#i hate plucking out metal nails so much

[cherry-writes-yanderes]

I absolutely adore how you wrote Yandere Gregory! You really nailed it as kids are already by nature possessive and bossy. And I can imagine even if you fight back against him (pushing, throwing off), there's his much larger, stronger, faster, resilient, and overprotective bodyguard named Freddy he'll exaggerate the story to and probably will get so upset, he almost overwrites his "no hurting guests" programming but Gregory soothes him before it happens. Then he can use that scenario against you in the future as further evidence you don't want to upset papa bear's kid and that includes leaving. Speaking of which, may we please get a reader who attempts to escape yandere!Glamrock Freddy but fails? Please make this a story. Like maybe it didn't occur to him that they can find a way out through his seemingly inescapable charging room through the vent. I'm so sorry. I just feel like having a chase scene and he takes them back to his room by force while being very upset that his sweetheart would even think about leaving him. Damn! I might as well write it myself, that was specific as hell lol

Yeah, take your time! I completely understand how demanding college is. I've been there.

A/N: Don’t be sorry sweetie! You’re welcome to long asks ;) I appreciate your kind words, they mean so much!~ I hope you enjoy! 💕 Also, apologies that this took so long! Life has been busy!! ^^; As well as the fact that this isn’t too great but let’s not talk about that-

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Warnings: gender neutral reader, overprotective behavior, kidnapping, isolation, mentions of physical abuse, force-feeding, drugging, threats of harm, blood, claustrophobia triggers

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Neon Lights and Bloody Stages

In Freddy’s Green Room, you could never tell the time of day. Time was only driven by three instances: when Freddy would leave for performances, when Freddy would come back from them, and when that blonde lady would come and check on you. 

On a bad day, she’d heal your wounds. Those days were few and far between, since Freddy was a big sweetheart most of the time, but sometimes you’d get what Freddy called “fussy”. You hated it, he acted like you were a damn child sometimes.

Today was different, though. Today was the day you would leave for good. You would leave behind the pizza and soda you were fed every day, the nights being drugged with sleeping candy, those long days of just waiting for someone to finally realize you were gone. You were sick of relying on someone else, and the time was now.

You knew it was destiny when you finally plucked up the courage to look around for a possible escape and finding one in a vent in the wall that you knew you could squeeze into. You guessed that the vent led out to the main area, or even a maintenance area which would prove to be even better. You could not risk Freddy catching you. It would be hell to pay.

Freddy was gone for the long day of performing for children, so now was your chance to leave the room. You internally said goodbye to all of the Freddy-themed things in the room, knowing that you would never have to stare at them for hours on end again. You pulled the vent cover off, the metal slicing into your fingers; but you didn’t care. You were ready to leave.

“Sweetheart! I came back with some pizza-”

You heard his mechanical voice and heavy body enter through the door, your blood freezing in place. You were too late, and he caught you.

“Star? W-What are you doing?” He asked, his ears down as far as they could go on his animatronic head. He was holding a pizza box, fresh from the oven. For a moment, you felt bad. He came early just for you?

You shook it off, knowing that you needed to leave for your own good. You couldn’t stop now for some good-smelling pizza. You quickly launched yourself into the vent and scrambled quickly through the dusty metal box-like hallway as you heard his heavy metal footsteps following after you. You barely dodged his large hand swatting at your leg, trying to pull you back. You crawled on, even after hearing his distressed cries for you.

After what seemed like forever, you managed to get to an area that you thought was safe. It was a long stretch of hallway made of concrete, with yellow paint on the ground. You wondered if this was the staff hallway, and you tried to navigate yourself through. It felt like it went forever, and you wandered around it for what seemed like hours trying to find an exit.

“Star!” Freddy called, utter joy in his voice from finding you. You immediately take off, running in the opposite direction. The sound of his metal footfalls was terrifying, and you prayed that you’d find another vent. No such luck found you. 

You burst through some doors, finding yourself in the main area of the Pizzaplex. The neon lights blinded you, and you tried to look away as you ran. You could hear him calling for you in the distance, so hiding was the best option for now.

A photo booth sat at the crossroads between a staircase and another hallway, so you decided to hide there to hopefully throw the animatronic beast off. You heard his stomping feet move in a direction you weren’t in, causing you to laugh internally. You were so tired of being stuck in the same area, with the same person every time.

You heard someone talking, which made you jump a bit. The only person that you recognized the voice of was the blonde lady, who you still didn’t know the name of. Maybe if she knew you escaped, she could help? It was worth a shot. You carefully emerged from the photo booth, shyly walking up to her.

“(Y/N)?! What are you doing out here?!” She jumped, looking right at you with eyes wide. She was honestly shocked that you were able to escape, and she gave you credit for it.

“Please, help me leave!” You begged her; your hands clasped together to really drive the point home. You heard her sigh out of her nose, her hand on her hip.

“Take them back, Freddy.” 

Your heart nearly stopped. A red light shone from above you, and your eyes slowly looked up to reveal Freddy standing right behind her. He had a blank expression on his face, which you knew wasn’t good at all. The lady stepped out of the way, causing you to try and bolt again. This time, you weren’t so fast.

Freddy grabbed you by the arm, literally dragging you back kicking and screaming to the Green Room. You cried and begged him not to hurt you, but his expression stayed the same. He wasn’t his bubbly, innocent self in this moment. It was truly terrifying for you to see.

As soon as you were tossed into the room like a rag doll, you were scooped up into Freddy’s arms and held like a baby as he sat on the floor. You could feel the terrible burn of the floor on your sides and back, the sting almost too much to bear.

“Why would you try to leave me, Star?...” He asked sadly, giving you the nickname that you had been dubbed with when you two met. He held you even tighter as he forced a Moondrop candy down your throat, hushing you the whole time like a baby.

“Don’t worry... Vanessa will make sure that you don’t have anyone to go home to...” His voice distorted, your vision fading as the candy kicked in.

Taglist

@candyk0rn

@httpsplanetmarsdotcom

@chezzywezzy

@yanderes-galore

[kiridarling]

𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

hanta sero | f!reader, horny!reader, alcohol, bartender!hanta, car sex, riding, half-assed confessions, praise. minors dni!

— 2.9k words

"Look at you, shaking on my cock. I fill you up that well, Baby?"

"Okay, that's enough."

You whine when your shot is plucked out of your hands, your fingers grabbing around nothing once it gets too far from your reach.

"N-No wai—hic!—'m not done yet 'n I paid for that."

You don't even have the sobriety to act enthusiastic, and the bartender raises a pierced eyebrow.

"The club's closing."

You click your tongue at that and groan, before pushing your upper body away from the bar to see that there's no one else here but you and the bartender, with proper lights on to illuminate that the place is a fucking mess.

"What? What happ—happened to partyin' all night long..." You drift, eyes narrowing to make out the floating words on the bartender's name tag, "...Hinata?"

"It's been all night. And it's Hanta," he says curtly, drying what you think might be your shot glass with a fluffy white towel. What a waste. "Another ex?"

"Fine." you nearly yell, dropping your forehead on the bar so hard it hurts—or it would have if you were sober. Which you are. Totally. "And yes. I'm thinking of buying this one dead roses. For shits 'n—hic—gigs."

"Creative," he snorts, sliding his forearms onto the table until they bump into yours from the opposing side. A glass is set next to your head. "C'mon. I'll give you time to sober up while I put everything away. Deal?"

"'N how long 's that gon' take," you struggle to sit up, body tilting to the right despite your best efforts to sit up straight. Hanta shrugs.

"Thirty minutes?"

"That's fine then," you nod, looking around the place through swollen eyes. "'S empty."

"It is. C'mon, drink," he nudges the glass of water your way. You scowl.

"'S gonna make me sober?"

"Yup," Hanta nods, popping the 'p.' You sigh before tossing your head back with another obnoxious groan.

"Then I don' want it," and you contemplate tossing the drink onto the floor, but you figure Hanta wouldn't like that very much. You opt for a pout instead.

"Well, you need it. You're fucked," he says kindly, before picking up the cup full of water and dropping it under your nose. "Now drink."

You sigh, already feeling the sobriety kicking in as you grab your glass by the waist. "You're so fucking difficult."

"Sobriety is good," the bartender offers. You snort.

"Sobriety is fucking terrible," you reply, already hating that it's already kicking in after a few sips. "People come to the club to get fucked. No way I have to leave sober."

"Sober enough to get home," Hanta edits with a nod. It's tempting to throw your heel at his face.

"Sober enough to hate life again," You grouse with narrowed eyes. Hanta shrugs.

"And once you spend a few days hating life, suddenly it doesn't seem so bad," he smiles cheekily before turning his back to you to wash whatever, and you roll your eyes at his optimism.

You stare at him, lips twisted in a disrespectful confusion, and definitely not admiring how the muscles of his back roll under that tight black shirt while he washes the dishes. How can someone look sexy washing the dishes, one may ask, and the answer is—you can't. Therefore, you wholly and completely blame the alcohol for the flush in your cheeks as you pat your back pockets for your wallet so you can pay for a taxi and stumble home to deal with the hangover at work tomorrow.

"You good?" He raises a pierced eyebrow, turning around when you fail to speak. You grimace.

"...My wallet's missing."

Hanta's entire body sags, the rag in his hand hitting the counter as he gives you a look of pure and utter exasperation.

"You're kidding me."

"I..." you pat your butt, just to check and, "Yeah. It's fucking gone."

The noirette runs a heavy hand over his face, before rubbing at the corner of his eyes with a faint yawn. "Fine, then. I can take you home, but you have to wait until I'm done closing."

"Does that mean I can have another drink?" You ask slyly, inching so close your gut digs into the bar in question. Hanta gives you a look of near-disgust.

"No."

You pout, though you don't move away. He's close enough that he's starting to blur but not aggressively close. You notice the faint smattering of freckles against his cheeks, eyes flickering to Hanta's lips as a pink tongue darts to gloss them over.

"You're not bad up close, you know," you breathe, running a finger up the visible vein up his arm. Hanta's eyes dilate but he moves away, and you huff, returning to your seat with a pout at the brush-off.

"You're no fun," you grumble, tucking your hands under your chin. Hanta goes back to wiping down the bar with a chuckle.

"It's against policy," is all he grunts. You roll your eyes.

"Yeah well, your policy fucking sucks," your tongue curls to spit vitriol in a way you didn't even know you could. Hanta's eyebrows raise in amusement at your petulance. "And what's the fucking policy? Don't get laid?"

"No, it's don't take advantage of tipsy customers," he nearly barks with a snort.

"I'm barely tipsy," you offer. Hanta freezes to look you up and down.

"...Sure." You growl.

"I'm not!"

"Well. This is me."

Hanta cocks an eyebrow and the car rumbles to a stop with a jingle of his key in the ignition. His eyes follow yours to the front door. The car ride was pleasantly silent—pleasantly, excluding the weighty air, you couldn't cut with a steak knife that forces your thighs to rub together.

"This is you?"

"Yup."

You pop the 'p' and make no move to get out; he doesn't unlock the door.

"It's a nice place."

"Thanks," you smile, and you have half a mind to invite him inside. You don't, though—you shouldn't. Because what do you think will happen?

"Um...so I guess this is goodbye. I guess." His fingers drum against the leather of his steering wheel, and your eyes drift to his hands.

"Yeah," you eye the purse sat in your lap. "Yeah, right."

He unlocks the door and your grip around your purse tightens as you reach for the door handle. "Thanks, agai—"

"Uh, hold on, actually."

The doors lock. You fight a smile.

And he looks conflicted—drumming fingers changing from a random tap to an anxious beat, teeth digging into the inside of his cheek, and eyes darting everywhere but at you. You sit your elbows on the armrest console.

"Yes?"

"Um, okay," he huffs through his nose, dimples popping in a borderline acrid grin. "What if—what if I wanted to break the policy?"

You feign a gasp, placing a dramatic hand over your heart in sheer horror. "What? Not the policy!"

"Yeah, yeah okay," Hanta snorts, grabbing you by the back of the neck and grinning when you nearly squeal. "C'mere—I want to kiss you."

And, well. Who are you to deny such an offer?

Hanta tastes like gin. You wonder if he's allowed to drink on the job, but it's only a fleeting thought because he's tilting his head and moaning into your mouth, and you find yourself pushing back eagerly.

He's sinfully good with his lips, tongue, whatever—or maybe it's the alcohol. But either way, his lips are plush enough to enjoy but firm enough to dominate, and you melt into the seat as he pulls away and rasps:

"How're you feeling, Pretty?"

Is it just hot in here, or is it just you?

"Um," you flush in seeing his smug grin while he patiently waits for your answer, and it's aggravating. "Good—I'm feeling good."

The noirette hums, eyes dropping to your lips.

"Want to try again?"

You nod, "Yes please."

Hanta's chest rumbles and he's grinning against your lips. "Saying please already? Good girl."

When he presses his lips to yours again, it's with much more weight than the first kiss, and it nearly knocks you into the window. He trails hot kisses down the column of your neck, making you hiss when he bites right under your ear.

The next thing you know, Hanta's unbuckling his seatbelt and then yours, before huffing against your lips: "Backseat."

The moment you two squeeze between both seats, Hanta's pulling you into his lap, his hands taking possession of your waist as if they've always belonged there. As he sucks hickeys into your collarbone, he lifts an eyebrow in question as he slides his hands to the zipper of your dress. "Can I?"

You bite your lip and nod, hips rolling slowly. Hanta hisses and tightens his grip around your waist as he slowly pulls down the zipper, the sound of sliding metal bouncing off the doors of the heated car.

"Just as perfect as I thought they'd be," He groans, chuckling slightly when you berate him for being a pervert—not as if it matters now, with the top of your dress sliding down your arms and under your bra. His hips flex as yours pick up the pace, hiding a smile at the feeling of his hard cock growing against your inner thigh. Hanta shucks your dress to your waist with two big hands, keeping them at your ribs.

"Fuck—keep grinding on me, just like that baby," his eyes drop to watch your hips roll before he's recklessly shoving your bra straps down your shoulders. "You know, I always wondered how you dealt with those assholes. I wouldn't if you were mine."

"Is this your cheesy way of asking me out?" You huff a giggle, and Hanta's dimples pop.

"If you'll take it."

"Make me cum, first," you offer, hips stuttering when he tweaks a nipple. "And then take me on a date."

Hanta snorts, lips returning to your neck. "Aye aye, Cap'n."

You slap him across the chest and Hanta takes the brunt of it with a smile, slowly sliding a hand up your inner thigh that you didn't feel until right now.

He thumbs the hem of your panties in question. You nod without and he bites a lip as he pulls the flimsy thing to the side and slides a calloused finger into your throbbing cunt.

"So fucking wet, holy shit," he breathes against your neck. You rest a hand on the fogging window with a sigh, and pumps his finger slowly—whether it's to get you used to the feeling or to tease, you aren't quite sure.

"You can add another."

"I—" Hanta shudders, nails digging into the meat of your hips. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

As he pushes a second finger in with the first, you two hiss in unison, nails digging hot red lines into his muscled shoulders. Your walls bend around him easily, squeezing his digits with such a firmness it has the poor guy fantasizing what you'll feel like wrapped around his cock. He whimpers behind a bitten lip at the thought, thumb ghosting your clit with a determination to make you feel good.

"You're taking my fingers so well, Baby," he says, groaning when your hips gain a life of their own. Hanta wheezes a laugh at your desperation, strung tight from arousal. "What? Need me to go faster?"

You nod your head, whimpering a meek yes that would be embarrassing if you weren't so worked up. Hanta shakes his head with a low chuckle.

"Ask nicely, Pretty."

"Please!" You practically fling your upper body over his, "I wan—I nee—"

"What's that, my needy baby?" Hanta purrs behind a bitten lip, struggling to keep your hips from bucking because you just look so good. You know his hand has got to be cramping from the angle he fingers you at, but you figure that it doesn't matter—especially when he adds a third, to your pleasant surprise.

"Fuck!" You keen, body curling along with his fingers. Hanta groans as you contract around him and digs his teeth into the junction of your neck, making you gasp along with the painful pleasure.

"You need to fuck me like, right now," you pant, and it's clear you don't have to tell the noirette twice—his slick-soaked fingers rocket to his fly, pulling his cock out with suck a speed it would be worrying if you weren't equally desperate.

"Yes Ma'am," he smiles and you snort, rolling your eyes—though the light mood dies once the head of his cock kisses your entrance. Suddenly, you're not floating anymore but sat in Hanta's heated lap, making all of this feel so much more real—the fogged windows, the skin on skin, the heavy petting. You can't believe you've waited this long, but at the same time, surprised this didn't happen sooner.

"Ready?" You ask, knees digging into leather as you straddle his lap. Hanta's chest shudders.

"Ready when you are."

You roll your eyes. What a gentleman.

With that, you press against him with a little more insistence and he pops the head of his cock in with a huff, muscled chest shuddering as you force yourself down until you hit the base.

"Shit," Hanta wheezes, grip tightening around your waist. He keeps you there—forces your lungs to work hard around his cock—and you quiver around him like a leaf in the wind.

"Look at you," Hanta coos like you're the cutest fucking thing he's ever seen. "Shaking on my cock. I fill you up that well, Baby?"

"Y-Yeah, I—" your throat contracts as you shift, inevitably nestling him deeper and pushing a quiet eep from your throat. It's clear Hanta's getting impatient, hips wiggling as a hot hand reaches for your hands to pin them behind your back. As he holds you at a 45-degree angle, to the point where you're slumped against the seat in front of you, the hand on your waist lifts before dropping you down again.

"Fuck!" You scream, thighs flexing as his hips pick up the pace fairly quickly. The noirette chuckles, tongue peeking in concentration as sweat starts to soak his hair to his forehead.

"Sorry," he pants, though he doesn't really sound that sorry, eyes fixated on where you're connected. "Did you say something? Can't really hear you over all the moaning."

You snarl at that, though it's hard to when he holds you at such an angle. You have half a mind to shut the fuck up, acknowledging that technically, you're outside—but another part of you thinks fuck it, you're forced to hear your neighbors go at it like bunnies at least once a week. They can suffer this one time, right?

"Shit—squeezing me so tight," Hanta grunts under his breath, eyebrows folding in ecstasy. "You trying to make me cum early, sweetheart?"

You whimper and shake your head as Hanta chuckles at how useless you are, as limp as a ragdoll while you take all of him so well. So, so well.

His thumb returns to your clit, and you both moan—you from the stimulation, he when you tighten around him. Hanta adjusts so you're properly sat in his lap again, his hot skin pressed to yours before his palm cracks against your ass with the one order, "Ride it."

Your thighs quiver pathetically as you lift yourself up on his cock, your throat tightening in a muffled squeal when his head rams into your cervix. You've never considered yourself to be a screamer but you suppose there are exceptions, and you consider getting properly fucked by your bartender in a bartender's backseat is a better excuse than any.

"Fuck—fuck just like that, fucking take it," Hanta's grunts are only semi-coherent as his hips buck in time with yours, the flush on his face growing down to his neck with the tight grip on your waist. There isn't much you can do but take it—and the fact that he gives you no wiggle room to squirm away gets you more excited than you feel it should.

"Where—" he pants, the car rocking with your movement as he latches a hand onto the back of the driver's seat. "W-where do you want me to...?"

"Inside," you whimper without a second thought. "I-Inside, please I nee—"

"I gotcha," Hanta's movements slow, opting for a smoother glide instead, and you find that the change in pace pushes you closer to the edge—and as does the thumb on your clit, which is slowly picking up the pace. "You gonna cum, Baby?"

You nod, but it earns you a spank on the ass, "Words, pretty girl."

"Y-Yeah, just—" He rolls your hips—and hard—and that final grind sends you flying off the edge, eyes skewing as you gasp his name. Hanta groans at the sight of you coming undone—the sight of you coming undone for him—and that's enough to make him curse under his breath before his hips stutter twice, and he's filling you with a groan.

"C'mere," he says, and you're not even sure he's done coming as he scrambles to pull you forward via your condensed top (which is between your upper and lower half) to pull you into a spit fueled kiss. It's messy and you're both exhausted, all tongue and spit, but it gets your blood boiling nevertheless. You're the first to pull away.

"Wanna come in for a drink?" You ask, knowing it's an invitation to come clean up and knock the fuck out together. Luckily, Hanta gets the memo, with his flushed face and pierced eyebrow.

"I thought you'd never ask."

[pleasantanathema]

Zeke Yeager | Give and Take

Pairing: Zeke Yeager x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Spitting, Degradation, Established Relationship, Smoking Cigarettes, Zeke has leather gloves 

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: This is part of my Nine Muses Event to celebrate 9k! Follow the link to read more fanfics I’m writing to celebrate. 💛

          “I’m going to devour you,” the leather was cold, the black stitching methodically tracing over naked skin, “piece by little piece.”

           Gloved fingers pressed into your cheeks, “Open your mouth.”

           But you liked denying him, got the same sick pleasure brewing in your stomach that he did from the chase.

           He had you on your knees—again. He always liked you in some subservient position, something that made it look like you were willing. You could still smell his cigarette smoke from your place on the floor, the cherry burning like hellfire in a dark room. Zeke leaned forward on his couch, thighs spreading wider, thumb sinking deeper into your soft cheek.

           “Open your fucking mouth. And I swear to god if you say ‘make me’ I’ll unhinge your fucking jaw.”

           You reluctantly did as you were told, even letting your tongue loll out of your mouth just how he liked. The taste of leather, of pine and tar and something chemical, hit your tongue, his gloved thumb and index finger pulling at the wet muscle, “and I want you to say thank you, this time.”

           There was no time to protest, the muffled sound of swishing hitting your ears just before a string of spit pooled against your pulled, awaiting tongue. It tasted like smoke and ash, like the menthols he smoked. It always tasted the same, tasted like Zeke.

           He released your tongue and you made a show of swallowing thickly, letting that gulp satisfy him.

           You didn’t give him thanks. You didn’t want to, just like you told yourself you didn’t want him.

           “One day you’ll do as you’re told,” his glove wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing below your jaw as he pulled you up, had you clambering into his lap.

           He was fully clothed, pristine dress shirt untucked from designer pants, brands only a conceited business man wears in winter. And that’s just how he liked it; he felt the power in having you strip in front of him and kneel before him naked. Even if it meant your drooling pussy would leave a stain on his trousers before he was done.

           “Why don’t you see how you taste?” You pulled at his blonde head, fingers tying in his hair like knots.

           Glasses glinted in time with his glare, something snarky ready to spill from curling lips, only to be stifled when you plucked the cigarette from his mouth to puff on it yourself. Smoke filled your lungs and nicotine made your head feel high, fuzzy, just enough to cement your courage.

           “Open your mouth,” you mimicked him, pads of your fingers pressing into bearded cheeks.

           “Dangerous game you’re playing, kid.”

           “What? Afraid you’ll like it?”

           You didn’t wait for his smart answer. When full lips parted, you pushed your open mouth against his, letting spit drool onto his tongue and spill from the sides of his mouth. The leather of his gloves warmed against your hips as he gripped you tighter in response, hard cock straining against his belt.

           The cigarette in your hand felt heavy as you kissed him, sloppy with spit and messy with mewls and groans. For a moment you thought about ashing the smoldering stick against his skin, to watch him burn and hiss. But you weren’t mean, not like him. Instead you let it drop carelessly into the wood of the floor, left to fade out as you two came alive.

           “Think you’re clever,” Zeke purred into your mouth, coarse hairs of his beard scratching at your cheeks, his fingers skimming over your hips, thumbs circling over your lower stomach before venturing farther south, “stupid little whore.”

           He didn’t even prep you, he knew he didn’t have to, already knew you were wet and willing as he pushed two gloved fingers inside of you. You gasped as he breached that first tight ring of muscle, your hand in his hair twisting as your back arched from the pleasure. He pumped the digits a few times, letting your slick coat and stain expensive leather. Those long fingers curled inside of you, felt both foreign and familiar as the thick textile petted your most sensitive, spongy spots.

           “Fuck, that’s not fair,” you whined as his other hand wrapped around your breast, leather creaking as he toyed with your nipple.

           “All’s fair in love and—”

           Your nails scraped against his face in warning, “Don’t finish that. This isn’t—” you lost your words when his thumb swiped across your clit. Hot, piercing pleasure raced down your legs, making them shake. Your knees sunk deeper into the cushions and you held on to slim, broad shoulders for balance.

           “Oh please, you love my fingers stuffed in your cunt,” your head fell as he spoke, panting against his neck as he continued his assault, “and let’s not forget how much you love my cock.”

           You were ready to melt, little drips and pulls of ecstasy blooming over your body and following his cruel fingers. He spread his fingers apart inside of you, slick sloshing and squelching with every push of his hand, lewd sounds making you whimper as you tried to tighten your muscles and hold back an impending orgasm. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction of making you cum on his fingers—again.

           “I feel you squeezing. Fuck, want that tight pussy on me. Unbuckle my belt.”

           Your hands acted on their own accord, sliding down his chest as he continued to play with you, your hands fumbling with the metal frame before pulling at his button and zipper. You masked the hitch in your breath by sucking at his neck when your hand snaked around his fat cock. It was unfair that he was given something so big to back up his attitude.

           “Getting needy?”

           You didn’t have to answer, he got his satisfaction from feeling your teeth bite into his throat when he replaced the thumb on your clit with the heel of his palm, letting you grind down against him for friction as his fingers speared up into you. You were so close, so, so close to falling off the edge, the steady build of orgasm ready to burst with just the right touch.

           But Zeke had the power to take away that pleasure, and he did, removing his fingers from your hole and swatting your hand away from his cock so he could pump the shaft and smear your slick across the head. Just as he was able to take, he was able to give, not wasting time to pull your hips down to have you start sucking in his cock.

           “Z-Zeke,” it was just a hot breath mumbled into his throat, your sanity fading as he slowly started to fill you. Your pussy burned from the spread, every thick vein pumping against your walls and making you crazy. He always felt so good, like liquid sin, like something that crawled out of Pandora's box that you weren’t supposed to have.

           “Like how my name sounds in your mouth,” he grunted, head falling back against the sofa as his gloved thumb found your clit as your pussy fluttered around half the cock inside of you, “say it again and I’ll let you cum right now.”

           You, however, hated how his name filled the spaces in your mouth, hated how it felt too heavy on your tongue, hated how it was so stupid that his name was just Zeke. Not Ezekiel. Not even fucking Zachary. Just Zeke and all his arrogance and pride and unbearable hubris. But you’d be damned if he didn’t have the best, most filling cock, one that was making your mouth go dry even as he continued to sink inside of you.

           Your lips found his again, letting his eager tongue lick at your teeth and swallow your sounds.

           “Please, Zeke, pl-ah,ah,” he drew fast circles on your clit, open and ready for him to abuse from where it was spread over his cock.

           You broke within seconds, screaming, clenching, clawing at his shirt as you were punched in the gut with euphoria. You felt too tight, like you were wringing the life out of him as you went numb with pleasure and creamed around him.

           Zeke was caught up in your waves, being drug down into your current, even though his cock was barely seated inside of you.

           “Holy fucking shit, s-so good, fuck, fuck.”

           Your body took from him just like he took from you, the pride draining from his face as you milked his cock from the strength of your orgasm alone. You were sure that your bliss extended just from the sweet burst of victory you felt in your chest, a smile breaking over your face as your high spiraled.

           “God, you’re so fucking weak,” you chided, feeling his cum start to leak down his cock to pool in blonde curls. Your wet cunt finally took all of him in, making him groan from the sensitive feel of having you envelope him fully. His glasses were slipping down his nose as he stayed silent, chest full of deep breaths.

           “I’m just getting started,” he rocked your hips in his lap, cockhead brushing your walls, “want you dripping with my cum for days.”

[lovetorn]

iced caramel macchiato [dream's version]

dream x reader — coffee shop!au

summary: enemies? to lovers? or maybe dream just plays hard to get lmaoooo

word count: 1.7k+

warnings: swearing? sometimes.

a/n: my harry fic rewritten for dream :] i just changed the pov and some lines but its basically the same asdfghjk enjoy ig <3

Service has been slow. So slow, that you’re sure your head will roll off your neck from the number of times you’ve looked at the clock behind you. The copper hands of the round object tick obnoxiously, making you bring a hand up to your temple to rub firmly.

Closing your eyes, you loll your head back to stare at the grainy ceiling in hopes that the bell above the glass door would chime. You move your head back to stare blankly at the door before you run your hands over the brown apron on your hips, the fabric harsh against your fingers.

You then bend down to lean your head on your palm in a bored manner while you watch the countless pedestrians walk past the coffee shop. Just one customer, please!

The light reflecting off of the glass is giving you a headache, but you still stare. In your state of utter boredom, anything would be exciting.

Your gaze shifts to the painting on the right wall when the glass door opens and a man stalks in. He is mumbling lowly into his phone, telling someone named George that he doesn’t know why Sapnap isn’t answering. You silently cheer at the sight of a customer, pleased to be productive on this slow workday.

The man has his light hair pulled into a small bun at the base of his neck and he looks borderline intimidating to you—maybe it’s his height, or perhaps it’s his cold stare. He scans the shop before he stalks towards the counter.

You’re slightly concerned at the sound of him not knowing where someone is, thinking that he will simply move off to the side to finish his call before ordering; but he doesn’t.

You seethe slightly at the blatant disrespect of the man. How are you supposed to catch a person’s order in between a string of conversation they’re having with someone else about something completely different? You don’t understand how someone can be that rude.

But nonetheless, the man stands there talking aimlessly before glancing up at you with an uninterested look on his face. You furrow your brows at him before your eyes flicker back to the cash register in front of you. You choose to pick at your chipped nail polish before the man decides to pause his phone call to order. But, the clearing of his throat catches you off guard and then you’re met the man’s hard stare.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

Your eyebrows fly to your hairline as you stutter, “W-What?”

The man huffs as he switches his weight to his other foot and swaps his phone to his other ear, his eyes wide with irritation. He waves his hand in front of your face as you stand in shock at his rudeness. The man rolls his eyes before speaking to the person on the phone again. You reach over to pluck a plastic cup from the stack and grab a Sharpie pen, ready for his choice. However, you’ve soon got a death grip on the cup as he carries on talking to the person on the line.

“A cold caramel whatever.” You catch what he mumbles before he continues whispering into his phone. You grumble bitterly to yourself that it isn’t an order. But, not wanting to have to interact with him any longer, you ask for his name.

“Clay.”

And with that, he steps to the side, laughing into his device. You stand in disbelief holding the black Sharpie marker in your hand. How can his demeanour shift so quickly? Pulling yourself together, you scribble quickly, ‘C-… Cray’? You cock your head at the spelling but shrug one shoulder and slide it towards the metal bench next to you.

When the barista at the other end of the bench calls ‘Cray’, the man either isn’t paying attention or doesn’t care because he takes his drink and leaves; not even sparing a glance at you, who had misspelt his name.

The next day’s rush is far more fast-paced. The chatter of people around the coffee shop makes it near impossible to hear the orders of customers at the counter—but it is the way you like it. The more customers, the faster the day goes. And at this pace, you swear your shift is almost over.

As you finish taking the order of a young girl, your mood instantly dims when the girl moves to the side. Head down, Clay stands in front of you typing on his phone, murmuring his order to you. You tilt your head as you huff. The plain disrespect, again.

“Excuse me?” You say while leaning closer to him.

He gives a quick glance towards you before sighing, “A caramel cold, no cream.” His irritated expression makes you stare blankly at him.

His bleak response earns a quick eyebrow raise from you, who struggles to understand his order, but grabs a cup anyway and scribbles ‘Cole’ on the side along with a whole bunch of jumble on ‘caramel cold’. You assume he means the same drink as yesterday. And as the same as yesterday, his hair is pulled back, leaving his forehead bare and the crease in between his brows evident. Why does he always look so angry?

—

Over the next few weeks, you had continually and deliberately gotten Clay’s name wrong. You had become quite creative with ridiculous nicknames when he ordered his boring ‘cold caramel’ drink and think he deserves it from how rude he was to you. As much as you disliked the man, you found fun in getting his name wrong.

Cloud, Clam, Cleo, and even clarinet. At this point, the barista at the other end of the counter could yell ‘cabbage’ and he’d just accept it.

You had the luck of not running into him anywhere outside of the coffee shop, saving yourself the embarrassment of confessing why you write his name like that on the cups. But you can’t help it, you hate when people are distracted whilst they order; as well as arsehole men who wave their hand in front of your face when you’re simply waiting for them to finish their call to tell you their order.

No matter how much you despised it, Clay never failed to walk into the shop without being on his phone in some way. And he never once looked at you when he walked out with his drink, only sparing you a glance when ordering. You just didn’t understand this man!

It’s Friday and it’s raining. The dark clouds hang in the sky like a bad smell and you can’t shake the feeling in your gut. It is 15 minutes to closing time and Clay hasn’t walked in today. A weird sense of disappointment washes over you as you gaze out of the glass door.

The bell chimed for the last time that day at 5:55 pm and as you wrote down the abbreviations of a latte on the top of a white coffee lid, you felt sadness. It was subtle but it was there. And you didn’t know why it sat at the bottom of your stomach for so long, but it wasn’t pleasant.

As you reach to close up the register, the bell at the door rings. Your head shoots up from looking at the numbers on the buttons and is met with Clay—with no phone in sight. As much as you were looking forward to writing down a new nickname for him, your thought process is interrupted.

Clay looks at you, straight in the eye, and smiles. You stand in confusion, the black sharpie dangling from your fingertips as he leans on the counter. The cup in your hands is close to falling on the floor when he nods towards it.

“Iced caramel. And get my name right this time.”

You feel your cheeks heat before you scrunch your nose in distaste, “So you did notice.”

The man hums in confirmation before he reaches over the register to snatch the cup from your grasp. “Of course I did. I’m gonna show you how to spell it right.”

You’re quick to bite back the urge to comment that you know how to spell his fucking name but you patiently wait for him to return the cup.

He hands the cup back to you, holding it teasingly above your head before he drops it onto the counter. You catch the cup before it rolls onto the floor and become confused at the scribble of numbers on the cup instead. You lift your head to meet his gaze when you see his lips drawn into a large grin. Your features soften as you give him a soft closed-lipped smile. You turn your head to look towards the menu behind you, the numbers next to the orders catching your attention.

“Are these all of the orders you want?” You ask. You furrow your eyebrows while you look back down at the cup. Oh.

Clay bites back a giggle and shakes his head at your expression. “It’s my number.”

As shocked as you are, you manage to keep your grip on the cup, despite it nearly falling from your hand again.

“W-Why?” You mumble, face flushing at the thought of Clay even thinking about you in that way.

Clay makes a smug face, shrugs, and then spins around before walking back towards the door. You stand frozen; like literally stuck in your spot as you watch Clay glance over his shoulder.

“This place closes in 5 right? I’ll wait outside while you finish up and we’ll go get dinner together.”

His statement lingers even after he leaves. You still hold the plastic cup in your hand as you stare at the spot he was last in. Your heartbeat is in your ears as you finally blink. No… I can’t, he’s—. You shift your eyes down to the cup and the haphazard writing and feel as your heart skip a beat.

And as soon as you step out of the shop, the rain patters lightly on the pavement and you spot his figure leaning against the side of the bookshop next door—typing on his phone. You scoff out a laugh as you begin approaching him. Clay lifts his head at the sound of someone nearing and smiles when he sees you.

“Ready?” He asks, offering you his elbow. You roll your eyes at his gesture, nod and place your hand on his bicep.

No matter what happened in the past, you’re willing to see where this goes… with Cray— I mean Clay.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Promise Status, Broken

Warnings: fake death, blood, taking shirt off, drugging, hospital setting, needles,conditioned response, mention of torture

He plunged the knife into Hero's abdomen and pressed. He pressed until the hilt was hardly visible under the layer of blood that pooled around the open wound. He pressed until Hero's stuttering breaths stopped.

And he let the dead body fall to the ground with a thump. Villain put his boot onto Hero's dull face and kicked. She didn't deserve kindness, dead or alive. Villain pulled the knife out.

Suddenly, the dark shed that he committed the long overdue murder was infiltrated by an eerie white glow.

"Hero," came a breathless gasp. Then the shocked voice changed into a professional order, "Hands up where I can see them!" A gun clicked.

Villain slowly turned around. His smug attitude and cockiness was apparent as he held the bloody knife deftly between his fingers. The blood dripped to the ground with a splatter.

"Drop the weapon," a young police officer yelled. "Drop it."

Villain smirked. The police officer was so tiny. Villain was muscular and very agile. He could've just tossed the knife and mortally wound the officer if it wasn't for the sudden flash of white in the back of his head.

Villain collasped forward, falling onto his side. He blinked, trying to dispel the dizziness and stars. The dark room seemed even darker like a black abyss. The moonlight he saw earlier was all muddled into a blob.

Through his swimming vision, Villain saw the young police officer swoop down to pluck the prey off the ground. He cradled Villain's lolling head with a fake concerned look on his face. Villain blinked, squinted, did everything in his power to focus on the young face.

The officer must've realized Villain's effort because he said, "Do you know who I am?" Villain shook his head. To him, it was an effort, an effort that cost the room to tilt and Villain to sway. But in reality, it was the weakest thing.

"Recognize me now?" The officer said in a deeper voice. Villain's brain very slowly placed the voice with the face of Hero's sidekick.

"Sidekick," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Good boy," Sidekick rubbed the side of Villain's head. It sent a new flare of heated pain through his body, centering on his head. Villain tried to jerk himself away, managing to break free of Sidekick's grasp. The only thing it added up to, however, was two more arms catching him before he toppled to the ground.

"Dizzy?" Sidekick said in a babyish tone. Villain didn't answer. Everything burned and ached and it was getting harder and harder to stay conscious.

"You just murdered Hero, Villain, why?" Sidekick asked.

Villain's cognitive skills weren't one hundred percent, so his tongue spoke before his damaged mind had a chance to catch up.

"P-promise... m' status... broken," Villain whispered. He just wanted to fall backwards and die. Oh, would that be sweet. But the arms supporting him kept him up and awake as nails dug into his skin. It was a new sensation, one Villain never experienced before. Nails into the skin.

Sidekick's once serious face turned into one of pure childish curiosity. "Walk," he sneered. "We are walking to the car."

Villain felt himself being lifted onto his feet. Then, he felt all of his weight relying on those two support beams. He swayed, determined to stay upright.

Dizziness once again ran its course as Villain stepped forward- one teetering step at a time. He let out a groan, and a moan, and a whimper, and a- the list goes on.

Villain did not remember stepping into the car. The second his body touched the seat, he was out. Sidekick had to move his head so that he wouldn't break his neck going over a bump. He sighed and stared sadly at the poor Villain's head. It was necessary, very necessary, or Hero wouldn't have been able to escape.

"Thank you," came a pained voice. Sidekick spun around to see Hero limping forward. She had her hand protectively covering a bruise on her stomach. Sidekick sighed in relief and embraced her. The extra padding and fake blood worked well.

"I should be thanking you," Sidekick laughed. "If you didn't hit him, I would be dead."

Hero's happy face contorted into a much more serious expression.

"Why did you make Villain walk like that?" She asked. It was very rude, and practically unnecessary. She couldn't help but think that Sidekick wanted to offend Villain. She glanced at the sleeping, limp figure in the back of the car. Villain's blood from a nasty gash that Hero caused with a metal bar, pooled around him. She grimaced in guilt.

"Hero?" Sidekick asked.

"You never answered my question," Hero snapped. She ignored the painful bruise and glared at her sidekick.

"If we didn't have that protection on, you would be dead," Sidekick defended himself.

Hero scoffed and said, "Don't make excuses for your actions. We both know that it wasn't his fault that he turned out like this."

"He could've control his emotions, turned to goodness, not anger," Sidekick pointed out and pursed his lips. "He's not the innocent one."

Hero closed her eyes shut for a moment, replaying a memory that haunted her for a long time.

"I promise to always be there for you," Hero told Villain as she hugged him under the stars when they were nineteen, three years ago.

"Promise?" Villain's sweet voice cracked, absent of the usual sarcasm. Of course, he wasn't a villain then.

"I promise."

The next week, Villain was kidnapped by Supervillain.

"Don't look for him Hero, he's as good as dead anyways," her sidekick told her. Sidekick always saw the practical side of everything, so Hero assumed he was right.

The next year, Hero stumbled upon a broken body in an alleyway. Her heart lurched as she examimed the countless injuries. Broken ribs and nose, bruises littered the torso and his lungs struggled to take a breath. Hero tentatively pushed the skinny arm of his face and she gasped in horror. It was Villain.

Villain was alive, not dead.

Hero didn't hesitate to lift Villain's severely underweight body up and bring him to a hospital. She sat by his bed until he woke up a couple days later. She was beyond exhaustion at this point, and was so relieved to see Villain conscious that she nearly broke down in tears.

But a small, weak voice stopped her emotions from letting loose.

"Promise status," Villain murmured, his eyes already closing. Hero didn't register the words right away, she just tried to shake Villain awake. "Broken," he finished his sentence. Only then did Hero realize the meaning. She never looked for Villain. She just left him for dead, assuming the worse. After Villain's eyes slid closed, she noticed how conditioned the sentence was. It wasn't even a complete sentence. More like a robot repeating its task over and over, "Cycle One, Complete. Cycle Two, Begin. Cycle One..."

Hero, knowing she really shouldn't, laid her head on the bed, too tired to stay awake anymore. She hated the way Villain spoke to her, but was ecstatic to know he could wake up. So she slept.

Maybe two hours later, she woke to Villain scrambling up in fear. All the monitors started screaming. Without thinking, Hero pressed the HELP button, which only added to the piercing noise.

"Villain, hey, hey," Hero tried to soothe, which only resulted in Villain jerking back so hard that the IV ripped from his arm. Blood splattered everywhere, but that was the least of Hero's worries. Villain's hands went up to his mouth, yanking the oxygen mask off. In one split second, the previous rage settled into a slight panic. His chest heaved, unable to breathe properly.

Shortly after, the nurses rushed in with a syringe that contained a clear liquid.

"What is that?" Hero asked, instinctively stepping between the nurse and the terrified Villain.

The nurse hesitated before replying, "We need to calm him down before he hurts himself and others. It's just a sedative."

Hero shakily stepped out of the way. She felt useless watching the nurse inject Villain with the needle. She felt useless seeing his eyes widen in fear.

After a few minutes, the wildness in Villain's eyes were replaced with a tired look. His muscles loosened and relaxed as his breathing deepened. Another nurse rushed in with an oxygen mask.

Very soon, Villain's eyelids slipped completely shut. Hero and the nurse slowly lowered him into the bed.

The nurse laid their hand on Hero's shoulder and squeezed sympathetically. When she left, Hero sunk down into her chair and took Villain's hand in her's. She brought her finger to the bandage that covered his wrist and rubbed it. She thought of how she just left him to suffer under Supervillain's wrath. It wasn't fair.

A horrid thought struck her. What if Villain wouldn't trust her anymore? He already seemed to be terrified of her. However, that could also be due to the hospital setting.

"Hero!"

Sidekick's voice dragged Hero from her flashback and so did the repetitive snaps of his fingers.

"Oh sorry," Hero gave a half-smile and walked to where Villain was sleeping. She sat down next to him, crunching his legs so she could fit.

"Are you seriously sitting back there?" Sidekick asked, leaning against the open door.

"Yes," Hero said, bringing Villain's feet onto her lap. "Of course." When she saw the look on Sidekick's face, she added, "He can't do much at the moment."

Sidekick still gave her a doubtful look, but jogged over to the driver's side and hopped in. Hero shut the door.

They drove in silence until they reached Hero's base. It was a small buidling, but had a couple cells, medic lab, and many bedrooms. It was mainly known for the gorgeous decor, both outside and indoors.

Hero and Sidekick worked together to bring Villain into one of the medic rooms. When Sidekick rushed to find Doctor, Hero took the time to examine Villain's physical health other than the bloody wound on his head.

Hero gingerly lifted his shirt, but then put it back, too scared to actually see what was under there. When Villain was discharged from the hospital, the doctors told her that the psychological healing would take awhile, especially since he would be reminded everyday with the scars. She took a deep breath and looked.

The criss-crossed scars made her want to vomit. They lined his muscles, putting unnecessary dents into the perfectly lined abs. Trying to ignore the marks, she tried to find the positive things. He was much more physically in shape than she had ever seen. All the lost weight was returned to him.

Footsteps sounded so she put his shirt back, trying to dispel the image now engraved in her mind.

"You whacked him hard," Doctor commented, examining Villain's head. "But he should be able to recover with minimal damage, but we will see. I do want to take tests and do a scan when he wakes up." Doctor cocked his head and then asked, "Is he better?"

"What do you mean?"

"Has he recovered from Supervillain? The last time I saw him-"

"No," Sidekick interrupted. "He was trying to kill Hero."

Yeah cause we let him, Hero thought, but remained silent.

"Hmm," Doctor mumbled. "Expect confusion for a couple days." Then he left.

Sidekick and Hero hovered over Villain's bed, silently. Hero recognized that things seemed to be more quiet between them, but didn't dwell on it.

After a moment or two, Sidekick left, leaving Hero alone. Again.

She sat next to Villain and held his hand like she did a couple years ago. It was the same setting, just a different hospital.

Suddenly, Villain's hand jerked away from Hero's touch. She looked up at him, fear coursing through her body. He just tried to kill me, she told herself over and over.

"Promise status, broken," Villain said. "Promise status, broke. Promise status, broken! Promise, promise..." Villain voice trailed off as he looked around the room. "Promise status, broken," he whispered and closed his eyes. Hero gently shook him.

He looked at her, evil eyes meeting righteous eyes. Hero couldn't help but feel yet another twinge of guilt.

Villain, in his delirious state, could not recognize the figure in front of him. She was pretty, was all he could think, and the same words. "Promise status, broken," was the only thing his tongue allowed him to say. Nothing made sense, nothing at all.

But what didn't make sense the most was when the girl leaned forward and took Villain's head in her hands. He wanted to recoil backwards and escape the misery, but she was stronger and the blinding headache made little things impossible.

"Don't worry. I am gonna fix you up... I promise."

[sideblogformindtrash]

Haru: 

CW: Brief attempt at no-con (by the whumpee); Discussion of past trauma; dehumanization; it as a pronoun; self-harm; self-hatred; nail whump; 

 He tore the old paper tomes to shreds, meticulously destroying every single page, with the old letters and the careful hand-drawn illustrations. He had kept those old books safe and dust-free since the day he arrived at that house, and Master always praised the pet for it. But it was angry, and sad, and the feeling on its chest hurt.

Master was kind, too kind. He was forgiving to the dumb pet even when it did things badly. But, today the pet only wanted to be good, and Master had scolded it.

Master was reading one of those books on the bed. Haru hated beds, hated them so much. But, it wanted to show Master it was good so he crawled up the mattress, and Master seemed to encourage it, offering a smile. That is, until the pet sat on Master’s lap, one leg to each side.

“Haru, don’t” Master said, pushing the pet aside. It took everything he had not to run away then, but he had to show Master he was good, and useful. He had whined, and tried again, despite how much his limbs trembled, only to be pushed and have his hands slapped away. He tried to go for a kiss then, his eyes already full of tears, but Master got up from the bed and stared at him.

He trembled. His writing was barely legible.

‘Please. It wants to show Master it is good’

‘But this isn’t good Haru!” Master said, patient, but those sharp teeth showing ‘Look at how scared you are. Doing this will will hurt me and it will hurt yourself”

…Master stopped for a moment, rubbing his temples.

“Listen… I need a moment. I’ll take some air, and then I’ll come and we will talk.”

…He had nodded and left the room, going quietly to his blanket nest on the corner, feeling worthless and stupid and useless. But that was the only way he knew how to be good. He couldn’t offer anything else to Master. He wasn’t pretty anymore, he couldn’t sing, and he doubted Master really needed help with the house anyway.

It didn’t understand why Master wanted him to not do the only thing he could now. It was tired of master’s ‘talks’ and ‘conversations’ and ‘needing to understand how it felt’. It felt like a dumb mutt that needed to be punished for being useless. Hell, he was told he was hurting Master…

So it started to tear the books apart. He knew Master treasured those books. He knew Master would be furious. That Master would hurt him. But he deserved it. He deserved to be hurt and Master should do it. He had been nice for the useless useless useless pet for far too long.  

…Master had left the house after that. He was outside still, smoking in the fence. He did that when he was stressed. But he would come inside soon. He had brought one of Master’s belts with him. Most of them were very scary – they had metal parts and rings, spikes and chains. Haru had never been beaten with one like that, and it scared him. But he got the one that looked the less terrifying, and left it by his side, so he could offer Master once he came back inside.

...It ripped one more page, tearing the drawing of a demon in half, then in four pieces and letting it fall on the pile. It froze when it heard the front door open, a piece of paper still on his hands. Suddenly, the realization came like a cold knife in his stomach, a grip on his chest.

It would be punished. It needed it. It deserved it. It looked for it. But it was still scary. He looked at his nails, and put the biggest one in his mouth. He had to chew them. If they were small enough they wouldn’t be plucked. They were already small – they bled as soon as he bit them, but it didn’t matter, they had to be smaller.

He wished they wouldn’t grow back. They helped when he was playing some instruments, but what did it matter now? He would never sing again. So they were useless! They were only there to be a source of pain. Maybe they would stop appearing if they were tore out enough times, but how many times was enough-

The door opened. Master looked inside. Looked at the pale pet, at the pile of paper, shreds of it still on the pet’s hand… an inexcusable scene. He whimpered. It’s heart skipped a beat.

Slowly, it passed the belt to Master’s side, placing it at his feet, and took its shirt off, tears forming on the corner of his eyes. He kept his head down. Haru didn’t want to look at Master now. He was scared.

…He flinched when he saw movement, but it was Master sitting by his side. He peeked with watery eyes at Master’s blank expression, calmly tumbling fingers on the wood.

“P-p-p-ppun-punish” a simple word that he knew very well, and yet he almost choked.

“Explain…?”

It looked at Master absolutely miserable, shook its head and put the forehead on the floor. He wish he could beg better, take his punishment better. He didn’t realize he was chewing his nails again until he tasted blood.

Master’s eyes darted from it to the pile of paper, and back again.

“…Alright” he said, with a sigh. Haru pushed the belt closer to him with his head, fully offering his back.  Master grabbed the belt… and threw it aside to the other corner of the room. He whimpered. It, it would be the nails then? Or, or water? “I won’t hurt you”

It whimpered, head still pressed on the floor. It needed to be hurt.

“Haru. Look at me. It’s because of what happened earlier right?” Master tried to lift its head a bit. He pulled away keeping the forehead on the wood, hands hidden close to his chest, shaking “Haru. Talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

…He curled up, hidden by a wall of hair. He didn’t want help. He wanted to be hurt. Get the punishment he deserved. He sobbed. Old pieces of paper all around him.

…Master took a deep breath. He waits for the blow, but never comes.

“I used to feel angry a lot, you know?” Master says. He whimpers. Angry. “…I didn’t know what to do with it. I wasn’t allowed to express it for the longest time. I just bottled it all up and when I could no longer deal with I… I turned it towards all the wrong places. To things. To other people. To myself”

He didn’t move. But he was listening, wondering where Master wanted to get. Words and words and words. He was a dumb pet and didn’t need to understand.

“…I know you are angry too. I know it scares you, because it’s both a new thing and… Something that has been there for far too long. And I don’t blame you for being angry. It’s good that you are. But there are better ways to deal with it than this” he peeked up slightly as Master pointed at the ruined book “Better than this and better than… What happened earlier Haru. …I know what you are doing. I have sabotaged myself time and time again, on every aspect of my life and it hurts to see you doing that too. You can do better.”

He pulled a piece of paper and scrambled on it, without lifting his head.

‘It wants to be good. Pet wants to be good and do good things for Master. Prove it deserves Master’s love’

“Earlier today… You were pale like a ghost, trembling and crying, before even doing anything. It scared me. You were terrified and forcing yourself into that situation. How is that good?” …Master was frowning, a sad expression “…I love you. I don’t want to see you hurting. I know people have in the past, but that’s in the past. You don’t need to prove me anything. I already know you are good. And even if you do want to prove it, then hurting yourself isn’t the answer.”

‘the book’.

It simply answered. Everything else Master said… Was too complicated. Everything else, was too painful to consider, to think about. It deserved hurt and pain. It had to do things despite how scared it was, and that made him a good pet.

“…I’m sad. I liked it, was precious to me and seeing you destroy it on purpose hurts” Master sighs, and the pet peeks up, with terrified eyes. Somehow hearing this hurts more than being hit “But I’m not angry. And I won’t hurt you. I want you to know you can rely on me, even when you feel like this”

…Master’s hand on his head. Softly, caressing the top of his hair. He sobbed. He was bad. He didn’t deserve that, didn’t want that.

He shook his head. He wasn’t deserving. He needed to be harshly punished. Was this a joke? Was this… a punishment too? He started to sob, pulling the shred paper closer, on a pathetic attempt to put it back together.

Master caught its hand. Didn’t hurt but was firm, and he made the dumb pet Haru straighten itself and…. It couldn’t face Master. It tried but looked down.

“…It can’t be fixed now. And that is okay. No, no, don’t turn away. Look at me” he forces himself to look, Master’s hand scooping its cheeks. Soft. “It’s okay. You did a bad thing. That happens. You are human. You are allowed to make mistakes, you are allowed to not be perfect. But you need to know you can’t always fix things, sometimes, you can only move on. But that is okay, as long as you keep going.”

He let his head down resting on Master’s hand. So tired… Tears running down his cheeks, his hands pressed together close to his chest.

“H-hn-“ he sobbed “H-hurts…”

“…Yeah. I know” Master pulled him closer, into a hug. He rested his head on his shoulder, long wavy hair falling all around them, Master being careful to avoid it, while rubbing circles on his back “…I know”

tagging: @whump-me-all-night-long​ @whumpzone​ @twistedcaretaker​ @cupcakes-and-pain​

[fanficparker]

Hey! Can I request for a Haz x shy!reader where they go to his house to meet his family and she is all nervous or probably makes a mistake and is like, “your family must hate me now” and Haz comforts her? asasjajskkssjsk

LOVE SO SOFT // H.O.

Boyfriend!Harrison Osterfield x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.7k words

Warnings: A little bit of blood, minor injury, anxious reader, loads of FLUFF, hurt/comfort

A/N: I made it a complete one-shot, haha. Hope, you like it :)

Summary: It starts on a crisp winter morning with a rose. It continues on a lazy summer afternoon with a bouquet. It doesn’t end on a pouring monsoon evening even with those three magic words.

Sometimes the thing you are searching the most in your life, never comes to you, no matter how hard you try to find it. But when you finally give up and stop searching for it, it may just right there, find you itself.

That thing was love in the case of Harrison.

IT HAPPENED ON ONE COLD CRISP MORNING. He was brisk walking on the pavement, enjoying the cool wind hitting his face when he was stopped by a little "Excuse me!"

He stopped and plugged the earphones out of his ears, turning to find a woman around his age, holding a piece of paper in her hand.

"Yeah?" He asked, shifting her eyes from the paper to his face.

"Er..." She walked closer. He could sense a brief hesitation in her movement, nevertheless, she stood in front of him, speaking - "Do you have any idea where this (she read out from the paper) Mi-Michi and Mavey's Bookstore is?"

The name seemed familiar to his ears. Before he could think any further, she interrupted him: "It's near some Burger shop... I forgot its name."

The bells rang this time.

"Yeah... It on the opposite side of the post office to the left!"

Oh, of course, she didn't know where that was either. He could tell by her expressions. She must be new here.

"Thank you." She smiled, though. He could again read the hesitation in her voice and movements. She was moving away from him, walking towards the wrong direction, away from the bookstore, from the post office. And that's when he offered to walk her there.

He wasn't looking out for anything that day. He wasn't looking out to talk to her. To notice the slight smile on her lips, or the great complimenting colour outfit she was wearing. Or the way she hid her embarrassment over small things. Or the rose she gave him either.

The rose.

Yes, it was the rose that did it all.

He wasn't expecting anything more than a thank you. And definitely nothing like a flower, a rose specifically.

When they stopped outside the bookstore, she did say thank you, but she also fiddled inside the handbag she was carrying. She plucked out a pink rose and handed it to him. He couldn't deny it because he never had learned to expect it in the first place.

Someone just gave him a rose. Someone he didn't even know the name of.

"Wait... What's your name?"

But she had got inside the bookstore and he had some urgent errands to run.

There was a shop tag attached to that rose. He could read it. He knew where to find her again. He did find her again.

And then again and again...

IT HAPPENED ON ONE HOT LAZY AFTERNOON. He had brought a red rose bouquet for her. How stupid it can be? After all, she worked here in a flower shop.

"You know this a flower shop, right?" She leaned across the counter, biting her lip.

"Yup, but this is not for you." He smirked while her face grew panicky.

"Tis' for my girlfriend..." He whispered, pecking at the base of the bouquet.

Not for her... She tried to push away the feeling of her heart ripping apart inside her rib cage.

It was okay; she told herself. She wasn't expecting him to fall in love for her like the way she did for him.

It was okay. She tried to smile.

"Oh... Th-that's great!" She showed some fake enthusiasm.

It was okay.

"I-I will like to meet her someday."

He noticed the hesitation again. But this time he wanted that. He watched her as she pretended, pretended to not care, to be happy for him.

It was too much.

"You can take that spot though and get these for yourself..." He sucked in a deep breath, "Be my girlfriend."

They kissed that day at the back of the shop in that narrow alleyway, slowly and passionately. Softly and hesitantly. Shyly and confidently.

They kissed again.

And then again and again...

IT HAPPENED ON ONE POURING MONSOON EVENING. He invited her to meet his family. She hesitated again. He had held her hand, not wanting to let go.

"Please... They will love you."

She still hesitated, not wanting to meet just yet. She was ready before they actually stepped on the front porch. She literally spent two hours getting ready. But now...

"Please... For me?"

His eyes, the way they glimmered and pleaded, was again too much. He was always too much for her. She closed her eyes and pressed the door-bell. Her smile was strained when his mom welcomed her. Her heart was pounding when she hugged her. She was anxious upon removing her wet sandals, afraid if the wooden floor got dirty.

Harrison noticed again. He dumped the umbrella in the stand and stood close to her, his palm stroking her bicep, shooting her a smile which did all the magic.

She heard the unspoken message in his actions.

It's going to be okay.

Should she wait at the dinner table or help his family in the kitchen? It became the question that bothered her after a few minutes of positive interaction, draining all the optimism she had gathered. It became awkward when both his mum and sister left for the kitchen. It became weirder when he followed them, leaving her alone near the dining area.

Playing with the hem of her long sleeves was no more a suitable pass time. She didn't want to chip off the nail paint she applied so intricately. When the noise of a metal spoon or spatula falling to the kitchen floor reached her ears, that was it for her. She walked to the kitchen, desperate to get involved in whatever Harrison and his family were doing.

"Sorry, love. We should have arranged everything on time, but it got a bit delayed." His mum addressed her apologetically.

"Harrison, why don't you spend time with her?" She asked him next.

"Uh---"

"No problem. I was just... bored... thought I could be of any help?" She smiled, joining them inside the kitchen, standing beside her lover, finding something to do.

"I can chop the salad?" She offered when her eyes landed on the uncut vegetables lying over the chopping board.

"Sure..."

They were talking and laughing. So far, so good. His sister was stirring the soup on the stove. He and his mum were arranging the plates and crockery while she was cutting the tomatoes and the green vegetables.

"You can use the serrated knife for the tomatoes. It would be easier." His sister suggested.

"It's fine." She placed a tomato on the board after removing its core and started running the blade vertically. She needed to impress them, flex her chopping abilities. She went on faster, slicing the large tomatoes one after another. Until the knife slipped off and ran across her finger instead. No, the tomatoes were too soft and juicy for that kind of cutting.

The knife dropped on the floor with a sharp noise, diverting all their attention to hers.

"You oka-"

"Yeah. I will just use the bathroom," She excused herself, moving at a pace that was something between running and walking.

Opening the tap of the basin, she let the blood wash off her finger. It was a minor cut but deep. Upon hearing Harrison's voice calling her outside, she turned off the tap instantly and searched the cabinet to find some cotton and rubbing alcohol.

She walked outside, pressing the cotton over her wound, hiding it from Harrison's vision.

"Are you hurt?"

What?

"No. Of course, not." She let out a burst of staggering laughter, trying to surface the lie.

He hummed, pausing for a second, looking into her eyes. She refused to meet his icy-blue ones, clenching her fist tighter to ease the stinging pain.

"There was some blood on the board."

And now Harrison found her outright lying, hiding things. She had read on various online articles how for many people this was the end of the trust. All she wanted was to look good in his family's eyes and they must have come to know about her carelessness too. She even rejected his sister's advice.

Instead, she received a hug. Harrison had softly pushed her back into the bathroom and wrapped his arms around her body, keeping his head on her shoulder.

"I told you it was going to be okay..." He whispered below her ear, softly blowing some stray hair off that area.

"It didn't go okay though," She could feel her voice breaking.

"What didn't go okay, love? All I see is my family being absolutely fond of you." He kissed at the spot below her ear, his favourite place to kiss her.

"I just... made a fool of myself. I am such a noob."

He giggled at the choice of her words.

"No, you are not," He stepped in front of her, lifting her chin with his fingers.

"First, cutting yourself while chopping isn't a big deal. And second, even if you were a noob (he made a dorky face at the word, pouting dramatically), I don't see how it will make you a fool. Come on Y/n, we are here to meet my family not to give an exam." He wiped the little wetness on her eye-lashes and leaned in to peck her over her eyelids.

"I love you, you know that, right?"

Her heart again thudded inside her chest. He just said those three magic words for the first time or was she hearing wrong... She nodded instead, unable to say anything back.

"So, no need to feel embarrassed. And now get me your hand. Let me fix it real fast."

He made her sit over the counter and wrapped a band-aid over the cut. Meanwhile, she still thought of the words, dreading to reply.

"We good to go?"

"Huh?" She realised she was blankly staring at his face. "Er... Yeah."

She jumped off the counter as he walked towards the door.

"Hey, Harrison?"

He stopped at her voice and turned to see her walking towards him.

"I love you too." She said, pressing a kiss over his lips.

He was smiling into the kiss.

She bet she could make him smile again and again. And she did.

 ONE-SHOT TAGLIST:  @god-knows-what-am-i-doing // @multifandomlover121// @its-a-leap-of-faith-kid // @emmaloo21 // @swiftmind // @trustfundparker // @hollands-weasley //  @hazmyheart // @lost-aesthetic-of-past // @tommysparker // @redlips-c // @just-a-littlebit-of-everything // @miraclesoflove // @serendipitous-amor // @hazardosterfield // @lizzyosterfield // @thenoddingbunny-blog // @halfblood-princess-505 // @spidergirl007 // @viagracex // @parkerpeter24 // @fanficscuziranout // @httplayer // @veronicas-littleworld // @slytherin-chaser // @perspectiveparker // 

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

Hmmm how we feeling about Rhoam forcing Huni to wear a chastity belt because the bitch is such a massive fucking whore?

I love the give and take we have. You give me Rhoam smut, I give you...Rhoam smutt- point is i love trading shit with people. Let's go!

"You crossed a LINE last night."

"You got your nut, why are you STILL complaining?"

He turned to Huni, who had just risen up from bed. He was flipping through the breakfast menu, thinking of maybe sausage and eggs, when Rhoam snatched it from him, forcing Huni to look at him.

"Because you embarrassed me. My reputation is one of the few things I'll take to my grave, ergo, it is VERY important to me."

He grabbed a hold of his hair, ignoring his cries as he forced his gaze up at him.

"Hey hey hey you JACKASS!"

Rhoam pulled something from underneath his bed. It was made of metal, leather, and a touch of gold in the front, in the shape of the Hyrule royal crest. Huni wasn’t a genius, but he knew he was looking at a whore's worst nightmare; a chastity belt. Rhoam gestured at the belt.

"You're going to sit there and let me put it on you."

"Like HELL I am! So I hit on Daruk and let everyone know you’re a horny old fuck! You're making a big deal of this!"

"You will put it on, or I WILL punish you far more harshly."

Huni stuck his tongue out at him. What's the WORST his old ass could think of?

"Oh yeah?! Like WHAT?"

His grip grew tighter as he pulled him closer to his face.

"You will get a HUGE dock in your allowance. You can kiss your personal chefs, your shower hands, and even your play room goodbye. You can say goodbye to your fancy clothes, your fancy shoes, your jewelry. And, if that isn't enough, I will keep your data pad, and keep you in the maids quarters until further notice. I. Am not. Playing. Huni."

Whoa. Tone like that, glare like that, he WAS serious. Huni could kiss all this nice stuff goodbye if he didn't give old beard bastard what he wanted. He nodded meekly.

"I...okay. I understand."

"Good."

Rhoam let go of his hair, then proceeded to put it on Huni. It fit snug on his body. Uncomfortable enough to notice, but not enough for it to be unbearable. He clicked his tongue.

"Ugh. It's hideous. Can't believe you got it for me."

"It belongs in the family. Don't consider yourself special."

"Wait you just. HAVE this?"

"For emergencies."

Huni threw his hands in the air.

"What-an EMERGENCY? A chastity emergency?"

"Yes, because you can't keep your damn legs shut, like a proper spouse."

"A proper w-"

Huni wanted to ask what the hell he meant, when he heard that click. Rhoam had just locked it, making a show of holding the key in his hand.

"This is the very thing that keeps you for me, and me alone. When you EARN it, you may have the key back. Until then, it stays with me."

Rhoam put the chain around his neck, and Huni scoffed.

"You really think this is gonna work."

"I do. A whore can only hold their pride for so long."

---------------------

Huni was having an awful, terrible night. He had just gotten back from dinner, but his body wasn't sated with food. An entire month in this stupid thing, and things were getting to him. Guards couldn't rub his pussy, he couldn’t touch himself, humping did nothing- it was bullshit. What was even worse? Rhoam didn't care. All he did was taunt him by wearing that stupid key around his neck, and fucking maids.

"You're a SLUT, Jessica, get the fuck out of my hallway."

He saw her just the other night, bouncing on his cock like it was a pogo stick. Every maid would LOVE to take his place, and would be his fleshlight if they had to in order to get it. Especially fucking Jessica, putting her blonde hair in a bun and constantly not wearing underwear. Fucking slut. He made his way to Rhoam's room. He was currently in his bath, and that was when he saw it. The key, just hung on the bed post.

"He wouldn't mind. Just for a few minutes, then I'll put it back on."

Huni reached for it, only to suddenly have Rhoam's grip around his wrist. He was in his bathrobe, still wet.

"Ah, but I would, my dear."

He plucked the key from where it hung, before putting it around his neck, and walking towards his mirror, looking at himself as he started to dry his hair. Huni stomped his foot on the floor.

"Oh my god it's no fair, you get to fuck JESSICA's bitch ass, I can't even finger myself!!"

"Jessica has nice legs. Yours won't open, and you have no one to blame but yourself."

Huni damn near wanted to slap his shit in.

"FINE. What do you want for the fucking key?"

"You must earn it."

"Quit the cryptic shit, what do you want?"

Rhoam moved away from the mirror, and laid in bed, putting his hands behind his head.

"Reach into the dresser for my oil. And massage me. Maybe, if you do it nicely, better than Amber does, you'll be on your path to the key."

"Amber-HOW MANY MAIDS ARE YOU FUCKING?!"

"The list of maids I'm NOT fucking would be shorter. Now, get to it."

Huni grumbled to himself, hopping into bed. He un did Rhoam's robe, and grumbled at the sight of his cock. Apparently this thing was just SO important, HIS junk had to be kept in a cage. Fucking asshole. He oiled up his hands, before grabbing onto his cock. Fucking hell. He forgot how...thick he was.

"Don't forget the testicles, love."

"Don't fucking use that. Say balls. Normal people say balls."

"You're cute when you're angry."

Huni swore under his breath, before using his other hand to massage his balls. They were huge, old, covered in plenty of snow white pubic hair. He massaged them in his hands, enough to make Rhoam close his eyes, and sigh in content. He was enjoying this.

"Your old man balls are big and fucking gross. I hate it."

"And my penis?"

"Again with the fucking- I hate it too. I just started and you're throbbing in my hand."

"Your hands are soft. And you just did your nails. I like it when you have them long like that."

He really did. His cock had hardened, adding precum to the mess on Huni's hands.

"I do them for me, not for you asshole. Now fucking cum."

"So impatient. You aren't even doing it like you want me to finish. Faster. And grip my-"

Huni knew what his ass wanted. His hand picked up the pace on his cock, his hand tightened against his balls. Rhoam sat there, panting and gripping onto the sheets below. Letting out a loud, gross moan, he came, right all over Huni's hands. It was a messy amount of cum, getting anywhere and everywhere. Huni winced at the mess, but he knew his pussy craved it. His pussy missed the idea of being filled again.

"There. Now can I have the stupid fucking key?"

"Not...quite, my dear."

Rhoam pulled him back by his hair, and before Huni knew it, Rhoam's weight was on top of him, keping him down as he rammed his cum covered cock in his throat. He tried to push his fatass off of him, but as he laid there, head being forced in place by Rhoam's hands, cock slamming into his throat, he realized he was helpless.

"That's it. You're going to EARN your pussy again, aren’t you?"

Cum leaked down his mouth and onto his face, being only smeared by Rhoam's fast, aggressive thrusts. Huni couldn't fucking breath under all this pile of old man. Thankfully, Rhoam didn't last long. Stuffing himself fully into his mouth (until his fat balls pressed against his throat), before dumping another load into his mouth. Thick, hot, salty. Rhoam Findlay pulled away, letting poor Huni breathe. Rhoam chuckled, lightly smacking his cheek.

"Say thank you."

"T...thank you."

He coughed, spitting out so much cum onto the floor.

"You seem upset, dear."

"Just. Give me the FUCKING key."

"Tell me what for. Use your words like a big boy."

Huni swore under his breath, SO tempted to grab Rhoam's ass, just to get a rise out of him.

"So...so you can stuff my pussy with your gross, old man cock. So you can put all that cum inside me, because daddy likes putting his cum inside of me."

"Hmmm...."

Rhoam removed the key from his neck, dangling it in front of Huni. He reached out for it, only to have Rhoam laugh as he plucked it away.

"Oh, you thought it was THAT easy, Huni? You do this a couple times a week for me. No, you need to EARN this little key back. So, we're going to do something...dirty."

"The fuck are you-"

Rhoam held onto Huni's head as he sat right onto Huni's face. His little whore tongue felt good in his ass.

"That's it my dear. Taste me, nice and properly. You have MUCH, MUCH work to do~"

[darkblueboxs]

Bond, Break and Breath

Demon Jean/Kevin AU

Read here or on AO3 The Raven Prince, barely older than Jean is but with a confident set to his shoulders that speaks to something far older, looks him up and down with the unhurried confidence of someone who is used to schedules bending to his whims. His lips curl upwards, exposing his teeth, but Jean would not describe the expression as a smile. It’s too hungry by far.

“This one. I’ll take him,” says Riko Moriyama, and Jean’s fate is sealed.

There’s a strained sob from behind Jean that sounds like his mother as hands clamp down on him, pulling him from the line of offered children and towards the inner palace. He tries to wrench his head back for one last look at his mother and father, the sister who will be too young to really remember him, but the hands are all but choking him as his head is forced to bend lest his neck break under the pressure. He can see Riko’s boots as he strides ahead of them, expensive leather striking a rigid rhythm into the flagstones. There’s a matching pair which follows a measured beat behind, but it isn’t until they reach the inner sanctum that Jean can get a proper look at Riko’s adopted brother. He has the build of a fighter but none of the vitality; his eyes sit too deep in his face, darkly ringed as though sunlight is a mere memory to them. His eyes are hungry too, but it’s a curious kind of hunger, more like Jean is a book he wants to pour over, proof of a world beyond the palace walls. Jean doesn’t have time to study him further, not when he’s being dragged to the dais in the centre of the room by hands that clamp around his wrists like cuffs.

The sanctum is walled by ruby tiles that scatter the light from the oil lamps across its inhabitants in crimson pinpricks. Jean doesn’t bother to struggle as they lash him to the glistening block at its centre, but his captors grant him no lenience in return, their hands biting bruises into him as they tie him firmly enough that Jean’s fingertips begin to tingle from lack of circulation.

“Such a shame to ruin a pretty face.” The prince’s face eclipses his vision suddenly, the ruby light haloing his dark hair. “Don’t you think, Kevin?”

A non-committal sound comes from beyond Jean’s field of vision. The doors open and suddenly the chamber is filled with the molten burn of liquid metal. Jean twitches. Riko’s eyes track the movement with bright fascination.

“I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about the bonding,” Riko addresses him for the first time. Jean tries to nod, but the ties holding his head in place are too tight.

“Would you like to hear a secret?” Riko bends over him, lips at Jean’s ear. “It hurts even worse than they say.”

Any hope that Jean still held for his miserable future flickers and dies as he looks into Riko’s eyes and sees the delight dancing within. Riko keeps his eyes on Jean while the priest stands over him, mumbling in a language Jean doesn’t recognise. He keeps his eyes on Jean when they take out the knives and begin to carve matching sigils into his face and bared chest, and he keeps his eyes on Jean as the ruts in his skin are filled with molten gold that scorches him as it cools.

Then a golden chalice is held to his lips, and Jean doesn’t need to smell the hot stench to know what it holds. With merciless hands pinching his nose shut, Jean has no choice but to open his mouth and accept Riko’s blood as it fills his mouth and coats his insides black.

He’s pulled back from choking on blood and spit by the hand that presses suddenly into his chest. It isn’t the pressure so much as it is the response from his body, something in his ribcage rising to the point of contact. Riko’s hand is ice-cold against his feverish skin, the rings that adorn each finger biting into his chest.

“Jean Moreau. Do you give your body and soul that you may serve your Prince?”

Jean thinks of his family left in the courtyard, who will not be let free until the bonding is complete. “I do,” he says, his voice thickened beyond recognition.

“Riko Moriyama. Do you accept this soul to take as your own?”

“I do.”

The shifting thing in Jean’s ribcage rises like smoke, and oh¸ he had been naïve to believe he knew what pain was before this moment. His soul ripples and shifts as it wrenches itself from Jean’s chest and flows like meltwater to Riko’s waiting hands, and Jean screams and screams and screams, no, no, give it back, I need it, I need it-

And then his voice is abruptly cut out, his body silenced as bones and muscles crack and shift, adjusting and rearranging around the missing pieces. His teeth are suddenly too big for his mouth, his fingernails curling into something longer, sharper, and white-hot pinpricks of pain blossom and burst through his scalp in the shape of-

The last thing Jean sees is the hungry flash of Riko’s teeth.

*

The demon formerly known as Jean Moreau spends a day recovering in a sparse chamber before his newly-settled body is dragged out into the courtyard to begin training. He can feel Riko waiting for him before he sees him, a sense of the boy carrying his soul pulsing at the base of his skull like a heartbeat. The brother is there too, and he does nothing to hide the shock from his expression when he sees the changes that have come over Jean since the previous night’s ceremony.

Riko laughs. “That’s right! You’ve never seen one up close before, have you?” He summons Jean with a crook of his finger, and Jean’s legs jerk clumsily in his direction before his mind has a chance to catch up with them. Riko catches him by one of the freshly-grown horns protruding from his head and drags him down for Kevin’s inspection. “I did say it would be a shame to ruin that face.”

Jean hisses at Riko’s grip on his horn, still tender and new. There was no mirror in his chamber, and Jean would have lacked the energy to get up and inspect himself even if there had been one. He has seen the rivulets of gold branded into his chest, the sharp points at the ends of his hands where nails turned to claws, can feel the awkward new shape of the elongated canines that catch at his bottom lip. He isn’t sure he needs to see any more.

Kevin stares, transfixed, and for a moment Jean catches sight of his reflection in Kevin’s eyes. His eyes are a solid black, the bonding sigil shining painfully bright on his cheek.

Almost unthinkingly, Kevin reaches out to him. Before Jean can think to flinch away, Riko is yanking him back by the horn.

“Ah, ah. No touching my things, Kevin.” His tone is playful, but Jean can feel the surge of anger beneath. “We’ll get you your own soon enough, won’t we?” He turns to Jean. “Maybe a matching pair. How old was that girl he came here with?”

Jean’s fist is an inch from Riko’s face when the pain hits. He falls to his knees, choking on air as Riko stands over him, smirking like Jean just passed some sort of test, which he probably did. The bonding is like an iron cuff around Jean’s throat, choking him out until the impulse to harm his Prince subsides.

Training is simple. Riko is a boy with many enemies, and it is Jean’s duty to tear them down before they can lay a finger on him. He may be young and inexperienced in combat, but the changes that have taken over him still give him advantage over the grown men tasked with beating him into shape. His reflexes are faster, his sight and hearing sharper, his already considerable strength almost doubled, his stamina virtually endless. For most of the morning any wounds he takes stitch themselves back together before he has a chance to examine them: it’s only as the day wears on that the cuts and bruises start to linger. He glances to where Riko and Kevin are watching from the shade of the trees, but no reprieve comes. Riko waves his men on with a flick of his wrist, and they continue until Jean’s legs will no longer support him.

When the fighting is over, Riko pokes at Jean’s wounds with interest. Kevin keeps his eyes fixed on the blood-flecked cobblestones, and Jean can hardly blame him.

“He does have limits,” Riko says. “Interesting.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything, but Jean doesn’t miss the way his fingers twitch.

When Jean wakes the next morning, there’s a pot of salve on his bedside table. It smells like the lavender fields of home, the sense memory so strong that Jean’s eyes sting. He tests it out, unsure if he’s about to become the victim of another of Riko’s “tests”, but finds the cream soothes yesterday’s aches as it sinks into his skin like butter.

Down in the courtyard, it’s no longer the pulse of his soulholder that calls to him, but someone else instead.

*

Ten years do nothing to soften Riko’s edges. As he grows, so do his enemies, and time after time Jean steps in, biting and tearing and cutting until there is nothing left of the foolish assailants. He grows accustomed to being the shadow at Riko’s shoulder, to the terrified looks ordinary people shoot him as he passes, to the hollow in his chest where his soul once lived.

“Why do you hate me?” Kevin murmurs as he sews one of Jean’s unhealed wounds back together. Riko had been experimenting with silver knives lately, fascinated by how Jean’s healing abilities were seemingly defeated by the precious metal. It’s the dead of night, and while Jean’s eyes no longer struggle to penetrate the darkness he has no idea how Kevin is able to sew him up with so little difficulty.

“Did I say I hated you?”

“It’s obvious.” There’s a click as Kevin bites through the thread and begins to tie it off with blood-slick fingers. It’s the kind of wound that would have brought Jean to tears during his early days in the palace walls. Now, his voice barely wavers as Kevin pulls him back together.

“I hate that you’re here when you don’t have to be.”

Kevin’s fingers stall. “Riko is asleep. He never has to know.”

“I don’t mean this,” Jean replies scornfully. He turns and plucks the thread from Kevin’s loose hands. “I mean here with him. You have no bond. You have a working body, a soul of your own, a family beyond the palace walls who would welcome you with open arms. You could be free, but you choose to fester in the shadows with us. You choose him.”

Kevin reaches as if to take the thread back, but his hands halt inches away, hovering in the space between them. “You want me to leave?”

“More than anything,” Jean bites. He thanks a God he never believed in that Kevin can’t see in the dark. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he knows it’s revealing something Jean has been keeping hidden for years alongside the pots of salve and sewing things under his mattress.

Kevin’s response, when it comes, is quiet, strained. “Who would sew you back together?”

Jean has no answer to give.

*

“Hold him, Jean. Hold him!”

The order courses through Jean’s arms like blood, tightening his grip on Kevin’s thrashing arms. Kevin stares up at him with watery, pleading eyes. As though Jean has any choice in the matter. After all this time there’s still a part of Kevin that doesn’t quite understand.

Jean pins Kevin’s hand in place, and Riko strikes.

*

“Jean? What the hell are you doing here?!”

Jean had grown used to living with one hole in his chest. Two is unbearable, and he only understands how unbearable it was when Kevin’s voice settles back into place within him.

“Kevin,” Jean says. He doesn’t have the strength for much else, every inch of his body at war with itself. Riko’s orders burn like wildfire through every cell in his body, but some impossible gem of resistance at his core holds out. “Kevin, I’m sorry.”

“Jean-?!” Kevin’s voice is cut off as Jean strikes, a harsh strike to the sternum that has Kevin bending over double. Jean catches his arms before he can react, forcing them behind his back until the choice is between breaking an arm or submitting. He can feel the ridges of Kevin’s scars under his grip as he forces him to the ground, much improved after his months away but still there.

“He ordered me to bring you back,” Jean grits out through his teeth. “I can’t…. I can’t stop.”

He feels Kevin’s body go lax beneath him. Kevin’s voice comes out hollow, and if Jean still had a soul it would be torn in half by the surrender in his words. “I understand.”

Jean turns Kevin over slowly, allowing himself to meet Kevin’s gaze at last. His new life is treating him well, his skin having lost the unnatural ashy tint of the palace, his cheeks filled out and sun-bitten. Jean soaks it in, trying to memorise the image before he tears Kevin away from it forever. Kevin’s eyes flicker to Jean’s sigil, then down to his lips, and he looks like he’s about to say something when he catches sight of something over Jean’s shoulder. His eyes widen.

“Look out!”

Something hits the back of Jean’s head, hard. If he were human, it would have shattered his skull. He rolls to the side before springing back to his feet, placing himself between Kevin and the attacker. His breath catches in his throat as he catches sight of the other assailant: he has never met another demon before. He’s shorter than Jean, but more muscular by far, his all-black eyes contrasting sharply with his blonde hair. The sigil on his cheek is a deep amber and silver knives flash in the palms of his hands.

“You touched something that isn’t yours,” he says lowly.

“Isn’t-” Jean starts, stops, and all the air leaves his body in a sudden, sharp shock. He turns to Kevin, denial giving way to deep, burning anger as he sees Kevin’s panic.

“Jean. It isn’t what it looks like,” Kevin begins frantically.

Jean clenches his teeth, turns, and swings for Kevin’s demon’s face. The punch doesn’t even connect, nor did Jean expect it to. Regardless, his bond urges him on, swinging blow after blow which the demon dodges with ease, his bored expression never cracking. Eventually, he grows tired of Jean’s efforts catching him by the neck and throwing him to the ground.

“Andrew,” says Kevin as the demon steps forwards. “Please, don’t.”

“What did I tell you about that word?”

Kevin’s mouth snaps shut, his lips pressing into a tense line. The demon – Andrew – turns back to Jean, eyes narrowed. “If we let him go, he’ll keep coming back. His bond won’t allow him to give up.”

“Don’t kill him. Andrew, I know him, he’s not like Riko, he doesn’t…”

Andrew sighs. “You are a pain, Kevin Day.”

Jean doesn’t feel the hit: one moment Andrew is standing over him, and the next, everything has gone black.

*

Jean feels Riko’s death pulse through him like a hot iron poker pressed through his chest. He screams, clawing at his chest as he rolls from his bunk in the cell he has spent the last – days, weeks, months? – trapped in, and by the time he hits the floor Riko is gone.

But Jean, somehow, doesn’t follow. A hundred miles away, he feels his soul flicker, seep into the air and begin curling its way into the beyond- and then something catches it.

Something warm. Something safe.

For the first time in over a decade, Jean can breathe again.

*

The Kevin that unlocks his door at last has a deep gash where his tattoo used to be. He stands taller than Jean has ever seen him, but it’s on the inside that the real change has taken place. His heartbeat pulses in the back of Jean’s mind as the heat of a fresh bond hums between them.

“It can’t be possible,” Jean says. “Andrew-”

“Andrew is a freed demon. He was never bonded to me,” Kevin says in a rush, like the words have been weighing on him ever since their initial reunion. “I wanted to explain, but he wouldn’t let me come near you in case you tried to take me away again.”

Jean swallows. “He was right. I would have dragged you away kicking and screaming the first chance I had.” He reaches out to Kevin, pressing fingers to his chest to feel the flutter of his own soul resting beneath the skin. “How…?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin says, swallowing. “I saw your soul leave him, and I thought it would just evaporate, but then it kind of…” He gestures wordlessly to his chest. “Settled. What does it mean?”

Jean thinks he knows, but there’s only one way to be sure. He surges forward, and Kevin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, maybe the only person who has never looked at Jean with an inkling of fear, and when their lips meet it’s like two halves of a whole coming together.

Kevin gasps into his mouth as though Jean is a breath of air after years drowning at sea, and gasps again as Jean’s claws rake lightly across his scalp. They’re pressed together so tightly they no longer feel like two different beings, and for a moment Jean wonders if this is part of the bond or if this is just them, because he feels like he’s holding Kevin’s soul in his chest as much as Kevin is holding his.

“Oh,” Kevin says against his lips. “That’s why.”

And then he kisses him again, and again, and again.

*

They break the bond on a bright day that is full of birdsong and sunlight. The agony of a world-worn soul settling back into his chest is an acute one, but Jean survives it with Kevin’s arms tight around him. Jean’s chest heaves with his first breath as a freed demon, and it’s Kevin’s green eyes that welcome him back to the world. *

[roselen-mylady]

In Another Life

Bucky Barnes x reader ° part thirteen

Summary: Waiting 88 years to find your soulmate? It was cruel. But it was a cruel fate Bucky would have to face whether he accepted it or not. Bucky was a tortured man all his life and he wasn't even granted the solace of having his soulmate at his side. All he had was the promise of one in another life. They were separated by two different times.

But the pain in their lives were connected.

Y/n had been alone ever since she could remember. All she could depend on was the soulmate that was destined to be at her side. Yet when the snap occured she lost him.

And Bucky never got to meet her.

When Y/n awoke that morning there was nothing. No terrifying nightmare leaving her in a cold sweat. No hot tears streaking her cheeks as her guilt seeped free of her subconscious. There was only a vague tiredness that came with just waking up and as she slowly gained awareness, she'd realized what had awoken her. 

Bucky's arm had latched around her waist in his sleep, the vibranium piece chilling her warmed flesh. She'd been mostly used to the feeling but some nights, especially colder ones where he left his arms atop the covers before drawing them back to her, she found the sensation shocking but pleasant. If anything it was a reminder of him and his frozen past she was thawing more and more each day. 

Her fingers overlapped his own, entangling their hands together as she shifted herself to face him. His eyes moved under their lids, some dream that would soon be forgotten playing in his head as he slept. It was peaceful watching the way his chest rose and fell or the way his lips slightly parted with each breath. Admiring the way his lashes barely brushed his cheeks as he stirred, imagining the sea of blue that was hidden from her. 

He was beautiful. A kind of beautiful that wasn't shared with the world but a beautiful that was obvious to those around him. A beauty that started in his heart and seeped to each of his features. A beautiful person. 

"You okay?" His voice was gruff with sleep and his eyes barely peeked open enough to see her. The question was followed by a long yawn he tried rather pathetically to stop along with the small jerk as he moved closer into her side. 

She nodded, smiling lovingly as her hand came to his face, running her palm along his cheek. "I'm fine, go back to sleep." She lulled, her hand trailing up to his short strands and lightly brushing her nails against his scalp. 

He leaned into her touch for a moment before sleep took him once more. Sleep had always been something touch and go with them. But tonight it was granted and she couldn't shake the feeling that it was a small mercy for whatever they had to face in the future. 

But she refused to allow her thoughts to keep her up. 

And as she drifted off to sleep once more she promised herself that the only thing she'd let wake her up in the middle of the night would be the cold limb of her love.  

••• 

When Y/n awoke again, her head was on Bucky's chest. His breaths were steady but faster than usual sleep would allow so she knew he was awake, probably exploring the new tech she'd put on his phone, fascinated by the advances of 2024. 

Moving her hand across his bare chest, she could feel the shape of the muscle there, firm with years of use. Pulling her hand closer toward herself, she could feel the raised scar tissue where they'd attached his arm. She traced the skin there, his arm coming to rub her back as he eased her out of her sleepy daze. 

Morning Bucky was a sight to behold. It was like his past hadn't quite caught up with him yet and she could only imagine it was the same for herself. It was like they were still dreaming and this particular morning she wanted to do everything in her power to stay there with him. But Bucky was unaware of such plans. 

"You have a meeting in an hour." His words rumbled through his chest and Y/n sighed, half heartedly glaring at him from her lazy position across his torso. 

"You're really killing the mood." She hummed, burying herself further into his chest as his metal thumb brushed along her shoulder. There was a soft thud on the bedside table and Y/n guessed he'd set down his phone before moving his other arm to hold her as he chuckled. 

"What mood?" He questioned. Y/n didn't even have to look up at him, already picturing his amused but Loving smile.  

"The 'sunlight pouring in through the window while laying in the arms of the man you love' mood. In this scenario, they don't usually remind each other of nonsensical things such as meetings." She explained, earning another laugh from him. 

"Well, I'll keep that in mind for next time." He promised. A mock gasp slipped from her lips and she dramatically propped herself up, looking at him with playful eyes. 

"Next time? After killing the mood like this? Who do you think you are?" She couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips as his eyes mimicked her own teasing manner. 

"The man that you love." He answered rather matter of factly. Her cheeks burned at his words but she was too prideful to let him win, even in banter. 

So in a cunning and mischievous turn of events, she leaned forward, capturing his lips in a lingering kiss. Their lips moved slow, in no rush for anything but themselves as his hands came to grip her waist. There was a type of passion behind the kiss. It was like a fire but not the type that was fast and destructive. It wasn't wild and certainly showed no sign of going out anytime soon. 

It was the type of fire that started slow but once it was started, it burned throughout the night. The kind that kept warm and persistent despite strong winds. A slow burn. A burn Y/n hoped would never go out. 

"You're playing dirty." Bucky breathed as she pulled away, his lips still parted as if expecting her lips to return to his own once more. 

"I thought you liked that." She retorted making him shake his head. 

"As much as I'd like to lay here with you all day, we both have places to be." He changed the subject quickly. Y/n smiled knowing she'd won but nodded in agreement. Like Bucky had so kindly reminded her, she had a meeting with Pepper about budget and as much as she hated it, she needed to attend. 

Reluctantly she climbed off of him, allowing him to get up with a long stretch. His sweatpants had sunk a little, just hanging on his hip bones as he walked and while she would gladly watch him walk the rest of his way to the closet, his phone buzzed beside her making her turn her gaze away. 

"Sam's texting you." Y/n called after sparing a glance at the notification reading 'Bird Brain'. It was a weak insult but Bucky was pretty proud of it so the name seemed to stick despite Sam's protests. 

"Can you answer him, please?" Bucky replied, the quiet shifting of hangers following as he searched for something to wear. 

She stretched, detangling herself from the covers before reaching over and grabbing his phone. He didn't have a password which Y/n had advised him against but he didn't seem to listen. Her tech was secure though so she wasn't too worried. Powering it on, she smiled softly at the picture of them he had set as his screen.

"He says he wants you to meet him for coffee. Is that code for something? Is that a mission?" She called, a little excited with the idea of a mission. He'd never allowed her to go with them before, something about not being hired by the government or some nonsense she didn't feel like listening to. 

"I think Sam's just got a bit of a caffeine addiction." Bucky chuckled, tugging on his jeans and coming to sit on the bed as he slipped on his socks and shoes. 

She frowned playfully, a little disappointed that she wouldn't be able to try the new addition to her suit, an advancement she fondly called, 'Hellraiser'. 

"I can drop you off at the Tower before I go meet him. That is, if you actually get dressed." Bucky smiled, nudging her leg as he stood back up. He was a morning person and for that she had to condemn him but he had his moments, such as always waking her in time for work. 

"I'm gonna shower real quick. Don't leave without me, I wanted to show you what Peter and I have been working on." She explained, climbing up from the bed and rushing off to the bathroom. 

Bucky watched her go, smiling at his stolen clothing on her body as he stood and grabbed his phone. He made his way down stairs to the kitchen, swiping through the news app as he did. He tried his best to ignore the news like Y/n told him but sometimes he gave in, sparing a glance at what the media had to say about him. 

But before he could read any of the articles, a small white puff of fur pounced in front of him, nearly making him fall down the stairs in an effort to avoid it. 

"Alpine!" He cried, a little annoyed but mostly worried for the safety of their kitten. She was a little ball of pure marshmallow and while she seemed too adorable to be the menace she was, Bucky saw through her act, narrowing his eyes on her. 

"You're gonna get stepped on one of these days." He frowned, trying in vain to not let her curious, blue gaze melt his heart. 

However he eventually gave in and with a sigh he leaned down, plucking her from the ground and letting her sit in the crook of his arm, her little paws hanging over his shoulder. With his only obstacle now secure in his arm, he slipped his phone into his pocket and continued to the kitchen. 

The sun had just begun to rise, flooding the space in an orange glow. It was peaceful, a peace Bucky had grown used to in the six months Y/n and him had been together. He knew that was only a short period of time but after all the time they'd been without each other, it almost seemed like they were moving too slow. He would've married her the moment he met her if he could but he knew he didn't have to for her to be his. They needed each other and he was sure there wasn't a thing on Earth that could tear them apart. 

The smell of coffee wafted through the air and Bucky smiled, setting Alpine down on the counter and grabbing her bowl. She meowed impatiently, the tiny little sound making him chuckle as he poured some of her food into the bowl. "Oh, I know. Life is so hard having to wait for one of us to feed you every morning." He spoke to her sarcastically. She ignored him, burying her face in her bowl as his hand came to pet her back, running along the soft fur rhythmically.

Soon the coffee machine beeped, a freshly brewed pot of coffee steaming and ready to go. But before Bucky could reach over and pour the cups he'd set out, Y/n slid in next to him, pouring them for him. 

"I thought you were going to be late." Bucky remarked, sparing a glance at the clock as he tugged her into his chest playfully. She giggled, shaking her head as she leaned into his touch, brushing an arm past him to pet Alphine.  

"Me? Late? Doesn't sound like me." She replied, pecking his lips hastily before pulling away. Her hair was still wet and her make-up was fresh along with her perfume. He felt a little shabby next to her, his hair still ruffled with sleep and his shirt wrinkled. 

The suit she wore was her favorite, charcoal and pinstripe, reminding him almost of the mock gangsters of his time from the movies. Her pants were fitting around her waist and loosened toward her legs, making her appear taller, more powerful. It was flattering on her but that wasn't what attracted his attention. 

Instead it was her chest. She wore a matching vest along with a similar blazer folded over her arm, ready to wear. The vest came down in a deep V and there were no sleeves, exposing much of her skin and most of her scars. 

The purple marks spanned out from her heart like lightning and while he believed it to be graceful and unique, she often didn't share his opinion. He admired them nonetheless. It reminded him of her strength. Her courage. Reminded him why he loved her. 

"Uh huh, so that time we were two hours late to our own gala...that wasn't you?" He countered. Y/n sipped her cup, humming as she quickly swallowed to further argue her case. 

"Nope. Now come on, you're gonna make us late." She teased, slipping on her blazer and grabbing her cup. He followed her actions, sparing one more scratch to Alpine's head before pacing after her down to the first floor. 

"These damned heels." She groaned, pausing momentarily to adjust them as they made their way to the door. He chuckled at her predicament, plucking the keys from the hook as she walked out onto the street. 

"Why are you wearing them if they're such torture devices?" Bucky raised his brow at her, grabbing his coat and stepping out onto the street with her. It was a quiet morning and people were just barely beginning to stir out of their homes, heading off to work or dropping off kids at school. 

"They were a gift from Wanda and they're gorgeous. Leave me alone so I can suffer in peace as I wear them in." Bucky chuckled at her reply, slipping into the driver's seat and placing his coffee in the cup holder as she did the same. 

The drive to the Tower was short on good days. And as they drove Bucky realized that it happened to be one of those days. The drive was long enough for conversation but spared the stressful traffic that usually came with morning commutes. 

"Hey, I was gonna drop by and pick up Peter from school today." Y/n mentioned, putting on her earpiece as they drove. 

Bucky nodded absently, his focus half on the truck beside them that didn't seem to know how to drive. "Ok. Does he need a ride or something? I could stop by on the way home." He offered, knowing Y/n would have to cancel a meeting or two to get him. Y/n shook her head, waving a dismissive hand. 

"Nah, he said he wanted an appearance from Iron Star. He wanted to impress a girl or something." She explained, seeming a bit distracted as something played through her earpiece.

"Ah." Bucky replied, remembering vaguely of his advice to the boy. Of course he'd meant approach her through his alter ego but Bucky supposed having Iron Star show up at his school would definitely attract the attention of the feminist girl he was head over heels for. 

"I told him that MJ would admire his personality and intelligence rather than his connections but he didn't seem to think so." Y/n continued, sending a glance toward her soulmate. 

He chuckled, knowing he'd been caught. "Can you blame him? He's a 17 year old boy who thinks the best part of him is Spider-Man. He's young and still figuring himself out. He's still figuring out women." 

"Figuring out women?" Y/n raised a brow at this. Bucky gave her a look.

"Well, doll, when I was Peter's age I wasn't exactly the smooth talker you know today." He teased. She shook her head with a laugh, muting whatever she was listening to.  

"Is that so?" 

"God honest truth." Bucky replied, smiling as her hand slipped into his free one. 

"So what exactly changed?" Y/n asked, loving the stories he'd tell her. It was like listening to a very young looking grandfather and as weird as it sounded, she often enjoyed it. 

"Well, you, actually. When I was young I never sought after girls cause I knew I'd have you. But when I got my countdown…" He trailed off, both knowing the rest. Y/n knew he was still sore but he was a lot better then he had been. At least that's what Steve had told her. 

"Maybe we should stop for breakfast." Y/n suggested, trying to take his mind off of the thing that had haunted him most his life. 

However Bucky shook his head at this, giving her a soft smile. "No, I don't want to make you late. Shouldn't keep Pepper waiting." He explained, squeezing her hand lovingly. Y/n smiled at him, knowing he was right. 

If only they had stopped. 

When they arrived at the Tower it was 7 a.m. and the place was beginning to flood with people. As he pulled up on the street in front of the building, a man he recognized as one of Y/n's employees walked toward them, offering to park for him. 

Bucky thought nothing of it, as the younger man had done it for them every day. Instead he climbed out, handing the man the keys and walking around to open Y/n's door. She smiled at him, placing her hand in his as she stepped out onto the street. 

Once in the building, Y/n was greeted by the secretary along with a few other employees who usually saw her in the mornings. It was normal and Bucky even got a few 'hellos' of his own. 

They made their way to the elevator, a private one that led straight to the top floor. It was a penthouse of sorts with three floors separate from the rest of the building and while Pepper explained that they could move into this space, Y/n decided to instead turn it into a lounge for employees. Something about their job being just as hard as hers. 

She kept the top floor for her office along with a meeting room for her discussions with Pepper. But the rest of the penthouse space was for employees. Bucky was glad she'd arranged it like so. He quite liked their home in Brooklyn. 

Y/n tapped her earpiece lightly as they headed up, her gaze distant and her body tense. A holographic headset had appeared around her and Bucky caught a glimpse of what she'd been looking at last, what had distressed her so.  

Omega. 

Yet before he could say anything, she swiped it all away, bringing up blueprints for what she'd been working on with Peter. 

"So what happens when too much electricity builds up in one place?" She questioned him suddenly as the elevator dinged, stepping out with him at her side. 

"It overloads?" He replied, unsure. 

"Yes, exactly." She pointed a finger at him, smiling excitedly as she turned back to the hologram. Swiping away the top blueprint she was able to bring up a chart, enlarging it for them both. "Now the energy in the stones is similar to electricity and this is how much energy from each of the stones is in my heart." Y/n started, beginning up the stairs as he studied it. 

Each of the stones were on the chart, most with small percentages, which would've put him at ease if he hadn't seen which stones had the greater percentage. 

The Power Stone was the greatest. By her calculations there was enough in her to level New York. And if that wasn't concerning enough, the second biggest energy source in her was the Soul Stone, the one stone they didn't truly understand. 

"Why are you showing me this?" He asked, his voice low and troubled. Rather than answer him, Y/n simply pulled up another image, one that made them both stop halfway up the staircase. "Is that-?" 

"Yeah. It is." A joyful smile graced her lips as he stared at her in disbelief. They nearly fell down the stairs as Bucky crashed into her, hugging her like it was the first time. They let out an airy laugh as relief washed through them both. She would be okay. And Bucky was grateful. 

"What are we doing here? We should go to Bruce and have the procedure done now." Bucky demanded, grabbing her hand and beginning to make his way down the stairs. 

"Whoa there, hotch." Y/n chuckled, not moving from her step. Bucky looked back at her stunned. "It's still a prototype, genius. That's part of the reason I'm going to get Peter today." 

Bucky frowned a little but understood her explanation. He was just so worried. And she knew that. "Buck, look at me." She told him, pulling him closer to her, meeting eye to eye as he stood a few steps below her. Her tender hands came to hold his face, looking at him sternly as her thumbs brushed his cheek. 

"I know how important this is, trust me, I do. But I'll survive one more day. I need to do this right or else the energy may react badly. Okay?" She spoke softly, her eyes searching his for acceptance. 

Eventually he gave in, ducking his head further into her palms, kissing one gently. "Alright." He sighed softly, looking back up at her. "Tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow." Y/n confirmed, leaning in carefully and pressing the tenderest of kisses to his lips. He kissed her back but she pulled away too soon upon catching sight of Corey arriving on the floor. Her assistant caught sight of them, making her way over as the two parted. 

"Ms. L/n, I have those files you asked for." She told her, handing Y/n a stack of papers. Y/n nodded, smiling gratefully at Corey. 

"Thank you." Y/n looked at her watch before sending a quick glance to the conference room. "Any word from Pepper? I was sure she'd be here before me." Y/n wondered, watching as Corey checked the tablet in her arms. 

"Ms. Potts is running a bit late. She's asked me to tell you to prep without her." Corey replied. Y/n sighed, a little worried about how the meeting would go with the advisors without Pepper's help but she figured it wasn't anything she couldn't handle. She was the owner of the company after all. 

"Alright, thank you." Y/n smiled, turning and beginning to make her way up the steps once more. Corey nodded, heading the other direction as Bucky followed Y/n. But then suddenly Y/n stopped, turning back to Corey. 

"And Corey?" 

The assistant stopped, facing Y/n with her eyebrows pulling into a look of confusion. Y/n paused a moment, calculating her words carefully. 

"Good morning." She settled on, giving up on the words she'd wanted to say. 

Corey's look of confusion morphed into a shocked one and a hint of a forced smile began to emerge on her face. It was like she hadn't been expecting to smile and for that she seemed more annoyed than cheerful. 

"Good morning, ma'am." 

And with that she left, heading off to attend to other matters within the Tower that needed her attention. Y/n watched her leave, her eyes trained on the woman's every move. 

A feeling she didn't want to acknowledge settled in her gut but she ignored it, instead sharing a look with Bucky and making it the rest of the way to her office. 

"Did something happen with you and Corey?" Bucky asked suddenly. Y/n chewed her lip knowing nothing got past her soulmate. It was a troublesome feature but definitely had it's advantages. 

"Nothing important." She sighed, not daring to face him. He read her too easily. "Don't you have to meet up with Sam?" Bucky scoffed at her question, moving to follow her to her desk. 

"He'll be fine without me for a little while." Bucky ignored her nonsensical worries, taking hold of her hand once it was freed of the papers she'd set down. "Hey, what's the matter?" 

Y/n reluctantly looked up at him, unconsciously leaning into him as he stood before her. "What's going on? Is it Omega?" He asked tenderly, not wanting to upset her. She frowned, opening her mouth to reply. 

But something behind him caught her gaze and all the air vanished from her lungs. Then suddenly all the bad feelings she'd been getting that morning made sense. "Get down!" She screamed a moment too late. 

Before Bucky could even process what she'd said, heat enclosed them, flooding through the room. Flames rampaged around them but Y/n could hardly notice as they were sent flying back toward the window. 

All she could see was Bucky as the impact struck him. And only one thought ran through her head. 

Omega. 

•••

Just moments ago, CEO of R.E.S.T.O.R.E., Y/n L/n and her rumored soulmate, James Buchanan Barnes became the latest victims in the recent chain of bombings linked to the notorious Omega, a believed terrorist. The exact number of casualties in this horrific event is unclear but it is believed that Ms. L/n and Mr. Barnes have been confirmed dead. 

•••six months before•••

"Are you sure she's ready for that? I know well enough to trust Stark's plans but she's still young. Are you sure you want to put that kind of responsibility on her?" Fury asked, staring at the lake. The woman they spoke of was strong and definitely too intelligent for her own good. But was she ready for the world to depend on her? Was she ready to rebuild it from the ground up? 

"We don't have a choice. And honestly I don't think I'd choose anyone else. I trust Tony and I trust her. She'll figure it out, she just needs our help." Pepper replied, sending a glance back to her daughter who sat on the porch with Happy. 

"This isn't about trust. This is about capability. Trust me, I know how much she's grown over the last decade but that doesn't mean she's ready. The world isn't exactly gonna accept her help with open arms. If anything, she'll become a target for the backlash." Fury sighed, this eye patch squeaking in protest as he furrowed his brows. 

Pepper frowned, knowing he was right. The world was cruel and despite all they'd done for the world, their mistakes were all that the world seemed to see. And unfortunately as the world began anew, Y/n would be the main figure for that anger. 

"Then she'll need our help more than ever." 

Part fourteen

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[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a sequel.

chapter four: advent

word count: 8.7k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, brief mentions of what could-be prenatal depression. elliot considers the logistics of murder. nothing new.

notes: i am so sorry that this chapter took so long to come around, but i hope it's worth the wait! we're finally getting somewhere with these two dummies, as well as a few little things starting to develop along the way. i'm really pleased with how this chapter finally came out, because it was giving me some trouble to start with, but thankfully i have some wonderful people around to help keep me motivated and not letting me get discouraged!

special thank you to my beta reader, @starcrier, for helping me with the barebones skeleton of this chapter and not letting me get too in my head about it. and a thank you to my loves, @shallow-gravy and @baeogorath, for lending me their eyes as well as i tried to muddle through the parts of this that felt so, so difficult. i adore you all so much!!

Isolde fucking hated Montana.

Maybe “hated” was a bit strong of a term, but all she could feel as she cinched her coat tighter around her and waded through crowds of milling, purposeless passersby in the airport was that she could not wait to leave—and she had only touched down minutes ago.

That she was even here at all was a miracle in and of itself: she didn’t owe John Seed anything. Not a favor, not the time of day, not the firing of her neurons to process her furious disdain for him. If anything, John owed her for up and fucking off for no good reason. If anything, he should be the one doing her a favor. Strapping him to a bed of nails on the hood of a car and watching him suffer while she drove over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake would have been a good start.

I need your help, Sol, he’d said, like he didn’t have two fucking hands and eyes and a mediocre brain of his own to get things done.

“Fucker,” Isolde gritted out between her teeth. “Fucking—stupid—fuckface. Fuck I hate him. I hate him.”

But that wasn’t really true, was it? She didn’t hate John, not in the same capacity that she actually hated people, like the ex-husband that so rarely registered in her brain nowadays. For all of his posturing and Napoleon syndrome, John had been her only friend, the only person that she trusted, for a very long time.

Fuck me, she thought, I’m in a bad spot if that’s the case.

It was.

Isolde stepped out of the airport and into the frigid air of the outside pick-up area. Her eyes scanned the area, and while she thought for certain she saw a familiar redhead right away, he was leaned up against a beat-up, mud-splattered truck and surely Jacob Seed did not think he was going to put her in a metal death trap that looked like it wasn’t going to make it five minutes on the highway.

He waved to catch her attention. Isolde stayed firmly put, and she saw—with a little lick of amusement whispering inside of her—Jacob’s teeth flash in a grin.

“Sol,” he called, beginning to saunter over, “I know you can see me.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asked tartly. “I was supposed to be getting picked up by an actual vehicle, not...” She leaned around Jacob’s broad-shouldered figure to peer pointedly at the beater truck, which had not miraculously become better in the last thirty seconds. “...three pieces of metal loosely held together by a shit welding job.”

Jacob’s wolfish smile did not dim. “Good to see you, too.”

“Hello, my darling.” She beckoned him with one hand, giving him a one-armed hug once he was within range. “I suppose you are the transportation John promised, then.”

“None other,” Jacob replied.

“Surely, no expense was spared.”

“Surely.”

Jacob relinquished her of the weight of her suitcase, lifting it with ease and beckoning with a tilt of his head for her to follow. She did, even though her reservations about getting into a fucked up Toyota had not abated; as the eldest Seed brother loaded the suitcase into the back “seat” (being used loosely in this context), Isolde hoisted herself up into the passenger seat.

“Hm,” was what came out of her once she was buckled in, a singular expression of her displeasure, and the redhead settled into the driver’s seat next to her.

He glanced over, his smile having relaxed into something more ambivalent. He said, “I love that you haven’t changed a bit,” and began to pull out of the pick-up lane.

“It is one of my most charming qualities, I think.”

“How did Johnny convince you to come all this way?” he asked, and Isolde stifled a long-suffering sigh that tried to worm its way out of her.

“He told me what helpless idiots you are without him,” she replied. Shrugging out of her jacket, she pushed it into the back seat and turned the heat in the truck down. “Did a whole bit. You would have found it entertaining, I think. It was all Sol, you’re so tall and threatening, please help me. I hate that he knows exactly how I like to be complimented.”

“Well, he’d have to really pull out the stops to get you to come back and help Joseph,” Jacob acquiesced, with the same kind of visceral, gut-punch perception he had always operated and which Soli had expected and still hoped he wouldn’t apply.

Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Fuck you, she thought, but there was no venom, because he wasn’t wrong. She wouldn’t have come back if John hadn’t really tried, if he hadn’t made it obvious that he was desperate. It did bother her, a little, to see John like that—haphazard and urgent, scrabbling for a foothold wherever he could get one. She just hoped he wasn’t overshooting his shot with the mother of his unborn child.

“Yeah,” Sol said after a moment, “I guess he did.”

Jacob gave her a look. It was a look that said, come on now, Sol, because if there was one unfortunate thing about having dated Joseph Seed and worked with the baby brother for years on end, it was that Jacob—arguably the most perceptive and intelligent of the whole brood—had come to understand her quite well. So annoying.

“I’m glad you’re here,” is what he said after a minute. “Be nice to have a fresh face around, all things considered.”

“You mean all the killing.” Her words came out clipped, but if Jacob felt any particular way about it, it didn’t show on his face.

“Well,” he acquiesced, and that was all that came out of his mouth for at least two heartbeats.

Isolde narrowed her eyes, watching the redhead move methodically as he hit cruise control and settled back against his seat a bit.

She prompted, tightly, “Well?”

“Don’t give me that, Sol,” he cautioned her. “You can use that tone on Johnny and Joseph, but you can’t use it on me. We neither fuck nor run a business together.”

“I remember now why you’re unbearable. How silly of me, to have forgotten.”

“I was going to say,” Jacob continued, as though she had not spoken at all, “that the killing really shouldn’t be a point of contention for you.”

And then, with the kind of spiteful accuracy that she truly detested: “Of all people.”

Shut up. The words sat there, on the tip of her tongue, threatening. Only Jacob would get away speaking to her like this. She supposed that made them hearty exceptions for each other, didn’t it? All the same, the things that she had done—or rather, the things that Joseph had done, for her —were in the past, and long-since buried. Literally and figuratively.

“Here I was, thinking you were my favorite,” she replied primly, and this elicited a laugh out of Jacob, short and barked out but nonetheless genuine. “Tell me you didn’t volunteer to pick me up just so you could start a fight with me. Is it that boring, out there in God’s Country?”

“I never said I volunteered.”

“But you did,” she countered, “didn’t you?”

Jacob glanced at her, then focused his gaze back on the road. “God’s Country is pretty boring, right about now. But there’s been a bit of excitement.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, foregoing her irritation with his little jab. “Why don’t we compare what John told me with the truth, then?”

“Sounds like a fun game to pass the time.”

Isolde had the feeling they’d at least have a lot to fill the time, at any rate.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Eden’s Gate was not what she had anticipated.

The cult aspect—that was one thing. She could deal with a cult. She could deal with two cults, even, which if what Jacob told her was accurate—and she assumed that it was, because he had no motive to lie to her—sounded like it was actively happening, or had just finished happening.

The compound’s yard looked like a graveyard. As the truck, guided by Jacob’s hands on the steering wheel, rolled in, Isolde took a moment to sweep her eyes over everything as meticulously as possible. Small, meek buildings, the white wiring of a long trellis stretching over the yard, and—blood. Splattered across some of the buildings. Sins in their most classical names, graffitied here and there.

It was dirty. Nothing looked well-insulated. The media would absolutely have had a fucking field day with this. What few people she saw out and about, milling around and regarding the truck’s arrival with quiet, venomous curiosity, might as well have been plucked straight out of the homeless shelter.

When Joseph had told her what his plans were, when he had started dropping tiny scraps of information—because he wanted her to ask for more, wanted to pique her interest—he had never told her it would be...Well.

This.

“This is a fucking joke,” Isolde said, without thinking, turning to look at Jacob. The redhead regarded her with an even-keel gaze, putting the truck in park and tilting his chin, almost defiantly.

“What is?” he asked, and it was sort of there—a tiny, tiny little threat. A demand. What’s funny, Isolde? What do you think is a joke? Surely, the eldest Seed had regarded many defectors and insurgents with the same kind of look. Surely, she knew, he was waiting for her to say something that would make her regret having voiced her opinion.

Purposefully, Isolde replied, “This place.” When Jacob exhaled out of his nose, sharp and impatient, she watched the muscle of his jaw flex, his teeth clenching; before he could open his mouth, she plunged on, “Jacob, you’re not a fucking idiot.”

“Thank you,” Jacob snipped, not sounding very grateful at all.

“The media would lose their fucking shit over this place. It would be a madhouse .”

The redhead sucked his teeth. “You really aren’t getting it, aren’t you?” he asked after a moment of silence had lapsed between them. “There won’t be any fuckin’ media, Isolde. Not if Joseph’s right. And he’s been right about everything else. There won’t be fuck all left to care about beyond your own life.”

“Yeah, except I have to care about them like they’re going to be here!” Isolde snapped. “That’s the whole reason I’m here, you know. In case. John sent me to do damage control because he knows you and Joseph are so tunnel-vision you don’t have any kind of back-up plan.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s funny. A back-up plan, for the collapse of the world as we know it.”

“Finally,” she bit out, “you get my sense of humor.” She grabbed the handle of the door, but before she opened it, she said, “ If Joseph’s right.”

Jacob stilled beside her, head cocked as though he were really listening to her, taking in her words. “What?”

“You said,” Isolde replied tartly, “ if Joseph’s right.”

She turned her head to look at him, trying to discern anything in his expression that might have let her glean some insight on where it was that Jacob really stood. Of all of the Seed children, he had always struck her as the least fanatical—devoted, surely. Structured and disciplined and rigorous and devoted, yes. But not in the way that John had been about Joseph, and maybe was still.

Of course, she saw nothing that indicated Jacob was going to bite the bait.

“Just remember,” Isolde told him, pushing the passenger door open and feeling the bite of winter dig straight into her bones, “ you said that, not me.”

She slid out of the passenger seat, grabbing her suitcase from the back seat and hauling it out. Jacob sighed from the front seat, passing a hand over his face before he climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around the front, stilling her hands over the handle of her suitcase.

“Joseph doesn’t know you’re here,” he told her, glossing over her little barb as though it had never happened. He disengaged her suitcase from the back of the truck with ease, lifting it over her head and keeping it out of the snow. “Just as a heads up.”

“He doesn’t—?” She felt the incredulous spike in her voice. “Bloody fucking hell, did you not tell him?”

“Why would I?” the redhead replied idly, beginning to walk toward the chapel without waiting for her. The implication lay there— why would I, when it’s so much more interesting to have not? —reminding Isolde that in many ways, Jacob Seed was still a Big Brother that did not so often enjoy bending to the will and request of his younger sibling.

She picked her way across the yard, stomping the snow off of her shoes before she stepped into the chapel that Jacob had disappeared into. It was empty, and dark; a heater ran, fruitless and futile, in the far corner. That’s going to change, she thought tiredly. I won’t be losing my fingers for this shithole.

“Look who I found at the airport,” Jacob announced to the figure standing at the front of the church. Isolde felt her insides twist with a strange kind of dreadful anticipation, because the second the figure turned around, she recognized him immediately. Even dimly backlit by the cold winter light filtering through the symbol carved out of the front of the chapel, even after so much time apart. Of course, she thought, she would have recognized him anywhere.

Joseph said, “Isolde,” like he wasn’t at all surprised to find her there.

“Hello, Joseph,” she greeted, managing to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “I’ve only just learned John did not choose to inform you of my impending arrival.” And apparently, neither did God.

“No,” the man agreed. He was bundled up in a dark-colored sweater, high-necked, the hair pulled back from his face. “But I haven’t spoken to John recently. And what did he send you for?”

Isolde blinked at him, brows lifting on her face. “Pardon?”

“What purpose?” he reiterated. “To what end?”

It was so completely and utterly dismissive that Isolde thought she had hallucinated Joseph’s blatant disrespect. The Joseph she had known had, at least, more grace and tact when it came to being a thoughtless bastard.

“To what—?” Fuck you fuck you fuck you, that vicious, still-wounded thing inside of her whispered, furious. Fuck you, you stupid smug fucker, fuck you so fucking hard. To what end? He couldn’t have possibly descended into sheer stupidity as well as delusional grandeur, could he have?

Jacob said, almost in an effort to mediate, “Johnny thought we could use the support.”

“To what end?” Soli demanded, incredulous. “You’ve got half of Montana’s homeless population dragging their emaciated corpses through the snow outside, Joseph. What ‘purpose’ do you think I’m here for?”

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. His expression remained serene otherwise, no flex of irritated muscle that she could see. He’d always been nearly impossible for her to read—plenty of times she’d said things just to push his buttons, just to see him flinch, just to see what he’d do. It had both pleased and infuriated him, then.

Now, she hoped only for the latter.

“You’re here for PR, then,” is what he said, at last. “A fall-back. Because John has doubts.”

“Taking one quick look at your congregation, I can see why.”

“Faith and devotion are not always the easiest routes,” Joseph replied, lifting his chin in a tiny spark of defiance. “And they are. Devoted.”

“They are,” Isolde said tightly, “ filthy, Joseph.”

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible click, and she realized with a sense of satisfaction that it was Joseph’s molars, setting and grinding together. The moment stretched between the two of them like that, drawn tight and tense by her blatant disdain and Joseph’s refusal to acknowledge that they probably needed her, and finally Jacob cleared his throat.

“So glad,” he said lightly, rubbing his hands together. “So glad to have you back around, Sol. Why don’t I show you where you’ll be staying?”

Isolde sucked her teeth. “Fine,” she replied tartly. “And it ought to have a better fucking heater than this.”

“Whatever you want, princess.”

As Jacob swung her suitcase over his shoulder, heading for the door that led out through the back of the chapel, Isolde cinched her coat tight around her waist and followed.

“Soli,” Joseph said, the utterance of a nickname so few had ever been allowed to use for her grinding her movements to a halt. She took in a short, sharp breath through her nose, turning to look at the man over her shoulder.

He was regarding her curiously, his eyes taking a relaxed, leisurely sweep over her despite the unpleasant interaction they had just endured.

“What, Joseph?” she asked, her words coming out short and biting.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It wasn’t what she had expected or anticipated. Even in a perfect world where they were absolutely cordial with each other, she would haven’t expected this. The whole thing had to be some kind of game: already, the mental chess game had begun, and she had been caught lagging unpleasantly behind on the first move.

So she said, “Good,” and turned back around, marching devoutly after Jacob.

“You should be.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He had been this close.

John hadn’t intended on being as loud as he was, when he got out of his car. But the sight of Elliot wandering out of her front door, barefoot and in nothing but shorts and t-shirt, had inspired quite a bit of concern; he’d still waited, watching her. Watching her walk out to the fence that he knew led out to the pastures and eventually the woods, and then stood there.

Much like the other night, she only stood. He couldn’t see her do anything except be there—standing, watching the woods, her face relaxed and serene.

It filled him with the same kind of dread it had when he’d seen her do it through the windows, standing at the top of the stairs with her face lax and her eyes open. Seeing it again, he was now more certain than ever it was a recent development, and that she had not been sleep-walking back in Hope County; at the very least, not when he had been around her.

And red. Her hair was so red—the same kind of coppery-ginger that he’d seen the man in their family photos sporting, the man who had been entirely absent from any other photos past what seemed to be the age of eight. Her hair was so red, and so long, sprawling down to her shoulder blades and sweeping across the thin white cotton of her sleep shirt. 

When ten minutes passed and he saw no change, he thought, that just won’t fucking do, and opened the car door, shutting it behind him with a new sense of urgency. He hadn’t wanted to get her like this when something was so clearly unsettling her, but if that’s what it had to be, then—

But the front door of her house opened, and he heard the woman that he thought had to be Elliot’s mother calling for her, and he’d stopped himself. It would have been worse if he’d been halfway down the drive to her, but this far away he could duck behind the Honda he’d been calling his home and act like he hadn’t gotten out at all.

Somewhere down the street—down in the far end of the widely-spaced row of old money houses—the sound of a car starting and pulling away echoed.

It could have been nothing, he thought. It could have been, but what if it wasn’t?

What if it wasn’t nothing?

John listened to the sound of Elliot muddle through a response to her mother, words slurring tiredly as she stepped through the snow. It wasn’t until he heard the front door of the house close and the voices fade out of existence that he finally allowed himself to climb back into his car, turning the key in the ignition and cranking the heat up.

He had been this close to her. As he sat in his car, listening to the heat tick against the cold metal of the engine, John thought that maybe he would not be able to be as careful as he would have liked with this whole thing. Time was rapidly running out, and things were only going to get worse the longer he spent dallying.

Besides—if memory served him correctly, Elliot had always slept better with him there. Even if it wasn’t the most ideal reunion he could have pictured, he thought it was as close as he was going to get.

It certainly wasn’t how he anticipated meeting his mother-in-law, at any rate.

In the console, the rattling vibration of plastic on plastic broke him out of his thoughts. John fished around absently, eyes burning with exhaustion, until he could pull the cell phone out and regard the unregistered number for a moment. It had to be either Jacob or Joseph, given they were the only ones who had access to this phone number, but that thought was oddly uncomfortable.

He hit the green accept button, clearing his throat. “Hello?”

“John. How are you doing?”

It was Joseph’s voice, familiar but altogether strange, too. They hadn’t spoken before he’d left the compound, and Hope County—in part because Joseph had been deep in his singular loneliness, convening with God, and in part because John had not wanted to think about the conversation they would have had regarding bringing Elliot back. There was too much there to unpack, really; Joseph’s dislike (hatred?) of what she had done was abundantly clear, but his elder brother couldn’t find it in himself to deny, either, the importance of returning her back to the fold.

“I’m alright,” John replied, cautiously. He thought about whether or not to mention Elliot’s sleepwalking, and then decided against it. “How are things at the compound?”

“They’re good.” There was a pause. “You sent Isolde here.”

It was a statement, not a question. John pressed his mouth into a thin line. He wondered if Isolde had been polite—and then reminded himself that it was Isolde, and no amount of bad blood or past history would ever get her to shut up.

So he said, “She’s the next best thing, after me.”

“I see.” Joseph seemed to want to say something else, his voice lingering absently on the other end of their phone call: but if he was going to say what it was, he didn’t make any move to, and John felt that nervous, anxious energy pushing up high in his throat.

“It’s important to me,” John managed out after a minute, “that you and the others are well taken care of while I’m here dealing with…”

“Our wayward lamb.”

The tightness in Joseph’s voice was not lost on John, and he cleared his throat.

“Right. But I’m going to be—touching base with her soon, and we’ll be back on the road in no time.”

Touching base didn’t sound quite right. It didn’t feel quite as momentous as it was going to feel, he thought—but making contact also didn’t hit the same. It was going to be near-disastrous, he was sure, no matter how he went about it.

At first, anyway. And then she would understand, of course, that everything he had done had been for them; everything had been done for her sake, for her future with him, and she would finally, finally be fucking grateful.

“See that you do, and are,” Joseph said after a minute. “We need our brother here, John. You, and our sister and nephew.”

Our sister, Joseph said. Something about that didn’t feel good at all, John thought, but he swallowed back the uneasy bile in his throat.

“Of course,” he replied after a moment. “I understand completely.”

“Goodnight, John.”

The call clicked off before John could even open his mouth to reply, leaving him with only the dead air and the stifling silence of steady snowfall around him.

Good night indeed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot awoke that morning, it was to the sound of conversation downstairs and Boomer’s frantic barking.

She struggled out of bed, eyes blurry from exhaustion. Her body ached, dull and faintly reminiscent of her late-night jaunt out into the snow; she pushed the door open, only for Boomer to instantly race down the stairs.

“Elliot,” her mother called, her voice pitching high with frustration, “ please come control your beast.”

Boomer was barking mad. He was barking angry, the kind of vicious alert noise he made when he saw someone he did not like. Elliot barely managed to collect herself to get down the stairs to apologize profusely to whoever it was her hound was currently yelling at when she stopped short at the end of the stairs.

It was John. John, sitting on her couch. John, coming to a stand when she came down the stairs. John, hair tousled out from its normally perfectly-gelled slick-back style, John in street clothes, John John John existing in her space and breathing her air and flashing her a stupid smile that she wanted to immediately punch in.

Her brain fizzed and sputtered to a stop. She had thought, should this moment ever come, that she would feel scared. Panicked. But she didn’t feel any of those things. She only felt—

Furious.

The kind of strange, quiet fury that arrived like death, sudden and violent and crashing over her in waves until all she could think about was getting her hands around John’s throat.

She was vividly, ferociously reminded of the drag of John’s finger along her sternum. Yours must surely be the sin of Wrath.

It felt something close to nirvana, though, in a strange, intoxicating way. All this time she had spent being worried that someone was hunting her, someone like Burke—desperate to Do Right by the law—or maybe even the Seeds themselves, because some kind of cosmic force had been on their side for reasons even she couldn’t formulate. But now?

Now, the man who had been the apex predator, the man who had dragged her through a drug-riddled nightmare, the man who had lied and lied and lied endlessly, ceaselessly, who had

(I love you, Elliot)

pretended to give a shit about the things that she wanted, was here.

Within reach.

It was a different kind of adrenaline rush, one that she hadn’t realized she had missed until her attention had zeroed in directly on John and the imminent threat that he posed. The things he could tell her mother, the things she had worked so hard to keep at bay and far behind her—John was the manifestation of all of those things, and she was fucking mad.

“Elliot,” her mother said, breaking her from the strange, dreamlike haze her fury had plunged her into, “John tells me that he’s your...”

And then Scarlet’s voice trailed off.

“What?” Elliot bit out, crushing the bones of the words between her teeth. “ John says he’s my what, mother?”

John exhaled through his mouth. There was an infuriatingly charming smile planted on his face, but if she looked close enough, she could see lines of tension there, too; she wondered if he’d really thought her mother would be a safer bet than her. “Ell,” he began, the nickname grinding Elliot’s good nature to a halt, “I think it’s important that we—”

But before he could finish his thought, Elliot interjected, “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. ”

Boomer’s barking had dwindled into low, threatening growls, his hackles fully raised like little pin needles along his spine. He was laser-focused on John, with one ear cocked in her direction, waiting. On the couch, John shifted uncomfortably.

“Bunny,” her mother said, her voice tight and her mouth set in a prim line at the expletive she’d just barked out, “tell the hound to be quiet.”

“Sit,” Elliot ordered, which did not equate to quiet, but which Boomer obeyed anyway. She thought maybe she would have been more stressed about it if she were not fully confident in her ability to heel him, should the need arise.

“I only wanted,” John tried again, raising his hands like he was trying not to spook a wild bronco, “for us to have a moment—”

“It’s nice to want things,” she bit out viciously. “There are a lot of things I want, too.”

Her mother came to a stand, clearing her throat and instantly drawing their eyes.

“Mr. Seed,” Scarlet said, her voice mild, “please take a seat. You’re raising my blood pressure, looming in my vision like that.”

John took in a breath and then re-seated himself, planting a smile on his face. “John is fine, Mrs. Honeysett.”

Her mother gave him a scathing once-over before she said, very pointedly, “Mr. Seed tells me he is your husband.”

It might as well have been a slap to the face. Elliot was viciously reminded of their last interaction—the threat of murder, the oh-so-satisfying sting of her palm connecting with his face. The last well-and-true violation John had committed against their wobbly, new-born trust.

Her stomach lurched. The kind of nausea that came with rage welled up inside of her, and she blinked furiously, wishing for once that the adrenaline did not make her so very focused and hyper-aware and instead that she could actively choose to check-out of reality.

“He’s a fucking liar,” was what ended up coming out of her mouth, because it wasn’t incriminating either way. John Seed was a liar. A deceiver. And while they might —maybe, tenuously, questionably—be married in the eyes of the law (something which Elliot could, unfortunately, not prove one way or the other), that didn’t mean fuck all.

“At the very least, you won’t be having a baby out of wedlock,” her mother continued, her voice tight with some unreadable emotion that implied she was not pleased by this development at all. She was eyeing Elliot, studying her, and for once a scolding for her poor language did not ensue. “I imagine you’ll want a moment to discuss in private what our next steps are.”

There are no next steps, Elliot thought viciously, loosening the vice-clench of her hands and feeling the blood come rushing, stinging back into her palms. She watched the corner of John’s mouth tick upward, amused; infuriatingly handsome, per usual, so much so that she wanted to just punch his fucking teeth in. There are no next steps for John Seed, not with me.

“Yeah,” she said finally, eyes narrowing, gritting the words out between her teeth. “I would love to have a moment alone with John.”

The casual smile on John’s face downturned, just a little. It was the kind of uneasy expression that came with getting what he wanted so easily, too easily, that he didn’t know if it was really what he wanted anymore. Good. She wanted him to squirm.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Scarlet replied, sweeping past her. “And you just call if you need me, bunny.”

Elliot made a small noise of agreement. The tense, drawn line of her mother’s shoulders implied a distinct dislike, and she could already feel the judgments welling up—things that John would certainly deserve. Things that her mother would wait to slip into idle, polite conversation, if it ever got to that point. Which she would do her fucking damnedest to make sure that it didn’t.

As soon as her mother had drifted wraithlike up the stairs, a moment of silence stretched between them. John came to a stand, keeping his hands up and in plain view as he took a few steps forward, inspiring in Boomer a few short, vicious barks that reminded him their friendship had been temporary and fleeting.

“Ell,” John began, “I know that you’re—”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

He exhaled, once, out of his nose. “ Elliot,” he tried again, “a lot of things were said—”

Elliot felt the anger spike in her violently. “Oh, were there?”

“My God, are you going to let me finish a sentence?”

“I should rip your fucking tongue out of your mouth, you lying rat,” Elliot snapped viciously. “What are you doing here? Why are you here? How did you fucking—how are the police not—the government —”

John flashed her a half-cocked smile that she was sure had inspired homicidal tendencies before, and would do so again. “Are you really that surprised they weren’t able to keep us?”

“This is not the fucking time,” she hissed, pitching her voice low, “to be playing games with me, John Seed.”

“No game,” he promised as he mimicked her volume. “We found a way out. I’m presuming, not unlike the same strategy with which you found a way out, isn’t that right?”

She felt her teeth clench. Of course he fucking knows, something inside of her whispered viciously. Of course he knows, he’s not stupid about things like that. Just everything else.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally. “You have no way of knowing that Burke didn’t send me off to a therapist and let me go.”

“Sure, Elliot,” John murmured, his voice slick, “Cameron Burke, U.S. Federal Marshal, shipped you off to a therapist who found out you were perfectly well-adjusted after caving a man’s face in with a blunt object and now you’re here, living in bumfuck nowhere Georgia. How’s mama Honeysett feel about that, anyway?” He tilted his chin, eyes sly. “About all the killing—”

She swung without thinking. It was a knee-jerk reaction, no thought and no pre-meditation, only pure and unadulterated gut-instinct to impact her fist with his face. Unfortunately, John seemed to have been prepared for it, and stepped back just in time, catching her wrist.

“I’m a quick study,” John murmured, his voice pitching low into a threat, “and I’m not interested in losing any teeth.”

“Brave of you to put your hand so close to my face,” Elliot snapped in a hiss. She jerked her wrist out of his grip like it had burned her, and it might as well have—the contact of skin, not unlike the ways John had touched and grabbed her before, when he’d had a right to.

Regarding her warily, he dropped his hand to his side. “You ran away with our baby.”

“I would hardly call leaving you to your own devices as I made a leisurely departure with government officials ‘running away’.”

“You ran away with our baby,” he repeated, cocking his head to the side. “I think the exact words were ‘you should have considered that before you fucking came inside me, you cunt’.”

Elliot’s mouth twisted. She was trying not to smile, because despite the absolute absurdity of the situation—the punch of those words still felt satisfying, in a strange, twisted way. Even though it was for that exact reason that she found herself in this situation now: pregnant, and struggling to feel like she was really that, like she was anything more than a temporary vessel for the baby who didn’t quite feel real to her yet.

John’s eyes flickered. “Find that amusing?”

“Yeah,” she replied sharply, “I think it’s some of my best work. Short of slapping you in the face. I do wish I’d made it a closed-fist punch, if I’m being honest.”

He seemed pleased at that, as though the reminder of her Wrath was a comforting familiarity, and she wished she hadn’t fallen so easily back into their old cadence. Steeling herself, she said, “You need to leave.”

“I think I’m exactly where I need to be,” John assured her. “With my unborn child, and my wife —”

“Don’t you fucking—”

“—and my mother-in-law,” he finished demurely, “who surely knows everything about what we’ve been up to these last few weeks. Doesn’t she?”

Elliot stared at him. No was the correct and truthful answer. No, her mother did not know what had been happening these last few weeks, was blissfully unaware of the extent of Eden’s Gate and their evil as well as the things that Elliot herself had done. If her mother had known what she’d done—if her mother had known the things John had done—she would have been horrified. Disgusted. Repulsed.

I’m it for you, John had said, and

(maybe that was true, maybe he was the only person who would ever be able to get her, accept her, love her)

fuck him for saying so.

“The irony of you threatening me with pure honesty isn’t lost on me. And I don’t know what you’re hoping to accomplish,” Elliot said sourly, after a moment. “Blackmail isn’t exactly the way to a girl’s heart, and certainly doesn’t convince me of your qualifications as a father.”

“Desperate times,” John allowed, tilting his chin up playfully, “desperate measures. And it isn’t blackmailing, per se. You could have just as easily told your mother everything that had happened and I’d have nothing working in my favor.”

But of course, he had known her better than that. John had seen the way killing Kian had affected her, the way it affected her when she was faced with the mountain of bodies she had left behind her, the shame and disconcertion at finding something wretched and wrathful inside of herself and liking it.

So he hadn’t gambled at all, really, and she supposed that she wasn’t that surprised.

He paused, studying her for a moment, before he added, “Not to mention, you are carrying my baby.”

My baby, something hissed inside of Elliot, wretched and protective, something that had otherwise been dormant inside of her up until now; not your baby, my baby.

“All I want,” he continued as he kept his voice low, sauntering closer, trying to do that thing that he did where he crowded up against her and made her brain go fuzzy, “is a chance.”

“Fuck you,” Elliot snapped. “I should have throttled you the second you walked through my fucking door.”

“But you didn’t,” he pointed out. The arrogance bled through and into his voice, bright and sharp. “And you haven’t. And that’s because you lo—”

This time, Elliot’s swing wasn’t anticipated at all, and she landed a sharp, open-palm slap to the side of John’s face. He reached up, working his jaw, his eyes narrowed as that tell-tale anger colored his expression. Good, she thought venomously, watching the red bloom just under his skin, good, I hope it fucking hurts, you stupid fucker.

“Next time you presume to tell me how I feel about you,” she warned, “it will be closed-fist. And I won’t fucking miss.”

John’s eyes flashed with something dangerous and angry. But he said, “I’m glad I didn’t break that wrathful streak out of you,” with no absence of affection-tipped venom.

“Elliot?”

It was Scarlet’s voice, drifting down from the stairs. Elliot gave John one hard, vicious look before she turned to see her mother standing at the landing where the two stairways converged at the top of the main staircase, regarding them with a critical eye.

“Have you sorted it all out?” she asked after a moment. “All of this…business?”

“I’m going to be in town for a while longer,” John said, before Elliot could formulate a response, inspiring in her yet another bout of homicidal rage that she had to quickly reel in. “I’m determined to make this work, no matter how long it takes.” And then, in what he surely thought was a very charming gesture: “I’m very pleased to get to know my mother-in-law a little better, as well.”

“Ah,” Scarlet replied. She then refused to elaborate. 

“I hope,” John continued after a moment, “that’s alright with you, Mrs. Honeysett.”

Her brow arched upward, looking between Elliot and John expectantly, making it clear that was all she had to say on that. It was satisfying, to watch her mother operate as she always did without even knowing the true nature of John Seed. It was the least he deserved

“I really think you should just go,” Elliot said tightly as she turned her attention to him. “Back to Hope County, I mean. Your brothers probably need your help.”

“They’re fine,” John said, feigning sweetness despite the red sting of her slap still fresh on his skin and her mother's very apparent disdain, “and nothing is more important to me than you and the baby, Elliot.”

Saccharine and venomous. Fuck, I hate him.

“I’ll get a room in the motel here,” he continued, brightly. “That way we’ll have plenty of time to spend together. Catch up. Has Elliot told you much about Hope County these last few weeks, Mrs. Honeysett?”

"Fine," Elliot bit out, just as her mother cut in, "That won't do at all," and they looked at each other with the same amount of wounded incredulity.

"He'll stay with us." Her mother's voice was decisive. "Not in that run-down motel."

"Mother," Elliot bit out.

"I won't have a man traipsing in and out of my house at all hours of the night, living like some vagabond," Scarlet asserted. "Especially not the father of my grandchild. And you certainly don’t expect me to explain that to people."

Elliot could feel the headache blistering behind her eyes. She didn't even need to look at John to know he was grinning, ear to ear, like a fucking Cheshire Cat. It was the blatant and unimpressive downside to her mother remaining completely in the dark about what had happened in Hope County—and if John had thought he had leverage over her before, he certainly thought so now. There was no way Scarlet would have insisted he stay if she really knew.

This was bad. Devastatingly, infuriatingly, chop-her-hair-off-and-run-away bad. The kind of bad that only happened in horror comedies. Suddenly, she thought that dyeing her hair had been the most reasonable thing to do, and that her margin for acting out had increased exponentially.

"That's so kind of you," John said pleasantly from behind her. "Thank you."

"It is kind of me," was her mother's clipped agreement. "Make sure you move your…" Scarlet gestured vaguely with one elegant hand. "Vehicle behind the garage, Mr. Seed. I do not need my driveway looking like a scrapyard." Her head tilted, eyes narrowed. "Bunny, help me prepare the guest room."

She resisted the urge to sigh, knowing that if there was one thing her mother would not tolerate, it was an insolent child. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Her mother gave the two of them one more leisurely, scathing sweep-over with her eyes, making a noise that bordered skillfully between discontent and acquiescence before she departed up the stairs to leave them alone once again.

“Do we really need separate rooms?” John mused, as though he had not hunted her down five states away and showed up unannounced at her home after systematically lying to her. “I mean—you are carrying my child.”

There it was, that little spark again, pure defiance: my baby, I’m carrying them, you’ve done nothing, like all of a sudden this baby had become more hers than it had ever felt before the second John tried to stake his claim on it. “I’m going to punch your fucking teeth in,” she hissed, “if you don’t get the fuck out of swinging range.”

“I did so miss our rapport.”

“Final warning.”

He flashed her a grin that was all teeth, and she regretted, in fact, having given him a warning at all; it seemed that even though their time together had been short, old habits did die hard.

The brunette swung around on his heel, pulling the keys out of his pocket and sauntering toward the door. He truly did embody the cat that had caught the canary, more so than Elliot would have liked to admit, turning to look at her through playfully narrowed eyes. “In case you were wondering—”

“I’m not.”

“I like the red,” he finished, voice bleeding with self-satisfaction, “bunny.”

It was good, for his sake, that he had waited until he was out of reach to say so.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“ That one, Elliot?”

“Mama,” she gritted out, her fingers digging viciously into the fabric of the sheets, “please, I do not want to have this conversation.”

“I just think,” her mother amended curtly as she passed a scathing look over the brunette Elliot was currently considering shoving through the stained glass of the front door, “you could have at least picked the tall one.”

Elliot stared at her mother from across the king-sized guest bed, blinking rapidly. “You mean...Jacob?” Ugh, she thought, remembering the way John’s eldest brother had grinned at her when she’d threatened to kill him and said, yeah, you think you can, little girl? Fucker.

“Is that the redhead?”

“Yes.”

Scarlet nodded sagely. “You have to be mindful of who you pick to build a life with,” her mother intoned dutifully. “Genes, and the like. Both your daddy and I are tall, and you’re so short, honey. You want to set the baby up for success, don’t you?”

“I’m not—” Absurd. Absolutely absurd, this conversation she was having, not only that her mother thought she would just have her fucking pick of Seed brothers to be impregnated by, let alone that she would ever fucking want Jacob Seed that close to her. “I’m not discussing whether or not I’d let Jacob Seed into my bed, mother.”

“Well,” Scarlet replied primly, smoothing out the comforter meticulously with her hand, “John’s quite...alternative, anyway. I just never knew you liked...” Her voice trailed off again, and she gestured vaguely.

Elliot arched a brow at her. “Liked?”

“That,” her mother finished after a moment, and then sighed, like it had been excruciating for her to say so. It wasn’t as though they’d had many heart-to-hearts about what kind of boy Elliot liked, anyway. “You know, the—tattoos. And whatnot.”

“They don’t bother me one way or another, mama.”

“I find your taste in men quite eclectic. What happened to that nice young man you went to high school with? And all of those school dances? He was nice. Didn’t you two work together at the sheriff’s office?”

The last person that Elliot wanted to discuss in terms of a romantic relationship was the one man she’d dated in high school. Staci Pratt had been evacuated with the others, and was hopefully living his life with a steadfast therapist somewhere far from Hope County, just like the rest of the Resistance. She cleared her throat.

“I’m not having a baby with Staci Pratt.”

“I know that.”

“Can we please,” she started, “can we please stop talking about this? I really don’t even want John staying here, but you insisted, and—”

Scarlet crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. “Well, why not? Don’t you like him? Enough to marry him and have a baby with him, anyway.”

I don’t, that vicious little voice inside of Elliot hissed, I didn’t say yes, I didn’t want to marry him, I don’t think I even want to marry anyone, stop talking about it, please.

It made her sick to her stomach, to think about John being her husband, to think about the fact that she was having his baby, and maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to feel quite so much like herself as of late; maybe that was why she had been feeling so disconnected from the baby, because she hadn’t quite reconciled how they had come to be in the first place.

She hadn’t reconciled that she had been so, so, incredibly, wretchedly stupid.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?” Scarlet asked after a moment, watching her from across the bed, her mouth turning into a firmer, more deep-set frown. “You seemed awfully unhappy to have him here.”

“We didn’t leave on good terms,” Elliot muttered, clearing her throat and busying herself with pulling pillowcases onto the pillows. Fuck, she couldn’t believe she was doing this. Making up a bed in her guest room for John fucking Seed.

Her mother moved around to the foot of the bed, stepping carefully over Boomer so as not to disturb him where he lay. She paused at the door, just long enough without saying anything to draw Elliot’s attention back to her, before she exhaled softly.

“It’s Christmas next week,” her mother said after moment, completely ruining the illusion she’d had of her mother actually asking her something meaningful. “The perfect time to practice patience.”

Elliot felt her mouth twist viciously, turning away and dropping the pillows on the bed so that her mother wouldn’t see. The last thing she needed to give John Seed was patience. Least of all Christmas-spirit-induced patience. He deserved far, far less, and much worse, than that.

“Don’t forget about your doctor’s appointment,” her mother called as she departed the room, “and hurry down to eat something before you run your beast.”

It was better this way, anyway. To have John here. If he wasn’t in the custody of Federal agents, the next best place he could be was where she could see him—keep tabs on him, keep aware of what kinds of shit he was up to. And maybe he’d get so tired with her mother’s particular brand of vitriol that he’d fucking leave.

I should be so lucky.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What is this?”

Kajsa’s voice broke her out of her reverie. She had been watching the snowfall, flecking against the window in crystalline geometrics, methodical and variable all at the same time—but the surprise peaking in her harbinger’s voice was enough to draw her eyes away.

The heater in the car rattled, straining against the cold temperatures. Kajsa’s dark eyes had narrowed, and when Helmi followed her gaze, it was to the front of the mother’s house. Their little interloper was heading up the front steps, having apparently come from behind the two-story shop and garage to head back inside.

And then he let himself in.

“He is moving quickly, this little snake of ours,” Kajsa murmured, her voice flecked with amusement. “I thought he’d be exercising more caution.”

Helmi made a low noise. This was...displeasing, to say the least. They had been counting on John’s interference being minimal, given that he was away from home and all of his little pets. Apparently, it had only made him more bold.

And that just wouldn’t do at all.

“You will go back,” the black-haired woman beside her announced, decisively.

“What?” Helmi asked, brows furrowing together at the center of her forehead. “Back to Hope County? But—I should be here, with you. My place is—I belong with you. What about...”

Kajsa leaned back against her seat, her eyes never once having left the house. As Helmi’s voice trailed off, unused to presenting distress or dislike of a decision made by her superior, the woman’s jaw worked absently, the brush of her dark, sooty lashes caressing the top of her cheekbones. Singularly devastating and beautiful, as always, though in moments like this Helmi wished it weren’t so distracting.

“I can open our mother to the influence on my own,” she said at last, and finally turned her slate-gray gaze to Helmi. “I want you to return to our family back in Montana. Do whatever you would like, but make sure you are making them sweat. ”

She turned in her seat now, so that they were facing each other, taking Hel’s face in her hands. The pads of Kajsa’s thumbs swept across her cheeks, affectionate.

“Strangle them,” Kajsa murmured. “I want you to be my tourniquet. Stop the bleeding where you can. Tighten so ferociously around those apostates that John Seed will have no choice but to abandon our mother and leave her to me.”

I don’t want to leave, Helmi thought, watching the woman’s dark eyes—so dark, so dark, faded and distant while her pupils ate away at her irises. I don’t want to leave you.

“It is best.” Her voice pitched, soft and low, almost lulling. “For the end. For our winter, Helmi. I do not want you to go, and I will grieve, just like you will.” She tilted her head, drawing Helmi’s eyes to the wisps of dark hair spilling like black moonlight against the porcelain of her throat. “And what do we say to our grief?”

“Sorrow shared,” Helmi whispered, “sorrow halved.”

“That is exactly right.” Kajsa leaned back, the curve of her dark mouth, feline and sharp, wrenching right on Helmi’s resolve. “You will go for me, won’t you?”

I don’t want to, she thought again, the idea of leaving Kajsa alone to sit in the dark, to peel apart the mother’s layers one by one, unthread her, a distressing one. They had never been so far apart. I don’t want to be away from you.

“Helmi.”

“I will,” she managed out at last. “For you.” I would do anything, for you.

Kajsa’s smile widened, razor-sharp.

“And that is why," the woman murmured, "you are perfect to me."

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 4

<- Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 ->

Summary: Chilton’s recovery is slow and painful, and he is a cranky traumatized bastard who might be determined to push you away.    

1,878 words

Twelve days. Six surgeries. Fifteen blood transfusions.

“Did you bring me something to eat?” he whined. Considering he could barely lift his voice above a whisper, it was an impressive feat that he could whine. “Tell me you smuggled something edible that does not go into a tube through my nose.”

“I’m sorry, honey-bear,” you pouted. “But you know I can’t until the doctors OK it.”

“I am a doctor.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re still at a high risk of going septic—no outside foods covered with outside bacteria. Besides, they won’t let you eat solids yet, anyway.”

“Sanguinaccio dolce. Mango smoothie. Crème brûlée. Yamakake Soba...” he listed off non-solid things you ought to have snuck in for his enjoyment.

“And how would I get them in there?” You rapped your knuckles on the clear acrylic of the hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber.

He scowled. “This is not a zoo. No tapping the glass.”

You grinned and pulled a chair alongside the chamber so you were sitting next to him.

“Did you bring the laptop?”

Slinging the messenger bag you were carrying off your shoulder, you pulled out a smooth rectangular object and held it up proudly. “That I did. I’m ready to write if you’re up for it,” you said, but added with some hesitation, “Are you sure you want to do this now? You should be resting, and… I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to relive what happened.”

“I am sure,” he snapped. “I may drop dead at any moment, so we will finish this now. While I still draw breath.”

You stiffened imperceptibly in your chair. The reminder that, despite making it this long, he was far from out of the woods was an unwelcome dagger in your chest, which you quickly plucked out and stuffed away in the box of things you weren’t going to think about.

“As for the wisdom of my reliving it—I feel his teeth every time I close my eyes. I may as well profit from the experience.”

Dr. Chilton was growing anxious that it had been nearly two weeks since his encounter with Francis “The Red Dragon” Dolarhyde, and he had not yet had the chance to publish on the subject. He had wasted far too much time being unconscious and dying—he needed to send a letter in to the American Journal of Psychiatry before some know-nothing crackpot took a swing.

He was the foremost authority on the Dragon—the only person to have communicated with him and lived who was not, himself, a fugitive for murder (or a blind girlfriend, but he doubted Reba was going to publish anything). This was his achievement. His way of staying relevant. The definitive analysis of the Red Dragon for the Journal, and then a spectacular ending for his book once he had his own hands to type with again. No one would take this opportunity from him.

After living with Frederick Chilton for over three years in relative domestic harmony, there were times you forgot what you ever used to dislike about him. Why you hated him so intensely when you first met.

This was not one of those times.

As you took dictation from your glass-encased fiance, you felt a crushing wave of empathy for the man’s poor secretary. He was demanding and fussy, making you read back every sentence to him line by line and mercilessly correcting any mistakes or omissions. He spoke slowly because of his weakened lungs and raw throat, and the thick glass and lack of lips made him difficult to understand, especially with nurses walking through and machinery beeping and whirring in the background—but when you tried explaining that to justify a transcription error, he took it as a personal affront.

You had to support him no matter what, you reminded yourself. This was much harder on him than you. You can always leave if you want you; he can’t. So when he was frustrated and cranky, you were patient and kind.

It took five hours and ten rewrites to get through two thousand words he was satisfied with submitting for publication, and you were nearly crying by the time you left.

***

Thirteen days.

High protein intake is critical to a speedy recovery in burn patients, but Frederick’s mangled digestive system could not tolerate protein very well. Keeping his kidney off the precipice of failure was a tightrope walk involving dietitians planning his every calorie intake, and daily blood work monitoring.

As a medical doctor, Frederick Chilton was aware of, and understood, these things. However he still rejected them as excuses when you once again did not bring him any outside food.

“Then what is the point of you coming?” he snapped, and immediately wished he had not. You stood frozen in the doorway of his recovery room unsure what you did wrong. You were right, of course—his throat felt like he had fellated broken glass. As much as he longed to chew something flavorful, with texture, he could not have swallowed solid food anyway. He closed his eyes. Softer, he asked, “Did you bring the March issue of the Journal of Psychiatry?”

You let out a held breath, unfreezing, and pulled the magazine out of your bag, presenting it with an upbeat flourish. “Delivered to your doorstep.”

“Would you read it to me?” He sighed, humiliated. It was not only that he could not hold the publication—even if you were to flip the pages for him, with only one working eye and no reading glasses, it was hopeless. He was completely dependent on you.

A cough shook his body as if to punctuate how completely he was broken. Useless. Weak.

The metal feet of the visitor’s chair scraped on the white floor like nails on a chalkboard as you dragged it close to his bedside, making him wince until you settled down and helped him browse for an article of interest.

He could barely make himself care about the content of the study. As you read, you rested one arm on the mattress right next to his, where it lay helplessly prone alongside his body, and he could feel the warm weight of you sinking into the cushion. The pressure was uncomfortable on his inflamed tissue, but soothing to something deeper. God, he wanted to be soothed. He wanted so badly to feel any kind of comfort. Anything to latch onto. He closed his eyes and got lost in your voice. For a moment, he could almost forget about the searing pain in each of his limbs and pretend he was at home, in his bed, with you.

The soothing, steady lull stopped, and he opened his eyes, horrified to find you looking intently at his ruined face. His nostrils flared painfully. “Do not stare,” he warned.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to,” you said. “I finished the article. I thought you fell asleep.” You searched for somewhere else to settle your eyes—the metal bar at the edge of the bed. Your lap. A flower arrangement.

You made such a show of not staring at him that he was even more certain that you had been. He was hideous. Perhaps that entertained you. You were probably already planning for Halloween. Red-hot thoughts swirled around his head like cinders.

Before you could get through a second article, a nurse came in with a tray of mushy hospital food. Humiliation stung deep for you to even see the damned tray, and it annoyed him that you did not immediately excuse yourself. There was no way in Hell he would allow you to watch such a disgusting, embarrassing process—being spoon fed like a toddler, the nurse wiping off his toothy chin of the spillage meant to be kept in check by lips.

“Go home,” he grumbled, leaving no room for argument.

You had barely been there for half an hour.

***

Fourteen days.

“Do you want to look at venues?” you offered, tucking him in with the extra blanket you had a nurse bring because he was cold.

“Venues?” he repeated with clear exasperation. He let out a weak cough.

“It’ll be fun! It’ll take your mind off things.” You grabbed your laptop off the plastic visitor chair where you’d left it, and excitedly held it up so he could see the screen from his prone position. There was already a search typed into google with preview images of scenic gardens glowing with string lights and towering ancient library ballrooms.

“I thought it went without saying our wedding date is… postponed.”

Your shoulders deflated. “I know, but… you’ll be out of the hospital by next year,” barring complications, “so we can use the time to plan. We were going to have to postpone anyway if you couldn’t pick anywhere that was good enough for your standards,” you teased.

“It is pointless.” He laughed bitterly, humorlessly, and your brief smile dropped.

“It isn’t… pointless.”

“I will not be able to visit any of the locations.”

“But we could make a list of places you want to visit when—”

“Stop!” he hissed.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “OK.” You sounded small. Too small.

“I… uh...” Frederick tried to say something. Something to make you sound less small and wounded. Fragments of thoughts and half-formed apologies stuck in his sore throat. Fuck, his skin hurt. Parts of it were starting to heal, but in the short-term that only made it worse, because now it itched, too. Pain. Itch. Guilt. Cold. You deserved so much more than him. “You should go,” he said at last, finally settling on the only way to make it better.

“Wh-what?”

“Just… go,” he croaked.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again. What do you want to talk about? Or, I can shut up and we can listen to music, or...”

You were apologizing. Again. Because he was being an asshole. It disgusted him how weak he made you. You used to be so fierce. Stubborn and unstoppable. But being with him was slowly killing your fire.

“Get out of this place. I want to be alone.”

It was better this way, he thought. It was better for you to get away from him.

You stared at him silently across what now felt like a vast distance of white laminate flooring. His beautiful, pale, mismatched eyes were fixed on the ceiling, hard and uncompromising. He blinked rapidly.

You wished you knew what was going on in his head. You wished you could fix it for him. But right now, as much as it pained you, he wanted you to leave, and maybe that was the best you could do.

“OK,” you relented. “I’ll be back tomorrow, all right? I love you.”

The only sound as you packed your laptop away and slipped your coat over your shoulders was his ragged breathing, the beeps and tones of hospital machines, and the occasional cough. He waited until you were almost out the door before replying, “I love you, too.”

[venusofthehardsells]

Dreamgirl [part 5]

BuckyxReader

[part 4]

Summary: Bucky tries to adjust to his new life in the Avengers compound. One day he meets a girl who might be everything he needs in order to move on, but is his past really that far away? Warnings for this chapter: self-hate, fluff wtf, brief threat?... (general series warnings include noncon, violence, mental illness, feels probably) A/N: Yes, hello, I am still alive even if it doesn’t always seem that way. So here we are again, another chapter of a story I bet y’all keep thinking I’ve abandoned. But I will keep on squeezing out updates every once in a while until this fic is done or so help me god I will relay it via ouija board to someone who can publish it for me, is that clear?

All the pent up tension and fear seep out of his body at the sight of her face.

"Mornin' doll," he answers and just like that, Bucky's morning has turned on its axis.

"You're up early," she comments sweetly, tilting her head a little. "I'm opening now if you wanna come in."

It's a normal thing for her to say as a retail worker, but there's something about the way she says it that makes her words of welcome feel personal and warm and only meant for him. She would never say them to anyone else.

"Yeah, I'd like that," he says a little out of breath and the sun has got nothing on her smile then. Feeling as though his stomach is full of butterflies, he follows her inside the empty coffee shop. Relax, it's just coffee, you idiot, he chastises himself, but it's no use. He's almost giddy with excitement now that she's so close. Her faint floral perfume might as well be dragging him along after her as she goes to stand behind the counter.

"What would you like?," she asks, turning to look at him so that the light catches in her little dangly earrings. They send shiny squares of light all over the floor and walls. One of them settles on Bucky's shoulder and her eyes land on it almost lovingly before trailing back up to his face. The look makes Bucky’s legs feel like a pair of cooked spaghetti, but he smiles as he leans on the counter.

“I’ll have some more of that great coffee you made me yesterday, please,” he says without taking his eyes off her, deliberately letting his gaze rest on her face, her hands, her figure when she walks the five small steps from the till to the huge industrial coffee maker by the wall. For a moment he wonders how it can be so enticing watching someone move, but he soon realises he doesn’t really care. He allows himself to get lost in the image of her in front of him, reaching out to take the note he hands her, her fingers elegantly plucking the change from their little compartments in the till’s drawer before placing the coins in the palm of his hand as if they’re some delicate treasure she wants him to keep safe for her.

"You sure you don't want anything to sweeten it?," she asks as she pours the coffee into a cup on the counter between them.

Bucky can't help but chuckle. She as good as serves him the antiquated pick-up line that falls from his lips like a breath before he can even think to stop it.

"Don't need it when I've got you, sugar."

The moment the words are in the air, he wants to swallow them back down. A line like that was already corny in the 30’s, how stupid will it seem to her now? His heart is already so far down his gut he thinks it’s about to wither, when the unimaginable happens. She laughs.

And it’s neither scornful nor condescending. It’s sweet. Genuine.

“If I had a dime for every time someone said something like that to me, I would’ve stopped working here a long time ago,” she chuckles and leans on her elbows on the counter, looking up at him through her lashes. “And then I wouldn’t have been here to hear you say it. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s been so…” She drags her bottom lip in between her teeth while she chooses her words and Bucky has to swallow. It’s simultaneously hot and endearing the way it makes her smile crinkle into a mischievous grin.

“So what?,” he challenges with a confident smirk to try and hide how perfectly not confident he feels right now.

“So infuriatingly charming.”

“I don’t want to presume anything, sugar, but… that sounded an awful lot like a compliment?”

The only reason he doesn’t pull away and out of her personal sphere is because she’s still smiling at him and in the mercifully empty coffee shop, his hearing clearly picks up that her heart-rate is so fast it rivals his own. She’s just as nervous as him, if not more.

“Oh, it most definitely was.”

She’s closer now, or maybe it’s him, but he can feel the heat of her skin and her breath on his cheek as the distance between them dwindles. The sound of his heart stops when she tilts her head just enough and her eyes, those enthralling, beautiful eyes of hers flit down to his lips and he knows he’s done it, he’s got her, all he has to do is lean in the rest of the way and close the still shrinking distance between them…

The jingling of the bell above the door cuts through the moment and jolts her away from him. In one fluid movement, her attention is on the two newly arrived customers and her smile stretches into the overly intense customer service mask of false enthusiasm Bucky sees on so many retail workers' faces and her voice when she greets them rises half an octave to match. It's like watching a shapeshifter.

Bucky steps back and lets her work, taking a sip of his coffee. His heart is still pounding in his chest.

He almost kissed her.

The realisation hits him belatedly as another slurp of scalding liquid runs down his throat. It's the 21st century and Bucky Barnes is still capable of wooing a woman. That's a triumph if ever he saw one. If only those idiots (he can't help but think of the two customers that way) hadn't come in, his tongue would be in her mouth right now.

As much as the thought of kissing her thrills him - and it does thrill him to the point of breathlessness - it also fills him with a bitter sense of regret. Because he's not going to be that stupid. He can't do that to her, can't let her get that close no matter how badly he wants her to.

Just like that, his stomach ties into a hard knot when it hits him how selfish he has been.

She's beautiful, radiant even in her uniform shirt and flat practical shoes as her hands fly through the motions of making whatever it was the couple ordered, yellow nail polish hearts blurring at the tips of her deft fingers. Despite her strained auto-smile, she seems… well, maybe not happy, but at the very least content beneath the efficient exterior. Bucky imagines how easily he could turn her almost-happiness into regret and disappointment by just being with her. His nightmares alone would be a deal-breaker to a lot of people, he's sure of that, never mind his mood swings, his melancholia, the trouble he has mentally adjusting to almost everything around him all the time…

He manages to stop himself before his face falls and reveals the shift in his demeanour. 

He should just go now while her head is turned and not come back. Find another coffee shop to supply his morning runs and hope he never sees her again.

"Your loss, soldier," the Asset smirks in his reflection on the glass-clad counter. He's not wearing the mask this time, but Bucky almost wishes he did. "Guess I'll just have to take care of her for both of us."

Bucky barely manages to contain a snarl.

I swear if you touch her it'll be the last thing you ever do.

The Asset bares his teeth in a vicious grin. Bucky's stomach rolls seeing his own almost-face like that.

"Try and stop me."

Bucky blinks and the Asset is gone from his reflection. The next thing he knows, she is turning back towards him, eyes bright, sweet smile at her lips… and the Asset's silver metal fingers around her throat. They squeeze, just like in his nightmare, digging into her flesh.

No!

He reaches out blind with panic so fast he almost stumbles. If he has to pry that cursed hand off her, so be it.

But Bucky's fingers never close around the Asset's. Instead, his palm is met by the softness of her neck, his fingers by the feeling of her hair and the pad of his thumb with a tickle of her earring.

"James?..."

The look she gives him is a whirl of surprise, wonder, hesitation, hope…

Bucky doesn't know what he's doing until he's leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers and then there's no going back. He hasn’t kissed a girl in god only knows how many years, but it feels even better than he remembers. Every muscle in his body nearly sags in relief and at the same time, he’s sure he’s as hard strung as a high wire. He softly brushes his thumb along her jaw and she sighs, leans into his touch and into the kiss, tentatively moving her lips a little against his.

He knows he should stop this, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to.

All he wants is to stand there all day with her, shamelessly indulging in the feeling of her mouth and her skin, and in her scent of flowers and coffee, just reveling in the warmth of having another human being so intimately close.

She nibs ever so softly at the pillow of his bottom lip and he's sure his heart stops for a full ten seconds. He feels the small motion in the entirety of his body, in every vein and crevice, until he's sure the kiss has made him so soft he can't stand up straight anymore. He wants to mold himself to her and he would have pulled her close to him if it weren't for the counter between them.

When at last she breaks away to draw in a trembling breath, her eyes are still closed and her slightly parted lips slowly spread in a hazy smile. 

“Wha-...” She’s breathless. Breathless and smiling and the the most beautiful creature Bucky has ever seen. “What was that?”

He did that to her. Despite his mind shouting at ten different octaves of chaos, he can’t help the smug little shrug as his face breaks into a happy grin too.

“Persuasive, I hope.”

The husky confidence in his voice is completely at odds with the struggle raging inside his head, but he manages to keep it from bleeding through and she doesn’t notice, he thinks.

"Oh, very," she sighs, not taking her eyes off him. "If… if you want to make sure though, I, uh, have a break at twelve."

She licks her lips nervously and Bucky can feel the heat coming off her face. It's taking all of his willpower and then some to not immediately lean in for another lasting kiss. His mouth is already forming the word, yes, when his messily giddy mind catches up to him.

Friday noon is a perpetually occupied space in his relatively empty calendar.

He wants to punch something. The mandatory therapy sessions were the last thing on his mind up until this very second.

"'m so sorry, sugar, twelve's a bad time for me. But, uhm…," he hurriedly babbles when her face falls just the tiniest bit. "Maybe I could pick you up when your shift ends? If… if it's not too sudden or-"

"James, I think we passed the point of "too sudden" when you kissed me like that."

He blushes hotly all the way down his neck, but she's thankfully just as flustered and it makes him feel oddly light.

"Like what?"

"Like in a movie," she answers quietly, looking down with a little embarrassed chuckle.

“That’s one hell of a compliment,” Bucky smirks, softly running a finger down the bare stretch of her soft forearm. “Kinda wanna makes a guy try again. If it’s wanted.” She looks down at his fingers and he can hear her breath hitch, clear and sweet as a silver bell to his ears.

“It’s wanted,” she almost whispers, meeting his eyes again. She’s all nerves for a second, but then she smiles, emboldened perhaps by the way he’s looking at her. Because Bucky’s sure he’s doing a very poor job of hiding the pure adoration in his gaze. “And I get off at five.”

She lets him intertwine their fingers and, lightheaded as he is, he lifts their joined hands and kisses her knuckles.

"Five it is, sugar."

She beams at him and his stomach does a somersault when he realises what he's just done: he’s just gotten himself a date. The exact opposite of leaving her alone and blissfully unaware of the dark mess that he is. It would be the right thing to do and he knows it, but if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to. He wants to see her again. He wants to kiss her again. He wants to do so much more than that.

His cock twitches at the untimely image his mind conjures then of her straddling him at the hips, both of them naked as the day they were born and he swallows hard, clenching his teeth behind his smile to try and focus on her very clothed form in front of him, but it doesn’t help at all. He wants her too much. 

Hell, if he had it his way, they would lock the door now and he would take her right there on the counter and then on every one of the tables, then against the walls, on the floor, on whatever surface stable enough really and the very visual thought alone is enough to have his face burning.

How is it possible to simultaneously want to put his arms around her and keep her close and tell her how beautiful she is but at the same time want to thoroughly fuck her until neither of them can remember their names anymore?

"I'll see you then." The breathy quality in her reply makes him wonder how his name would sound on her lips if she was moaning it and he knows he really needs to leave. Even though letting go of her warm, pretty hand is about the last thing he wants to.

He sends her one last confident smirk and turns to go, but her voice makes him stop.

"James, wait!"

Bucky almost swirls in place and he sees her grabbing a pen from somewhere below the till. She quickly scribbles something down on a piece of receipt paper and hands it to him.

She only shyly meets his eyes.

"Just in case," she says with a nervous shrug and he stares down at the little slip.

It's her phone number, followed by one word in quotations.

'Sugar'.

When he looks up at her again she leans close and places a quick kiss on his cheek.

Bucky doesn't remember running back to the compound, but this isn't a blackout in the blink of an eye like yesterday was.

It's the feeling of floating.

[TRANSMISSION]

ORION: STATUS. ALHABOR: SAFEWORDS SUCCESSFULLY TESTED. ASSET SUSPECTS NOTHING. ORION: INFORM ME OF ANY AND ALL PROGRESS. ALHABOR: UNDERSTOOD. ORION: HAIL HYDRA ALHABOR: HAIL HYDRA

Tags will be added in reblog ~

[lovetorn]

Iced Caramel Macchiato [Harry Styles - Coffee Shop!AU]

Harry Styles x Fem!Barista!Y/n 

Summary: Barista!Y/n has a run in with Harry; a man she hates from the moment she sees him.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warnings: Like one curse word

A/N: Heavily based on warmau’s enemies to lovers headcannons. I wanted this to be longer but oh well lol. Hope you enjoy :)

Service has been slow. So slow, that Y/n’s sure her head will roll off her neck from the amount of times she’s looked at the clock behind her. The copper hands of the round object tick obnoxiously, making Y/n bring a hand up to her temple to rub firmly. Her other hand moves to her ponytail on her neck and loosens it slightly to release the dull tension on her scalp. 

Closing her eyes, she lolls her head back to stare at the grainy ceiling in hopes that the bell above the glass front door would chime. She moves her head back to stare blankly at the door before she runs her hands over the brown apron on her hips, the fabric harsh against her fingers. 

She then bends down to lean her head on her palm in a bored manner. Her head tilts as she watches the countless pedestrians walk past the coffee shop. Just one customer, please!

The light reflecting off of the glass is giving her a headache, but she still stares. In her state of utter boredom, anything would be exciting. 

Her gaze shifts to something on the other wall when the glass door opens and a man stalks in. He is mumbling low into his phone, telling someone named Mitch that he doesn’t know where Jeff is. Y/n silently cheers at the sight of a customer, pleased to be productive on this slow workday. 

The man has his hair pulled into a bun at the base of his neck and he looks borderline intimidating to her. His cold stare scans the shop before he stalks towards the counter. 

Y/n’s slightly concerned at the sound of him not knowing where someone is, thinking that he will simply move off to the side to finish his call before ordering; but he doesn’t. 

She seethes slightly at the blatant disrespect of the man. How is she supposed to catch someone’s order in between a string of conversation they’re having with someone else about something completely different? She doesn’t understand how someone can be that rude. 

But nonetheless, the man stands there talking aimlessly before glancing up at Y/n with an apathetic look in his eyes. Y/n furrows her brows at him before her eyes flicker back to the cash register in front of her. She chooses to pick at her mint-coloured nails before the man decides to pause his phone call to order. But, the clearing of his throat catches her off guard and then she meets the man’s hard stare. 

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

Y/n’s eyebrows fly to her hairline as she stutters, “W-What?” 

The man huffs as he switches his weight to his other foot whilst swapping his phone to his other ear, his eyes wide with irritation. He waves his hand in front of Y/n’s face as she stands in shock at his rudeness. The man rolls his eyes before speaking to the person on the phone again. Y/n reaches over to pluck a plastic cup from the stack and a Sharpie pen, ready for his choice. However, she’s soon got a death grip on the cup as he carries on talking to the person on the line. 

“A cold caramel whatever.” Y/n catches what he mumbles before he continues whispering into his phone, grumbling bitterly to herself that it wasn’t an order. Not wanting to have to interact with him any longer, Y/n asks for his name. 

“Harry.”

And with that, he steps to the side, laughing into his device. Y/n stands in disbelief holding the black Sharpie marker in her hand. How can his demeanour shift so quickly? Pulling herself together, she scribbles quickly, ‘H-... Henry’. Y/n cocks her head at the spelling but shrugs one shoulder, sliding it towards the metal bench next to her. 

When the barista at the other end of the bench calls ‘Henry’, the man either isn’t paying attention or doesn’t care because he takes his drink and leaves; not even sparing a glance at Y/n who had misspelt his name. 

The next day’s rush is far more fast paced. The chatter of people around the coffee shop makes it near impossible to hear the orders of customers at the counter—but it is the way Y/n likes it. The more customers, the faster the day goes. And at this pace, Y/n swears her shift is almost over. 

As she finishes taking the order of a young girl, her mood instantly dims when the girl moves to the side. Head down, Harry stands in front of her typing on his phone, murmuring his order to Y/n who can’t hear him. She tilts her head to the side as she huffs. The plain disrespect, again. 

“Excuse me?” She says while leaning closer to him. 

He gives a quick glance towards her before sighing, “A caramel cold, no cream.” His irritated expression makes Y/n stare blankly at him. 

His bleak response earns a quick eyebrow raise from Y/n who struggles to understand his order, but grabs a cup anyway and scribbles ‘Hank’ on the side along with a whole bunch of jargon on ‘caramel cold’. She assumes he means the same drink as yesterday. And as the same as yesterday, his hair is pulled back, leaving his forehead bare and the crease in between his brows evident. Why does he always look so angry?  

—

Over the next few weeks, Y/n had continually and deliberately gotten Harry’s name wrong. She had become quite creative with ridiculous nicknames when he ordered his boring ‘cold caramel’ drink and thinks he deserves it from how rude he was to her. As much as she disliked the man, she found fun in getting his name wrong. 

Harold, Haz, haggle, harlot, and even hairy. At this point, the barista at the other end of the counter could yell ‘ham’ and he’d just accept it. 

Y/n had the luck of not running into him anywhere outside of the coffee shop, saving her the embarrassment of confessing why exactly she writes his name like that on the cups. But she can’t help it, she hates it when people are distracted whilst they order; as well as arsehole men who wave their hand in front of her face when she’s simply waiting for them to finish their call to tell her their order. 

No matter how much she despised it, Harry never failed to walk into the shop without being on his phone in some way. And he never once looked at her when he walked out with his drink, only sparing her a glance when ordering. She just didn’t understand this man! 

It’s Friday and it’s raining. The dark clouds hang in the sky like a bad smell and Y/n can’t shake the feeling in her gut. It is 15 minutes to closing time and Harry hasn’t walked in today. A weird sense of disappointment washes over her as she gazes out of the glass door. 

The bell chimed for the last time that day at 5:55 pm and as she wrote down the abbreviations of a latte on the top of a white coffee lid, Y/n felt sadness. It was subtle but it was there. And she didn’t know why it sat at the bottom of her stomach for so long, but it wasn’t pleasant. 

As Y/n reaches to close the register, the bell at the door rings. Her head shoots up from looking at the numbers on the buttons and is met with Harry. With no phone in sight. As much as she was looking forward to writing down her newly thought of nickname for him, her thought process is interrupted. 

Harry looks at her, straight in the eye, and smiles. Y/n stands in disbelief, the black sharpie hanging from her fingertips as he leans on the counter. The cup in her hands is close to falling on the floor when he nods towards it. 

“Iced caramel. And get my name right this time.” 

Y/n feels her cheeks heat before she scrunches her nose in distaste, “So you did notice.” 

The man hums in confirmation before he reaches over the register to snatch the cup from her grasp. “Of course I did. I’m gonna show you how to spell it right.” Y/n’s quick to bite back the urge to comment that she knows how to spell his fucking name, but patiently waits for him to return it back to her. 

He hands the cup back to her, holding it teasingly above her head before he drops it onto the counter. Y/n catches the cup before it rolls onto the floor and is confused at the scribble of numbers on the cup instead. She lifts her head to meet his gaze when she sees his mouth drawn into a large grin. Her features soften at the expression as she gives him a soft closed-lipped smile. She turns her head to look towards the menu behind her, the numbers next the orders catching her attention.

“Are these all of the orders you want?” She asks. She furrows her eyebrows while she looks back down at the cup. Oh. 

Harry bites back a giggle and shakes his head at her expression. “It’s my number.” As shocked as she is, Y/n manages to keep her grip on the cup, despite it nearly falling from her hand again. 

“W-Why?” She mumbles, face flushing at the thought of Harry even thinking about her in that way. 

Harry sighs, “Only the people I’m dating can call me Haz.” And then he’s spinning around and walking back towards the door. Y/n is frozen. Like literally stuck in her spot as she watches Harry throw a glance over his shoulder.

“This place closes in 5 right? I’ll wait outside while you finish up and we’ll go get dinner together.” 

His statement lingers even after he leaves. Y/n still holds the plastic cup in her hand as she stares at the spot he was last in. Her heartbeat is in her ears as she finally blinks. No… I can’t, he’s—. She shifts her eyes down to the cup and the haphazard writing and her heart skips a beat. 

And as soon as she steps out of the shop, her apron in her bag that’s on her shoulder, she spots his figure leaning against the side of the bookshop next door—typing on his phone. She scoffs out a laugh as she begins approaching him. Harry lifts his head at the sound of someone nearing and smiles when he sees her. 

“Ready?” He asks, offering her his elbow. Y/n rolls her eyes at his gesture, nods and places her hand on his bicep. 

No matter what happened in the past, she’s willing to see where this goes… with Hair- I mean Harry. 

[definegodliness]

Halloween 2020

It was the night of Halloween, and in its uncanny way the full moon had energized Little Red Riding Hood and The Phantom for hours after midnight. Yet now they were finally Paige and Sam again, spooning and whispering their last conversations of the day in the queen-sized bed Paige had made with blood-red sheets to fit the date. The candles were running on empty, and the pain of the high-heels that had pinched Paige's feet finally faded when Sam's half-drunk, half-sleepy voice all of the sudden turned clear for a question:

"What's the last time you were actually afraid?"

"Oof... that last IT movie, I don't know why I watched it. I hate ---"

"No, I mean, like, in real life?"

She hated it when he'd interrupt her, but there was a certain tone in his voice that made the question seem pressing. She let it slide, and sighed a soft pondering hum before answering.

"Can't really remember. There must have been times as a child, but... nothing stuck. I guess I don't scare easily in real life."

"I.R.L.", she giggled, doing the high pitched bubbly voice that had often made Sam laugh, but this time he was unresponsive.

"Good," he yawned, "I can't stand cowardice."

And that was that. Big spoon Sam rolled over to his side of the bed and remained silent. Not even a good night. Leaving Paige puzzled. All night long he had been all over her, rubbing her thighs over the smooth silk of her little red dress as they danced, and more than once she had to stop him from going too far in public; plucking the elastic of her thick white stay up stockings; kissing her neck as he pressed his pelvis against her tick-tocking bottom. When they got home he even lit those candles in the bedroom, creating a circle of magical light. But then when they finally went to bed, all he did was bother her with supposedly scary Halloween stories and odd questions.

'I'm never letting him drink whisky again', Paige thought, turning away from him administering an unseen, unfelt cold shoulder; simmering in the silence of her scorn, 'what a waste of a wet cunt.' The lust had long left her body.

*

That night she dreamt. A hellish nightmare where she roamed between fiery pillars, cages and gibbets filled with scrawny wailing humans. Their arms reaching. Flaying. Blackened nails clawing at her. She looked on with horror as thick blood gushed over the captive's faces in a continuously oozing, drooping flow. And these beings would laugh at her maniacally whenever she'd make eye-contact. Louder and louder until laughter was all that echoed in her brain. Then, at the peak of the pitch, with a shock so sudden, their eyeballs would explode, splattering her body, naked and vulnerable.

She picked up the pace and started running. Rushing. Fleeing past the gibbets and cages with her heart pounding in her throat. Away from the fire. Away from it all. She heard the sharp metallic clangs of the cages presumably opening. She did not look back, though, wouldn't dare for the life of her. She kept her eyes peeled to the end of the fiery pillar surrounded path. There, where the path turned darker, dimly lit, she saw their bedroom's door. And as she walked into that very darkness, all turned calm as of sudden. No more wails, no more laughter. She grabbed the door's handle and stumbled inside the room that waited as a safe haven for her.

The candles were still burning, and Paige cursed herself for not seeing how they were situated before. Surrounding the bed, now clear as day, brightly flared a pentagram with her locked in the middle, neither sleeping, nor breathing, nor moving. Eyes wide open. She looked around. Sam was nowhere to be seen. Yet as she inspected the room, soon chills went down her spine. Paige noticed she was floating. Aimlessly floating through her bedroom. Her hands transparent. So, her body. Helplessly she was as she rose to the nook of the ceiling. She understood she was now her soul watching her body. An onlooker, merely. Another jolt of fear slashed through her gut.

An onlooker... for what?

*

Eight thin and sharpened pins of shiny metallic black lowered down from the shadowy vortex whirling above her body, piercing her ankles, knees, wrists, and shoulders. Pinning her down in sharp pains as the beast sank down from the darkness. Painstakingly slow. Its bulbous abdomen, hanging from a thread of shimmering silver, displaying that same metallic shine under the full moon's glow. Wriggling, or rather pulsating, in presumed anticipation. So, its fangs, alternating in an up-and-down motion, oozing a milky fluid that drooped down to form thick droplets. Like a starved critter rubbing his hands and salivating before his meal. Yet the nearer it drew to Paige's face, its fangs moved faster and faster, sputtering that milky fluid in droplets blurring her vision. Likewise, the swift moving daggers blurred in motion. A malformation. And in the grotesque maw that appeared where once was the head of the creature, a shape-shifting shadowy face tore at the fabric of existence. Struggling to get out into the light, it seemed. Twisting, contorting, until suddenly and violently dead-locking its hollow eyes with Paige, sending a shockwave she felt through body and soul.

She now saw them clearly, the eyes of the demon. Bright red and flaring, consuming all her thoughts and vision. She now saw them, in her flesh, as well as in her ethereal existence. Petrifying. Suffocating. Paige felt a strong gale blow right through her, as if her every atom was consumed by this... thing, trying to engulf her. Closer and closer. She felt weak, anguished. So nauseated by the waves and waves of terror, she could not even feel the sharp pains of the animal's piercing pins anymore. It was a battle, and she was losing. Till panic struck in the sudden realization what the demon was doing. Entering the vessel of her body, taking over completely. Leaving her soul to wander eternity aimlessly like itself once did.

Paige's heart thumped violently as adrenaline surged through her body. Then, as if amassing all the energy, power, and vigor she possessed as a living being, she started to glow as a soul, gaining control of her ethereal form. She pounced down from the ceiling nook and lunged herself to the back of the creature. Immediately vanishing in the dark of its being. And there, as the breath before the plunge, she braced herself, and in her dream silently screamed from the top of her lungs:

GET OUT!!!

*

With those words still ringing in her ears, Paige woke up. The all too known maniacal laughter of the underworld faded in its echoing. With eyes wide open she saw a shadow dash through the bedroom, zig-zagging past the candles, then disappearing in one of the ceiling's dark upper corners. She jerked her head to the left where Sam should be. Where he was. Blissfully sleeping, apparently. Gasping for breath and with her heart still pounding violently in her chest, she had to force her voice out to peep:

"Sam..."

He answered a muffled moan.

Paige paced herself, and hissed a whisper, "Sam, wake up", and, shaking his shoulder, whimpering, "please turn the lights on."

With that, Sam, who's body had been limp asleep while she shook him, froze up in the tightness of resistance.

"No."

Another wave of fear undulated through Paige. Sam's voice was cold and harsh. Yet peculiarly clear. Clear in that way his voice would change from half-drunk half-asleep when they were whispering conversations earlier that night.

"Sam, please..."

He remained unmoving, and his back looked so much broader. As if he had sucked in all the air his lungs could fit, and he spat out the words as if he was choking.

"You shouldn't have feared."

The shadows in the room thickened, like thunderclouds swirling, rolling over each other, closing in toward the bed wherein they lay. Panick-struck, Paige fumbled to find her phone, lying on the bed stand next to her. All the while Sam kept retching words.

"You should not have shown us fear. Not me...", a snakelike hiss, "I despise cowardice." He continued, "Not him...", and following a groan, Sam's voice got louder, to the point of almost shouting, "Now, he knows you are weak, Paige."

"He knows you're a target."

A roar:

"And that's exactly what you'll forever be!"

Paige turned 'round and pressed the button of her phone's flashlight, illuminating the room with its harsh light, yet in that she found herself staring directly into the pitch-black of Sam's eyes. Sam, who had turned around and now lay with his hand supporting his head. Grinning. For a second she froze, seeing those eyes. Yet it was not the first time she had seen them. They were like the shark's, pools of the merciless empty, and in that she understood Sam's true predatory nature.

She leapt out of the bed, flashing the light of her phone through the near impenetrable thickness of the darkened fog around her. Then, thinking on her feet, jolted across the room to reach the window. Something inside her screamed she had to open it. Let fresh air in. Air. She grabbed the French window's handles and pulled on them, all the while hearing the two demons' maniacal laughter, gaining in loudness and penetrating her mind again. Finally, the window's panels flew open and a strong gale came washing in. Paige did not look back, agilely climbed on the sill, and in a fit of fear and insanity promptly plummeted toward her redemption.

*

With a shock Paige woke. This time for real. She knew because their bedroom never had French windows, but tilt and turn windows, and she was directly looking at them, awash in light as she had instinctively pressed the light-switch next to her side of the bed. She turned back, toward Sam, who had woken up and looked at her sleepy-faced. Kind eyes. Normal eyes. Needing little more than a half, still adjusting to the light, look to open his arms for Paige, taking her in a warm embrace.

"Bad dream?", he sighed, softly kissing her cheek. Caressing her back as she drove her face into his neck. She whimpered softly in his arms, softly shuddering in release of emotion. He lulled, "Shh, it was just a dream." Then, hugging her more tightly, "damn, that must have been a wild one."

"I'll hold you."

The light-switch on his side clicked.

"You can tell me all about it tomorrow."

As her heart paced itself, and her breaths returned deep and normal, Paige was awash in relief. The power of the nightmare already faded within her, so much that she even rolled her eyes at her first thoughts beholding their old alarm clock, and the violent orange light of its numbers displaying 3:33 AM. Instead, she kissed Sam's neck, and welcomed the fact that the hand caressing her back had already trailed down to find her butt, and was teasingly squeezing her.

[angelguk]

another prerequisite to the things i never told you fic that is coming [eventually]. i do suggest u read this or else oc’s behaviour/reactions will not make sense in the main fic. kinda angsty. jeongguk is mean. jeongguk’s girlfriend is mean. listen to being freezed by heize. 1.8k.

He’s late. You should have expected that. And yet, it still stings; an odd pain tightly gripping your heart as a gentle autumn breeze whispers through the air. Sunlight wanes against the worn brick pavements, splaying across your dirty sneakers, the shoelaces untethering themselves despite the firm knot you’d tugged them into before sprinting up the hill where you promised to meet. You tap your feet against the ground, the pounding that your soles make harmonising with the erratic beating of your heart. His present is clenched between your tense fingertips, the crinkle of plastic melting into the rustle of leaves. They sway gently above your head, courtesy of the zephyr that settles over the hill. You hope he likes it. You’d taken time out of your exhausting high school schedule to thread together his bracelet. Lilac, violet and a dash of white flowing through the amateur design. His favourite colour is purple. Or at least that’s what you can recall. You don’t remember the last time you had a full conversation with Jeongguk - despite him being your best friend.

And it was all because of her.

Even the thought of her name has your heart plummeting to your gut, your fingertips taut around the plastic bag that contains his presents. There was also a new sketching pad and a bunch of expensive colour pencils you’d forked your savings over for bumping inside the bag, hopefully not rumpling the card you'd made for him. But it was worth it. You know how much Jeongguk likes to draw. But you don’t know if he’d appreciate these gifts as much as you think he would have if she wasn’t in the picture. Jeongguk has changed, drastically, since he’d started seeing her. From the way he styled his hair to his interests - little by little the things you knew and adored about your best-friend gradually vanished, replaced by a person who was virtually a stranger to you. Sometimes you go whole days without seeing him, he’d even swapped seats with a classmate to be closer to his viper of a girlfriend. She’d been so smug when you’d walked into class to find nosy Yongsun as your new seatmate instead of seeing Jeongguk planted in the chair whose leg he’d carved his name into at the start of the year with a sheepish grin tugging at his petal pink lips. You had felt her eyes boring into your head, and when you snuck a glimpse at her direction (right in front of the class where she could suck up to the teacher; a position that Jeongguk had always abhorred) you couldn’t miss the sly upturn of her lips. Jeongguk would have seen it too, if he wasn’t so busy writing her a stupid cheesy love note. 

He would have seen a lot, if he bothered to pay attention.

You’d only showed up to the hill because this was your tradition, something she hadn’t been able to taint with her toxicity just yet. There’s only a slither of hope inside of you that believes he’ll show up. But you stay regardless, because it’s your best-friends birthday and you’ll be damned if you let some girl who’d only shown up in the middle of the school year take this away from you too.

It’s the rough pedalling of a bicycle that yanks you from the pit of despair that you’re currently wallowing in. Jeongguk’s face appears around the bend a second later, soft brown curls ruffled by the wind that wipes around his frame. He’s still got his school uniform on, white sleeves rolled up the elbow and his navy tie loosened from its hold. It’s a stark contrast to the sweatpants and knitted jersey you’d tossed on after coming from school before hurrying to the hill. And then her face pops up from behind his, the dark bangs cut across her forehead unmoving even with the breeze whistling around you.

You don’t say anything, the greeting you were about to mutter caught in your throat. Instead, your gaze follows them cautiously, watching the disdainful look his girlfriend gives you as she halts her bike behind Jeongguk’s.

“Hi,” Your best-friend says. He even sounds different. It makes your heart ache violently.

“Hey Jeongguk,” You return, praying he doesn’t note the waver in your tone. And then you throw her a glance. “Hi, Minjoo.”

She doesn’t say anything in response. Apparently, her nails are more interesting than acknowledging your presence. What’s worse is that Jeongguk doesn’t even bat an eyelid at her behaviour.

“Happy birthday!” You try instead, gaze flickering back to Jeongguk. But your heart drops when you find him sending you the same air of disinterestedness emitting from Minjoo. “I haven’t even seen you today! How are you?”

“I’m fine, just busy.” You hate how monotone his response is. “How are you?” That simple question is enough. Something to show you that he still cares. You hang onto it like a fish caught on bait.

“Exhausted, dude. I have so much to tell you. Where are we going for dinner? The stories I have have to be told over food.” Birthday dinner was part of your tradition. Exchange gifts on the hill, share anecdotes over food, spend way too much at the arcade before moving to linger at the park until sundown and then crash at each other’s house (at yours on your birthday and at Jeongguk’s on his). It wasn’t extravagant or wild. It was simple. Like your relationship. Nothing complicated. Just the two of you together, enjoying each other’s company.

The silence that spans between the two of you indicates that, for the first time, in the sixteen years you’d know Jeongguk, that something was complicated.

He scratches the nape of his head first, bottom lip caught between his lip as he thinks of a way to navigate through the problem that you’re still unaware of. If it’s Minjoo’s presence, you can work through that, an assurance already drifting from your lips. You don’t know why she hates you. But if she’s the girl that Jeongguk loves, you’ll tolerate it. He’s your best friend, after all, the person you cherish the most. You’ll just have to learn to find the things that Jeongguk loves about her with your own eyes. You’ll get there eventually. You know you will. Because you don’t know what your life would without Jeongguk. 

But then he glances back at Minjoo, who’s staring at him impatiently, rapping her long nails against the metal handle of her bike and you sense that something is off. Very off.

“Are we not going out?” You softly murmur, intentionally putting emphasis on the ‘we’ as your eyes flicker between their unreadable faces. Their eyes are speaking full-length paragraphs to each other but you don't understand what any of their weighted gazes mean, the look Minjoo is giving Jeongguk practically indecipherable. “Are we going to eat at your mom’s? That’s okay! I haven’t seen your mom in a while.” You stand up without thinking, your sneakers shuffling the fallen copper leaves around, a resounding crunch emitting from your steps. Minjoo stares at you like you’re dirt for doing that. 

“Um…” Jeongguk eyes are apologising when the words aren’t even out of his mouth yet. They’re round, innocent, gaze anywhere but on you. “We already have plans.”

It’s clear, immediately, that that we doesn’t include you.

“Oh.” Your voice is meek even to your own ears, a strange small sound that makes your heart crumble inside of you. “Okay. That’s fine. You can just take your present then.”

He plucks it out of your hands, not even bothering to peer inside, feet already moving to place themselves on the pedals of his bike. Minjoo’s already turning her own bike away, bone straight onyx hair staring back at you, shoulders triumph in a manner that makes the pain gripping your heart spread across your chest, gaze swimming with the torrent of tears that you’re furiously blinking away. 

It’s not fine. It’s not fine at all.

“Jeongguk!” You catch him before he speeds off, Minjoo already flying down the worn pathway. Her silence isn’t missed.

“What?” He spits the word out like you’re a nuisance. It takes everything in you not to punch him right across his pretty face.

“We need to talk.” The words wobble into each other, tone quivering with the tears you swallow.

“Now?” He ruffles his hair again, an exasperated sigh floating from his lips. There’s a sly eye roll that you catch instantly. Your heart lurches sharply in your chest.

“Yes now.” 

“Can’t it wait? Minjoo’s planned something and she’ll get mad at me if I mess it up.” The impatience in his voice is palpable. You really want to punch him in the face. It’s alright for him to suddenly abandon a tradition that both of you treasure, at the drop of a hat all for some even that his annoying girlfriend planned for him? And she’s allowed to get annoyed about him messing the surprise up while you’re meet to just swallow the sudden despondency that sits heavy on your chest? 

“It can’t wait.” You try to be firm, but like the autumn leaves that hang loosely from the branches above, your resolve is weak. It crumbles, when he settles on his bike, huffing loudly, a frown marring his features. And you hear her voice, frill as she screeches his name. She’s a banshee, a bringer of misfortune and pain. Some part of you wants to sew her mouth shut. That part grows bigger when you note how his back straightens and his eyes widen, feet faltering back to the pedals of his bike.

“Later.” Jeongguk dismisses you. “We’ll talk later. I don't want to fight with you right now.”

And then he’s off, swift with his movements, a hurry that indicates trepidation driving his frame further and further away.

You plop back down on the bench, fists clenched with the ire that blazes inside of you. You ball your hands into your lap, blink away the sudden heat you feel in your face and try not to dwindle on the fact that Jeongguk didn’t even thank you for the present. Or look at it. Or even pretend to care. It hurts. More than you expect it too. You wish you could erase it, all of it. Especially Minjoo. How she’s managed to worm her way into Jeongguk’s life and rip him right from your fingertips is lost on you. But it’s becoming clear now, how little Jeongguk values the relationship you have. If he even cared in the slightest, he would have stayed to listen. Faced whatever consequence Minjoo would have waiting for him with valiance. But with how fast he scrambled, it’s evident Jeongguk didn’t think it was worth it. You weren’t worth it. Not anymore.