they belong to someone else. “condoms. lube. drawer,” he rasps, the words cracking as they leave his throat. his hands are shaking, distracted by the way your teeth drag over his collarbone, the way you bite down hard enough that he thinks he can feel the crack of bone beneath the surface.

your hand fumbles blindly through the chaos of his locker, searching for the stash he swore was there—a condom, lube, anything to keep the fire between you burning. your fingers brush over cold metal, loose papers, the faint grit of something unidentifiable, but the haze in your brain and the heat building in your gut make the task feel impossible.

behind you, ben curses under his breath, the sound more growl than word as he wriggles out of his jeans. the fabric catches on his knees, and he fights with it, hips lifting off the mattress as he struggles to free himself. there’s something almost pitiful about the way he moves, so desperate and clumsy in his rush to shed the last barriers between him and you.

you’re so focused on your task—so consumed by the feverish need to keep this moment alive—that you don’t hear the door at first. the creak of the hinges barely registers, a ghost of a sound swallowed by the pounding in your ears. but then:

“ben?!”

the voice slams into the room like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile intimacy you’d built. it’s loud, sharp, cutting through the thick fog of arousal like a jagged blade.

your hand freezes mid-rummage. ben freezes too, mid-push, his jeans tangled around his thighs in a way that makes him look utterly ridiculous. ben groans—a guttural, agonized sound that’s halfway between a growl and a plea for mercy. “oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, his head falling back against the pillow. his voice is muffled, but the irritation in it is clear, as palpable as the sweat clinging to his chest.

the voice called again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of the doorknob jiggling. “ben, you in there?”

ben’s brain scrambled for a plan, any plan, but his thoughts were a tangled mess, caught between the ache of his body and the dread clawing its way up his spine. of course it had to be now. of course his teammates couldn’t pick a better time to come barging into his dorm, not when he was like this—half-naked, flushed, with you practically draped over him like some pagan offering.

he looked down at himself—his jeans bunched awkwardly around his knees, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, his boxers doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how far this had gone. the situation was bad. no, worse than bad—it was catastrophic.

“shit,” ben whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp as he reached for his jeans, yanking them up in a hurried, graceless motion. the denim stuck to his skin, damp with sweat and urgency, and he cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the zipper.

you didn’t move at first, still hovering over him like a statue caught mid-motion, your eyes wide and dark with something that wasn’t fear—but something close to it. “do we answer?” you whispered, your voice low and hoarse, and ben almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.

“yeah, sure,” he muttered sarcastically, his hands fumbling at his belt. “let’s just invite them in, have a nice little chat while i’ve got a fucking hard-on.”

the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. “ben, come on, man! open up!”

they wouldn’t leave. ben knew they wouldn’t. his teammates were persistent, nosy bastards who treated each other’s business like communal property. if they thought something was up, they’d dig until they unearthed it, and ben couldn’t let them. because if they saw you here—if they saw him like this, disheveled and flushed and exposed—it wouldn’t just be teasing. it would be annihilation. they’d tear him apart, not in private, but where it hurt most: the locker room, the field, the hallways. his every movement would be shadowed by whispers and pointed laughter. they’d know.

they’d know he wasn’t like them, wasn’t the ben they thought they knew—the one who made dirty jokes and leered at teachers and bragged about conquests that never existed. they’d know he was a fraud.

ben shoved at you lightly, a signal to get off him, to move, to do something, but the moment his hands touched your sides, you didn’t budge. if anything, you leaned in closer, your lips quirking into that infuriating small smile.

“oh, this is funny to you?” he spat, his voice a harsh whisper, trembling with frustration and fear.

your lips twitched, the corner of your mouth curling into a grin you couldn’t quite suppress. “it’s a little funny,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

ben rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair in exasperation as he stumbled off the bed. his jeans still weren’t properly fastened, and he could feel the waistband slipping down with every step. he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the floor and threw it over his head, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slick skin as he stalked toward the door. he needed to look normal. casual. like he wasn’t all over you, like you weren’t tearing him apart.

before opening the door, he turned to you, his eyes flashing with a mix of desperation and warning. “not a word,” he hissed, the words as sharp as a blade pressed to your throat.

ben took a deep breath, his face schooled into a mask of nonchalance, as he yanked the door open. his teammates stood there, grinning like idiots, and ben felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him.

“what the hell took you so long?” one of them asked, stepping forward as if he had any right to barge in.

“busy,” ben grunted, leaning against the doorframe to block their view of the room. he prayed they couldn’t see you through the narrow crack, prayed they wouldn’t notice the flush on his cheeks or the faint bruises forming on his neck.

“busy with what?”

“homework,” ben said, deadpan, and the lie was so ridiculous that even he almost believed it.

[halfbloodwhore]

Electric Touch - Part II (Eddie x Female Reader - 18+)

"I've gotten used to no one calling my phone I've grown accustomed to sleeping alone Still, I know that all it takes is to get it right Just one time."

Read Part I Here

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

Today wasn't the first time Eddie Munson noticed you. You were the first thing he noticed any time he entered a room occupied by you. He was well aware of his position in Hawkins' social hierarchy, and knew that he didn't have a shot in hell with you, but he just couldn't shake his infatuation. As far as Eddie was concerned, you were magnetic. He felt especially weak when you'd prance into class in your little cheer uniform on game days.

On more than one occasion, Eddie had found himself laying back against his pillows on a Friday night with his eyes shut and one hand down his pants. Initially, he'd tried to fight against the thoughts of you jumping around in that damn green skirt, but eventually he gave in.

He let himself picture you laying in his bed, his lips sucking at your neck while his hands ran up your skirt. He'd pump his fist as he lost himself in the fantasy, allowing himself to imagine you moaning his name as he tossed your panties off and buried his aching cock inside you.

Eddie was pretty sure he was in love with that skirt, but it somehow paled in comparison to the little number you were wearing today. He forced himself to look away as you bounded into the room in a red plaid skirt that fell approximately two inches shorter than your cheer uniform did.

Despite the rows of empty desks, you scooted yourself past where he was seated, your skirt riding up ever so slightly as your ass made contact with his desk while you shimmied yourself to the seat beside his. Eddie bounced his leg impatiently while he pretended not to notice. He knew better though, he knew that he'd be thinking about this the minute he got to his bedroom later today. What Eddie didn't know was that he was the reason you were dressed so provocatively. You didn't know much about Eddie aside from the fact he sold drugs, but you knew the effect short skirts had on teenage boys and figured it was a good start to capturing his attention.

"Hey, Eddie," you purred. Eddie's head snapped in your direction. He was sure that he must have been hearing things, no way were you talking to him.

"Maybe I need to go beat one out in the bathroom," he thought to himself. But, as he made eye contact with you, he realized that you were indeed speaking to him.

"H-hi?" He mentally smacked himself for sounding so lame.

"You sell, right?" You asked, putting the second part of your plan into motion. Eddie nodded. "Do you have anything on you today? I could really use a pick me up."

"Y-yeah, sure thing. You can meet me at the picnic bench in the woods after school if you want to buy."

"It's a date," you replied, smiling at him before turning your attention to the front of the class as the bell rang. Eddie looked down at the notebook splayed open in front of him, but even as he grabbed his pencil and began sketching in it, he couldn't think of anything other than you in that skirt, purring his name.

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

Eddie was shocked to find you already seated at the bench when he strolled into the woods after school with his stash.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming," you joked as he slid onto the bench in front of you.

"It's not polite to leave a lady hanging," he joked, unlatching the lunch box he had placed in front of him and presenting the goods to you. "Speaking of, what were you looking to purchase?"

"Oh you know, just some... weed." Eddie chuckled and you suddenly felt ridiculous for thinking this plan would work. You had smoked a couple times before at parties, but you didn't know the first thing about how to actually purchase it.

"Have you ever bought weed before?" Eddie asked. You felt yourself blush as you sheepishly shook your head. "Yeah, I didn't think so. I wouldn't peg you for a stoner."

"I've smoked a couple times before, but it was always just... there. I never had to actually buy it," you admitted.

"Well I am honored to be your first," Eddie said, winking. "Do you even know how to roll a blunt?" You shook your head again. "Alright let's make a deal. For $10 I'll roll you one and send you on your way."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous as Eddie opened the door for the next phase of your plan, which was feeling more ridiculous by the minute. You'd made it this far, you figured, you might as well see it through.

"Here's the thing, Eddie. I don't... I don't have any cash on me right now," you started, twirling your hair nervously around a finger.

"Oh, well, no problem, we'll call this one a free sample," he shrugged, pulling out a tray and some papers from the lunch box.

"That doesn't seem very fair to you."

"Nah, don't worry about-"

"I was thinking that maybe I could offer another form of payment..." You trailed off, hoping he'd catch on to what you were suggesting.

Eddie glanced at you. He felt his entire mouth go dry as he considered the implication of your words. However, Eddie was not about to live up to his reputation as the town freak and scare you off. You were a cheerleader, you certainly couldn't of meant what he was thinking.

"W-what kind of payment?" He asked, his heart beating wildly as he tried to play it cool.

You reached across the picnic table and brushed your fingers up Eddie's forearm, leaving a trail of goosebumps across his flesh.

"Have you ever had a blowjob, Munson?"

[muletia]

Glad to see the naga brain worms kick in for my fellow anons.(this is the same anon who sent the first ask about it)

My favorite naga scenario is always having to do with heat and eggs. Imagining an Optimus laying (unfertilized )eggs and some get stuck so you have to gently stroke it out of him. That gentle guiding hand, your soothing voice, it's what kick starts his obsession. You don't judge him . You aren't afraid of him. Not like the other humans

can also see this w d16 which is getting me more riled up than I thoughttt he'd be sooo cute and squirming as you help him pass his eggs.

I knew I’d eventually get gaslighted into an egg fetish.

How far are you gonna go, anons? Free use D-16 or Optimus?

Hhh imagine Optimus with a constant resting bitch face while laying eggs, because to him it’s just a completely normal process… and it’s only when he feels your touch in such an intimate place for the first time that something inside him cracks. Blue blush spreading across his faceplate, heavy panting, occasional soft whimpers. It’s not just that he realizes how much he craves more of your touch on his frame, it’s also that he can no longer imagine his next heat without your helpful hand. You weren’t like the other girls™, and now you’ve ended up with a down-bad, obsessively in-love mech who always comes to you for help with his eggs.

And aaaa naga!D-16? Spectacular, give me 14 of them right now. His reactions would definitely be more intense. Full-on moans muffled by a servo covering his intake because he doesn’t want anyone to hear you two, whining your name…

I think D-16 would have a particularly strong obsession with you if we tie this AU a bit closer to canon, like, he’s from a low caste or just ranks low in the hierarchy.

A human paid attention to him? And you two had a normal, non-degrading conversation? And it didn’t just happen once? His feelings for you would absolutely go from 0 to 100 in just a few meetings, with quiet adoration evolving into stalking and worship.