#something like in stars of time or dead plate

[sadagios]

self indulgent doodle of scarian as characters from a comic i made in 2022 to cheer myself up

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[neoheros]

to this day, there are only three things in this world that kuroo tetsuro is deathly afraid of: big spiders, losing the winning point in a finals match, and worse of all, his mean and evil older sister (as he likes to call her).

now, normally, his sister doesn’t scare him at all.

normally, she’d just annoy him so much that he’d just rather pretend she doesn’t exist, and normally, seeing her at the family dinner tonight wouldn’t be so nerve wracking and horrific.

but normally, you wouldn’t have your arm in a bright pink cast, your left hand all the way up to your forearm covered in a hardened plaster.

and kuroo just knows — he knows so well — that it’ll take his sister one look at your injured hand and then he’d be a total goner.

talk about a dead man walking.

there’s a sound of a “clink” made as a plate is set in front of you.

your morning laziness as you lay contently on the couch interrupted as kuroo stands in front of the TV, arms at his hip and a wide, proud smile, donned on his face.

you blink, looking up at him and then down at the dish he set on the table.

you look warily at the plate of seemingly black and gray pancakes (?) in front of you. a small stack of the most ominous looking breakfast you’ve ever seen.

you glance up at kuroo again, still smiling proudly in front of you as he gestures to the dish.

“oh… uhm…” you feel the sweat forming on your temples, “thank you?”

were you supposed to eat this?

kuroo gives you a wider smile at your response, and he pushes the plate closer to you, prompting you to take a bite.

you can’t help the way he looks at you, all proud and happy at his accomplishment of making something that mildly resembles food, and you almost feel bad for feeling anything else but gratitude that he took the time to make you breakfast.

still though … are pancakes supposed to be gray? plus, you don’t really remember seeing any flour or baking powder in the kitchen the last time you checked… and would it really be a good idea to risk eating the world’s scariest pastry right now before the family dinner tonight?

… you pick up the fork slowly with your good hand, cursing under your breath as you recall the series of events that got you in this situation in the first place.

see, two days ago, you got into an unfortunate car accident with kuroo — something about a late night drive for ice cream and an unsuspecting duck who wasn’t taught to look both ways crossing the road.

lucky for all of you though, everyone made it out of the accident just fine — duck included — and the only real injuries sustained were a couple bruises and scratches here and there, save for the minor hairline fracture on your left arm, but it still isn’t anything too serious to fret about.

truthfully, it was the best outcome in a horrible situation, and if the worse thing you can get from an accident is a bright pink cast on for three weeks, then you’ll happily take it.

… but kuroo’s cooking?

“ehem.” he coughs, bringing you back to the predicament you find yourself in.

he’s still staring at you with that expectant smile of his, waiting for you to take a bite of his hard work.

hesitantly, you touch the fork to the pancake and you shudder as it bubbles slightly, a wheezing sound coming from it as you let the fork sink in.

no freaking way. you already almost broke your arm for pete’s sake, you’re not getting food poisoning too!

“it looks really good…” you look at him with a forced smile, “but you know the doctor said i can’t have any of … whatever this is…”

you try your best to sound as miserable as you intend to.

kuroo’s hand falls from his hip, “are you serious?”

your smile is more apologetic now, “such a shame…”

“i made this!” he exclaims, scoffing as he points to his mysterious plate of mystery, “with ingredients and shit! … for you!”

you shake your head at him wantonly, like it can’t be helped, and you thank the stars in the sky when he sighs and pushes the plate of doom away from you.

kuroo gives you a pouty look now, shoulders falling dramatically as he crashes on the empty spot on the couch, and with the TV still going on in the background, you happily welcome him in to your lazy posture, making space as he cozies up next to you.

once he settles, he turns to you, a lot less pouty now that you’re so close to him, and he says, “how’s the arm?”

“itchy.” you shrug, “but it doesn’t hurt anymore, so it’s okay.”

for a moment, there’s a flicker in the way kuroo looks that almost bothers you. eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed into a thin line, eyes sunken and worried.

its the exact same look you’ve woken up to in the past two days in the middle of the night. just suddenly jolting awake and seeing kuroo stare at you so intently. you ask him what he’s doing up and he says something about a nightmare and you kiss him goodnight and the two of you fall back asleep together with his hold on you just a little bit tighter than before.

you bump your shoulder with his, nudging him as you shake your head, “don’t look like that, i can’t have you crying on me again.”

and he scoffs, turning away, “i have never cried. i don’t cry at all. i deny all such accusations.”

(you know though that that’s a lie.

kuroo’s probably cried more in the past two days than he has all his life.

he was a teary mess as he rode with you on the ambulance to the hospital, a teary mess when the doctor said you had a fracture in your arm, and a teary mess this morning when he woke up to you in your cast).

to be honest, these past two days are probably the worst in his life. in such a short amount of time, he’s experienced such pits in his stomach that he didn’t know was possible to feel.

he still feels it sometimes when he closes his eyes, the fear and worry setting in his body as he waited in the hospital waiting room.

kuroo looks at you much softer now, gentler, and he puts his hand on your thigh, squeezing it lightly. “you sure you don’t need me to go with you today?”

“i’ll be fine on my own, i just need to grab a couple of things from campus,” you shake your head as you answer him, and you move in deeper to his side to bring you closer.

even the way he touches you now is lighter — like he’s deathly afraid to hurt you even more.

you turn to look at him, “but it might make me late to the dinner with your family later, maybe twenty or thirty minutes?”

“that’s okay,” he nods at you, and then he sighs again, as if suddenly remembering something important.

“well,” and there’s a helpless smile on his face, “it’ll give me more time to work on my “why you’re in a cast” story to my family.”

you grin, “yeah? what have you got so far?”

and he tells you, with a hint of a clipped laugh in his voice, “really big bees.”

…. “oh.”

“yeah.” kuroo grumbles, and he sinks deeper into the couch, “they’re gonna kill me.”

he turns slightly to face you, and he points, quite dramatically, “you’re gonna be a widow.”

you push him off, shaking your head in amusement as you watch his dramatization play out, “you’re such a drama queen.”

kuroo shakes his head incessantly, and he clutches his chest with both his hands, “oh, trust me, the first words my sister is gonna say to me when she sees you later in that cast is “how could you let this happen?!” followed by “waiter, may i please have a bigger knife – this one doesn’t seem to pierce my brother all the way.” and then i die.”

you look at him, incredulous, and you shove him away as you get off the couch to stride away from him.

you scoff, loudly, “has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

and kuroo nods his head, following you as he stands up too, “you did — in our vows.”

you laugh, and you push him away again when he tries to get closer to you, “so i got it right then.”

he’s less tense now, less pouty, and seemingly out of things to complain about, and in the morning silence, he pulls you in, the two of you standing in the middle of the living room floor.

kuroo touches your injured arm slightly. the tv forgotten behind him.

all his life, he’s only ever been afraid of three things: big spiders, losing the winning point in a finals match, and his evil, mean older sister yelling at him for allowing you to get hurt after she made him promise that he’d never let anything bad happen to you.

he knows now though that beyond those three, there’s something deeper in his bones that terrifies him deeply. something that scares him so much it wakes him up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. something that ruins his day and something that makes him call you out of nowhere when you’re away from him.

his biggest fear, bigger than spiders or losing matches or his mean sister, is … you.

he’s looking at you that same way again; eyes worried, lips pursed, eyebrows knit together, and you don’t miss the way his mouth trembles slightly as he stares.

“it isn’t your fault, and i dont blame you at all.” you say, and even now as he holds you, you still feel how scared he is to hurt you.

you squeeze his hand. “accidents happen.”

and you can say this all you want, but in his head, at the end of the day, he was still the one driving the car.

but he knows you, and he knows you won’t allow him to think that way, so instead, he just nods, short and clipped and he pulls you in as gentle as he can, embracing you tightly.

kuroo mutters against your neck, “my sister is still gonna kill me.”

you laugh, patting his back with your good arm, “oh, well, some things can’t be helped.”

lord help him for what you’ve done to his poor heart, for you’ve made him deathly afraid of the one thing he can’t control.

something so out of his hands that it sets deep within his bones, ruins his day, and wakes him up in cold sweat in the middle of the night, leaving him desperate and exhausted staring at you helplessly.

his worst fear that terrifies him daily … waking up without you.

[kxsagi]

hiiiiiii can i ask if you can write bllk x reader where reader loves food and eat everything and really is happy when food but when she don't eat at all means she's really upset and guys worrying about why she's not eating at all, can you do it w sae, rin, kaiser, hiori or anyone u want hihih

I genuinely love your works! Got me giggling and feet kicking in ungodly hour. :3 thank you

“𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞? 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩”

a/n: HIII THANK YOU SO MUCH OMGGG LOVE YOUUU 🫶🏻

i am such a foodie so this was so cute and fun to write but i could NOT find a title to save my life

ft. itoshi sae, itoshi rin, kaiser michael, hiori yo

itoshi sae

sae’s used to you gasping dramatically at the sight of food like it’s a long-lost lover. 

“they have churros here?? SAE THEY HAVE CHURROS.” 

“okay. get like ten.” he doesn’t blink. 

he actually finds it really endearing. you eating happily is one of his favorite sights. he’ll sit there, bored and half-asleep, while you destroy three types of desserts and ask if you can eat the fries that came with his meal (he gives you a disgusted face the entire time, but he’s secretly dying from cuteness inside). 

so the first time you push your plate away during a dinner date in madrid, his fork halts mid-air. 

“... you full?” 

you shrug. “just not hungry.” 

red flags. sirens. DEFCON 1. 

he won’t show it outwardly, but he’s staring at you the entire meal. and when you say you want to go home early? 

he doesn’t let you go to bed without asking, “what’s wrong?” 

you try to dodge it. 

“you love food too much to leave that untouched. tell me.” 

if you cry? he’ll gently pull you in and kiss the top of your head while holding you against his chest. he won’t say much, but you’ll wake up the next morning with your favorite snacks on the kitchen counter and your favorite comfort show queued up. 

itoshi rin

rin doesn’t get it at first. why do you get so giddy over something as basic as food? 

but then he sees you twirl when you smell fresh pancakes, or do a little dance when your ramen hits the table, and he thinks: oh. 

it becomes something he secretly anticipates – how your eyes light up, how you always go “one more bite” and it’s twenty more bites. 

so when you go silent during lunch, poke at your plate, and don’t finish your drink, he immediately notices. 

“you okay?” 

you nod too quickly. “just tired.” 

lies. LIES. rin can detect those like a hawk. 

he doesn’t pressure you in public. but later, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll sit on the couch beside you and ask again. 

“did someone say something to you?” 

you: “no, i just…” 

he’s already pulling you into a side hug. “don’t shut down. talk to me.” 

and when you finally open up, he’ll listen quietly, rubbing your back, then mutter something like: “we’re getting takeout tomorrow. your pick. and you’re eating the entire menu.” 

that’s how he comforts, gentle, low-key, but dead serious about getting you back to food-happy. 

kaiser michael

he lives to spoil you when it comes to food. five-star reservations, late-night gelato runs, midnight pancake competitions in his penthouse kitchen. 

“liebe, you are divine when you eat.” 

he flirts even more when you’re biting into a croissant or sighing over truffle fries. sometimes he feeds you just for fun. 

so when he notices you ignoring your plate at a fancy restaurant he booked weeks in advance? 

full drama. drops his fork. 

“okay. who upset my queen.” 

you try to laugh it off, but he’s already leaning in, his voice low. “you didn’t even touch your steak. baby. talk to me.” 

he genuinely can’t stand seeing you look so dull and unbothered about food, it’s so un-you. 

will cancel everything to take you home. 

and when he gets you there? puts on your favorite music, wraps you in a blanket, and just holds you until you finally admit what’s wrong. 

“you don’t have to act okay. but don’t keep me in the dark, ja?” 

the next day he’s bringing you breakfast in bed with pancakes shaped like hearts. 

“you’re not leaving this bed until you’re full and happy again. doctor kaiser’s orders.” 

hiori yo

hiori is the most softly concerned of them all. he finds so much joy in watching you eat – it’s comforting, like a sign that things are good and safe. 

he even started learning how to cook just to surprise you with homemade meals. 

so when he makes something for you and you just… barely touch it? 

his heart kind of sinks. 

“is it not good…?” 

you quickly shake your head. “no! it’s amazing, hiori. i just… i’m not hungry.” 

and you see his expression falter for a second. 

he doesn’t say anything right away, but later that night, he gently brings you a cup of tea and sits beside you. 

“you don’t have to eat if you’re upset… but if you ever want to talk, i’m here.” 

he’ll rub your back slowly, his voice soft and careful. he never pushes, just lets you open up at your own pace. 

once you do, he’ll give you the warmest hug and thank you for trusting him. 

the next morning? fresh breakfast waiting. little notes that say “for my favorite foodie 💙” and “today will be better.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[les4elliewilliams]

❝SHE’S A MANEATER!❞

LOSER!ELLIE ﾒ MEAN!READER

❝OH-OH HERE SHE COMES WATCH OUT, GIRL, SHE’LL CHEW YOU UP!❞

ᝰ.ᐟ ⌞SUMMARY⌝﹕After bumping into you on her first day of college, Ellie spends the entire year captivated by you from a distance. You're everything she could never be—popular, wealthy, and effortlessly alluring, with a perfect, disgustingly rich family to match. Convinced she didn’t stand a chance, Ellie resigns herself to watching from the sidelines. But when her best friend Dina suggests they work at a public pool for the summer, Ellie agrees, hoping to save up some money. What she never expected was to find you there, commanding the space with a magnetic, dangerous charm that pulls her in. Now, Ellie’s summer is about to take a turn she never saw coming, and she’s about to find out just how close she can get to you before it all falls apart.

✶.ᐟ ⌞THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS⌝﹕ approx 16k words⨾ bullying⨾ cursing⨾ use of alcohol and drugs⨾ angst⨾ reader being a bitch for no reason⨾ 18+ CONTENT⨾ cunnilingus (𝑒!receiving)⨾ semi-public sex ig?? (in the bathroom of their workplace)⨾ coworker!ellie⨾ dom!reader⨾ fem!reader⨾ player!reader x loser!ellie⨾ slapping⨾ jealousy issues??⨾ overstimulation⨾ ellie squirting (yumm)⨾ lmk if i missed anything!

.ᐟ.ᐟ ⌞AUTHOR´S NOTE⌝﹕this series took me forever to finish and almost deleted it because i had no motivation:3 the whole thing was supposed to be a quick one shot but its too long for that, i fear. (around 40k words) so i decided im gonna split it in two and make a sequel (for those who care); proofread by @sapphichotmess (i love you sm)

#.ᐟ ⌞TAGLIST⌝﹕ @pick-me-up-im-scared @rew1nds @aouiaa [comment to be added!]

#.ᐟ ⌞CHAPTERS⌝ ↯

˗ˏˋ 𝕠𝕟𝕖 ⋆ 𝐭𝐰𝐨 ⋆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ˎˊ˗

palestine masterpost ⋆ read this ⋆ daily clicks

Summer 2023, Santa Barbara.

23th of June.

The first year of college felt like it dragged on forever, with endless lectures, assignments, and late-night cram sessions that blurred into one exhausting marathon. But then, as if in the blink of an eye, it was over. Ellie packed up her dorm room, said her goodbyes, and headed home with the promise of a long, lazy summer stretching out before her.

The auburnette was a quiet introvert with a love for solitary activities, ready to kick back and relax. She loved this time of year—the bright, sunny days and the chilly, star-filled nights. The beach was her favorite place to unwind, where she could lose herself in the soothing rhythm of the waves crashing against the ancient shores and the feel of the sand between her toes. She loved soaking up the sun, letting its warmth seep into her freckled skin, and staying up late with her friends playing video games, adrenaline-pumping matches that promised to take all their sleepiness away, their laughter echoing into the early hours of the morning—or until Joel woke up to her yelling at random kids online and told her to turn it off, threatening to take all her consoles away.

But as the days melted into weeks, a sense of restlessness began to creep in. The once comforting routine now felt monotonous, and Ellie found herself craving something different, suddenly feeling unproductive. The pressure to change her routine was mounting, especially with Joel’s words ringing in her ears. He was dead serious when he told her she needed to stop being a lazy ass and start doing something with her life. He claimed that, by her age, he had already tried almost every job under the sun and didn’t want to see her wasting her days away.

At first, Ellie brushed off Joel's comments, but they lingered in the back of her mind, gnawing at her. Then, Dina chimed in, convincing her to join her and Jesse as lifeguards at the local pool. The idea seemed laughable to Ellie. She couldn’t imagine herself in such a role—standing on the pool deck, whistle in hand, ready to dive in at a moment's notice. But with nothing else on her plate and a growing desire to be productive, Ellie decided to give it a shot. 

What could possibly go wrong, after all?

What else did she have to do? Absolutely nothing. And she figured she could always quit if things were really that bad. No harm in trying, right?

With a mix of nervousness and excitement, the young girl signed up for the lifeguard training course. The first few days were grueling—learning CPR, mastering rescue techniques, and memorizing safety protocols. She quickly realized that she enjoyed the physical challenge and the sense of responsibility that came with the role. Plus, spending her days by the pool wasn’t too far off from her ideal summer.

After a week of rigorous training, Ellie had finally reached a level where she felt ready. However, her confidence faltered when she discovered you were also working there. Every time she beheld you, your ethereal and almost unreal presence left her breathless. Her heart raced wildly, and a lump formed in her throat that threatened to strangle her. She knew who you were but doubted you even knew she existed. You were stunning and popular, seemingly out of her league. She felt like a total loser, a nerd invisible to every girl on the planet, except for those weird and jerky dudes she couldn’t stand. Her feelings of inadequacy were overwhelming, and you sure made her question her own worth and existence. 

She saw you every day on campus, a sprawling green space bustling with students. You were always walking around with your group, a bunch of stylish individuals who cared a lot about their appearances, invariably decked out in expensive clothes. You were part of that clique, but she always felt like you were different somehow. Maybe it was how you looked at her on the first day of college when she accidentally bumped into you and made all your books drop to the floor.

Ellie remembered that moment vividly. The campus, with its towering oak trees and vibrant flower beds, had been buzzing with the energy of new beginnings. She had been rushing to her next class, preoccupied with a million different thoughts when she collided with you. Your books scattered across the walkway, and she dropped to her knees, frantically trying to gather them up while mumbling apologies. Your friends' disdainful looks made her cheeks burn with humiliation, but your reaction was entirely different. You crouched down, your fingers brushing against hers as you both reached for the same book, and you gave her a smile that was kind and understanding.

She couldn’t help but replay the moment in her mind, wondering if it had meant as much to you as it had to her. 

Jesse’s constant teasing didn’t help. He loved to remind her of her awkwardness, mimicking how she stumbled over her words and nearly fell on her face right in front of you.

And now, seeing you standing there, the auburnette felt that same nervous energy bubbling up again. Your red lifeguard uniform clung to your body like a second skin, making her heart perform a series of pathetic, acrobatic flips. She watched you from a distance, marveling at how effortlessly you moved, how you seemed to command attention without even trying. You were a natural leader, confident and composed, while Ellie felt like a bundle of nerves just trying to keep up. A small part of her that hoped she might get to know you better, to see if that smile you had given her on the first day was a glimpse of something more.

“Oh shiii- she works here too?” Ellie looked to her best friend Dina, her eyebrows raised in surprise as she observed your every move. You casually blowing your whistle at a group of kids playing fights with crumbs of bread stood out to her immediately, watching in fascination as you effortlessly kept the children in line.

“Yeah, ‘course she does.” Dina couldn't contain a small snort of laughter as she pulled on a vibrant red T-shirt over her red bikini, its vivacious color standing out against her tanned skin. “She does every year,” she shared, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement. But how could she know this when all she did was immerse herself in gaming, hanging out with friends, and getting high rather than seeking part-time work to earn extra cash like every other 18-year-old? 

She also found it perplexing that a wealthy individual like you would even bother working in the first place; after all, from what she had heard, you always got whatever you asked for from your father. She guessed that the only possible reasons you might have been working were to become more independent or to seek out something to occupy your time.

“Oh.” Her rosy pink lips formed a perfect 'o' shape, her surprise evident in how they parted. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She whispered loudly to her friend. 

Dina's brow rose quizzically as she placed her hands on her hips. “Why, did you want to know?” Dina shot Ellie a doubtful look, the same disapproving glance she always gave her whenever Ellie expressed interest in a girl who ultimately turned out to be straight.

The redhead nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders, “No, but–” she was quick to cut her off before Ellie could come up with an excuse that wouldn't hold water. Her friend could read her like an open book, and she knew certainly what was going on just by witnessing the heart-shaped pupils of Ellie's eyes as they lingered on you from afar.

“–Nuh-uh. You’re just being a delusional lesbian again,” Dina called her out on it, and the freckled girl reacted almost dramatically, gasping at the brunette's accusation.

“Don’t give me that look,” she pointed a finger at Ellie, finger jabbing the air like a weapon of accusation. “You told me to stop you before you started falling for another straight girl, and that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Calling you out on your shit.” Dina’s voice was firm and uncompromising, her words leaving no space for negotiation or debate. Her eyes, deep pools of golden-hued amber, narrowed into slits, fixed on her friend with a steely gaze. The young girl knew better than to argue with her best friend.

Deep down, Ellie knew Dina was right. Images of her previous “relationship” flashed through her mind—the heartbreak, the disappointment, the tears—all because some bi-curious girl had led her on, only to reject her in the end. Who was there to pick up the pieces and put her back together again? None other than Dina, of course. And Jesse, but he wasn’t that helpful.

The green-eyed girl crossed her arms over her chest and huffed in response, her frustration evident in her defensive body language. “But she smiled at me on the first day of college, remember? When I bumped into her and made her drop all her books?”

Dina rolled her eyes and let out a deep sigh, shaking her head in disbelief, she truly couldn’t believe how clueless and naive her best friend could be at times, or maybe she just pretended to be dumb as fuck; Dina wasn’t sure. “Ellie, she was just being nice. That doesn’t mean she’s into you.” frustration colored her voice.

A sigh left the redhead’s lips, her gaze trailing back to you, unable to keep her eyes from checking you out. Seeing you sent her thoughts astray, her heart racing as she studied your features once more. “I know, I know. But a girl can dream, right?”

“Yeah, dream away. Just don’t get your hopes up too high. We’ve got a job to do, so stop daydreaming about unattainable girls and go get changed.” The black-haired girl demanded, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her arms hanging by her sides.

Ellie nodded, trying to push aside her feelings of infatuation. She knew Dina was right, but it was hard to ignore the fluttering in her chest every time her hazel eyes landed on you. 

The first day, Jesse showed the auburnette around, explaining all the rules she and everyone else had to follow—when to yell at people, when to blow the whistle, the regular stuff. Ellie wanted to talk to you, to introduce herself at the very least, considering you were colleagues now, but she didn’t have the guts.

How you walked around and carried yourself, it was almost as if you owned the place. You were so confident, and Ellie felt like a creep for not being able to ignore your presence. Her eyes naturally darted towards you, tracing every contour and inch of your exposed body, only covered by a red one-piece swimsuit. You looked like you were coming straight out of Baywatch, looking like every teenage boy’s dream... and hers, too. 

She felt ashamed for not being any better than a man.

Ellie really tried to focus on what Jesse was saying, but her mind kept drifting back to you. She felt a mix of awe and frustration. How could someone be so effortlessly captivating? The way you moved, the way you interacted with everyone—it was like you belonged in a different league.

“Ellie, you with me?” Jesse’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks heat up.

Jesse raised an eyebrow but continued. “Like I was saying, just remember to stay alert and don’t hesitate to step in if something looks off. We’ve got a good team here, so don’t worry.”

Ellie nodded, trying to absorb the information. She glanced at you again, noticing how you seemed completely at ease, chatting and laughing with the other lifeguards. The auburnette envied that ease, that confidence, something she seemed to lack. Ellie always felt out of place in moments like this. She tried not to be so shy and be more easygoing, but your presence felt almost intimidating. She couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy. You were so stunning, so composed, and she felt like a fucking loser in comparison.

24th of June.

Since she couldn’t bring herself to talk to you on the first day, Ellie tried again on the second, encouraged by Jesse’s comforting words, “Try not to look like a drooling loser when you talk to her,” He couldn't help but crack a smile at the almost imperceptible scoff she gave him in response. Her sun-kissed cheeks turned an even deeper shade of pink, making her freckles look like tiny specks of stardust against a rosy sky. It was endearing how easy it was to tease her, and what Jesse found more endearing was how she couldn’t tear her attentive eyes away from you, tracking your every move like a hawk eyeing its next meal or an art connoisseur fixated on a masterpiece—almost as if you were the center of her universe, a celestial body she could orbit but never touch. 

He knocked his shoulder into hers, sending her stumbling awkwardly and bursting her fragile soap bubble, scattering her thoughts into a chaotic mess. Startled and momentarily yanked out of her little barrier of daydreams and delusions, she mumbled defensively under her breath, “I’m not a loser.” Before she could gather herself, he was already striding away, heading toward a group of kids running around the pool, corralling them like a shepherd with a sharp blow of his whistle.

Her ivy-hued irises followed him for a moment before drifting back to you. You were conversing with an older woman, a beaming smile adorning your face as you nodded at her words every now and then; your hair framed your immaculate features in such a way that Ellie wanted to capture that moment forever. Something about your effortless beauty captivated her; you were so perfect that it made her wonder if you could possibly be real. Could you be just the result of her wild imagination? Possibly, yeah.

Ellie just lingered in the background, waiting patiently for an opportunity to approach you without interrupting your conversation. She had been acting busy, meticulously inspecting the pool to make sure everyone was following the rules, but her eyes kept drifting back to you. She couldn’t help it. When she observed you walking towards a plastic chair, sensing her chance, she mustered up her courage and approached you.

Don’t be a pussy, don’t be a pussy. Ellie repeated the words to herself like a mantra.

Her heart raced wildly as she walked towards you, her mind a whirl of anxious thoughts. What if she stumbled over her words?

With every step she took, the knots in her stomach grew tighter and tighter.

She kept debating with herself, inching closer and closer to you. Honestly, the thought of talking to you was unbearable. She knew she’d end up looking like a fool. Why was she even trying to get your attention? Wait, was that really her intention? Was she actually planning to make you like her? She huffed at her desperation.

Maybe she could just turn back and pretend you weren’t there. Like she didn’t see you every day at work. 

As she continued her internal argument, your voice suddenly snapped her back to reality.

“Hey, you’re the new girl,” You exclaimed, taking a confident step toward the freckle-faced girl. She swore she could almost see the confidence pouring out of your every pore, her heart pounding wildly in her chest and palms becoming disgustingly clammy as her cheeks flushed, the relentless sun only making it worse. Being so close to you, Ellie noticed how each strand of your hair swayed with the gentle summer breeze that had decided to bless them on the disturbingly hot summer day.

There was no fucking way you noticed her, no fucking way you were talking to her right now. Ellie forced out a dry, awkward chuckle, “Y-yeah. Think that’s me,” she stumbled over her words, giving you a half-crooked smile, her eyes darting around nervously, avoiding direct eye contact. She felt ridiculous for not being able to maintain steady eye contact. Why did she have to be so embarrassing? Why was talking to pretty girls so fucking hard?

“Yeah,” you responded with a steady tone, in stark contrast to her shaky and almost timid voice. Your gaze shamelessly roamed over every inch of her, taking in every detail from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. A barely audible hum escaped your lips, “Ellen, right?” you inquired, your eyes locking briefly before the aubrunette looked away again.

“Ellie,” she corrected you shyly, her slender fingers absentmindedly tracing delicate patterns on the back of her neck.

“Why, what did I say?” you questioned nonchalantly, still studying her. She felt small and insignificant under your scrutinizing gaze, almost judged. All of a sudden, she felt so self-conscious about her looks.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, snorting quietly. Uncertain of what to do next and feeling almost scared of contradicting you, she hesitantly reached out her hand toward you. Your inquisitive eyes locked onto her veiny hand, studying it for a few moments before finally shaking it. “Nice to meet you.” 

Starstruck eyes stared right back at yours, and a wide grin that never left her face. She felt a rush of adrenaline pumping through her veins as she held your hand, letting it linger a bit longer than necessary, though too lost in a world of her own to notice. After a whole semester pining over you on campus, watching you from afar like a Joel Goldberg, she finally found herself face-to-face with you, engaged in a real conversation. She had been waiting for this moment for a lifetime, almost, feeling truly seen and known by you for the very first time.

A slow smile crept across your face, and your gaze dropped down to her hand, which was still firmly attached to yours in a stubborn grip like a tenacious octopus refusing to let go. “Don’t get attached,” Your jest had a confident, almost boastful tone, causing her heart to skip a beat.

Were you making fun of her? Was she making a fool of herself? Her mind quickly became consumed by overthinking. It was absurd; how could she draw such strong conclusions after just two minutes of conversation with you? Three minutes was enough to send her thoughts into a tempestuous cyclone, their rhythm erratic and tumultuous. She told herself that she was simply overthinking, but sometimes, it's easy to mistake intuition for overthinking.

The nervous girl forced out a strained, strangled chuckle, “I’ll try not to,” she said, attempting to match your casual tone, even though her heart was still racing.

You laughed softly, a sound that seemed to echo in her mind long after you walked away. Ellie stood there for a moment, trying to steady her breath and slow down her chaotic thoughts. Her eyes darted towards Dina, who stood nearby with a smirk on her face, arms crossed over her chest and leaning nonchalantly against the bar wall. Her long, dark brown hair was tied up in a high, sleek ponytail, and she casually chewed on a piece of gum, observing the entire encounter with a mixture of amusement and appraisal.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dina teased her friend, walking over to her.

Ellie rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, sure. Piece of cake,” she muttered, though the adrenaline still coursed through her veins.

As the day continued, Ellie found herself glancing at you more often than she’d like to admit. Each time she saw you, she felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. She couldn’t shake the gut feeling that this summer was going to be different.

28th of June.

Ellie sighed in relief as she sought refuge under the closest patch of shade she could find. The scorching sun was relentless, turning her into a messy canvas for glistening beads of sweat to trickle down her dotted face and back. The air felt heavy and stagnant, intensifying the already stifling heat. It seemed like the sun had a personal vendetta against her today, making every little thing feel ten times more irritating.

Like you, for example.

Being around you was a source of never-ending irritation for her, and she despised the fact that she had to share the same airspace with you. It was an injustice in her eyes, how your stunning good looks did not reflect your unpleasant personality. How could looks be so fucking deceiving? Ellie had no clue, all she knew was that she fell for it. Every. Single. Time.

The fury inside her was like an uncontrollable wildfire as she aggressively scribbled over your name with her pen in her journal. If only it were that easy to erase you completely, to make you vanish as if you had never existed. Feeling completely dumb for even remotely thinking that you could be any different from the people you hung out with. Every time she had to interact with you, the only thoughts echoing in her mind were Dina's warning words. 

Dina was right.

But Ellie would never say it out loud only to get an “I told you” back.

Everyone had warned her about you—they all knew the truth about your character, yet she found herself stubbornly holding onto the belief that there was something more to you than just the surface-level impression. If she were to add your name to a list of defining terms, it would undoubtedly be accompanied by words like “evil,”“spoiled,” or even the simplest yet most descriptive term, “brat.”

Working with you was a constant nightmare; even being in the same vicinity as you felt like torturous purgatory. You seemed incapable of restraining yourself, constantly throwing witty, biting remarks to the anxious girl, even when she hadn't provoked you in any way. It perplexed her—why did you take such pleasure in taunting her? It was as if the world itself would implode if you didn’t pick on her despite the seemingly nonexistent reasons behind your hostility. She often found herself rambling about you to her friends. This time, though, not in a good way.

Talking to you felt like a return to the nightmarish experience that was middle school, a trip down memory lane that brought back memories she had worked so hard to forget. The bullying she had endured during that period had left a lasting impact on her, and your presence seemed to trigger something in her. It was for that exact reason that she tried her best to keep any interactions with you brief, limited to the bare essentials.

She watched as you sprang from your seat, sprinting after the kids, yelling at them, the shrill sound of your annoying whistle piercing the air. Threats flew from your mouth, aimed at their misbehavior and disruption of the pool’s tranquility. The best part? No one seemed to care about your passive-aggressive attitude because, let’s face it, you were just doing your job, and you were pretty damn good at it—pretty damn good at scaring people.

Ellie’s eyes took in the kids' terrified faces as they looked up at you, wide-eyed and quivering, but you didn’t care. Their fear didn’t stop you from messing with their childish, naive minds. Their innocence was like a delicate flower, easily manipulated. If Ellie claimed she didn't find it amusing, her nose would’ve grown like Pinocchio’s. It was almost comical how easily you maintained order, seemingly without effort. You possessed a natural inclination for control, a characteristic that could be a strength or a flaw, depending on one's perspective. 

“You know what happens if you run on a wet floor? You slip and hit your head,” you barked, hands firmly planted on your hips. “Is that what you two little gremlins want? To end up in a hospital with a cracked skull?” The kids darted off to their mothers, who were too engrossed in their own conversations to notice. You scoffed, watching them scamper away like puppies with their tails between their legs. Crossing your arms over your red bikini top, you muttered, “That’s what I thought,” a smirk curling your lips. It was almost as if you derived some twisted satisfaction from seeing others—especially kids—tremble in fear. There was an ever-present sadistic delight in your eyes whenever someone dared to cross your path, a blend of authority and mischief that made you the unchallenged queen of the poolside.

Ellie only ever saw a warm smile on your face when you were talking to the moms of the kids you had scared away in such a devilish manner. You transformed around them, becoming overly sugary-sweet, showering them with compliments and shooting wide grins their way. Your demeanor softened, offering them drinks as if you were hosting a garden party instead of working at a public pool.

The redhead scoffed as she tried to decipher your persona. You were a walking contradiction, a goddess clad in a red bikini. One moment, you were a menacing warden, barking orders and traumatizing kids; the next, you were a social butterfly, all warm smiles and saccharine charm with their moms. So fucking weird.

Ellie didn’t expect you to notice her presence not so far behind you, but nothing ever seemed to escape your attention. You were like a hawk, sharply observant, contrasting your superficial personality. Then again, maybe it was all an act you were putting on. Ellie marveled at the paradox of your nature—how you seemed so frivolous and charming on the surface yet were always acutely aware of everything happening around you. It was as if you had a second set of eyes hidden behind your back, always watching, always calculating, leaving her to wonder what was real and what was merely a façade.

“What? Got something to say?” Your voice was anything but friendly, ready to spark an argument over nothing. Your arched brows seemed to challenge her, daring her to complain or speak her mind in any way. 

Maybe she should just drop it before you could escalate things. Ellie wasn't in the mood for meaningless bickering, especially not under the blazing sun, sweating like a cow. 

But sometimes, her body loved to betray her.

“That was just a little bit harsh, is all,” the words slipped out before she could stop them, only realizing she'd spoken aloud when your expression shifted to a mocking smirk.

“Pardon?” You challanged, daring her to continue. She knew you had heard her perfectly; if you had caught her scoff a few seconds ago, there was no way you missed her comment now. The awkward girl knew what you were doing—trying to make her feel small and stupid for speaking up.

She couldn't back down now.

Ellie gulped, nerves tightening in her stomach, but stood her ground. “It’s just... they’re kids, you know?” Her voice wavered slightly, but she held your gaze, determined not to let you intimidate her.

“And?” You looked at her like she was exaggerating, as if she had been the one yelling at kids for having fun, threatening to call the police on them, or telling them she'd hijack their Christmas gifts from Santa and sell them on the black market.

Ellie knew there was no point in arguing or trying to tell you off, so she shook her head slowly, her eyes glued to the wet mosaic tiles. An airy chuckle escaped her lips as she replied, “Nothing.”

But of course, you didn’t drop it. “We gotta make sure people—especially kids—don’t get hurt, and if you don’t yell at them, they’re just going to keep doing it—that’s how kids are,” you justify your actions without a hint of remorse in your voice or on your face. The freckled girl knew you were right, but she tended to be softer with kids.

Ellie loved kids and swore nothing was better than being young, carefree, and without worries beyond your favorite toys and your best friend. Sometimes, she missed being a kid, even if she still felt like one deep down. Perhaps the fact that Joel kept treating her like one didn’t help. Always spamming her with texts, asking if she had eaten when she wasn’t home, staying out all day. Asking her a thousand questions at a time, enough to make her brain short-circuit.

“You terrified them!” Ellie exclaimed, though an involuntary laugh slipped out with her words, causing you to smirk ever so slightly.

“Oh, sorry, Eleonor,” you taunted, deliberately getting her name wrong as you stepped closer. “How ‘bout you teach me your ways?” Sarcasm dripped from your voice as your eyes locked with hers. For once, the green-eyed girl managed not to look away; your eyes were so animated and clever, like a fox's gaze, giving off the impression that you were always one step ahead and knew more than you let on.

Ellie’s expression dropped as soon as ‘her’ name rolled off your tongue. You were trying to get under her skin, as always, and despite it being something so insignificant, it worked wonders. The fact that you were invading her personal space didn't help either. “It’s Ellie,” she puffed.

“Oh, I thought it was short for Eleonor,” you said mockingly.

“Nope, just Ellie—’s not short for anything,” she replied, her tone tinged with annoyance, causing you to grin like the Cheshire cat. God, if you loved getting her worked up, having her wrapped around your finger, and messing with her mood so easily. It was endearing, truly.

“Hmm… dunno, I like Eleonor better, though,” you insisted with a cheeky grin. Your voice took on a more sultry tone. Or had she imagined it? Maybe she had.

Ellie had heard that being under the sun for too long could cause hallucinations and general sickness, and she was already sweating like crazy. That was her explanation, because why in the world would you ever try to flirt with her?

“Well, ‘s not my name,” she insisted.

The tanned girl’s chest expanded as her breath caught in her throat as you drew nearer with each passing moment. You inched so close that she could almost discern the individual strands of your eyelashes that cast shadows on her cheeks, the way your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Your intense gaze, focused and persistent, traced the contours of her cheeks. 

Entranced, Ellie found her emerald eyes involuntarily drawn to your lips, merely inches away from hers. Unconsciously, she moistened her own lips, utterly captivated as she absorbed every pore and mole on your skin, revering every aspect of your being, whether flaw or perfection, with unwavering devotion in her mind. You were insanely beautiful; it was almost unfair. 

You extended your hand to cup her cheek gently, your thumb dragging across her cheekbone, spreading the sunscreen she had hastily applied in the morning. Ellie instinctively flinched at the unexpected contact. “You can't even apply sunscreen correctly,” you sneered, your voice dripping with mockery, before abruptly withdrawing and turning on your heel, leaving her standing there completely bewildered and disoriented.

What the fuck?

She spotted her dear best friend Dina, and Ellie ran up to her, eager to spill everything that had happened. A weird frustration churned inside her, a knot in her stomach that seemed to tighten as she rambled on and on about how obnoxious you were. She was down bad and wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Like- what the hell is her pro—” but Dina had enough.

“Jesus, get a grip, Ellie! Can’t you see I’m busy? You don’t get paid to act like a schoolgirl,” Dina groaned deeply, her manicured hands moving swiftly as she folded the pastel-colored towels, her eyes glued to her agitated friend. The cinnamon-haired girl had been caught in a continuous rant for the last 30 minutes, carelessly stumbling into Dina and disrupting her work as she paced around in a flustered manner.

Ellie groaned deeply in return, almost indignant at Dina’s reaction. How could she brush her off like this instead of offering comfort and reassuring words? Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do? Well, she had been, but at some point, the brunette grew tired of repeating herself over and over.

“I just don’t understand!” Ellie exclaimed furiously, her voice raising just enough to draw the attention of a few people sitting on the pool’s edge. To top it off, when she gestured, her hands knocked into the drinks Jesse was carrying as he approached the two girls from behind. Luckily, the cups were plastic, but the tray was thicker, causing a disturbing noise as it clattered on the mosaic. Ellie’s verdant emeralds widened, and she whipped around, cursing under her breath, “Shit, Jesse!”

She mumbled a flurry of apologies to the taller guy as she crouched down to help with the mess she had inadvertently caused. Her bare knees pressed against the cool, wet mosaic as her hands quickly gathered the plastic cups, stacking them one by one. As she fumbled to collect the scattered paper umbrellas, now lying crumpled on the moist floor, she placed them back on the tray, her movements slightly clumsy. Her chest tightened with embarrassment at the scene she had created.

“The fuck’s going on with you, man?” Jesse’s eyes scanned her face, confused.

“Her little girlfriend! That’s what happened,” his girlfriend exclaimed, completely fed up.

“Oh my god, Dina!” Ellie groaned, exasperated.

Jesse, being his usual self, furrowed his unplucked brows together. A quizzical expression took over his features, “You got a girlfriend?” he asked, bewildered, which seemed to throw Dina off even more, the confusion in his voice only adding fuel to the fire. 

The brunette shook her head, facepalming herself with an exasperated sigh. “I’m done,” she declared before walking away from the two, leaving them staring after her. She had been acting a little lunatic the whole day; maybe she was on her period. Ellie didn’t know. Or maybe it was because she had clumsily dropped Dina’s phone into the pool exactly three hours ago, the same phone she had worked so hard to get because her old one was falling apart like the Pisa tower. But hey, it was still working!

“Who? Cat?” the taller boy suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them. He redirected his attention back to his friend, and for a moment, all she could do was scoff. She couldn't believe he had actually brought up a girl she dated over three years ago. 

Ellie looked at him in disbelief, her heart-shaped lips slightly agape as if she was about to say something, ready to go off on him, but decided against it at the last moment. ‘Typical Jesse,’ she thought to herself. He knew everything because he always hung out with them, and if he didn’t, his girlfriend made sure to keep him in the loop. Plus, Ellie had a habit of rambling about every girl who kept her up at night, so it was impossible to miss or forget. But that's just how Jesse was—blissfully oblivious and fucking clueless. 

Ellie shook her head and sighed deeply before walking off as well.

“Why? What did I say?” He called out after her, his voice raised just enough to catch her attention. He watched as she stalked away, her irritation clear in the way she carried herself. He was left standing there, looking lost and utterly baffled, with a plastic tray in his hand.

30th of June.

It wasn’t long until another girl joined the team. Ellie was now responsible for introducing the new member and orienting her to the job. She meticulously explained all the rules and how everything worked, ensuring the new girl was well-prepared and well-trained for the job. Otherwise, you’d be on her ass about it, blaming the auburnette for any mistakes, just like you normally did. 

Ellie was initially hesitant, nervously stumbling over her words and avoiding the girl’s Lapis lazuli gaze. However, as time passed, she began to feel more at ease in the blonde's presence. Alexis exuded sweetness and was undeniably beautiful. They found their usual spot by the lifeguard station, sitting side by side and engaging in conversations that meandered through various topics. As they talked, their gazes wandered idly across the bustling pools, and a gentle breeze enveloped them, offering a pleasant sensation on their sun-warmed skin.

The weather was perfect. The gentle breeze kept the air just the right temperature, and the sunshine was warm without being too intense. Fluffy white clouds floated by, offering a welcome break from the direct sunlight. Their billowing forms shielded the freckled girl from the harsh rays that might otherwise have left her fair skin burnt and uncomfortable.

She had not set out intending to forge new friendships that summer. Although It felt too soon to label Alexis as a friend, she didn’t mind the possibility of meeting new people. Though she treasured her current friends, there were times when she craved the fresh energy that came with forming new connections. She recognized that stepping out of her comfort zone and meeting new faces could bring a welcome change, and she needed to ‘expand her social horizons’—Joel’s words.

However, you didn’t waste a second. You quickly disrupted Ellie’s fleeting moment of peace, shouting her name loudly and incessantly. Initially, she tried to ignore you, hoping you would give up and leave her be. But you persisted, standing by the bar, leaning against the counter, and chanting her name. When she feigned deafness, you resorted to using your trusty megaphone, the latest object of your obsession, employing it for seemingly every trivial matter.

"Eleanor Williams!”

She closed her eyes and cringed inwardly as her cheeks flushed a bright pink, embarrassed by the unwanted attention she was receiving from the onlookers around her. Their confused glances only added to her discomfort, making her wish for the ground to swallow her up on the spot.

Why did you have to be like this? She stopped asking herself that at some point.

Alexis furrowed her perfectly arched brows, her crystal blue eyes filled with puzzlement as she gazed at Ellie. Her head tilted gracefully to the side, highlighting her confusion as she asked, “Who’s Eleanor?”

“It’s me.” Ellie let out a heavy sigh, slowly rising from her pristine plastic chair, her gaze shifting downwards to the small, delicate figure of the girl before her, muttering, “Be right back,” 

She strode cautiously towards you, avoiding eye contact with everyone looking at her. Every step she took brought her closer to you, but your relentless shouting through the megaphone continued unabated. 

“How many times do I have to shout your name?” You stood with an air of drama, waving your hands in sweeping arcs above you. Your body swayed gently as you shifted your weight to one foot, and your free hand found its place resting comfortably on your hip.

“Once was enough,” Ellie replied flatly. The tension in her expression hinted at the internal dialogue she had engaged in as if she had carefully composed herself, steeling her mind and heart for whatever was coming.

“The fuck are you doing?” You stood there, gazing blankly at her. A hand rested on your left hip, mirroring the other hand on your right hip. The white megaphone was wedged against your side, the loose laces of the bottom of your bikini swaying gently in the breeze.

“What do you mean?” 

“Why are you just sitting there doing absolutely nothing?” you demanded, cutting her off as she tried to reply. “See those ladies over there? They ordered four diet cokes.”

“And?” She pressed her lips together, her eyebrows furrowing as she stared at you, confused.

“So get them their drinks—Gosh! Are you, like, stupid?” You exclaimed with annoyance, the frustration evident in your voice. Ellie’s brows, marked with scars, furrowed as she prepared to engage in a heated argument. “You… drinks… ladies over there… diet coke. Understand?” With a slow and exaggerated mocking tone, as if talking to an alien from outer space.

Ellie’s veiny arms were tightly crossed over her vibrant red t-shirt, creating a striking contrast against her fair skin. A look of determination furrowed her brow, her cheeks flushing as red as a ripe tomato, betraying her attempt to maintain composure and not cause any scene. “I’m a lifeguard,” she reminded you.

You couldn't help but stifle a dry chuckle as the corners of your lips curled up into a smile at her statement, practically laughing in her face. Stepping closer to her, you couldn't contain your amusement, “Look,” you said with a grin, your eyes fixated on the pool. The vibrant scene unfolded before you—children playing and swimming while adults engaged in animated conversations. 

Ellie turned around, following your gaze, and then turned her face back to yours, clearly not comprehending what you were referring to. “Look at what?” She found herself unable to resist the urge to question you again, the slight edge of irritation creeping into her voice, her patience wearing thin with each passing moment.

“Exactly—no one’s drowning.” You pointed to the lively pool, the laughter and chatter filling the air. Her gaze remained fixed on the scene before her, and her peripheral vision tracked you as you leaned in close to her. Your warm breath tickled the side of her neck, and she involuntarily shivered at the sensation. The auburnette froze in place, feeling your face mere inches away from her ear, “You’re not just a lifeguard. You’re whatever I want you to be,” you said, your voice a sinister hiss in her ear, each word dripping with venomous mockery. The corners of your mouth curled upwards into a prideful grin, your eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as you reveled in your power over her. She fought the urge to wipe that irritating expression off your stupid face. You were extremely gorgeous but so insanely maddening at the same time.

She clenched her jaw in frustration, her gaze following you as you sauntered away to talk to an older woman who was a regular at the pool with her child. Her self-admonishment grew when she caught herself checking you out, her eyes taking in the softness of your thighs, hips, and the inviting roundness of your ass. She hated herself even more for her body’s instinctive reaction to such a vision, a mixture of conflicting emotions coursing through her.

4th Of July.

The day was oppressively hot, and the pool was more crowded than usual, adding to the chaos. Ellie constantly moved back and forth, attending to tasks she had not anticipated having to do. When she applied for the job, she had envisioned a laid-back role where she could relax, sit on her ass and move only when necessary. Cause the chances of anyone drowning in a pool were very low, let’s be realistic. Instead, you proved her wrong, forcing trusting her with responsibilities that didn’t belong on her shoulders.

What truly frustrated her was how you remained still, doing absolutely nothing, while constantly barking orders and yelling at everyone around you. It drove the green-eyed girl crazy to witness how effortlessly you directed others without lifting a finger yourself.

Ellie collected the empty beer cans two men had left on the black countertop, wiping sweat from her forehead with her other arm, baby hairs sticking to her damp skin. She couldn’t help but scoff as she observed you from a distance. You were near the pool, lounging casually on a towel with your arms propping you up behind your back, engaged in animated conversation with your friends. You giggled loudly every now and then, amused by the hurtful comments your friends made about people who remained blissfully unaware of their disdainful stares.

Judgmental snakes that acted as if no one could measure up to or surpass them. It absolutely infuriated her. She loathed how you and those kids seemed to effortlessly receive everything you desired on a silver platter, while average people like her had to labor relentlessly for anything she hoped to achieve in her life.

It wasn't actually the wealth itself that angered her; rather, it was the blatant arrogance and smugness you all displayed, as if being wealthy automatically made you superior individuals with no moral values or empathy for anyone else.

Nevertheless, you had stunned her with your choice of attire that day—a two-piece bikini that revealed your captivating figure. Despite feeling frustrated that she couldn't catch a break while you lounged around doing nothing, she couldn't help but admire your otherworldly physique. Yet, it was wrong to feel that way about a piece of shit like you.

“Glad someone’s keeping her busy,” Alexis’ voice acted like an invisible tug on Ellie's sleeve, pulling her back from her thoughts. The freckled girl shook her head as if trying to clear her mind and curiously responded with a quiet “hm?”

“Too busy shit-talking with her friends to be up our ass,” The honey-haired girl carefully adjusted her hair, tucking a stray piece of golden hair behind her pierced ear. Ellie couldn’t help but quietly chuckle at the girl’s remark, responding with a warm smile and a subtle bob of her head.

“Right? I don’t understand how they haven’t kicked her out yet; she does nothing all day!” she complained as the blonde behind the countertop meticulously cleaned up the spill on the sleek black marble surface, casting a quizzical gaze in her direction.

“Kick who out?”

“Her.” Ellie leaned her forearms on the countertop, her gaze locked onto her blue ones.

Alexis let out a scoff and gave her a look “Why would her father kick her out?” Ellie’s eyes widened in surprise, her voice strangled as she almost choked on the air she was breathing. The incredulity in her expression was palpable, a clear indication that she had no fucking clue.

“What’d you say?” She questioned tentatively, inwardly hoping that her ears were merely playing tricks on her. The disbelief in her voice was evident as she tried to make sense of the shocking revelation she had just heard.

“She owns this place—you didn’t know?” Alexis asked in disbelief, speaking as if the information were common knowledge, which made it all the more surprising that Ellie was unaware of it.

But given your wealthy background and how you carried yourself, it suddenly made perfect sense. Everything fell into place. Your commanding presence wasn't just a show of authority—you actually owned this entire establishment. You weren't striving to save money for some personal goal as Ellie had assumed; rather, you were here because your family had ownership over the pool, the spa nearby, and every other facility in this area.

“Dude, I had no fucking clue,” she uttered, flabbergasted, her emerald green eyes darting in your direction as a gentle breeze played with the soft, auburn strands of her hair, tickling her face. 

The freckled girl observed the scene unfolding before her, her eyes fixed on the tall, muscular guy approaching your small group, a golden retriever trotting loyally at his side. Despite his sunglasses, she could sense his gaze fixated on you, and when you stood up to greet him, she watched your lips move but couldn't discern any words. Her thoughts were interrupted by Alexis's rambling, but her attention quickly shifted back to you as the guy started to engage in conversation with you, her stomach twisting in a strange flutter of unease.

“Are dogs even allowed in here?” was the first thing Ellie grumbled, her irritation evident as she interrupted her friend's rambling monologue. It was clear that she wasn't really paying attention to what was being said, her mind preoccupied with other thoughts.

“Pshh—when I wanted to bring my dog in here, she said I couldn't.” Alexis huffed, passing a popsicle to the young boy who had approached and requested it. A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth before storming off with his little brother. “Had to leave my Nana home with-” But Ellie wasn't having it. She was already storming towards you, her green eyes flashing with anger and determination. You had alwas doled out rules yet seemed to disregard them yourself. She didn't care if you owned the place and had the authority to do as you pleased. As far as she was concerned, you needed to adhere to the standards you had set, and she was determined to make that happen… and she wanted that guy gone. 

Your two friends remained laid out on their towels, one sipping on a cocktail and the other engaged in a gossip session, their conversation marked by animated gestures. However, as Ellie approached, they immediately took notice. This time, she paid no mind to their gazes, instead stomping up to stand just behind you, her arms crossed in a defensive stance. Meanwhile, you were oblivious to her presence, completely unaware of her lurking behind you.

You knelt down to give the guy's dog some attention, running your fingers through its soft fur and scratching behind its ears. You continued to pet the dog, a sweet smile gracing your lips, “Such a cute fuckin’ dog, aren’t ya?” Ellie listened as you let out a low chuckle, your voice dropping into a silly tone as you spoke to the dog. The pup seemed to perk up at your voice, tilting her head slightly to the side as you found the sweet spot behind her ear, causing her to lean into your touch and let out a soft whine. “Like owner, like dog.” You looked up at the guy, your voice taking on a more flirtatious tone than Ellie had ever heard you use before. Your eyes sparkled with a hint of innocence as you slowly stood back up.

The sleazy guy chuckled, a gravelly sound that echoed into Ellie's ears, threatening to make them bleed. It was incredible how, with just a hint of attention, you made him feel like he'd struck gold in a barren desert. You barely gave him the time of day, but that sliver of acknowledgment had him grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot. 

The boy’s eyes were glued to your chest, drooling over your perfect goddamn tits as if he'd discovered a hidden treasure in the most unexpected place. You were a twisted goddess of fortune, and he was more than happy to worship, soaking up every precious moment with a grin that said he’d do anything to stay in this heavenly hell. But all you needed was his weed, and while he was fantasizing about you, you were already thinking of dumping his ass when you didn't need him anymore. 

“What’s her name?” You flashed him a charming smile as you spoke, tilting your head slightly to one side as you looked up at him with a coy expression.

“Nelly,” He replied, pulling up his sunglasses, his brown eyes devouring every curve of your body without a hint of shame. He was eye-fucking you like it was just another day, and Ellie felt the bile rise in her throat. Men never ceased to amaze her; they were all disgusting, perverted assholes hiding behind a thin veil of chill and manners. What pissed her off even more was that you were letting it happen. You were into it. You reveled in the attention, loving every second of being liked, as if his filthy gaze was some kind of twisted validation. 

Was that what you needed? Validation?

Ellie decided to chime in, clearing her throat loudly. Your head snapped her way, surprise lighting up your sun-kissed features. Your carefully styled hair tumbling down your back—just one of the many things about you that baffled her. Why the hell would you spend time styling your hair every morning just to go to the pool? The heat and sweat would mess it up anyway. It was like trying to keep a snowman from melting in a sauna, completely pointless, but somehow, you did it every damn day.

“Dogs aren’t allowed.” The aburnette firmly stated, her words hanging in the air, drawing confused looks from you and the guy as if she were speaking a different language. But Ellie didn’t give a damn; she was just doing her job. Her mission was to keep everyone in line, making sure the rules were followed to the letter. That’s what your daddy was paying her for, right? 

You quickly brushed off her statement, returning your attention to the guy before you. “Nelly, huh?” you questioned with a wide smile, your eyes flicking to the dog patiently sitting at her owner’s feet. Her golden fur gleamed under the sunlight, her eyes a beautiful honey color. 

Ellie didn’t have anything against the dog; she loved dogs and had always wanted one. But that dude needed to fuck off. She couldn’t even put her finger on why she felt this way, so irritated and annoyed, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. The sight of you flirting with that douchebag made her blood boil, leaving her wondering why it all pissed her off so much.

“Just like my friend here.” You suddenly exclaimed, your fake, cheerful voice, cutting through the tense atmosphere and snapping Ellie out of her turbulent thoughts. 

“My name’s not—” she began, but you shut her off, waving a dismissive hand in her direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Nelly, Ellie… same thing,” you scoffed, your eyes still locked on the guy by the pool. “So I was saying…” Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper as you bit your lip, scanning him up and down, fingers gently tracing the contours of his strong arm. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes shamelessly glued to your cleavage, never quite making it to your face.

“Dogs aren’t—” Ellie tried again, her voice a persistent drone in the background.

“Don’t forget my stuff,” you whispered in his ear. You batted your lashes at him as you pulled back, your gaze locking with his. Ellie’s disgusted glare darted between you and him, her lips pressed into a tight line.

“I won’t. See you later?” 

“Hmm-hmm. See you later, handsome.” Your voice was honey-sweet, dripping with fake affection, and the guy seemed utterly spellbound, his eyes never straying from your body.

Ellie huffed loudly, the sound almost lost in the noise of the poolside chatter, and you turned to face her, annoyance flashing across your features. You reached for the expensive sunglasses dangling from your bikini top and slid them on with practiced ease.

“Jesus, Ellen, got nothing better to do?” you grumbled, your tone laced with irritation and disdain.

“Dogs aren’t allowed,” Ellie repeated, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. She stood there, arms crossed, an immovable wall of resolve.

“Are you done? Because you’re starting to behave like a bot. Maybe hanging out with Alexa over there is rubbing off on you,” you sneered, turning your back on her with a dismissive wave. You strolled back to your friends, who were whispering among themselves, their eyes darting towards Ellie with thinly veiled amusement.

She turned away, ready to resume her duties, but your voice, dripping with venom, sliced through her ears.

“Have you seen her?” one of your friends giggled, their voice a conspiratorial whisper.

“She’s so embarrassing, oh my god,” another chimed in, their laughter bubbling up like champagne.

“Embarrassing is an understatement,” you commented without missing a beat, your voice carrying a sharp edge. 

Ellie could feel the sting of your words, each one like a tiny drop of acid, smoldering away her already fragile self-esteem. She knew your cruel comments spared no one, yet hurt still bloomed in her chest, a dull ache that refused to fade. You loosed a laugh, a sound that blended sweet melody with sinister intent, leaving her captivated and repulsed. The echoes of your laugh, mingled with the cruel whispers of your friends, reverberated in her mind, morphing into a haunting, chilling soundtrack to her nightmares as she made her way back to her busy friend behind the counter.

“How’d it go?” Alexis questioned, her voice tinged with genuine concern as she handed Ellie a cup of sweetened tea. The blonde girl's eyes roamed across Ellie's face, taking in the tense, almost pained expression that twisted her features, preparing herself for the worst. 

“Amazing,” Ellie responded with a hefty helping of sarcasm, quickly downing the drink. She then slumped onto a stool at the bar, her elbows roughly digging into the cold, unyielding surface of the marble counter.

The shorter girl behind the bar chuckled softly, her laughter a soothing balm in the tense atmosphere. “You coming tonight?”

A look of perplexity etched on her face. The line marring her brow looked like a work of art that the blue-eyed friend couldn’t help but admire. “Coming where?”

“In your underwear—” Alexis deadpanned, before bursting into snorts of laughter at Ellie’s flushed cheeks, her reaction priceless. “To the party,” The silken strands of hair framing her face bounced as she spoke more seriously, her hands deftly collecting cups left by the sink, preparing to give them a proper wash.

“Party?”

“The whole staff is invited,” the blonde explained, her voice a melodic mix of excitement and mischief. “But no annoying kids around; The Bitch said we can use the pool.” Ellie couldn’t help but let out a small, crooked smile of her own at the name her friend had bestowed upon you. “You should come, Ellie. It’ll be fun,” Her voice was full of genuine enthusiasm as she scrubbed the cups with vigor, the water splashing slightly.

The redhead shrugged, still feeling the sting of your earlier words. “I don’t know, Lex. I’m not really in the mood.” Truth was that she didn’t want to spend a second more around you, especially outside work.

Alexis paused, her hands resting on the edge of the sink, eyes locking onto her friend’s. “Hey, don’t let her get to you. She’s just... Well, you know how she is. Come to the party, have some fun.”

She sighed again, the tension slowly easing from her shoulders. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Atta girl,” she grinned, resuming her task with renewed energy. “Trust me, you’ll feel better after a few drinks and a good swim.”

Ellie chuckled softly, the corners of her lips twitching upwards. Maybe Alexis was right. Maybe a night of fun was exactly what she needed to shake off the day’s negativity. The thought of the party, with its promise of laughter and freedom, was a small but welcome spark of light in the otherwise dark cloud of her thoughts. She sure as hell wasn’t going to let you ruin her day.

4th of July, The evening.

Ellie despised parties and loathed crowds even more, as they left her feeling left out and isolated in an unfamiliar environment. She longed to escape back to the comfort of her home, but that choice was unfortunately not an option for her tonight. The pale girl ended up giving in because of Dina and Alexis, who insisted so much that Ellie finally relented. She was almost physically dragged to the same pool where she worked, but this time for a different reason. It was to have fun and actually enjoy the pool, something she rarely did.

The pool was enormous, the kind that looked like only the wealthy could access, but luckily, it wasn’t expensive to spend a weekend there. The pool area was beautifully maintained, with lush greenery and elegant lounge chairs neatly arranged around the perimeter. It was a stark contrast to Ellie’s usual experience of scanning the water for trouble and scolding unruly kids.

She was almost happy to be there to enjoy some fresh air and lounge by the pool instead of acting like a barista and waitress—a job she had not signed up for. The redhead took a deep breath, feeling the warm sun on her skin, watching the water sparkle under the midday sun, inviting and cool. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The air was filled with the scent of sunscreen and chlorine, a familiar but somehow more pleasant combination today.

The group of friends settled into their lounge chairs, and Ellie let herself relax, her freckled shoulders sinking into the cushioned seat. For once, she didn’t have to worry about keeping an eye on everyone. She could just be a regular person enjoying a day by the pool.

The afternoon slowly turned to evening as the group passed around drinks and joints, creating a relaxed atmosphere. Ellie sat at the pool's edge, letting her feet dangle in the cool water, engrossed in a lively conversation with Dina and Alexis, who were seated beside her. The setting sun painted the sky with a golden hue, casting a warm glow over them. 

She had only taken a few hits off her joint, and already, she couldn’t focus on anything but your thighs. The way those shorts hugged your hips and left the soft skin of your thighs exposed for everyone to see was simply captivating. They looked as soft as silk. You wore nothing on top but a black bikini, your crop top on one of the empty lounge chairs nearby. 

All noise—the incessant chattering of her friends and random people you had invited—faded into the background. You were the only thing that mattered. The way you moved, talked, and gave that stupid jerk sitting by your side a charming grin that surely made him believe he somehow stood a chance drove Ellie crazy. 

What a dick, she thought to herself. 

Ellie’s friends continued to talk and laugh, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Her eyes flickered to her friends and then back to you. You passed a joint to Ryan, who took it eagerly, his eyes glued to your face for once.

It was as clear as day that Ryan wanted to fuck you right there and then. Ellie recognized the look in his eyes; it was the same one she had whenever she looked at you—or so Dina claimed. But you were so hypnotizing. The way your plush wet lips wrapped around the joint, taking big hits like it was nothing—no coughing, no hesitation. It wasn’t your first time.

Ellie observed the brown-eyed boy attentively, almost maniacally, noting how his eyes never left your tits. And how you didn’t seem to mind. You almost seemed at ease with the knowledge of being liked, desired. That also meant free weed for everyone. She watched you laugh, the sound like a siren call that cut through the buzz around her. The besotten girl couldn't tear her eyes away from the way your hair fell over your shoulders, catching the last light of the setting sun, giving you an almost angelic glow. You seemed so comfortable, so effortlessly part of this world of social interactions and causal flirtations. You wore your confidence like a second skin, and Ellie found herself drawn to it, like a moth who gravitated towards danger without second thought.

Seeing Ryan, who sat next to you, soaking up your attention, caused a pang of jealousy to hit Ellie. She longed to be the person who held all of your attention, but instead, she was just an outsider looking in. 

The evening air grew cooler, but Ellie hardly noticed, her focus remained solely fixed on you. The world around her seemed to blur, and all she could see was the curve of your lips, the softness of your skin, the sparkle in your eyes. She took another drag from her joint, trying to calm her racing heart. The weed did little to dull her intense focus on you. If anything, it sharpened her awareness of every detail, every movement. Although she yearned to be closer to you, she knew it was never going to happen, not even in a million years, and this awareness only fueled her inability to look away. So, all she could do was watch, caught in the spell you had casted over her against her will.

Ellie felt her throat go dry, as if suddenly all the water on the planet had evaporated, leaving her parched. It was only when Alexis nudged her that she snapped out of her trance, her red, half-lidded eyes refocusing on the blonde girl beside her. Alexis was too close, causing Ellie to shift uncomfortably, creating some distance.

Why was she focusing on you anyway? Alexis had been by her side the whole night, trying to talk to her and being overall extremely nice. But for some reason, it felt like getting a taste of something that was missing salt; it was flavorless. Alexis was sweet and nice—they even liked the same things, for God’s sake. A girl who liked the same comics as her? It was almost a canon event. But, of course, fate had other plans for Ellie because she wasn’t interested in Alexis. In fact, she found her presence almost… annoying. She mentally kicked herself for even thinking of Alexis that way. She was such a kind girl, just trying to be friends—maybe more—but Ellie couldn’t care less.

She knew it was ridiculous, this unrequited fascination with you. Yet, she couldn’t help herself. You were like a star, dazzling and distant, while Alexis, kind and warm, was like a candle—close and comforting but not enough to hold Ellie’s attention.

Ellie wanted to desperately feel something for Alexis, to reciprocate her kindness and interest, but it felt forced. She sighed, running a hand through her messy auburn hair. It was in moments like these she realized how messed up she was for always chasing people who couldn’t care less about her. She felt a pang of guilt for not appreciating Alexis, who was right there, trying her best to connect while her thoughts constantly drifted back to you. You were like a magnet, pulling her attention away from everything and everyone else.

She couldn't exactly recall how they all ended up disgustingly high, sitting in a circle and playing a stupid game of truth or dare like high schoolers. It was such a childish game, but here they were. Her eyes were fixed on the bottle as if her life depended on it, and when it landed on you, she started praying in every language she knew—though her repertoire was limited to English, and she didn't even know how to pray.

The auburnette had never been particularly religious; she didn’t even believe in luck or fate. She wasn’t sure what she believed in, preferring things she could see, things that were scientifically proven. So she didn’t know what the hell she was doing, always praying and hoping that you’d talk to her, act differently, maybe even like her. You were just you, and no amount of mental manifestation seemed enough for you to actually see her.

It was bullshit. It was even more bullshit when the bottle landed on that stupid guy who had been thirsting over you the entire night, practically drooling over your body. Ellie couldn’t look away, not even when the kiss turned into a full-blown make-out session right in front of everyone—right in front of her. His callous and hungry hands pulled you close, letting them roam over your body, your ass, your waist, while you wrapped your arms around his neck.

The sight of his hands exploring your body, of your lips moving against his with such abandon, was almost too much to bear. The green-eyed girl glanced around the circle, noting the mix of reactions—some amused, some awkwardly averting their gaze. But Ellie’s eyes were drawn back to you, unable to tear herself away from the sight of your bodies intertwined. His hands caressed the bare skin of your back, and Ellie felt a pang of envy so sharp it was almost physical. The makeout session seemed to stretch on forever, and once it was over, it kept replaying like a broken record in her sick mind, an agonizing reminder of what she couldn’t have. 

The green bottle spun on the mosaic again and again, its movements blending into a rapid blur on the floor. Ellie sat there, though completely absent; she felt as if she were a million miles away, her surroundings slowly fading into an enveloping fog, the Silent Hill kind.

Jesse nudged her gently, his voice breaking through her thoughts in a friendly but insistent manner. “Dude, you with us?” His words jolted her back to reality, piercing through the haze that had enveloped her mind. She blinked, her eyes snapping to his dark chocolate pools.

Following his gaze to the floor, her eyes landed on the bottle, its neck pointing directly at her. A fleeting moment of surprise flickered across her face, her heart skipping a beat as she realized she was the chosen one.

The word “Dare” burst out of her mouth before she could even process what she was saying. Immediately, she regretted it; the cinnamon-haired girl wasn’t exactly as gutsy as she sometimes pretended to be. 

And as fate would have it, the bottle’s spin ended on the very person she least wanted it to. Alexis.

Her scarred eyebrows pinched together in a disappointed frown, an unexpected dryness creeping into her mouth. With sluggish movements that felt almost like wading through molasses, Ellie slowly turned to face the girl beside her, the moonlight casting a soft glow over her blonde locks. Alexis's eyes sparkled with mischief, her lips curving into a wide grin as she scooted closer. Ellie remained rooted to her spot, frozen in place, unable to bring herself to move.

Ellie failed to notice that your gaze, as cold and piercing as ice, was fixed on her with persistent intensity. Your eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance shadowing your features. 

Both girls knelt face to face, and Alexis quickly placed her hand on her waist and leaned in eagerly for a kiss. However, just as their lips met, Ellie pulled away and gave her just a gentle peck. A collective boooo rang out from the surrounding crowd, expressing their disapproval at the briefness of the kiss.

Their eyes met, Alexis' blue eyes locking with hers, holding a hint of confusion. The group around them kept urging them to kiss properly, their voices chanting and encouraging them to go further. When her gaze shifted to the crowd, Ellie's gaze inadvertently locked with yours for a moment. Your eyes were fixated on her with a harsh, almost murderous glare, as if you wanted to rip her apart that very instant.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss,”

“Ohhh come on! We want a proper kiss!”

“I love lesbian porn.”

“Is lesbian porn even real?”

When Ellie broke eye contact and turned back to the golden-haired girl before her, she saw a look of remorse plastered on her face, as if she feared she had crossed a boundary. “We don't have-” But before she could finish her sentence, Ellie silenced her by pressing their lips together in a passionate kiss. Hovering over her, she gripped her by the waist, pulling her closer. Despite her efforts, though, kissing her felt almost nausea-inducing.

You didn't look away. Every second of Ellie and Alexis’ kiss was captured in the harsh, judgmental glare of your eyes. There was something almost perverse in how you watched, a blend of disgust and fascination twisting your expression. Ellie remained completely unaware of your intense observation, failing to notice the envy in your gaze and the deep-seated jealousy that gripped your stomach. Even if the redhead had detected your jealousy, she would have dismissed it as sheer animosity, failing to recognize the depth of your emotions. Just like she always did.

As the kiss ended, a huge, dumbstruck grin spread across her friend’s face, her eyes sparkling with joy like the myriad stars above them. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was slightly out of breath, clearly enjoying the moment. Ellie, on the other hand, had a look of regret and shock on her face, almost as if she was questioning every decision she had ever made in her life, a look that the blonde didn’t seem to catch on.

Ellie found it increasingly difficult to focus on the mindless dares and ridiculous questions being thrown around, her brain enveloped in a cloud of weed-induced haze. The substance in her system had relaxed her muscles to the extent that she felt like she was constantly on the verge of having an ‘accident.’

“I feel like I’m gonna piss myself—Did I piss myself?” Ellie mumbled softly into Dina’s ear, her words barely audible. Dina's dark eyes darted toward her friend’s lap, discreetly scanning for any signs of wet spots on her shorts, but there was nothing. In response, she shook her head while offering Ellie a small, sympathetic shrug and a lopsided smile that conveyed reassurance, her sleek ponytail swaying gracefully with the movement.

“You’re good,” her speech was slightly slurred, her words stumbling over each other as if she was struggling to articulate.

“Feels like my bladder gave up on me,” she grumbled, the damp spot in her boxers growing increasingly irritating. She harbored an unstoppable belief that she had, in fact, peed herself. The thought was persistent, a nagging paranoia that refused to go away no matter how much her friend had reassured her otherwise.

Dina’s perfectly shaped arches furrowed as she attempted to make sense of Ellie's slowed-down speech. The combination of alcohol and weed was a little too much for Dina to handle, as she struggled to comprehend what Ellie was saying. Thankfully, her boyfriend, who was much more sober, was there to keep a watchful eye on her. “Why aren’t you wearing a diaper?” she casually inquired, as if the redhead sitting beside her had worn them before.

“Uh, no? Why would I?” Ellie mimicked Dina’s confused expression.

“Don’t you, usually?” Her face was a portrait of genuine puzzlement.

Her auburn eyebrows drew together in puzzled bewilderment as she mulled over Dina’s query for a second or two, as if she didn’t quite know the answer herself. She started to respond, “Isn’t it too soon t—” but her words trailed off, replaced by an exasperated sigh. “Be right back,” she whispered, realizing it was futile to try talking to her friend, who was as high as gas prices.

The haze of weed and alcohol made everything feel surreal, like she was wading through a thick fog. Ellie’s mind was a chaotic mess, each thought bumping into the next. She stood up, her surroundings swaying slightly as she made her way to the back of the bar, walking around it. Even though she had worked there for quite some time and had likely been aware of the door behind the counters that led to the back of the building all along, she still decided to act like a mindless artificial intelligence bot instead. 

You watched Ellie attentively, your eyes trailing her every move. The perfect excuse to get up from the circle was getting more beer. Ryan, ever eager, immediately offered to help, seizing the opportunity to be alone with you. 

But God, who the fuck wanted his disgusting hands all over you?

Ryan was a means to an end, nothing more. You needed him for the weed, and you planned to ghost him the second you didn’t need him anymore. Weed was weed, and you’d do anything for free joints, spinning promises you had no intention of keeping. But guilt? That was a foreign concept to you. Playing people was your specialty: using them, manipulating them, treating men like him like obedient, panting pups. They were so eager, so desperate for your attention, that they'd leap at the chance to please you, dancing to your every whim. You took delight in their stupidity, toying with them to your liking. It was all fun until you got bored; then you’d dump them without a second thought, leaving them to wonder what they did wrong. 

They were all the same. No one ever stood out to you; each encounter a cold calculation. Men like Ryan were just pawns, easily replaceable, utterly expendable, tools to be used and discarded. You enjoyed the control, how they bent to your will, the thrill of watching them scramble for your approval.

Your mind, slightly hazy from the weed and alcohol, felt both razor-sharp and wonderfully numb. You didn’t exactly know what you were thinking as your hand hovered hesitantly over the doorknob leading to the back of the bar. You looked over your shoulder to ensure no one saw you slip through the door.

You stepped out just as Ellie stumbled out of the bathroom, her movements faltering briefly when she laid eyes on you. While in the bathroom, she realized that she wasn’t going to piss herself; she was just fucking horny from all the weed she had smoked—it always had that effect on her—and seeing you made the effects even worse. Her green eyes widened for a moment, resembling a cat's eyes caught in the headlights rather than those of a deer. However, she swiftly recomposed herself, continuing to walk without acknowledging your presence. As if you didn't exist, as if she couldn't see you.

“Hey,” You called out, your voice cutting through the damp night air, but Ellie ignored you. Her steps quickened as she walked past you, her gaze fixed ahead as if you were a mere ghost haunting her path. Conversations between you two had never been normal. She was high as hell and enjoying herself for once; the last thing she wanted was another night ruined by your incessant arguing and your inability to grasp the concept of kindness. With determined steps, Ellie headed for the door that led inside the bar, your eyes lingering on the intricate tattoo on her forearm, which reached for the handle with purpose.

Just as Ellie’s fingers glided over the cold metal, your hand grasped her other arm forcefully, the strength surprising even yourself. With a sudden, harsh move, you slammed her against the wall. “What the fuu-” she cursed under her breath as she flinched at the sudden impact of her back against the brick wall, but you abruptly silenced her. You detested being ignored more than anything else. You were accustomed to always receiving attention, with people hanging on your every word and making you the focus of their world. The sensation of being ignored felt completely alien to you.

“I said hey,” You repeated, this time your voice was harsher. Ellie’s eyes, a mesmerizing shade of green, seemed to sparkle in the moonlight, resembling glistening emeralds. Her dilated pupils looked like deep black voids that threatened to swallow you whole. Despite the visible signs of confusion and irritation on her face, an unmistakable sense of intrigue emanated from her, one that didn't go unnoticed by you, and a sly smirk played at the corner of your lips in response.

“Yeah, I’ve heard you.” She retorted, annoyed and sarcastic, though her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah? Didn’t seem like it,” you quipped, flashing a mischievous smile as you leaned closer, effectively trapping her against the wall. Your body hovered over hers, your arm positioned menacingly next to her head, the gap between you growing increasingly smaller. Ellie felt a lump form in her throat as she swallowed nervously, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of her chest. Her hands trembled at the sudden proximity, and her breath caught in her throat. She leaned against the wall, her body flattened as if trying to put as much space as she could between the two of you by melding into it. The distance between you had never been this small, your body practically looming over hers, encasing her against the wall. Her mind spun as your scent filled her nostrils, a dizzying mix of musk and something else that drove her insane; pheromones, perhaps? “What, you ignoring me now?” 

“No, ‘m no-”

“Yes, you are,” Your intense gaze made her skin tingle, as if deciphering her every thought and emotion swirling in her mind, “Don’t you wanna talk to me?” Your voice took on an innocent, almost petulant tone as you pouted, sticking out your lower lip and batting your eyelashes at her. 

The dim light cast long shadows, dancing across the rough brick wall. The scent of sweat, alcohol, weed, and something else—something electric—filled the space between you. 

“I don’t wanna argue,” the aburnette immediately replied, sighing as if to release the tension that had been building up in her system only due to your closeness. It was crazy how much power you had over her despite her trying to convince herself that she despised you because of your ugly attitude.

“Oh, baby, I don't wanna fight either.” Ellie's heart raced as she struggled to process the pet name that effortlessly rolled off your tongue. Her eyes frantically scanned her surroundings, longing for an exit that simply wasn't there. She could have easily distanced herself from you, pushed you away even, but she found herself drawn to the attention and the intimacy, both captivated and unsettled by the closeness. The warmth emanating from your body enveloped her, and the sheer force of your presence overwhelmed her senses. As her pulse quickened, the rhythm of each beat echoed loudly in her ears. Just as Ellie started to gather her thoughts, you gently lifted her chin, compelling her to meet your gaze. A delicate auburn strand of hair fell across her face, “Did you like it?” you suddenly interrogated her, reaching out to gently tuck the stray strand behind her ear.

“Like what?” she questioned back, her brow furrowed in confusion. Her voice sounded weak, and you could sense how your words made her feel small, even though it had nothing to do with height.

“The kiss—is she a good kisser?” your gaze fixed on her lips as your thumb traced a gentle path over her bottom lip.

Ellie let out a disapproving tsk as she pulled her face out of your grasp, causing your hand to drop limply to your side. “Why do you care?” Her question prompted you to glance back into her eyes. She was surprised by the intense yet gentle expression on your face. For once, you weren’t shouting at her, teasing her, or being a bitch.

“‘Cause I think you could do so much better,”

She couldn't fathom the words you were speaking or understand why you were studying her every detail as if inspecting a precious work of art, gazing at her as if she were a masterpiece rather than an inferior being. It made the freckled girl’s stomach twist with excitement and nervousness. A blush crept across her star-speckled cheeks as your eyes found their way back to her lips, and she unconsciously ran her tongue over them. It was at that moment that you leaned in, pressing your plump lips against hers in a hungry, demanding kiss.

As your lips met hers, Ellie felt like she was about to dissolve into a puddle. The texture of your lips was indescribably soft, almost as if they were crafted specifically for her. Initially, she was too stunned to reciprocate the kiss; her eyes widened in shock, resembling those of a startled cat thrown in a bathtub. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt as though her heart had ceased to beat; she was certain that if a doctor had measured her pulse at that instant, they would have deemed her deceased.

It took her a few moments to process the reality of the situation. The girl she had been pining over for ages—and that also made her life miserable—was kissing her. She couldn't be certain whether it was the effect of the weed she had consumed—perhaps she had blacked out in the bathroom, and all of this was simply a figment of her imagination—but as soon as Ellie felt your gentle hands drawing her in closer by the waist, she was certain that it was all too real.

She could feel your heartbeat, the heat emanating off your skin, your lips moving against hers. It was like stepping into a new world where everything was heightened and vivid. Your lips, soft and inviting, moved with a grace that left the green-eyed girl breathless. She felt like she was floating, untethered from reality, anchored only by the warmth of your touch. It felt right.

Ellie’s mind raced, thoughts colliding in a frenzy of disbelief and euphoria. How could this be happening? She had spent countless nights dreaming of this moment, and now it was unfolding before her.

Slowly, Ellie’s initial shock faded away, replaced by a surge of boldness. She began to kiss you back, tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence. Her pale hands gripped your face, pulling you impossibly closer, their touch greedy and desperate. She tried to push you off, to reverse the roles, but you pushed her right back against the wall, pinning her in place. Both of you craved control, the conflict only adding to the intensity of your interactions. Neither of you was willing to give up easily, the power play making everything so intoxicating. Ellie sought to put you in your place, to dominate you for once, while you had another fantasy in mind—to see her writhing and squirming under your touch, completely submitted to you. 

Her kisses were fierce and hungry, as if she hadn't tasted anything in days, and you were her first meal. Your lips muffled every delightful sound that escaped her, only serving to make you smile. Her hands tugged at any piece of fabric they could reach—the loops of your shorts, the laces of your bikini—as if trying to bring you even closer. She wanted you desperately, and you knew it. 

You had always known. When you weren't looking, Ellie had been looking. Her fern-green gaze would devour your exposed skin at the pool, filled with an intensity that could not be ignored.

The confirmation that it wasn't just a one-sided desire made you feel all giddy. From the moment she had accidentally bumped into you on the first day of college, you had wanted her. When summer approached and the prospect of more time away from your judgmental friends became a reality, you saw an opportunity. You asked Dina to help recruit more employees, promising her a slight raise in pay. Despite the plan being less than fool-proof and unlikely to succeed, it somehow unfolded exactly how you hoped it would.

Ellie’s breaths came in ragged gasps between the kisses, each one deepening the connection, fueling the fire between you. You could feel her trembling, the tension in her body creating a delightful contrast with the softness of her skin under your touch. Your hands traced the contours of her waist and the subtle dip of her back. Each touch sent a shiver through her, her body responding to your every caress as if it had been waiting for this moment, craving your touch. Her hands emulated your movements, exploring every inch of your body as if she were attempting to commit each curve and line to memory.

You pressed your thigh between her legs, and you swore you could feel the heat of her cunt through the fabric. Ellie’s response was immediate, a moan that vibrated against your mouth as her hips rocked against you in an involuntary, desperate attempt to find friction. The feminine urge to push her further, to test her limits, to make her beg for more almost overwhelmed you.

But Ellie refused to surrender, kissing you harder, more urgently, trying to take control. Her hands found their way to your hair, pulling you closer, her nails slightly scraping your scalp in a way that was both painful and pleasurable, eliciting a moan from you. But you stood your ground, pushing back, your hands gripping her hips tightly, keeping her in place.

You broke the kiss to trail your lips along her jawline and neck, the movement eliciting a gasp of pleasure from her. She leaned her head back against the wall, breathing heavily and unevenly as your hand slipped beneath her white T-shirt. You felt the muscles of her abdomen contract under your touch.

You were almost certain you had never seen her with her shirt off, not even when she was working. She always wore T-shirts and those red, men's style swim trunks when working. Perhaps you had caught a glimpse of her in a sports bra a time or two, but certainly never any more than that. You couldn't understand why Ellie hid so much. If only she could see herself; she was legitimately beautiful, her body toned and strong. But you could never tell under those slightly baggy shirts she always wore. 

Your hand pulled the hem of her shirt up to expose her abdomen as you knelt down, your mouth moving over her stomach, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin, eliciting exaggerated gasps and shudders from her, as if her body had never received the right attention before. 

But as your fingers grazed the waistband of her cargo pants, Ellie suddenly snapped out of her trance, realizing that you were out in the open and at risk of being caught. Her hand pressed against your shoulder, trying to push you away and stop you. You looked up at her, meeting her gaze, her eyes wide and dark and her pupils dilated with desire and tinged with fear. 

“W-we can’t, not here,” Her voice trembled as she spoke, barely above a whisper. Your head tilted, your eyes wide and innocent, your lashes almost touching your brows. Disappointment etched itself across your face, your forehead wrinkled in a frown so adorable that it made it even more difficult for her to deny you. Your expression conveyed a sense of need, of vulnerability, like you were completely dependent on her and needed her. It tugged at Ellie’s heartstrings, making her want to give in immediately.

“No one will see us,” You tried to reassure her, your fingers toying with the waistband of her shorts, but she intercepted your hands, stopping you once more. You huffed in frustration, your gaze flickering to the restroom on your left, then back to her face, hoping she would catch the hint. 

Several minutes later, Ellie found herself perched on the toilet seat, legs spread wide with you kneeling in front of her. The white fabric of her shirt was trapped between her teeth, her desperate attempt to muffle her soft moans proving futile. Ellie’s cheeks were flushed, and the scattered freckles that dusted her damp skin stood out vividly against the pink hue. Her brows were scrunched in pleasure and concentration; her eyes rolled to the back of her cranium before squeezing them shut, trying to chase her third orgasm already.

The sight of Ellie’s sports bra peeking from underneath her shirt and her tensed, toned abs had you drooling all over her pussy. You stared at the aburn-haired girl almost in a trance, captivated by her body as if she were your muse. Her abs were like a sculptor’s masterpiece. Your eyes traced the outline of her bra, the way it clung to her, wishing you could take it off, but you were too impatient to feel her cumming in your mouth again to do that, and you sure as hell weren't going to pull away. Maybe another time.

You could sense every fiber of her being, her body speaking a language you were fluent in that told you exactly what she craved. Your tongue, a delicate pink ribbon, traced her sopping slit with deliberate care, teasing, tasting, before zeroing in on that needy bundle of nerves that demanded your attention, a stifled whine escaping her mouth. Her moans grew louder, each one urging you on.

You devoured Ellie’s saccharine essence like a starved beast, your eyes locked onto her with the intensity of a tiger stalking its prey. Her expressions, a symphony of pleasure and desperation, were a masterpiece you couldn't look away from, your gaze drinking in every nuance of her expression, reveling in her artistry. And it was all for you. The mere thought of that made your cunt twitch in your bikini, which was now completely soaked; its sleek black fabric covered by translucent honey—not for everyone to see.

You danced between flicks of your tongue and alternating gentle, then demanding sucks. Ellie’s clit pulsed wildly in your mouth, her juices anointing your chin like a sacred nectar. She was the best thing you had ever had, not that you would ever admit it out loud to her.

Ellie’s moans were music to your ears, fucking divine, a soundtrack that was most likely going to play at the back of your mind while pleasuring yourself later on whenever you'd go back home. One of her thighs draped over your shoulder, her leg a soft but firm anchor as you wrapped your arm under the other, pulling her closer. Her taste, her very essence, was all-consuming, and you couldn’t get enough. 

Ellie’s teeth finally released the white fabric of her shirt, allowing it to fall back over her toned stomach, her lips swollen and a dazed look in her eyes. “G’na... fuuuuck…” she stammered, the words tumbling out in a deliciously incoherent mix of pleasure and haze, her mind too foggy to form a coherent thought. Ellie was completely lost in every flick of your tongue and every hungry suck on her swollen clit. 

You smirked against her, slapping the side of her thigh harshly, right over the pink imprint of your hand already etched into her skin. The sting made her whimper and jerk away from your mouth, but your grip on her thigh brought her back where she belonged. You had made a mess of the green-eyed girl, and stopping was the last thing on your mind, especially with her third orgasm looming. 

You were just getting started.

You hummed into her, the vibrations drawing little gasps from Ellie's mouth. You didn't stop. Even when her body couldn't take it anymore and silently pleaded for you to let go, you kept going, taking everything you could from her. Your tongue and lips were relentless, sucking harshly as she squirmed on the white toilet seat, trying weakly to push you away. Her hand at the top of your head was a feeble attempt to escape and move you away from her core, slow you down perhaps, but you didn't budge.

Ellie cried out, her voice breaking into whines as if she were on the verge of tears, your relentless moans against her clit only pushing her further. Despite her desperate warnings that she couldn’t take any more, you didn't stop until a warm flush sprayed against your face, making you pull away instinctively.

The thunderous booms and crackles of the fireworks outside were deafening, drowning out her loud cries and whimpers. Each burst of color and light in the sky timed up perfectly with the waves of ecstasy coursing through her body.

Ellie’s body trembled, her muscles twitching in the aftermath. You looked up at her, eyes glazed with satisfaction, licking your lips and savoring her taste. She was a beautiful wreck, panting heavily, her chest heaving with each breath.

“Did you just—” You glanced down at the glistening pool of her juices on the bathroom floor, eyes lingering on the sight for a moment before looking back up at her. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, rosy red, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. She exhaled shakily, the color on her face intensifying as embarrassment crept in. 

The thin layer of sweat on Ellie’s forehead caused her baby hairs to cling to her skin, sticking to the sides of her face. You pulled back, running the back of your hand over your mouth and chin, wiping away the slick evidence from your face. 

“Yeah,” she gasped, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

“Didn’t think you were a squirter,” you snorted, your hand coming up to gently stroke her thigh as she sat up on the toilet seat.

“Me neither,” Ellie admitted, her response causing your eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. A sense of satisfaction and pride filled your chest, knowing you were the one who had drawn that intense orgasm from her. As your eyes met, a giggle of contentment escaped your lips.

But the intimacy was suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Both of you tensed up, eyes widening in alarm at the unexpected disturbance.

“Ellie? You in there?” Dina's voice cut through the heavy atmosphere, her once-slurred words sounding slightly more coherent, likely due to Jesse's intervention in getting her to sober up. The sound of her words was a sudden disturbance, like a splash of cold water that jerked you and Ellie back to reality. You exchanged a hesitant look, both of you struggling to collect yourselves and regain composure

She hastily put her boxers and pants back on, scrambling to get dressed and compose herself. “Yeah, just give me a minute,” she called out hurriedly to Dina, her heart still racing from the recent encounter and the fear of getting caught.

Dina's voice sounded more concerned now, the sound of her trying to open the door sending a jolt of panic through Ellie. “Everything okay?” she asked. “Jesse and I are about to leave.”

“Yeah, shit,” Ellie muttered curses under her breath as you helped her tidy up, both of you scrambling to look presentable. She darted to the sink to clean her face, her voice trembling with nervousness as she lied to Dina, cursing the weed and blaming it for her nausea. Meanwhile, Dina stood outside the bathroom, her ear pressed against the door as she listened intently to the movement and sounds coming from inside.

She tried to open the door again, her interest piqued by the sounds of whispering and rustling coming from inside. “You okay?” she pried. The doorknob rattled loudly, but fortunately, you had secured the door earlier, preventing any potential intrusion. “Need me to come in?”

Ellie’s response was hurried and slightly panicked as she said, “No, no! I’m good, I’m good.” A short while later, the door opened, and a slightly disheveled Ellie emerged with a wide smile, approaching Dina, who looked puzzled and somewhat intoxicated. With her arms crossed, Dina scrutinized her best friend’s appearance, struggling to form a coherent thought.

“Are you okay?” the honey-eyed girl inquired, giving Ellie a once-over and attempting to peek behind her. But she promptly blocked her path.

“I’m feeling fantastic,” Ellie exclaimed with a wide grin, breezing past Dina and narrowly avoiding a collision as she gently guided her away from the doorway. With a quick flick of her wrist, she securely locked the door behind her. “Are you all set to head out?” she asked eagerly, striding off as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, trying to leave the situation behind her.

You heard Dina's footsteps fading into the summer night alive with the sounds of crickets, fireworks, and distant laughter; you let out a long, deep sigh of relief, feeling the cool tiles against your bare back, gradually easing away the tension and anxiety that had built up. 

As you stepped out of the bathroom, the bar’s dim lighting and background chatter enveloped you once more. You spotted Ellie and Dina near the exit, Dina’s arm around Ellie’s shoulders as they prepared to leave. Ellie glanced back at you, a secretive smile playing on her lips, and you knew that this night had changed everything.

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 2

summary: nearly a month has passed since you agreed to go to california with joel, and you think you might love him. you trust him, and he makes you feel cared for and safe, but he hasn't been telling you the whole truth. eventually, you make a shocking discovery that makes him feel like a stranger to you all over again.

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, DDDNE (graphic descriptions of blood, murder, and of captive/dead girls, non-con p-in-v sex (i'll say rape just in case but reader does not explicitly express non-consent), being held captive, degrading language toward victims/victim blaming, joel is implied to fantasize that you're dead while fucking you, kind of stockholm syndrome), non-con breathplay/choking, mommy & daddy issues, lying, gaslighting, coercion, manipulation, pet names (baby, darlin', sweetheart, babydoll, etc), no ellie/sarah but tommy has an unnamed daughter, somewhat inspired by "strangers" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s/80s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 8.1k

a/n: this is the second part. if the tags deter you from reading that's okay, just pretend joel and reader made it to california and they lived happily ever after. i understand i've written something dark and heavy and it isn't for everyone, you are welcome on my blog whether it's for you or not as long as everyone is respectful of each other <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 3

As the breeze begins to carry a chill that bites without the protection of a jacket or one of Joel’s flannels, the two of you have been spending the last month or so trying to outrun Autumn altogether as you make your way to California. You’ve crossed more state lines now than you ever could’ve imagined you would, and you and Joel have even made a game out of trying to spot the license plate of the farthest state away from wherever you are. He was impressed when you had recently managed to spot an Alaska plate in fucking Kansas, of all places. 

You spend your days visiting cheesy tourist traps and collecting cheap souvenirs from their gift shops, and your nights in motels or in his truck or in goddamn gas station bathrooms tangled up in each other’s bodies, unable to keep your hands off each other. The seal had finally broken just a few days after you had agreed to go to California with him, when he had laid his hand on your knee while he was driving, and you didn’t stop him from sliding it higher and higher, his fingers eventually making their way between your thighs and gently rubbing your clit through your shorts. Joel would’ve been content to play with your pussy just like that, pinching at your little nub and dipping his fingers into your drooling hole as he drove, but the noises you were making were driving him fucking insane. He had pulled off into a wooded area and instructed you to climb into the backseat, where he had shoved himself inside of you for the first time and fucked you until you saw stars. You never made it to wherever it was you were headed to that afternoon, deciding instead to just call it a day and spend the rest of it covered in each other’s sweat and come and breathing heavily into each other’s necks. 

You’ve seen new parts of Joel in other ways, too, in the time that you’ve been traveling with him. He’s been opening up to you, slowly but surely, as the weeks go on. You did eventually remember to ask him about that song you couldn’t quite make out at Moody’s, humming the bit of the chorus you could remember for him in hopes that he’d recognize it.

“I think I know the one, darlin’. Should have it on cassette somewhere here, ‘s called Alone and Forsaken, think it’s by Hank Williams. Hadn’t heard that one in a while, ‘s a winner, though,” he’d said.

You’d rifled through the contents of the glove box and pulled it out, excitedly swapping the tape with the one in the player and pressing the button on the dash to start the song. Joel’s fingers had begun to tap against the wheel immediately, and he seemed to relax at the sound of the guitar’s steady strumming. You had just watched him as the song played, admiring the subtle movements of the muscles in his face as he’d hummed along.

But he’d noticed your staring, after a while, and teased, “Y’know, really shouldn’t look at a man like that, babydoll. Might give ‘im some ideas.”

Babydoll. That was new, too. It had become his new favorite pet name for you, bestowed upon you when he had offered you another dress to wear from the stash of clothing belonging to Tommy’s daughter that he keeps under his backseat. Joel had told you eventually that he’d fibbed about his relationship with Tommy, just a little bit, and that he hasn’t actually seen him or his kid in quite some time. “Just kinda grew apart after a while, stopped keepin’ up with each other,” Joel had explained. “Jus’ never quite got around to gettin’ rid of all that stuff, I guess.”

You certainly didn’t mind having something new to wear, especially something as pretty as the little pink dress that got you your new name. Joel had looked at you hungrily when you’d first tried it on, raking his eyes up and down your form as you twirled for him.

“So pretty, sweetheart. Look just like a lil’ babydoll in that, don’t you?” Joel had complimented.

You’d giggled at the nickname, becoming shy as he’d stalked towards you and used a hooked finger to lift up your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his own. “Like that one, do ya? Like bein’ my babydoll, all mine?”

You’d sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, your brows peaked with need as your eyes had begun to glaze over from his gentle dominance. It had never taken much from him to make you start feeling a little floaty, even early on, ready to fall into his arms so he could make you gush onto his fingers or his cock or his tongue.

You’d nodded your head all syrupy and slow, making a little whimpering sound in affirmation.

“Say it,” he’d whispered, the hand propping up your chin slowly finding its way down to your neck, where it always seemed to land in your moments of intimacy. Joel had never really asked you if you liked it there or not, if you liked it when he squeezed your throat just right until your vision became spotty and your breath came out pinched and raspy, but you had learned to like it, to crave that guidance and control from him. He’d never taken it too far, just brought you teetering over the edge of unconsciousness, then allowed you to fill your lungs with air again. 

“I like it, Joel, like being yours…”

“Yeah… ‘n you’re gonna be mine forever, huh? Never gonna leave my side, always gonna belong to me, ain’t that right?” His grip on your windpipe had begun to tighten as he questioned you.

“Forever… ‘m yours, Joel…” you’d promised through a hoarse whisper.

A growl had rumbled from deep in Joel’s chest at your choked words, and he’d quickly let go of your throat to spin you around and shove you face-first into the creaking motel mattress, flipping up the skirt of your little babydoll dress and showing you just how pretty he thought you looked in it. “Mine, mine, mine,” he’d chanted as he caged you in with his heavy form, slamming inside of your aching cunt until you cried out, shuddering around him as he spilled inside of you. 

He calls you babydoll almost exclusively now, like it’s your actual name. Your everyday clothing consists almost entirely of frilly dresses and tiny tops and tight shorts from the supply in Joel’s truck, with maybe a few items he picks out for you at the occasional Goodwill mixed in. He’s made it so that you never have to think for yourself ever again, taking care of everything for you from picking out your outfits to ordering for you at the diners. All you have to worry about is being good, being his, his perfect little doll, and he says that you deserve a life as easy as this, that it’s the least he can do for you in exchange for your company, for being so good for him.

Joel does allow you to use your brain for some things, still, like bombarding him with the questions you’d begun stashing away in your mind all those weeks ago. Some of them he still answers vaguely, like where the scar on his nose came from, or if he’d been married before, or what his life was like before he met you. But sometimes you can get a story out of him, and it always feels like you’ve won the lottery when you’re able to get him talking. After the Hank Williams cassette had finished playing that day, you’d decided to ask him what he’d wanted to be when he grew up. 

He’d thought about it for a second, and then laughed at himself. “‘F I tell you, I don’t wanna hear any gigglin’ outta you over there, ‘s that clear?”

“I can’t promise you that if I don’t know what you’re gonna tell me. If you say, like, a rodeo clown or something, I’m gonna laugh.”

Joel had just glared at you, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Fine, I won’t laugh, I promise. Just tell me.”

“Alright…” Joel had sighed. “I wanted to be a singer, actually. Believe it or not.”

You had almost started crying right then, the visual of a little Joel all those years ago wanting to grow up and become a singer being almost too much to bear. 

“Awe, Joel… You can sing? Can you—”

“No, I ain’t gonna sing for you. Don’t even ask, babydoll.”

Joel had seemed adamant about that at the time, but just a few days later when a violent thunderstorm was blowing through the town you’d stopped in for the night, you’d woken him up when you couldn’t fall asleep, and asked him in a trembling voice if he would sing for you. He’d just grunted and rolled back over at first, but you’d kept quietly begging him, and he eventually gave in to your little frightened sounding pleas. You’d rested your head against his chest as he stroked your hair and sang Alone and Forsaken for you a few times over, until the soothing sound of his voice and the quiet thumping of his heartbeat had lulled you back to sleep. The thunder had eventually retreated when it realized you weren’t scared of it anymore, now feeling safe and protected in Joel’s arms. 

He could only take so much more questioning from you after a while, though, until he decided it was about time for you to reveal more of yourself to him, and you’d thought that was fair. You’d spent a whole afternoon in the truck one day telling him about how your dad had passed away when you were still in high school, and how you’d always wished he could’ve seen you walk across the stage at graduation and go off to college. How he was the one who’d even encouraged you to go in the first place, when you hadn’t felt smart enough or good enough at anything to ever find the pursuit worthwhile. But he’d always been supportive of your artistic endeavors, the ones your mom had always called ‘useless’ and ‘a waste of time’ and ‘nothing that could ever amount to a real job’. Your dad had tried his best to make you believe otherwise, always proudly displaying your work around the house when your mother would allow it, and even framing some of it for his office. It was devastating when he had passed, but at least you felt you could make him proud in some way, by deciding to pursue a degree in art at the nearby state school. But then your mother had ruined your chances of ever finishing the program, and, well… here you are now. 

After you’d finished your story, Joel had comforted you just like he always did, promising to find you a sketchbook and some pencils at the next town you came across so you could keep nurturing your talents. He’d made good on his word, and now your time on the road is often spent sketching Joel, his cassettes, the mountains, anything you see that sparks inspiration and demands to be committed to paper.

Today, the two of you are on your way to see the world’s largest something or other in New Mexico, and you’ve become determined to etch a drawing onto every page of your book by the time you reach California. You’ve sketched just about everything in the truck at this point, and different tries at capturing Joel’s handsome side profile already take up more than half of the pages that you’ve filled out so far. You begin scouring the cabin of the truck, searching for something new you can draw. You eventually try bending forward to look under the bench seat, just in case you can find a crumpled up candy wrapper or something, but an even more interesting object catches your eye, tucked just behind Joel’s legs. It looks like an old shoebox, maybe containing some more tapes or things belonging to Tommy’s kid. You try to reach over to Joel’s side of the bench seat to grab it, and he almost swerves the truck off the road when he notices what you’re doing.

“What’re you…? Don’t touch that, babydoll, jus’ leave it alone,” he scolds.

You sit up straight again, taken aback by his tone. “Why? I was just looking for something new to draw, thought there might be something in there.”

“It’s just junk in there, baby, nothin’ you’d much be interested in,” Joel says, his grip on the steering wheel becoming more white-knuckled.

“So? I can’t draw some old junk?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Joel sighs in frustration. “‘Cause I said so, babydoll, Christ. Just leave it be, I’ll throw it out next time we stop. Find somethin’ else to draw.”

“Okay… ‘M sorry,” you respond timidly.

“‘S alright, sweet girl. ‘M sorry too, shouldn’ta yelled at you like that. Just… tryin’ to drive here, don’t want you reachin’ behind my legs and shit, ain’t safe.”

You just nod, popping open the glove compartment for the hundredth time in hopes that there could be something in there that you’d missed before. There isn’t, so you decide to pluck out that Hank Williams tape and sketch it again, humming the song to yourself in an attempt at self-soothing as you begin to outline the shape of it. It seems like a bad time to ask Joel to sing it for you again, but if you’re good for the rest of the day and make up for your earlier mistake, maybe you could hear it again tonight.

—

You’re just finishing up your sketch a half hour or so later, when Joel decides it’s time to stop for gas. You glance over at the fuel gauge on the dash, and it looks like the truck still has half a tank left, but you decide not to say anything about it. Just like he’d said when you had first reached for the shoebox, Joel swipes it from underneath the seat as he exits the truck, tossing it haphazardly into the trash can by the gas pump. 

“Dammit,” you hear him curse to himself, and you look out the window to see him staring angrily at the empty pocket inside of his wallet where cash should be. Joel opens up the passenger side door to explain, “Forgot I used up the last o’ my cash on dinner last night. Just… stay here, babydoll, gotta head inside ‘n use the ATM quick, alright?”

You nod obediently, and watch him take long strides toward the convenience store before disappearing inside. 

He’ll only be gone for a few minutes at the most, so you know that you have to make your move now. You’ve never had Joel bark at you before like he’d done when you had reached for that beat up cardboard box, and you still feel a little rattled by it. What could possibly have been in there that he didn’t want you to see? For the first time, you feel like you might not be able to trust him, and it makes you feel a little sick. You’ve started to feel like you might love Joel, and you think he probably feels the same way, even if you haven’t said those exact three words to each other yet. Someone who loves you wouldn’t hide things from you, would they? Especially not after you’ve already bared so much of your souls to each other, after you’ve decided that you belong to each other.

There’s only one way to find out, you decide.

You exit the truck quietly, swiftly closing the short distance between you and the trash can and peering into the black plastic bag that lines it. You fish out the shoebox from where it lays on top of other garbage, and crouch down in front of the gas pump to hide yourself from view. Taking a steadying breath, you carefully remove the weathered lid from the box and begin to examine its contents. At first glance, it seems to just be full of washed-out polaroids and a few random objects—a tarnished charm bracelet, a fraying ribbon, and a cracked pair of glasses among them. What is all this stuff? You think to yourself, Keepsakes from his former life, more of Tommy’s daughter’s things that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of yet?

You pick up a photo laying face down on top of the pile and turn it over, almost immediately dropping it back into the box in favor of clapping your hand over your open mouth. You shut your eyes tightly as they begin to water, hoping that when you open them again, you’ll find that you were wrong about what you had just seen. That it was just a trick of the light, that it wasn’t what it seemed, that you had just imagined it.

But you aren’t so fortunate.

Your heart plummets into your stomach as you peer inside the box again, a sickly feeling of dread beginning to claw its way up the back of your neck. You examine the photo more closely, and it appears to be of a girl who looks about your age, bound at the hands, gagged, and naked. She’s kneeling on the damp forest floor, staring up at the photographer with a defeated, glazed-over expression. She’s bruised, bleeding from her nose, and filthy, with her hair tangled in knots and mascara-stained tears running down her cheeks. The photo looks to have captured her last moments alive. 

One by one, you quickly examine a dozen or so more photos as your pulse hammers hard in your throat. Each of them are nearly identical, all depicting a pretty early twenty-something, either restrained and begging for her life or already dead. They all have dates scribbled on the front that are spaced out a mere couple of weeks from each other, with the names of the girls written on the backs of them. To your horror, you notice that some of the polaroids even have bloody fingerprints staining their white frames. It seems impossible that Joel could be the one who took these photos, that he could be the one to reduce these young girls to nothing more than weak puddles of tears and blood. You begin desperately trying to convince yourself that this is all part of a fucked-up nightmare you’re moments away from waking up from, until a photo containing a bright flash of white catches your eye. You can’t help how your face contorts into a grimace when you examine the photo closer, your stomach lurching at the sight of the amount of blood spilling from the back of the girl’s head as she lays lifeless on a wooden floor. All that she’s wearing are her underwear and a white tank top, the ditsy floral pattern of which you could swear you’ve seen before.

You don’t understand why it looks so familiar to you until you spread around more of the polaroids in the box, and spot one capturing a girl tied up and gagged on a motel bed, wearing a baby pink dress that grotesquely juxtaposes the depravity of her situation. She has wide, pleading doe eyes and ribbons finishing the ends of each of her braids that kind of make her look like… a doll.

The realization hits you all at once, that nearly all of the clothes Joel has given you since the day you met him had never belonged to Tommy’s daughter at all, if he even has one, if Tommy even really exists. You’d been wearing Anna’s white tank top with the delicate floral print. Elizabeth’s pink babydoll dress. Even the clothes you have on now probably belonged to some of Joel’s victims, but you don’t think you can stand to find out which ones. 

Your thoughts begin to spiral out of control, an irrational part of your brain working overtime to come up with a million reasons why this can’t be true, that there has to be some other explanation for what you’re seeing, until you pick up a final photo, where the sleeve of Joel’s drab olive flannel is clearly visible in the corner. The shirt is tattered at the cuffs in the exact way that Joel’s is, and it has the same terracotta striping woven through the plaid pattern. Emerging from the bottom of the sleeve is a tanned, thick hand, wrapped tightly around a pale, fragile neck, with some of the girl’s blonde ringlet curls poking through the gaps between his fingers. When you flip over the photo, your blood runs cold when you read the name inscribed on the back—Ruby.

Your tears begin to fall then. How strange, how cruel, that fate has led you here, lured you straight to him. Someone that you thought you knew, trusted, loved, who’s suddenly a stranger to you all over again. You’ve just been doomed from the start, haven’t you? All along, it was Joel who had been responsible for building the trap you’ve found yourself ensnared in now. Ruby hadn’t run away at all that summer, hadn’t found a place she belonged, a place to start a real life for herself, a place to see her unlimited potential finally fulfilled. She’d met Joel, and he’d restricted her existence to nothing more than a polaroid that he keeps in a fucking shoebox under the seat of his truck. All along, this is where she’d been. 

You feel like throwing up. You’re reeling, completely horrified and sick to your stomach, your life as you had just come to know it having come crashing down around you in an instant. You quickly replace the lid on the box and throw it back into the trash can, hopefully never to be seen again. You scramble back inside the truck just in time for the convenience store door to swing open again, the little bell accompanying the movement sounding sharp and sinister as it announces Joel’s imminent arrival. Your pulse pounds erratically against your ribcage as you try to act as naturally as possible, forcing your shaking hands to look like they’re busy adding the finishing touches to your latest sketch. 

You don’t look at Joel as he approaches the truck, and he doesn’t seem to pay you much attention, either. He leans against the hood casually once he feeds the bills into the pump, letting the tank fill the rest of the way up with gas. You have to come up with an escape plan now, before your poorly disguised agitation gives you away and he figures out what you’ve seen. 

When his task is finished, Joel climbs back into the driver’s seat exhales a deep breath, like he feels relieved to have finally discarded the evidence so you’d never find out the truth about him. You’re determined to keep him clueless for as long as you can.

“Ready to keep goin’, babydoll? Should only be another hour or so ‘fore we get to the next stop,” he asks, reaching over to you to gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. You flinch away from his touch instinctually, then silently curse yourself for already doing such a shitty job at keeping up your facade.

“A-actually, um…” You swallow hard. “I’m kinda g-getting a headache, it really hurts. And I feel really s-sick. Is it okay if we just… go straight to a motel? I just wanna… lay down,” you lie, screwing up your face into a pained wince and wrapping your arms around your stomach in an effort to make it all more convincing.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Joel coos, placing the back of his hand against your forehead. “Y’ do feel kinda hot… Sure, darlin’. Think there’s a place not too much further down the road here, jus’ hang tight.”

“T-thank you,” you reply weakly. Your voice is coming out a little uneven, but you hope it just adds to the believability of your act instead of raising suspicion. You try to cover it up with a cough and a little pained groan, just for good measure.

Joel doesn’t waste any more time getting back on the road, and you stay quiet for the short ride to the nearest motel, doing your best to hold back your tears and even out your breathing. You’ll need to be calm and clear-headed in order to have any chance at escape, lest you want to meet the same fate as the dozens of other girls who were probably also blinded by Joel’s southern charm and good looks, who were manipulated by his lies and tricked into believing that he could give them a happy ending. Was he ever going to let you see California? Or had he been leading you to your death all along?

You’re going to be the one who lives. For Ruby, you have to be. For all of them.

—

Just like the first night you’d spent with him, Joel has you wait in the truck while he checks in at the counter and retrieves the keys to your room before coming back to get you. You fake a stumble when you step down from the truck, and Joel mumbles a ‘Jesus, babydoll’ before hoisting you into his arms and carrying you across the room’s threshold, setting you down softly onto the bed.

“Whaddya need, sweet girl? Water? Some crackers, or somethin’? Bet I could ask the front desk if they got some medicine or anythin’ like that,” Joel asks, sitting on the edge of the bed while you curl up and turn away from him. You do your best not to flinch this time when he decides to comfortingly massage the back of your neck.

“Can you ask, please? It hurts so bad,” you whine, unable to tamp down your shuddering sobs any longer.

“Sure I will, my poor lil’ girl… I’ll be right back, alright?”

Joel pets your hair for a moment, and the gesture would normally flood your belly with lovesick butterflies, but it only feels predatorial now, like a lion trying to convince its prey that it only wants to play, that it won’t be torn to pieces and eaten alive. 

Your body finally relaxes when Joel leaves the room, and you count out thirty seconds to hopefully allow him to reach the front office before you make your break. When you whisper the final ‘thirty’ to yourself, you spring out of bed and sprint out the door, almost tripping over your own feet in your race to reach the payphone you’d spotted earlier in the parking lot. You figured that trying to call for help would be a smarter move than running, and you’d never make it far on foot, anyway, not in the flimsy little dress and cheap canvas sneakers you’re wearing. You’d stolen a few quarters out of the truck’s center console while Joel was letting the gas pump, and you shakily deposit them into the slot, nearly dropping them. You punch the numbers 9-1-1 into the keypad, nearly ripping the phone clean off the hook as you bring it up to your ear.

“Come on, come on, come on…” You mutter to yourself, drumming your bitten fingernails against the hard plastic handset as the mocking dial tone trills in your ear.

“911, what is your emergency?” comes a voice on the other line, female. 

“Please, I need hel–” but before you can even finish the word, he’s on you, one large hand clapped over your mouth while the other rips the phone out of your hand and slams it back into the receiver. You kick and bite and thrash, but your pitiful attempts at escape do nothing to deter him. After all, his pickup is the only car in the lot, and your room is the only one with a light on. The clerk who checked him in could have never existed at all, for all you know. There’s not a soul around to hear you cry or beg or scream, except for him. You should have known that he would see straight through you, that he would’ve anticipated you getting curious and made sure he was always one step ahead of you. Joel drags you back to the room with a two-handed grasp on your upper arm, gripped onto you hard enough you’re sure his fingertips will leave bruises.

“No, no, no, please! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Joel!” You plead, using his first name in a pathetic effort to try to appeal to whatever morality he might have left.

“You stupid fuckin’ bitch…” he spits.

Joel kicks open the door to your room and flings it shut behind him so hard you’re surprised the wood doesn’t shatter, splintering into a million sharp little pieces. He throws you down onto the stained double bed you’ll be sharing tonight, if he doesn’t decide to use the yellowed comforter to wrap your lifeless corpse in later instead. You push yourself up into a sitting position and brace yourself for whatever he’ll do to you for disobeying him, for trying to escape. You’ve never seen this side of him before, never even come close to upsetting him like this in the time that you’ve known him. 

“Don’t know who the fuck you were tryin’ to call, but you better get it through that dumb fuckin’ brain of yours that nobody gives a fuck about you anymore except for me, you got that? Cops ain’t gonna do nothin’ about some fuckin’ runaway slut, ‘specially not one who’s got nobody to miss her in the first place. ‘S why you ran away, ‘s why I picked you up… ‘Cause we both know ain’t nobody gonna come lookin’ for you. Wouldn’t be able to find your body even if they did,” he barks at you, a huge paw wrapped in the hair at the base of your skull to keep your gaze trained on him.

“Please, please don’t hurt me! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I won’t ever do it again, I promise–”

“Y’ know… I saved you from that hell hole, I gave you everything, and this is the fuckin’ thanks I get?!” The low gravel of his voice seems to be coming from somewhere deep and cavernous inside of him. It fills the entire room with a black smoke that penetrates your eardrums and fills your mouth with something bitter.

“I know, I know, I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you–”

“Yeah, I know you weren’t fuckin thinkin’. Dumb fuckin’ cunt.” Joel releases your hair and you collapse in on yourself, beginning to sob all over again. You know it probably makes you look weak in front of him, but you can’t help it as the dread washes over you. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating, wondering if this will be the one mistake that seals your fate, if he’ll let you live long enough to see those aching little imprints on your arm from where he grabbed you bloom into purple-red blotches in the morning. With your eyes shut tight and hot tears streaming down your cheeks, you’re heaving, trying to catch your breath as you release broken little noises that sound like sorry, sorry, sorry. The repeated apology almost resembles some kind of prayer, as if that could save you now.

He lets you run the gamut of your terror for a minute before pinching the bridge of his nose, the calloused pads of his fingers squeezing that angry red scar that adorns it. He expels a heavy sigh and sits beside you on the bed, the springs of the old mattress screeching as they dip with his weight.

“C’mere, babydoll,” he says, quietly now, and you feel too weak to fight him as he pulls you into his lap and helps you to straddle your legs across his thick waist. You can feel his hardening bulge against your core through the thin material of your panties, exposed now by the skirt of your dress riding up and pooling at the creases of your thighs. 

“‘S okay, darlin’ I forgive you.” He lets you cry into his shoulder as he shushes you, rocking you side to side and petting the top of your head as if he were soothing a spooked little dog. When you’re able to take deep breaths again, your senses are flooded with his familiar comforting scent. The combination of his natural cologne and the softness of his voice reaches inside some deep corner of your brain that isn’t completely terrorized and disgusted by him, and it’s enough for you to lift your head up to face him again.

“Y-you do?” You squeak out as you sniffle, and Joel wipes away the last of your salty tears with one of his rough thumbs, sucking it into his mouth afterwards. He lets out a soft groan before gripping your jaw so that the fat of your cheeks makes your lips pucker.

“Yeah, babydoll… But why would you try to go off runnin’ like that, hm? Thought you were mine, my girl, thought we understood each other.”

His tone, the furrow in his brows and the slight pout of his lips make you feel guilty, somehow, upset with yourself for making him feel this way, for trying to run from his care and affection. “I-I thought so, too. But then… then I…” you stutter, finding it impossible to speak coherently anymore.

“Then what, babydoll?” Joel prompts calmly, stroking his thumb along your cheek as he squeezes it.

“T-the box… I saw—”

“Yeah… You saw my girls, didn’t you, baby? That’s why you tried to run, ain’t it? Look at me, babydoll.”

Joel jostles your face in his grip, and you obey his command, nodding slowly. When you look into his eyes, you finally notice how dark they’ve become, their usual warm amber color now appearing more red.

“You… you killed her. I-it was you.”

“Which one’re you talkin’ about, baby? Collected a lotta girls over the years, lose track of ‘em after a while.”

Your stomach churns at his callousness. “R-Ruby… I saw h-her. Y-you… you were…” You can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence, your words interrupted by your hiccuping breaths.

“Oh, Ruby…” Joel shifts his hips into yours, a growl rumbling from deep in his chest as he closes his eyes for a moment, turning over her name on his tongue. “Yeah… She was a pretty thing, wasn’t she? Feisty one, though. ‘Bout broke my goddamn nose. Wasn’t gonna be so rough with her, but… she practically asked for it.” He brushes his finger across the scar on his face, and your eyes well up again when you make the connection. “What else did you see, hm? Talk t’ me about it, babydoll.” Even through his jeans, you can feel that he’s fully hard now, turned on at the prospect of reliving those gruesome scenes.

Nauseating visions of the polaroids flash across your memory—the girl bleeding from the back of her head, the one with the cut throat, the one with her neck bent at an unnatural angle. “No, please don’t make me…” you shake your head at him, your bottom lip trembling as you fight back more stinging tears. 

Joel releases his hold on your face in favor of giving your cheek a harsh smack. “Wasn’t a fuckin’ question, girl.”

You use his loosened grip as an opportunity to try to scramble out of his lap, hitting your hands against his chest as you try to push off the bed and get back onto your feet.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. Quit fuckin’ strugglin’.” 

He’s got you flipped onto your back in a second, with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. He stands between your parted thighs, and you look up at him through blurred vision, one of his strong hands now attempting to cut off the blood supply to your brain as he uses the other to free his thick cock from his jeans. His teeth are bared, and the look in his eyes is faraway, as if the Joel you thought you knew is somewhere else entirely, miles away from this dingy motel room off the side of the freeway. He’s long gone now, replaced by this monstrous version of him that you don’t recognize.

“Keep fightin’, see what fuckin’ happens… I’d take the prettiest photos of you, y’ know that? Add you to my lil’ collection, have no choice but to be mine forever… You’d fit right in, babydoll, this perfect fuckin’ body.”

He slides a hand up and down his leaking shaft as he rambles, and it’s impossible to deny how much it excites him, talking about his killing, his ritual. 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, promised myself I’d be done after the last one but—fuck—just can’t fuckin’ stop myself. ‘S just so goddamn easy,” Joel hisses through his teeth. His hand never leaves your neck as he flips up the skirt of your dress and yanks your ashamedly damp panties down your trembling legs. He flings them haphazardly onto a discolored patch of carpet in the corner of the room, and it makes you wince, imagining how he must’ve disposed of so many other girls before you in the same careless manner.  

As hopeless as it seems now, you won’t be one of them. You don’t have any other choice, you have to make it out of this alive, you have to do something.

“W-what… what is?” You manage to choke out.

Joel looks down at you, almost startled, as if you’re an inanimate object speaking to him, like he didn’t expect you to have a voice.

“Huh?”

“Y-you said… it’s so easy. What’s easy?”

He licks his lips as he thinks on his response, a sickly smile tugging at the corners. “Pickin’ up a pretty slut nobody’s gonna miss, takin’ her home with me and turnin’ her fuckin’ lights out. They practically do it to themselves with all their strugglin’ and bitin’ and scratchin’, just want ‘em to fuckin’—unh—behave.”

You whine as he pushes his tip inside your little hole, but try to maintain your composure. You think you understand now, why he’s acting this way. He wants you to want to be with him, and it triggers some kind of deepset anger inside of him when you fight, when you run, when you throw his affection back in his face. Killing the girls might not even be his end goal, at least not when he first takes them, more like an inevitable side effect of what happens when they try to escape his captivity and he feels rejected, hurt, tossed aside. And then he lashes out. And then they die. And then the cycle repeats. You’d lasted this long because you’d been the first to not reject his advances, because he’d seen himself in you.

If you don’t fight, if you can keep him talking, if you can convince him that this is what you want, you might have a chance at survival. It’s not much of a strategy, but it’s something, and it’s better than giving up.

“How… how do you d-do it?” you ask, a little less rasp in your voice as his grip on your throat begins to loosen, but his hand never leaves it entirely. He slides the rest of his cock inside you as you stutter out your question, and he laughs.

“You sure you wanna hear it, babydoll? Might be a bit much for you.” He’s fully seated inside you now, and the stretch of him burns. Even though the two of you have been fucking like bunnies practically every day since you’ve met, you can only fight against your body so much, and the fear you’re trying desperately not to clue him into is making every one of your muscles tighten around him.

“No! No, I-I wanna know. Tell me, please…” You bat your eyelashes up at him for good measure, and his canine grin widens some more.

“God, y’ really are just as fucked up as I am, huh? ‘S why I kept you around, ‘cause you’re like me…” He begins to piston his thick length in and out of you, affectionately tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with his free hand as he does. The other one constricts your airflow once again, and you stifle a whimper, suppressing the urge to argue and spit back that you’re not like him. “Usually strangle ‘em, little throats always fit so perfectly in my hands, jus’ like this…”

His voice trails off as he shoves into you harder, picking up his pace. Your breathing becomes broken and frantic as you claw through the black cloud closing in on your vision in your effort to keep him talking. “And then what?” you squeak out.

“Squeeze ‘em, real hard and slow,” Joel growls. “Try not to come in my jeans just from the pathetic lil’ sounds they make when they’re prayin’ to God to save ‘em. Ain’t so gentle with ‘em if they put up too much of a fight, though. Jus’ gotta cut the shit sometimes, slice ‘em open or split their fuckin’ skulls just to make ‘em stop. God, you’d never believe the amount of blood a lil’ girl like you’s got in ‘em.” He’s slamming his hips into your sore cunt now, both hands wrapped tightly around your neck as he uses it for leverage. You feel your muscles begin to slacken, either from the lack of oxygen or from his just-right strokes against that little spot deep inside, you can’t be sure. It was just a survival instinct, you’ll tell yourself in the morning.

“Yeah? It’s… it’s a lot?” you prompt, skin feeling tingly and voice coming out hoarse, sounding like it had come from somewhere else other than your own body. It could’ve just been the wind, a tractor-trailer whistling by outside.

“Yeah, ‘s a lot. Bleed so fuckin’ much, y’ think it might never stop. Just keeps—fuck—comin’...”

Joel’s voice breaks on the telltale word, his thrusts becoming frenzied and disjointed as he nears his release. A few high-pitched moans manage to squeeze past your compressed vocal chords, and they’re half-genuine, half-forced as a means to spur him on and speed up the process. The stretches of skin between his thumbs and forefingers are pressing down, down, down against your windpipe, and you plead with him as coherently as possible in your race against that darkness threatening to swallow you whole. 

“C-come, Joel, p-please, want you to—”

“Shut up, babydoll. Fuck… Eyes on me, c’mon,” he orders, shaking you by the neck to wake you up a bit, prevent your eyes from closing all the way. “Look at me. Just… lay fuckin’ still, don’t make a sound. Hold your goddamn breath, okay? Don’t even fuckin’ blink.”

He’s never demanded something like this before, but you aren’t exactly in a position to disobey. You do as he asks, and some of it comes involuntarily, anyway. With your hands laid at your sides, eyes looking into Joel’s own but somehow past them, unblinking, your mouth slack and lungs paralyzed, you almost feel like…

Like one of them. 

“Tha’s it, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants to himself, rutting into your limp body with abandon as he chases his high. You can’t help but let another tear slip past your lashes, and he doesn’t wipe it away this time. 

A few more bruising pulses of his cock later, and all the blood rushes back into your head at once as Joel lets go of his vice grip around your neck, collapsing on top of your still form and breathing heavily into the damp skin of your neck where your wet tears have collected. He stays like that for a while, still slotted inside you, and you let him come back into himself for as long as he needs, not daring to move a muscle until he permits you to do so. 

Joel slides himself out of your leaking hole when he’s finally caught his breath, grunting as he pushes himself up off the bed and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He studies your abused form, then tuts when he notices the marks he left around your throat.

“Better make sure you wear your hair down tomorrow, I reckon. Got a decent record of keepin’ the law off my ass, I’d rather keep it that way.” 

Tomorrow. He plans on letting you live. Until then, anyway. 

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

Joel doesn’t let you out of his sight again for the rest of the evening. He’d helped you up off the bed and into the shower, where he’d cleaned both of your bodies and scrubbed the dried tears and sweat from your skin. He’d sunk his claws into your scalp as he washed your hair under the scalding water, and you wondered if the suds could carry even the intangible filth down the drain with it—the guilt, the fear, the defeat, the violation. You almost wish you hadn’t looked in the box at all. What difference would it have made, if you’d stayed with him in ignorance? Those girls are still dead. It’s not like you can save them now. You couldn’t even save yourself.

Joel changes you into one of his large t-shirts for you to sleep in tonight, instead of a frilly nightgown or something else short and revealing that he’d usually pick out for you. You suppose that the choice of clothing acts as a more visible representation of his ownership over you. He’s marking his territory, scenting you like a dog. Like you’re his bitch.

Joel holds you suffocatingly close to him in bed that night, his arms wrapped around you so tightly that it’s difficult for your ribs to expand. He keeps one hand possessively wrapped around the column of your neck, not squeezing, just to remind you what he’s capable of. As if you could ever forget. 

“Y’know what, babydoll? I think we could be partners, you and I,” Joel says in a slow, gravelly voice, right next to your ear.

“W-what do you mean?” You whisper back into the darkness.

“I just… I tried to quit, y’ know, but I don’t think I can. I don’t want to. Too damn old and slow to keep chasin’ after ‘em anymore, but… ‘f I keep you around, you’d just make the perfect bait, wouldn’t you? That pretty face, sweet lil’ smile, you could lure ‘em straight to me, they’d never see it comin’.”

“See… what coming?”

“My hands. The knife. A fuckin’ rock. Whatever, ‘s up to them.”

His words linger in the air, and you know you should say something, but how could you possibly respond to what he’s asking of you?

“You want me to… to kill—”

“No, no, ‘course not, babydoll. Wouldn’t even have to be in the room while it’s happenin’, would never ask my sweet girl to get her hands dirty like that. Jus’ gotta bring ‘em to me, tha’s all. Maybe go after ‘em if they try to run. I mean… you’d rather it be them than you, wouldn’t you sweetheart?” Joel’s hand closes in around your throat, and you understand now what he’s offering you—a deal. Your life in exchange for helping him grow his collection of victims, helping him satisfy his urges. He’s made you feel indebted to him, like you owe him something in exchange for letting you live tonight. He thinks he’s found something special in you, a victim who finally can’t run away from him, who won’t, now. There’s enough of a connection still here, although held together by fear, that he knows you won’t try escaping again. Because he saved you, the first time from starving on the side of the road, the second time from himself. And you owe him your life, now, in some form or another. 

You only nod against the pillow, but it seems to be enough for him.

Joel kisses the back of your head, breathing in the smell of your hair. “I love you, babydoll.”

His fingers press harder against your arteries, making it clear that you have no choice but to respond with what he wants to hear.

“I love you too, Joel.”

The words are still true, you think, somehow. But it just feels like you’re saying them to a stranger now.

You wish you would’ve listened to the one useful thing your mother had ever told you—not to talk to strangers, or you might fall in love.

tag list: tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @k1l4ni @joelsdagger @hjzghi-blog @natalieispunk (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[fishfission-dc]

Batfamily Powerpoint Night! (Part 10: Alfred)

<<Part 9: Barbara 

[Masterlist]

Alfred: Actually, I have prepared something I would like you all to see.

Bruce: Oh lord...

[collective sigh]

Alfred: I have noticed that many of you are electing not to return used dishes to their proper location to be washed. 

Barbara: Oooh... that one’s on me, sorry Alfred.

Alfred: Miss Gordon, I trust you not to spill anything on the computer console, but I still think it best not to have open beverages in the presence of... other company.

Dick: Is he talking about-

Tim: Yeah he’s talking about us.

Bruce: Hn.

Steph: Only Bruce does this, Alfred, I promise.

Alfred: I am well aware, Miss Brown. 

Bruce: ...sorry.

Duke: How do you not spill anything using mugs in the Batmobile?

Cass: (signing) Impressive.

Jason: Okay, this one has to be Dick.

Dick: ...That’s probably me.

Tim: A teacup? A teacup and its saucer??

Dick: I was already drinking it at the time-

Alfred: Just bring it back next time.

Steph: HA

Damian: ...They like the-

Alfred: I highly doubt the dogs have a preference of plates.

Damian: ...understood.

Jason: WHICH ONE OF YOU-

Tim: STEPH. STEPH THAT IS YOUR BELT.

Steph: I CAN EXPLAIN

Barbara: Steph why is a mug in your-

Steph: I BRING THE MUGS HOME AND I PUT THEM IN MY BELT TO REMEMBER TO BRING THEM BACK TO ALFRED BUT THEN I FORGET

Duke: How many mugs are in your belt right now? 

Steph: ...

Dick: Steph.

Steph: A couple...

Alfred: Three. I checked twenty minutes ago.

Steph: ...Sorry Alfred.

Tim: ...Okay-

Dick: Tim. How on Earth-

Steph: HOW IS THIS ANY WORSE THAN ME KEEPING MUGS IN MY BELT

Tim: Sometimes I save time by eating in the shower!

Jason: That is like... a family sized tupperware container.

Damian: Drake, this is no longer efficiency, it is insanity. 

Tim: ...Sorry Alfred.

Bruce: ...how-

Barbara: Cass... Cass this has to be you.

Cass: (signing) ...Sorry.

Steph: Honestly I’m not surprised by this.

Duke: Are we not concerned that Alfred’s been repeatedly climbing into the rafters to collect these dishes?

Alfred: Oh it’s not the furthest length I’ve gone for you all...

Bruce: I may have left a serving dish at the Kents’ apartment in Metropolis, I apologize.

Tim: I don’t think I left anything in San Francisco... or Nanda Parbat.

Dick: TAMARAN?! I’m probably responsible for New York and Bludhaven, but that one was NOT me.

Jason: Ooooh, yeah... uh... that was probably me...

Steph: You left a tupperware container on Tamaran?!

Jason: And maybe... other places... I keep forgetting to bring them home.

Damian: How many of these locations are you responsible for, Todd?

Jason: Uh... definitely Star City and Tamaran... and Miami... Paris... and Washington, Hong Kong... maybe also Nanda Parbat. Oh, and I definitely left a cup in San Francisco...

Barbara: Oh my god.

Jason: ...Sorry Alf. Won’t happen again.

Alfred: I’m glad you appreciate the leftovers, Master Jason, but yes, please return the dishware.

Duke: Oh that’s definitely my bad... Sorry Alfred.

Alfred: It’s alright, my dear boy, you didn’t know.

Bruce: ...how long has that been the system?

Dick: Probably not long... I definitely didn’t do that as a kid...

Jason: Definitely changed while I was dead...

Alfred: That has been the system for 42 years, I would appreciate if all of you started adhering to it.

[a chorus of “Sorry, Alfred” as they retrieve their dishes, thus ending Powerpoint Night. The end.]

<<Part 9: Barbara

[Masterlist]

[paddockletters]

lost in traslation | oscar piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x reader summary: Oscar and you face your greatest challenge yet—finding each other with almost zero spanish skills.

The streets of Mexico City were alive with noise, color, and an endless swirl of people—definitely a bit of a culture shock for Oscar and me. The market was packed with food stalls, crafts, and shoppers bustling around, and we’d wandered into it with stars in our eyes and zero sense of direction.

“Alright, love” Oscar said with a grin. “Stick close, and don’t go falling for any shiny trinkets.”

“Falling for them? Oscar, you’re the one who almost bought that mini mariachi hat five minutes ago,” I teased, nudging him.

“Fair, but that was a strong moment of weakness. Won’t happen again.” He winked, and we both laughed, enjoying the chaos and our little jokes as we explored the stalls together.

That is, until I turned around, mesmerized by a stall of beautiful hand-painted bowls, and… Oscar was gone.

A slight jolt of panic hit me. I spun around, peering over shoulders, scanning every direction. But instead of his tall, familiar figure, I was met with a wave of strangers speaking Spanish, moving in every direction.

I pulled out my phone, praying it wasn’t as dead as it looked. A whopping three percent.

“Oscar? Where are you?” I muttered, biting my lip.

Oscar’s POV

One second, she was next to me, laughing at my absolutely fantastic jokes, and the next, I looked down at a plate of churros, ready to buy some, and she was gone.

“Right…not ideal.” I looked around, walking up to an older woman selling trinkets.

“Um, perdón (sorry)… looking for my… uh, girl? You know?” I gestured awkwardly, trying to remember what little spanish I’d learned.

The woman smiled, her face lighting up with understanding as she pointed in five different directions, rapid-fire Spanish rolling off her tongue.

“¿dónde? ¿donde?” (where? where?) I tried to catch a few words, but it was like trying to catch smoke. She was probably saying something like “good luck finding her in this chaos, mate” but it was hard to tell.

After a few seconds of this, I just nodded, gave a polite “Gracias" and decided to move in the opposite direction of wherever she pointed.

y/n’s POV

I sighed and decided it was time to embrace the “funny hand gestures” method of communicating. I approached a man by a taco stand, trying to ask if he’d seen a blond, tall, slightly confused Australian wandering around. Not that he’d know Oscar’s nationality, but I went for it.

“Um… I’m looking… my amigo” I said slowly, desperately mixing Spanish and English.

“Very tall, with hair… uh, blonde?” I mimed tall and pointed to my hair. The man squinted, trying his best to understand, before nodding and pointing to the right. I smiled, said a grateful, “Gracias” (thank you) and hurried off.

After weaving through about a hundred people, I finally spotted him, his tall frame standing out among the crowd, looking just as lost as I was.

“Oscar!” I called out, waving like a maniac.

He turned, his eyes lighting up as he jogged over, relief all over his face.

“There you are!” he said, grabbing me into a quick hug.

“Thought I lost you to the churros” I laughed, hugging him back.

“Can’t leave you alone for one minute without getting distracted by market treasures,” he teased.

“Right, I’ll remind you of that the next time you buy an entire tray of tacos.”

He laughed, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, you got me there. But look, from now on” he said, grabbing my hand firmly. “I’m holding onto you for dear life. I’m not letting go until we’re safely out of here.”

“Good plan. Let’s go buy that mariachi hat, then.” I grinned.

“Deal.”

[revelboo]

Reading up on your fics has essentially become a daily activity for me. It's really helpful in rougher days I need something to look forward to :)

You also got me into blokees! I'm now gambling away in hopes of getting Kickback (my beloved).

That's all! Thank you for all the writing and please take care <3

Thank you! I’m glad you like my stories!

He’s a cutie and if they follow their current pattern, we should get Shrapnel or Bombshell in the next wave

You (Don’t) Know Me Pt 6

Insecticons x Reader

• Overwhelmed and drowning in memories, thoughts, and emotions that aren’t yours, it’s like swimming in light. Feeling both of them tangling in you, warm and coaxing softly. And you can almost sense the unspoken question there even as you retreat from them, feeling them both trailing after you like shooting stars. Every time they brush against you, more of them spills into you until you feel like you know them as well as you know yourself. Kickback just wanting to be seen and acknowledged by his brothers, knowing he’s not as strong as they are. Hating how much he has to rely on them. Shrapnel wanting to protect his hive, wanting a queen and home. To not be dependent on Megatron knowing how little he thinks of them. That they’re inferior.

• It’s a different sort of hunt, racing after you as you make them chase. Every time Kickback brushes against you, he gets a bit more of you. Learning who you are. Your dreams and desires becoming his to protect. Can feel when your confusion shifts to something more playful. Refusing to surrender to them still, but he doesn’t mind. Knows he won’t be able to fully bond with you until you let him. Until he’s worthy of it. And wants that.

• Your light and warmth beckon Shrapnel, wanting to be the one to capture you, to drift through all of you. Aware of Kickback refusing to back down, when he always submits, his brother as desperate as he is. And then you’re turning to face them and they both crash into you, twining about you. Coaxing for you to claim them in return and unable to be truly angry when you resist. Because you’re not going to be conquered. You’re going to make them prove themselves.

• “Pit spawned, greedy little glitches,” that deep, snarling voice startles you, strangely aware of your real body still pinned between them. Of the feel of Kickback’s spike rubbing against your belly and Sharpnel rutting against your inner thigh as their sparks tangle through you. And that connection pulls and shatters to make you whimper, feeling like you lost something that matters. Head lifting as they hastily right their plating protecting their sparks, you stare at Bombshell. At the blood on his clawed servos as he throws a dead deer down to make you flinch. “Like fragging sparklings.”

• Glaring at his brothers as Kickback at least looks apologetic, Bombshell licks his servos clean. This is how they repay him for providing for the hive? Shrapnel just grinning up at him before turning his attention back on their human. And you squirm between them, reaching up to catch Kickback’s head and to push him away when he tries to claim your mouth to coax you into mating again. “No,” you say and his optics narrow behind his visor as Kickback hesitates. “Talk first.” And he laughs to make you look up at him.

• “That’s more like it. Can’t have a timid queen,” the biggest one growls. Bombshell. After being tangled in his brothers, you know him well enough to be wary of him. To realize he’s as likely to eat you as fuck you. Trying to not look at the deer, your stomach roils. Is that dinner? You have a bad feeling it is and that’s a hard pass. “Make your demands,” Bombshell adds, his long glossa sliding over his servos. Making you remember exactly how those glossas feel inside you.

• Servos ghosting over soft skin, Kickback vents softly, singing out softly when you sit up to straddle him, forcing Shrapnel to let you go and back off some. “We were just worried you might eat our little queen, queen,” Shrapnel says, flashing Bombshell a grin as he turns his attention on the deer. Can feel his spike aching and hard, but behaves instead of lifting you and guiding you to ride him. Looking to you for guidance and you seem to suddenly realize they’re all watching you. Waiting.

Previous

Next

[tennessoui]

You feed us so well, you spoil us rotten!

I’ve loved every single one of the little creations. My absolute favorite is kenobi’s trial. I’ve been thinking about it the whole evening after reading. If you ever think that it needs a continuation, I am so here for it.

Also, reverse vaderwan had me frothing at the mouth. Which is not surprising since I love throat fic so much.

If you have more, then #29 or 30 for the ask game? 🥺

i am a simple woman, you tell me you like reverse vaderwan i give you more reverse vaderwan (though a slightly different flavor this time)

[from this list of prompts]

[5. 'are you jealous' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' (LATEST) - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

29. 'i thought you were dead.'

Darth Tyranus puts his teacup down onto his saucer with a small clink. "Ah," he says, turning his head to examine something in the Force that Solence is unable to feel. His eyes stare unseeingly out at the storm currently battering against the castle's walls. "Yes, I wondered when it would be time."

"Master?" Solence says, placing his own untouched piece of toast down onto the plate in front of him. "What is wrong?"

Tyranus blinks at him, mouth tightening for a moment as he seems to weigh his words and his options carefully. Darth Solence has only been apprenticed under Tyranus for six months, but he understands the importance of such care in choosing one's plan of action. His first master never was able to teach him such things.

His first master, when he was called Obi-Wan--when he was a Jedi padawan, when Anakin Skywalker was his master--

"It seems my former master has sent his new apprentice to kill me," Tyranus tells him. "Retire to your quarters for the morning."

Solence blinks. Automatically, his hand clenches and unclenches in his lap, jerking towards the hilt of his lightsaber. "What? No."

Tyranus sneers as he stands from the table. "You are no match for Vader, boy. He would kill you in a heartbeat."

"You said I'm powerful in the Force," Solence argues, standing as well and rushing after Tyranus' form. "That you were impressed by my control of the Dark side--and you saw me neutralize the whole legion of Imperial troops we encountered on Fielen!"

"No, Solence," Tyranus' voice leaves no room for any further argument. He stops short of the door to the grand hall, turning to look down at Solence with a severe expression. "Though your control of the Force is impressive for someone your age--" Solence is twenty-two, not exactly a youngling-- "and though your control over the Dark side is commendable for someone as Light as you once were--" Obi-Wan, padawan, little star, focus on me, alright? Your katas were sloppy today, let's work on them... "--your power is that of a vibroblade compared to Vader's ion cannon. Now go."

"Tyranus, two Sith are--"

The back of Tyranus' ringed hand connects with a smack across Solence's upturned face. He can feel the instant split of his bottom lip as Tyranus' ring cuts it open.

"No," Tyranus' voice is final, the hit a punctuation mark and a warning all in one. As he turns away from him, Solence lifts his hand to press it to the stinging skin. He has had worse. Endured worse at the hands of this master. The Dark side cannot be taught to an apprentice as delicately as Master Skywalker had once taught Obi-Wan Kenobi the powers of the Light.

And yet...he frowns as he watches Tyranus stroll through the open doors, out of the safety of the fortress, presumably to meet Sidious' apprentice--Vader--at his ship. To catch him off guard? To negotiate? To die?

Perhaps if Tyranus had not told him the truth, the reason behind his sudden dismissal, Solence would have gone to his quarters none the wiser. But he can't leave now, can't stand to watch another one of his masters die, even though the respect he holds for this one is a tiny spark compared to the love Obi-Wan Kenobi once nurtured for Anakin Skywalker.

Darth Solence grabs his dark cloak from the side room and pulls the hood up over his face before following Tyranus out into the storm.

It does not matter if he cannot win a duel against Darth Vader. He must try. He must try, not even because of his respect for Tyranus. Not even because he does not want to lose another master.

He must try because Tyranus said that Vader is Sidious' apprentice, and there is nothing in the galaxy that Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Solence, hates more than he hates Darth Sidious, emperor of the galaxy.

It had been this hate that had led him to the Dark side. Hatred and grief at the death of his master in the final days of the war. Sidious had burned the Jedi Order to ash and from its corpse built the empire, and Obi-Wan will die with hatred in his heart for the monster who killed the Jedi. For the monster who killed his master.

He'd been on his first solo mission of the entire war, the day the Order fell. Anakin had been so stubbornly against it, so wary of having his padawan out of his sight during those last few months. Obi-Wan thinks of it now, though it's always painful, and he wonders if perhaps Anakin knew that something terrible was going to happen. His master was always so in tune with the Force.

Perhaps if Obi-Wan hadn't been so insistent, so eager to prove himself as a man, as his master's equal--perhaps if he'd been just a little less obsessed, just a little less in love--

It matters not. In the final days of the war, Obi-Wan had gone behind his master's back and requested a mission from the Council themselves. Stretched thin as they were, they'd agreed in a heartbeat, and Obi-Wan had been sent to Mandalore.

Then the clone troopers on his ship had turned their weapons onto him. Then the Jedi Order had fallen. Then the training bond between his master and him had broken, snapped in two by the weight of the man's demise.

And Obi-Wan, broken and bleeding and grieving and full of poisonous hatred, had found himself on Serrenno, at Darth Tyranus' feet. Tyranus had explained it to him. All of it. How Sidious had manipulated the Order, the galaxy. How he'd consolidated power during the sham of the war effort. How Tyranus had helped him until the moment that Sidious had another younger and more powerful apprentice in his claws. The day Darth Vader had risen, Tyranus had fled. "There can only be two," Tyranus had told Obi-Wan. "One sith master and one apprentice."

It had been so simple, so easy to look back at Tyranus and ask him to take him as his apprentice. A new Sith lineage with only one goal in mind: revenge. Freedom in revenge, power in it.

As the empire rose from the ashes of the Order, so did Solence rise out of the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi--out of the ashes of his hatred.

He'd sworn the day his eyes turned gold that he would dedicate the rest of his life to Sidious' demise. It would not bring his master back to life, but it would feel good to kill the monster who had taken him in the first place. It would feel right.

Tyranus should have known better. He should have known that the moment he'd mentioned Sidious, Solence would throw aside every shred of logic, every bare thread of a plan.

Vader is Sidious' apprentice, not Sidious himself. But Solence thinks it would be so sweet to kill Vader. It would be like practice for the day he faces the emperor.

The rain beats down on him as he follows Tyranus to the shipyard, rocks turning slippery beneath his feet. Tyranus' saber is already lit, a dull red in the darkness of the storm.

As they close the distance from the castle to the yard, Solence can make out another beam of red light, standing still--waiting. Vader.

Tyranus does not attempt to negotiate. The moment he is within striking distance, the old man has his saber above his head, bringing the blade down upon Vader's with all the force he can muster.

And yet, Vader deflects the blow as if batting away a fly. Solence inhales sharply as he ducks beneath the engine of a ship and peers out at the two sith lords. Vader is--Tyranus was right. His presence in the Force is like an ion cannon. It is like a miniature sun, though without any of the warmth.

Tyranus stands no chance.

Obi-Wan wouldn't either, not if he fought with honor and integrity as the Jedi taught him. But Solence is a sith in his own right, and Vader is not expecting two sith. He has the upperhand of surprise. If he can ambush Vader--stab him in the back while he is focused on Tyranus--

Vader's voice is mechanical through the black mask that covers the expanse of his face. "Pathetic," he tells Tyranus as he extends a black glove through the air. The Force bends to his will, and Tyranus is thrown back into a different ship. "Surrender, and your death will be quick and merciful."

Tyranus spits onto the ground before him. It is perhaps the most uncouth thing Solence has ever seen the Count do. "I do not want your mercy."

"Then you shall feel my wrath," Vader intones and he tightens his fist. For a moment, Solence isn't sure what the sith is doing, until Tyranus' hands come up to scrabble uselessly at his throat. He's choking him, Solence realizes, legs tensing beneath him. He's choking him with the Force.

"Goodbye, Grandmaster," Vader says, and Solence isn't quick enough to mask the gasp that the word draws from his lips.

Grandmaster. It--there is something there, something that doesn't make sense because Tyranus was once in the Jedi Order, once had a padawan who had once had a padawan of his own, but how could he be Vader's---

Vader's mask is staring straight at him.

Before he can fight back, the Force is wrapped around his arms and legs, pulling him out from beneath the star jumper. He lands on his hands and knees at Vader's feet, head pushed down so that the edge of Vader's boots is all that he can see.

The Force eases around Tyranus, though the bonds around Solence's wrists hold so strong that Solence is unable to even twitch. "You have an apprentice?" Vader asks, derision dripping from each word, and Solence wishes he were able to speak. Wishes he could spit at the sith the same way Tyranus had.

"Not a very wise one," Tyranus gets out, voice thin and gasping from the strangulation.

"Then I will end this lineage before it has a chance to grow into a problem," Vader decides, and the Force flexes around Solence, screams as it tightens along his throat. Solence makes a noise, small and automatic. Even as he tries to push against Vader's control, he cannot move. He feels like a piece of prey caught between a predator's locked jaw.

This is how he dies. He sees it now, understands. He'd survived everything else, but this--Vader is what kills him. Anakin, I'm sorry, Anakin, Obi-Wan thinks as his eyes darken from the lack of oxygen. I couldn't do it, I couldn't avenge your death, I'm sorry

"Don't," Tyranus yells, and the sound is so distant it feels as if it has come from a past life. "Look at him, look at his face, Vader!"

The Force loosens its grip marginally, and Obi-Wan gasps for what little air he can get. Around him, the Force--Vader--sways. Curious. Vader is curious as he looks at the top of Obi-Wan's hooded head.

But what reprieve Tyranus thinks this will grant them, Obi-Wan doesn't know. After all, Sidious killed the entirety of the Jedi Order. Why would Vader, his apprentice, refrain from killing one former Jedi padawan? His hands are probably darkened with the blood of many.

It is useless to fight the press of the Force as it yanks his head back, forcing his hood to fall and his face to be exposed to the pouring rain. Instead, Obi-Wan musters the power to glare at the downturned, monstrous slopes of Vader's black mask as it stares back at him.

"E chu ta," he spits, because his master, Anakin, used to curse the same way, and it makes Obi-Wan feel warmer in the face of his certain demise to take something of Anakin's and make it his own.

Vader stares down at him, wordless. Even the Force has frozen in the air around them, binds still tight against Obi-Wan's body but loose enough around his throat that he can breathe.

He can't look away, though he wants desperately to look at Tyranus, to see if Tyranus has managed to free himself in the face of Vader's distraction. Perhaps that had been his plan all along.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vader finally says. His voice is flat through the vocodor. Mechanical, but loud. The Force unfreezes and begins to whirl around them. "What is this trickery? Who are you?"

The mask swings around to look at Tyranus, and the Force grows darker with Vader's fury. Obi-Wan glances at his master as well, but Tyranus has done nothing but struggle to his feet. His saber is still several paces away.

If he is to survive and mount a counterattack, Obi-Wan needs to distract Vader again.

He doesn't understand the sith's reaction, but that doesn't mean he can't use it against him.

"I am Darth Solence," he declares, pushing up and against Vader's control of his body. "Tyranus is my master--"

"Is it a clone?" Vader roars, striding through the mud of the shipyard until he has reached Tyranus' side. His physical hand wraps around Tyranus' throat and lifts him into the air, even though Tyranus is not a slight man. "Tell me!"

Obi-Wan pushes himself to his knees, though he is powerless to do more than watch. "Master!" he hears himself say, even though he never calls Tyranus that. Even though the word is reserved for one man alone, one man who will never hear him say it again.

It feels right in the moment, and it must mean something because both Tyranus and Vader's heads snap to him.

"He is dead," Vader growls, and the leather of his glove creaks with the force of his fist clenching around Tyranus' neck. "What--"

"He survived," Tyranus grunts, hand scrabbling at Vader's arm as he tries to take in oxygen. "Sidious lied to you--he came to me, I have been training him, for you, to give to you, to--"

The words cut out as Vader's lightsaber ignites and cuts through Tyranus' throat. Obi-Wan yells out before he can stop himself as he watches the body of his master, his second master, fall to the ground.

And he can do nothing but kneel there, frozen, as Vader turns around to look at him.

The sith is breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the Force of it. In his hand, the still-lit saber trembles. "You are dead," Vader tells him.

Obi-Wan can't disagree. He is dead. Vader will see to that in a moment. He has been dead since the moment Vader's attention caught on him beneath the star jumper. He will be dead shortly. He will--at least he will rejoin Anakin. He has missed him so terribly.

He does not even realize that he's begun to cry until he feels the fingertip of a rough glove touch his cheek, catch one of his tears and lift it away from his face.

"I don't understand," Vader says. The Force is whipping itself into a hurricane around them, but if Vader doesn't understand then Obi-Wan doesn't understand either. "I thought you dead."

Vader must have known him then, Obi-Wan realizes. When he was a Jedi padawan. He must have been an older Knight or Master, the way Tyranus was once Yan Dooku before he Fell. But in the face of Vader's confusion, the pain that lances through his Force signature at those words, Obi-Wan shakes his head, unable to bring himself to agree. He is dead. Obi-Wan died the day his master did.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead," he says. "I am what remains."

Vader takes a step away from him, hand tightening around his saber. Obi-Wan closes his eyes braces for the blow, prays that it will be quick and painless and that when he opens his eyes once more, he will see his master again.

And--and he does, though he feels no lightsaber connect with his body.

Yet when he blinks open his eyes, Anakin Skywalker's face is staring down at him, Darth Vader's mask held in his hands.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but no words come out in the face of the impossible. It is impossible.

This is impossible.

And yet--

And yet, Anakin Skywalker is there before him, red saber tossed to the side and mask dropped at his feet so that his hands are free to grab at Obi-Wan and pull him closer, pull him into his lap.

"I thought you were dead," Anakin is muttering as his nose runs along the planes of Obi-Wan's face, as his hands grab at his hair and then his cheeks, then further down, along his shoulders and chest. "Sidious said you were killed, I thought the worst--"

"No," Obi-Wan whispers, nonsensical. Nothing makes sense. This does not make sense. Obi-Wan's master is dead. Obi-Wan's master is here, holding him. But he can't be because he is dead. He died when the Temple fell. He died. His master is gone.

His master pulls his face away from his neck so that he can stare at him fully, hand stroking along his cheek, thumb rubbing at Obi-Wan's split lip. "Little star," his master murmurs. "You've come back to me, my pretty little star."

His master's eyes are golden, dark and crazed, and his Force signature is dangerous, possessive and heady. A firestorm, a hurricane. A black hole. Something that seems intent upon swallowing Obi-Wan and never letting him go again.

But he calls him little star.

And Obi-Wan throws his arms around his master and begins to sob.

[woradat]

2 Road 1 Together

SUMMARY - you float around in space like it's your home, and the exosphere is your backyard. The one that he have passed through twice, two times passed, two times met at different times

PAIRING - drift x reader, deadlock x reader (mostly)

Wandering through space with no rules, no map, and absolutely no idea what counts as "dangerously close to death" or "might get shot down just for blinking wrong"—now that’s your style.All you need is a curious cluster of stars, a planet with an unscanned surface, and a weird energy signature that makes your gut go: “Yep, I wanna poke that"

You’re the kind of curious that’s probably going to get you killed one day—or any minute now, actually. But hey, you’re still here, right? If the universe wanted you gone, it would've tossed you into a black hole eons ago. But no, you're still out here—vibing, floating, sipping lukewarm energon, and flirting with fate like it's an ex you never really broke up with

So, of course, you turned toward it

Like always and of course, you really shouldn't have

That was the first warning—the radar pinged something it couldn’t categorize, just before it cut out completely from interference that wasn't in any of your logs. You blinked slowly at the screen while your ship’s front cam caught it: a gleam of black and silver slicing through the void like a shark in deep water. Yeah, that’s not a meteor

You leaned back in your pilot seat, cradling your half-empty metal mug of slightly-warm energon, eyes narrowing from the star-glare bouncing off some uncharted, no-name rock in the distance “…Well, hello there, flying corpse” you muttered, flicking the comms open just as a voice came through—deep, stern, and not particularly in the mood for jokes

“Identify yourself. Unaligned vessel. You are trespassing in Decepticon patrol territory"

You made a face—not because you were scared, but because the word Decepticon always made your energon taste a little like regret

“Chill. Do you guys always open with that?” you replied casually, swirling your mug

“I’m not here to pick a fight. I just got… wildly off-track. As one does”

There was a pause

You half expected lasers, half expected dead air.Instead, your screen lit up—someone patched through the visual. And the face you saw? Yeah, that definitely wasn’t some border grunt, sharp frame, red optics that looked like they wanted to extract your spark and write your sins on it in high-grade. His face was so calm it was actually unsettling, like he’d done way worse than kill people and still didn’t lose sleep. You could practically see dried oil on his plating—except you had the feeling it wasn’t always oil

“I am Deadlock” he said coldly “Who are you? And who owns that ship?”

You smiled, shifting in your seat like you weren’t very much sitting under a Decepticon fleet’s laser sight

“Ship’s mine. Bought it used—nameless rock, three months ago. Total steal. As for me…” you lifted your mug for a sip, real slow “...do we ask names before killing now? Kinda kinky, but alright. I’m no threat. Ship doesn’t even have weapons"

Another long pause

“Land your vessel at the coordinates. Sent”

“Copy that, scary-voice”

—

The planet's surface was dry, dusty, and iron-flavored. You landed inside a neat little circle marked with a big ol' Decepticon symbol—like a passive-aggressive welcome mat that said “Congrats, you didn’t get shot. Yet” The ship door hadn’t even fully opened before something banged hard against the outer hull

“Exit the ship. Slowly” You did. Hands up. Easy smile. Totally unarmed. You scanned your surroundings—three figures, but only one stepped close enough to make your instincts twitch

Him

Deadlock stood tall, all hard lines and silent threats. His plating was scratched, weathered, and battle-worn—less a bot, more a weapon with legs. Red optics, still sharp, still watching like they could slice through lies with a blink. Every part of him screamed danger. Your processor finally caught up and flashed his stats across your HUD

DEADLOCK

CLASS: ENFORCER / SIC

STATUS: ACTIVE – TURMOIL UNIT

You swallowed. Great. Out of all the possible space-gremlins you could have annoyed today, you picked the tall, deadly, not-even-bothering-with-a-gun guy

But, hey. You’ve danced with worse. Probable

“I ask again” he said, voice like a warning shot “Why did you enter this sector?”

“I didn’t know it was your sector" you shrugged, hands still up “I saw an energy spike. Looked interesting. So I checked it out. That’s kinda… my thing"

“Lying?” he said flatly

"Exploring” you replied with a grin “Freelancer. No allegiances. No interest in your war. I’d offer to let you search the ship, but honestly, I’d rather you didn’t rifle through my underwear drawer”

He stepped closer. Way closer than was reasonable unless you had a death wish—or you were him. For a second, he said nothing. Then he turned to his subordinates

“Return to base. I’ll handle this one"

You blinked “..Ohhh, so that’s how this day’s going..”

.

.

The light from an unfamiliar sun stretched long across the ochre stone, painting shadows like veins on the broken skin of a dying world. The ground was cracked, breathless—as if the planet itself had exhaled its last—and in that breathless silence, only the sound of metal kissed the gravel underfoot

Deadlock moved slowly, every step deliberate, the rhythm of a ghost not yet ready to stop haunting

He was approaching you

And you—

You were seated beneath a jagged outcrop of native rock, its harsh form worn smooth by time, your back resting against its flank like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged in the quiet places that war forgot

Your gaze was tilted to the sky, distant and full of wonder, like an astronomer from myth tracing constellations no one else remembered.

There was no tension in your frame, no fear, no urgency

Only that soft stillness of someone who had long since stopped expecting answers from the universe—and had begun, instead, to listen. One hand moved through the air, slow and unhurried, drawing symbols only you could see—delicate arcs, invisible lines, like mapping a star’s secret trajectory across your mind, the way a poet might write with light

“You can’t leave” His voice broke the silence like a blade slipping into a lake—sharp, but careful

You didn’t flinch

Instead, you turned to look at him the way one might acknowledge a passing signal: calmly, politely, almost absentmindedly

“Still being interrogated, huh?” There was no sarcasm, only mild curiosity—like he’d asked you what frequency you were tuned to, not just informed you of your captivity

“You searched my ship already, didn’t you?”

You returned to the sky without waiting for confirmation, like the answer didn’t matter, not really

There were stars out there still

Stars that had seen wars rise and fall, and didn’t blink for either

Deadlock didn’t reply right away. He stood there, the shadow of his frame stretched over you, his optics unreadable

He didn’t know what held him in place

There was no protocol, no justification – You had no weapons. No data caches. You weren’t a spy, or a threat, or even an asset. You were, in every practical sense, nothing

And yet—that was the part he couldn't let go of

You were the only one who had ever looked at him and not recoiled. Not bargained, not grovelled — You just sat there — Unchanged, unbothered, unreachable, like the stars above you

“You are on your own” he said at last

“No crew. No defenses. No shields or countermeasures”

“That’s right”

“Why?”

The question came out rough. Not because he wanted to accuse you. But because he didn’t know how else to ask the thing that was clawing at him inside: "Why do you risk this?" "Why are you not afraid?" "Why are you not trying to escape from him?" "don't you feel.. lonely?"

You turned to him again, the way one might turn toward warmth in the cold—softly, gently—and offered a smile.

Not mocking, not performative just a quiet honesty, carried like a candle between hands “Because I only want to see the world. Not conquer it”

It wasn’t the kind of answer that struck like thunder. It didn’t burn like fire. It was gentler than that — Like a drop of clear rain falling into a war-scorched desert and disappearing without sound, yet leaving behind something that didn’t quite evaporate

Deadlock stared at you

He had seen empires fall and comrades bleed out in the silence of space. He had delivered death in cold precision, had seen entire planets turned to ash in pursuit of conquest. But he had never, never, heard someone say they simply wanted to see

No dominion. No survival

Just presence

He didn’t understand it and he hated what he didn’t understand. But he didn’t leave – Instead, he lowered himself slowly to the ground beside you

No fanfare, no force

Just the quiet, unfamiliar act of choosing to stay. He left a small space between you. Enough not to intrude, not so much as to sever the thread between you, thin and strange as it was

And you—You didn’t shift away, didn’t question it, didn’t even ask “How long are you going to keep me here?”

As if you'd already decided the answer didn’t matter. Not compared to the way the stars still shimmered, ancient and unapologetic, above a planet that had nothing left to give

.

.

He was quiet for a long while, as if the words had to crawl their way out of the wreckage inside him “…You like it, then?”

“the stars?”

“No… I meant the way it makes you feel”

You didn’t answer at first

You just smiled—that faint, elusive thing, like starlight trying to find its way through the dark of a half-shuttered window and then, without a sound, you laid yourself down fully on the flat, cold surface of the stone

It cradled your form like a long-lost memory—unforgiving in texture, but strangely familiar in its silence

“Of course I do” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper “It never demanded anyone to pick a side. It never pulled anyone into a war they didn’t ask for..”

There was no venom in your tone, no bitterness. Just an old ache, worn smooth like the stone beneath you—like something you'd carried for so long it had stopped cutting into your circuits. Deadlock stared down at you, at the way your optics held no urgency, no defense

You weren’t trying to justify yourself, weren’t trying to change his mind

You were just… being

“Are you running from it?” he asked, though the words felt foreign in his own voice. You let out a breath that could’ve been a sigh, or a laugh, or maybe just the sound of something letting go

“I’m not running” you said

“I’m just not chasing it anymore”

He didn’t understand

Not really

Not in the way he understood blades and missions and silence that followed orders. But something about your words lodged itself inside him, like a shard of light piercing a place he’d forgotten he had

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because what he wanted wasn’t something he could ask

He just… watched

Watched you trace invisible shapes in the stars with your optics, your fingers twitching slightly like you were sketching something only you could see.

Watched the way you seemed content to let silence fill the air between you— not as a weapon, not as a shield, but as a choice

He wondered how long you would lie there if he said nothing. How long you could let peace settle over you like a cloak. How long before the world demanded something of you again—and whether you’d yield, or vanish, or simply turn away

He didn’t know and it scared him—this not-knowing

This ache for something he couldn't name

Because deep in the pit of his spark, in that place no training could reach, he feared that if he let you go—he might never see that kind of freedom again

—

The stars were bruises in the night sky—deep violet and silver, bleeding slowly across the horizon as the remnants of a distant supernova whispered through the black. Cold wind stirred the dust around the rock you sat on, sharp with metal and ozone, the smell of a world long-abandoned

Deadlock stood a few paces away, framed in the dim light like a statue too stubborn to erode. His armor caught the faint gleam of a dying moon—scratched, dulled, but still solid as the name he bore. He hadn’t moved in a while. Not since you both fell silent

Perhaps it was the silence itself that unmoored him

“…What are you, really?”

His voice broke the stillness not like a blade, but like the creak of ancient hinges—rough with disuse, but careful not to slam anything shut too quickly. He spoke with edges, yes, but underneath those edges was hesitation. A low hum of something that could be called longing, if he had the words for it

You didn’t look at him immediately. Your optics remained fixed upward, toward constellations that didn’t belong to either of you. They were just… there. Unclaimed. Free

“An explorer? A wanderer? A drifter?”

You let each word roll lazily off your glossa like you weren’t quite sure which one fit “Take your pick”

He shifted his stance. Barely. But you caught it. The uncertainty behind the motion

“No mission? No objective?”

“I follow gravity” you said at last “Whichever way the pull leads. A planet, a moon, a quiet stretch of empty space”

“I move toward what draws me in. That’s all”

Deadlock’s optics narrowed faintly

“That sounds… senseless”

You finally turned to look at him, head tilted just slightly “Maybe. But it’s mine”

Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought: “What about yours?”

He hesitated

Not because he didn’t have an answer—he had one ready, and you could see it form on his tongue. But saying it aloud here, in this quiet pocket of the universe where war wasn’t echoing off the walls, made it feel… false. Outdated

Still, he answered “My duty is to eliminate the enemies of the Decepticons..”

The wind blew again. Cold this time

It caught on the edges of your plating and rustled loose grains of shattered stone. He didn’t move. But something in him seemed to shift. The tension between you both wasn’t combative anymore. It was quieter now. More like a question waiting to be asked. And then, he asked it

“What’s your name?”

“Will you remember it?”

A flicker passed behind his optics

“I don’t forget the name of something I’ve decided… not to kill” The way he said it—carefully, precisely—told you everything

How rare that decision was. How dangerous it felt to say it aloud. A soft laugh escaped you, almost involuntary

“That almost sounds romantic”

“It’s not” Too quick. Too sharp

And yet… not sharp enough

There was doubt bleeding into the edges of his voice now, undermining the flat certainty he tried to wrap around his words

You didn’t tease him for it—Didn’t press

You simply said your name

Soft. Unrushed. Like the first syllables of a melody that didn’t need to go anywhere

He stood still as stone

But his optics shuttered for a moment—just one flicker—like he was sealing the name into memory, not in the way a soldier memorizes a target…but the way a starless wanderer might memorize the name of the first light they ever saw in the dark

—

Space doesn’t remember you but you try to remember it

Time was a cycle on a ship—measured in rotations, daybreaks, dusks. But out here, there is only the faint light of stars that have not yet arrived. A delay of millennia between what was and what now flickers through the viewports. You sit alone on an old research vessel once built for Central Exploration. Once. Now it is yours. Yours alone

The lab is a chaotic graveyard of curiosity

Uncatalogued star samples lie scattered across the workbench, dimly glimmering like fossilized light. A datapad blinks open beside a half-finished cube of energon, lines of unintelligible code and notes scribbled hastily on translucent film paper. Your handwriting—jagged, erratic, alive with questions. The low murmur of galactic radio frequencies hums in the background, like the universe whispering to itself through static

You press a finger to the recorder and begin speaking into the dark

"Date... I don’t know. I’ve lost track time"

"Today I saw a star. Not a bright one. Not large. But for some reason… I couldn’t look away.. something about it felt familiar—as if I’d seen it before in another sky"

You stare out past the hull window where stars burn like slow-dying embers

“If a star dies… does it still exist in memory?”

A question. Not yours. Not originally

A voice from long ago, from one drifting bot you met in the deep of the black. You never remembered his name. Not truly

You don’t even recall the shape of his faceplate now—only the texture of his voice, like worn brass and hesitant gravity. You remember the way he asked the question, during a night you were both stranded on a derelict moon. It hadn’t matched him—this strange softness, this sudden philosophy. But he asked anyway and now you carry the question with you. Like a splinter in your spark

He stood still, alone in the quiet hum of his quarters.

Not Deadlock anymore—not in name.

But beneath the new plating and repainted insignia, there were fractures in the armor that couldn’t be covered. Slivers of memory embedded deep in his frame.

The past clung to him like dried coolant. Regret, like rust

They had made a brief landing on a backwater star system—standard protocol. Faint signal detected. Possibly a distress call. Possibly a trap. The Wreckers were ready for either. What they weren’t ready for was… nothing. A desert of broken scrap. Torn structures. Empty wind

Except for one thing

Half-buried in the sand like a secret someone tried to forget. A datapad, scorched at the edges, humming softly with preserved memory

He found it or perhaps it found him

“Still asking too many questions, huh…” His voice was low, hoarse—spoken more to the silence than to anyone present

He brought the datapad back with him

Now, sitting at his desk, the lights dimmed to a soft, amber hush, he stared at the familiar, impossible scrawl on the screen. The symbols, the tangled phrasing, the dense streams of data interspersed with words that shouldn’t have belonged there. Shouldn’t, and yet—you always made them fit

It was you. He knew it like he knew his own scars

No one else wrote like that, no one else could thread particle physics through metaphors of burning leaves, no one else could take gravity equations and lace them with longing

His hand trembled slightly as he swiped to the final line – There, typed alone in the last blinking entry:

"A nameless star… but once, I knew it well"

He read it three times. The fourth time, he didn’t need the screen

He could feel the words pulsing through his core memory, reverberating through every old protocol he had tried to bury. That you had been here—recently, possibly—That you had looked up and seen something familiar

That maybe, impossibly, you remembered him

Not his face, not his voice

But the version of him that asked questions beneath dying stars and maybe that was enough

He closed the datapad and sat there for a long, long time. The silence around him was no longer empty—it rang with a single memory: A voice, low and curious, in the echoing dark of yours—

“If a star dies… does it still exist in memory?”

He didn’t have an answer

But now, perhaps, he wanted to find on

[genericpuff]

holy crap okay so

I'm two episodes into Kaos

normally I keep my expectations pretty minimal because, let's be real, the Internet - and especially Tumblr - has a tendency to severely overhype new series to be way better than they actually are and it often leaves me sitting there like "that's it? that's what people were freaking out over for weeks?? that was just a bunch of cheap ships and tropes that i've seen 123785902380 times before" LMAO

BUT thankfully compared to other series like Hazbin Hotel and The Amazing Digital Circus, I haven't been worn out on excessive fandom exposure prior to watching Kaos, so I didn't really know what to expect going in besides what folks have told me so far - it's a modern-day Greek epic, and it stars Jeff Goldblum as Zeus (which is, unsurprisingly, peak casting).

That said, I'm very pleased to say that so far, the show is absolutely blowing me away. The set designs, characterizations, weaving of all the players into a central narrative led by a very coy narrator, all of it feels both refreshing and respectful to the source material at the same time.

so uh yeah that LO animated TV show... we have reason to believe now that it's gotten picked up by Amazon Prime, at least according to the showrunner's LinkedIn and posting history from February of this year that seems to imply LO may have been picked up by Amazon-

(but still, nothing's really been confirmed because they're being so tight-lipped about this you'd almost think it's because there isn't a show happening at all cough)

But even then, that means at best we still won't see anything of the LO TV show adaption for another 2-3 years, depending on how production goes.

Why am I talking about LO right now? Well it should be obvious - Kaos double-whammied LO by beating it to the punch at its own game.

I mean, just look at the creative choices alone in the design of the Underworld and its rulers, our beloved Hades and Persephone.

And yes, the entire Underworld is color-graded like this, something so simple and yet effective in communicating the nature of the Underworld and what it stands for - a place where the past lives on through the dead, paused in time, devoid of the vibrant color grading found in Olympus - or "Olympia" as its been named in this retelling - which is, by the way, a visual treat to take in every time it's featured.

(and yes, that is S-tier-companion Billie Piper on the left, but I will not tell you who she's playing, you actually really should go into this show as blind as possible for the thrill of figuring out these characters as they're introduced <3)

That's not even getting into the narrative structure of the plot itself or the phenomenal casting and acting, but again, I don't want to spoil too much as the show is quite new, and I want to actually finish watching the show myself before I get more into the details of its story and how it delivers it (I'm very much hoping I will still be singing this show's praises at the end of its 8 episodes, please for the love of god don't jump the shark, I don't think my heart can take that kind of pain again.)

All that's to say though, Kaos is, so far, exactly what us disappointed fans of LO deserve after all these years, and frankly, I feel like whatever is coming for the LO animated TV show is really gonna have to step up to the plate to both live up to the bar that Kaos has set as well as stand on its own without being affiliated as a cheap Amazon knockoff living in its shadow. Sounds a little familiar and a bit ironic, doesn't it?

[lovesim09]

the proper way to use ancient powers

I remember White Star saying that Cale didn't know how to use his powers properly, he was partly right of course. Cale didn' t absorb them properly, he didn't get rid of the will of the previous owners, and as a result his power is weaker. However, I think White Star is also not using his power properly. First of all, we have never seen him use his Dominating aura. After all, Cale only has a "shell", which means White Star should still have one. Imagine fighting someone who uses a power similar to dragon fear. Cale people would have a much harder time fighting than normal, no matter how you look at it, apart from the dragons, Cale and Choi Han, the others would have a similar reaction like when they first met Eruhaben. White Star knows how to use the remaining abilities that the dragon slayers had. Probably because he's the warrior type.

Another thing is that each power that Cale has has some additional functions. Why does White Star have such basic powers?

Cale powers:

Super Rock - rock control, body strengthening, before he started talking he was like a danger detector. Power filtering?I'm not sure what to call it, but when Cale first used the crown, he said something about him being busy filtering the power they had from the crown.

The Indestructible Shield - Summons holy looking shield, tree control, dead mana absorption using trees. The ability to absorb other powers.

The Sound of the Wind - Creates whirlwinds, allows the user to move quickly and fly. Detecting Divine Artifacts. (I'm not sure if I'm right, but the thief most likely destroyed her plate to divide her power. )The second part of the power allows user to hear wind elementals (this is cheating, you have an informants that almost no one sees).

Fire of Destruction - Summons thunderbolts, can create something like a sea of fire. Purifies dead mana and black despair. In part 2, with the help of the artifact, can purify Jiangshi.

Sky Eating Water - Summons pillars and spears of water. In part 2, she learned how to make rain and chains similar to those that imprisoned her. She also created a tsunami.

Vitality of the Heart - healing ability, but only injuries inflicted after gaining this power. Keeping the owner alive if his body is unbalanced. Longer life, as we know the previous owner didn't die until he was 150 years old. Cale said that this power can regenerate limbs, I don't know if he was exaggerating or if he knows this from the book and information about how Taylor could have ended up (I'm afraid the author will eventually remember about it). Regeneration that makes you cough up blood 😂. The body and blood has more vitality, as confirmed by World Tree and Duke Fredo.

Dominating Aura - An aura similar to that of a ruler. The aura can make others want to submitting. Immunity to dragon fear. Allows to control a crown that likes to drink blood. In part 2, the aura has become so strong that it can compete with God. Also have an imitation of the power of a saint of the God of Chaos.

Blood Drenched Rock - Instills fear of death, Cale Created an isolated space using this power. According to Super Rock their powers are similar, which means also has offensive abilities. The user appears to be covered in blood, when uses this ability. (yes I gave it a different color because this power did not belong to the heroes )

And on the other side we have the powers that belong to the ancient white star.

White Star powers:

Wall of Water - Supposedly the strongest defensive ability, at least according to CJG. Creates a wall of water. (Is that really all?! I understand then why he tried to get Water of Judgement.)

Wind - In most situations White Star used it as a wall of wind or to push enemies away. We don't even have a name!

Fire of Natural Disaster - A dangerous ability that, when combined with Sword of Disasters, creates a truly dangerous combination. Can control something similar to lava.

Earth - Allows you to change your appearance. We don't know the name and other abilities.

Annual Rings of Life - has only half power. Allows to see a person's time but not all. It allows you to recognize people with warped times. It can determine when something died or how old objects are. Can be used by a person with Thames blood.

Sky attribute - control the rain, the wind and even the sunlight using clouds. Summons Thunderbolts, which were stronger than those created by Fire of Destruction. Even dragons had trouble stopping them. Allows you to move in a place full of dead mana. Need to absorb dead mana or black despair regularly. Dead Man's power stops it from destroying the owner of that power from inside. The power comes from the Demonic race.

Dominating Aura - similar to the power of Cale Henituse. It may be weaker though. Never used.

Wyvern Control - Can control wyverns. Stronger than the ability Choi Han has from Syrem.

Sword of Disasters - It has a power similar to natural disasters. Stronger ability than what Syrem had. It can easily destroy the dragons' shield. Even the Indestructible Shield couldn't stop the attack for long.

Abandoning your Life - The power to allow the Sword of Disasters to become stronger. Allows you to sacrifice some of your lifespan in exchange for power. Using this ability also allows you to grant your dragon slayer powers to someone else.

As for powers stronger than those of the heroes of ancient times, they are surprisingly weak and non unique. To me this looks like a power that was not properly developed by the original owner or abilities wrong used by the current owner. I wonder why we haven't seen the wood power of the ancient white star. He wanted to imitate him and didn't even try to look for his wood ancient power. It'll be funny if Cale ever tries to use them and accidentally unlocks their potential. Because he decided to listen to the voice of AWS. I still think it's stupid to get rid of the previous owner's will. These were their powers, they know better what these powers can do. Not to mention that these are people who lived in ancient times. They know the history better than anyone else. It's like Cale gave someone the Record and didn't explain anything. Okay Poor example, he could do that.

[bittybeanscafe]

PART 1: Too Much Little Mix-Ups! (..◜ᴗ◝..) 🍭

🍬 Asahi Azumane X Fem!Reader (SMUT) 🍬

“It was just laundry day, a day you dreaded. It turned into a severe mix up and now your clothes aren’t even yours!! 🍭”

Contains: Pwp, cheesy build-up, size kink, pathetic Asahi (he is WHIPPED), kinda dom!reader, reader is pictured as short compared to him (duh), fingering, slight overstim, wrapping of the willy, Asahi cries and begs, belly bulge, lmk what else I missed

🍰 Café Menu 🍰

The bus ride had been long, loud, and full of back-and-forth shouting over snacks and music. You’d slumped against the window with your headphones in, half-asleep, while the rest of the team bounced between talking about how excited they were and how dead they were going to be by the end of the trip.

Training camp, they said. But when the bus finally rolled to a stop and you stepped out, it looked a hell of a lot more like a resort.

It wasn’t fancy, exactly—but there were palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, warm golden sunlight streaming down onto sand-colored walkways, and a huge open gym just past the row of cabin-style dorms. The air smelled like saltwater and sunscreen. Everything was too clean and too quiet in a way that told you it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

A two-week coastal training camp, right before the season picked up.

Which meant: sunrise workouts. Morning drills. Team runs along the beach. Sweaty afternoons in the gym. And laundry. So much laundry.

The day passed in a blur—coach barking instructions, teammates groaning over pushups and sprints, the sun baking your skin during a brutal beach circuit that left sand stuck in your shoes and between your toes. By the time dinner rolled around, you were too tired to even shower properly. You just rinsed the worst of it off, grabbed a plate, and flopped next to your teammates at one of the long wooden tables set up on the back deck.

Asahi had been quiet most of the day. Focused. Serious. He was always like that during training—but every now and then, you caught his eyes flicking to you during breaks. Just for a second. Just enough to make your stomach flutter.

You didn’t talk much. Not today.

But the silence between you never felt cold. Just... simmering.

And by the time the stars were out and the day was finally over, you realized your bag was already full of sweaty practice clothes, half of them damp from the ocean or gym or both.

Which is how you ended up in the shared laundry room alone at nearly midnight—barefoot and half-asleep.

The dorm laundry room is empty, save for the low rumble of dryers and the occasional drip from a leaky faucet in the corner. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sterile, too-bright glow that makes you feel like a raccoon in a convenience store.

It’s almost midnight. You’re running on fumes.

You’d meant to do your laundry earlier—honestly, you meant to do a lot of things earlier—but practice ran long, your arms are still aching, and the thought of putting it off another day felt worse than dragging yourself down here like a corpse.

You toss your clothes into the washer without ceremony. Practice gear, sleep clothes, your go-to black sports bra, a pair of soft cotton shorts—the pair, the one that fits just right. All of it goes in as you yawn so hard your jaw cracks.

By the time the dryer finishes, you’re leaned against the counter with your cheek pressed to your palm, halfway to dozing off. You start pulling your clothes out, folding mindlessly. A shirt here, a sock there. Your hands move on autopilot.

Then—

Something soft and unfamiliar brushes your fingers.

You pull it out.

Plaid boxers.

You blink at them, confused. Hold them up.

They’re not yours. Definitely not. Too big. Too not anything you own. They smell like fresh laundry—clean, subtle detergent with just a trace of something else. Cologne, maybe. Masculine, but soft.

You fish through the rest of your clothes, a little more alert now. Halfway through the pile, your brows draw together.

Where’s your sports bra?

Where are your shorts?

You check again. Nothing. But you do have a shirt in here you don’t recognize—black, oversized, a little worn around the collar. It’s not your brand, not your size, and definitely not something you’d packed.

Your stomach sinks a little.

Someone else must’ve opened the dryer while your stuff was in there. Maybe their clothes got mixed with yours when the machines got shuffled around. Classic laundry chaos.

You sigh, long and slow.

“Of course this would happen tonight.”

You hold the boxers up again and shake them out. They’re soft. Worn-in. The kind of fabric someone probably sleeps in.

The shirt’s the same. Oversized, comfy-looking. Smells the same, too—warm and clean, like sun-dried sheets and something vaguely woodsy underneath.

You glance toward the door. Consider going back, retracing your steps, maybe catching whoever ended up with your stuff.

But it’s late. You're barefoot, and you’d have to walk around asking people if they found your bra.

Not happening.

You plop the basket down and peel off your top, slipping the unfamiliar shirt on over your head. It falls over your hips easily, swallowing your shape. It’s soft. The sleeves brush your elbows. You kind of hate how good it feels.

The boxers come next. A little baggy, but you roll the waistband once and they settle mid-thigh. Honestly? Not bad.

You catch yourself in the reflective dryer door and pause.

Oversized black tee. Plaid boxers. Sleep-rumpled hair and socks that don’t match.

You look like you’re wearing a boyfriend’s clothes. And that’s weirdly cute.

“Sorry, mystery laundry guy,” you mutter, tossing your remaining clothes back into the basket. “You’ve been looted.”

You turn off the lights and head out, warm and cozy in stolen clothes, completely unaware of the minor crisis you’re about to cause in someone else's brain tomorrow.

The air is warm even before the sun fully rises, soft golden light filtering through the wide dorm windows and spilling across the floor. The ceiling fan whirs lazily overhead. Outside, you can hear seagulls already causing a racket, and the dull thud of a volleyball being bumped around by the earliest risers.

You’re barely awake.

The shared hotel is quiet, except for the rustling of blankets and the occasional groan as someone tries to convince their sore limbs to get moving. You blink against the sunlight, sitting up in your bunk and rubbing your eyes. A stretch works out the stiffness in your spine, and the shirt you’re wearing shifts with it—falling off one shoulder.

It smells faintly like someone else.

You glance down at yourself—oversized black tee, plaid boxers cinched with a rolled waistband. Your legs are bare. Your hair’s a mess. You look like someone’s lazy Sunday morning.

You kind of love it.

The room starts to stir around you. Across the way, Daichi stretches where he sits on the edge of his bunk, his shirt riding up just enough to show the line of muscle at his lower back before he yawns loudly and stands.

He turns.

Sees you.

Stops.

There’s a blink—then another.

“…Huh.”

You glance up, sleepily. “Morning.”

Daichi narrows his eyes just slightly. Not judgmental. Not even teasing. Just... curious. And way too observant.

He looks down at the boxers. The shirt. Then very, very slowly, looks over at the bunk across from you.

Empty.

Asahi’s bunk.

You watch him piece it together in real time, eyes shifting between your outfit and your completely neutral expression.

You give him a small, innocent smile. “Problem?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not unless you tell me those are your clothes.”

You shrug. “They were in my laundry.”

That’s not a no.

Daichi huffs a laugh through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let it go. He doesn’t say anything—just shakes his head and mutters “...gonna kill him,” under his breath before heading toward the showers.

You’re left sitting there, legs swinging over the edge of the bunk, sun warming your skin and heart pounding just a little harder than you expected.

The mess hall is bright and open, wide windows letting in sea breeze and sunlight. The long buffet tables are lined with scrambled eggs, miso soup, sliced fruit, and toast. Someone’s playlist hums low from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, and most of the team is already halfway through their plates, still in a mix of pajamas and training gear.

You’re one of the last to come in.

No fanfare. No dramatic entrance. Just a sleepy walk through the sliding doors, tray in hand, legs bare, face unreadable—like you’re not wearing someone else’s boxers rolled up at the waist and a shirt you definitely didn’t pack.

The moment Asahi sees you, something inside him shorts out.

He’s halfway through his first bite of rice when his eyes land on you—and stay there. Fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

Your hair is still messy from sleep, pushed back lazily with a headband. The oversized black shirt drapes off one shoulder, riding up a little in the back. The plaid boxers are unmistakable. His boxers. The ones he couldn’t find last night. The ones he swore he put in the dryer.

His mouth goes dry. His brain bluescreens.

Across from him, Sugawara pauses mid-sip of juice, following his gaze.

And wheezes.

“Oh my god,” Suga whispers, already grinning. “Dude—”

“Shut up,” Asahi mutters instantly, eyes flicking back to his plate as if that will help. It doesn’t. He can still see you in his periphery. You’re grabbing fruit. Stretching to reach the miso ladle. The shirt lifts ever so slightly at the back.

He nearly drops his chopsticks.

You don’t even look at him. You know what you’re doing, and that makes it worse.

Daichi leans back in his seat across from Asahi, sipping his tea slowly. “Told you,” he says, smirking behind the rim of his cup.

Asahi’s ears go bright red. He still doesn’t look up.

“I didn’t…I didn’t give her those,” he says, like that’s the part everyone is assuming. “They were in my laundry basket, and then! now they’re-“

“Oh, we know you didn’t give them to her,” Suga laughs, nudging his arm. “That’s what makes it funnier.”

Asahi finally chances another glance.

You’re walking toward the table now, tray balanced casually in your hands, expression unreadable. You sit at the end of the table, a few seats down—but close enough to feel his attention dragging toward you like a magnet.

You look over.

Just once.

Met his gaze, dead-on. Held it.

You didn’t smile.

But there was something in your eyes—mischief, curiosity, maybe a challenge.

Asahi immediately looks back at his plate like it just told him his future. His entire face is on fire. He’s suddenly, painfully aware of every inch of skin you’re showing, and the fact that it’s his damn shirt covering it.

He doesn’t say a word.

But he’s absolutely losing his mind.

He can’t sleep.

He tries. He really tries. He flips onto his side, then onto his back, pulling the thin sheet up to his chest like that’s going to help. But the only thing his brain will focus on is you. The way you looked this morning. The way you still haven’t returned his clothes.

The image of you—bare legs, shirt slipping off your shoulder, acting like it was nothing—is burned into his skull.

And now?

Now he’s hard.

Not in a crude, teenage boy way. In a way that hurts. In a way that comes from too many days of watching you from a distance and wanting so badly to hold you, to touch you, to be allowed to have you—just once. Just long enough to show you how much you mean to him.

He’s embarrassed. Of course he is. He always is.

But the ache won’t go away.

The hallway is quiet this late—just the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of old wooden floors settling beneath the heat. The dorms are dark behind their sliding doors. Everyone’s asleep.

Except you.

And, apparently, him.

You’re sitting on the porch just outside the dorms, one leg swinging lazily over the edge, the other tucked beneath you. A warm mug of tea cradled between your hands, the steam curling up in front of your face as you stare out into the star-scattered sky.

The air smells like salt and sun-warmed wood. You feel peaceful.

Until you hear soft footsteps behind you: gentle, hesitant.

You don’t even have to look up.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Then, his voice, soft and hoarse from disuse. “I couldn’t. You?”

You tilt your head back slightly. “Same.”

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s standing there in a hoodie and gym shorts, hair messy, looking like he lost sleep over something. Probably everything. You give him a small smile and nod toward the space beside you.

“Sit with me?”

He hesitates only a second before moving—quiet, careful, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His thigh brushes yours as he lowers himself down, and you don’t move away. You just sip your tea, letting the silence settle again.

For a while, neither of you say anything.

The stars pulse faintly above. The crickets chirp from somewhere in the grass. He smells faintly of soap, like he just showered and didn’t dry off all the way before crawling into bed and giving up on sleep.

You lean your head on his shoulder, almost without thinking.

You feel him freeze. Just for a second.

Then he exhales through his nose, barely audible, and lets himself lean back into you.

His hand is resting on his thigh—tight fingers twitching.

Your voice is soft. “You okay?”

“I…” he swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

You lift your head to look at him, just enough to see the pink flush working up the side of his neck. His eyes flick toward you, then drop instantly back down to the floorboards.

“Liar,” you say, quiet but teasing.

His shoulders rise with a shaky breath. He doesn’t respond.

So you ask, gently, “Wanna talk about it?”

He nods, but it takes him a moment to speak. When he does, his voice is even softer.

“I saw you this morning,” he says. “Wearing my clothes.”

Your heart gives a little flutter. But you keep your expression even.

“I figured.”

“I wasn’t…” He stops, frowns, shakes his head. “I wasn’t prepared for that. At all.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He finally looks at you, then really looks. Like he’s been holding it in all day, and now he can’t anymore.

“Because you looked beautiful,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And you always look beautiful, but it was different. And I—”

His throat works. His hand clenches.

“I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t think straight. I still can’t.”

The words are shaky, unpolished, but honest. You feel them sink into you, warm and deep.

You shift slightly, turning to face him more fully. “So you came out here to tell me that?”

He shakes his head. “No. I came out here because I couldn’t sleep. I just… needed air. But then I saw you, and I thought-”

He stops again. His eyes flick back to yours.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Your chest tightens—because it’s real. Every word. Unfiltered. Honest in the way only Asahi could be.

You set your mug down on the porch.

Then you reach over, slow and deliberate, and slide your hand into his.

He looks at you like he might fall apart.

“I wanted to wear your clothes,” you say softly. “They felt safe.”

His fingers curl around yours. “You can wear them whenever you want.”

“I think I’ll keep that shirt, then.”

He huffs a breath of laughter: shaky, breathless.

And when you lean in just a little, just enough for your noses to brush, he doesn’t pull away.

He whispers your name, barely audible. Like a prayer.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle. Reverent. Like he’s afraid to press too hard, like he wants to savor the moment before it disappears.

And when it deepens, when his hand lifts to cup the side of your face, thumb trembling against your skin. It’s no longer just shy affection.

It’s longing.

Years of it, maybe.

He pulls away first, but barely. His forehead rests against yours.

“I want you,” he whispers, the words catching in his throat. “But only if you want me too.”

“I want you.”

His voice cracks on the last word—soft, broken and honest—and you feel his hand tremble slightly against your cheek. You pull back just enough to see him: eyes wide, glassy, pleading without even trying to. Like he’s scared to ruin it, scared to be dreaming.

“Asahi,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in your voice. He nods, breath shaky. “I—I know. I just…can I—?”

His words trip over themselves, but his hands are gentle as they slide down, tentative as they find your hips. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You climb into his lap.

His breath hitches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

You settle your weight on him slowly, straddling him on the porch bench. The night air is warm, but he’s warmer—his body radiating heat beneath the hoodie, his heart thundering beneath your hands. And he’s already hard. He’s been that way, but you somehow made it worse. You feel it the second you sit down, the subtle shift in his posture, the helpless way his breath stutters.

He’s not subtle. He doesn’t know how to hide it.

He leans his head back against the wall with a soft thump and whispers, “Oh my god.”

You smile a little, fingers drifting beneath the edge of his hoodie. “You’re not very good at playing it cool.”

“I’m not cool,” he says instantly, breathless. “I’m—I’m not even functioning right now. I think I’m dying. You’re—you’re sitting in my lap, and I think I’m gonna black out.”

You laugh quietly against his neck, brushing your lips there, feeling the way his pulse flutters like a trapped bird.

His hands slide up your back, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the lines of your spine through the borrowed shirt.

“You feel so good,” he breathes. “You always do, but—like this—it’s just…”

His voice trails off as you grind your hips just a little.

And he whimpers.

Not loud. Not needy. But soft, desperate. Like he’s been imagining this for too long and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Please,” he whispers, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “Please, I want to touch you. I want—” he pauses, swallows, “—I want to make you feel good. I’ll be gentle, I swear. I’ll be so good to you. Just—please.”

He’s rambling and he doesn’t even realize it. You can feel how tense he is beneath you, like he’s trying so hard not to rush, trying to be respectful even as he melts into you.

You pull back, cup his face in your hands, and lean in to kiss him again—slow, deep, full of promise.

“You’re already being good,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you too.”

His breath catches again, and you feel his whole body shiver. His breath stutters as your lips ghost over his again, and this time, the kiss turns hungry.

It starts slow—still careful, still sweet—but you feel the shift in him, the moment that control slips. His hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer, anchoring you to him like he can’t bear the thought of even an inch of space. His kiss deepens, mouth parting against yours like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.

And god—he whimpers again when your hips move.

It’s instinctive, needy, and he hates how fast it’s happening, but he can’t stop. Every part of you is touching him—your thighs bracketing his, your fingers in his hair, your mouth warm and eager against his—and he’s drowning in it.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, broken, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to yours. “I can’t—” he pants, shivering. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you whisper, rolling your hips slowly.

He shudders so hard you feel it all the way through his thighs.

His fingers slip under the edge of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—and he palms the soft skin of your waist like he can’t believe it’s real. His touch is light. Gentle. Like he’s trying to memorize you with his hands.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he says, voice wrecked. “I used to imagine what your skin would feel like… what your voice would sound like when you wanted me.”

You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I want you now.”

He groans, low and quiet, burying his face in your neck.

“Say it again,” he begs, breath hot against your skin. “Please.”

“I want you.”

His hands are trembling now, sliding up your back, across your ribs—still careful, still unsure, like he’s terrified of rushing—but his hips twitch beneath you, and you feel how hard he is. How close he is to completely losing it.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath. “I’ll do anything. Just—tell me how to touch you. Tell me what you like.”

You guide one of his hands up, resting it just under the swell of your chest, and he looks up at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he can’t believe you’d let him touch you this way. That you want him just as much.

His thumb brushes gently over sensitive skin and your breath catches.

His lips part.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. I don’t—I don’t deserve you.”

You kiss him hard, cutting that thought off completely, and the way he groans into your mouth—needy, overwhelmed—makes you ache.

Every touch is worship. Every kiss is a confession. He’s so hopelessly in love with you that it hurts.

You’re both breathing hard now—sweaty, flushed, your bodies pressed so close you can feel every twitch and tremble in him. His hands are everywhere: your waist, your back, the soft slope of your ribs, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

And he keeps whispering the same thing between kisses:

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You feel like a dream.”

“I can’t believe this is real.”

Your fingers slide under his hoodie, tracing the defined lines of his stomach, and he makes the softest sound when you dip lower. You feel him jerk slightly beneath you, the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his whole body is screaming please.

“Wait,” he pants, eyes fluttering open, dazed and flushed. “I—hold on—just a second.”

You freeze, searching his face. “Are you okay?”

He nods, still breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—I think I have—hold on.”

He gently lifts you off his lap, just enough to shift, then starts patting around the oversized hoodie pocket. When he doesn’t find it there, he leans sideways off the bench and grabs for his drawstring gym bag. You watch, biting your lip as he unzips the front pouch with fumbling fingers.

He lets out the softest, most sheepish groan when he pulls out a small foil packet.

“You keep one in your bag?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, amused.

His ears turn scarlet. “I—it’s not like I planned anything, I swear. Noya put it in there, like, months ago. He said something about me being ‘a late bloomer’ and that I should be prepared. I forgot it was even there.”

You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s adorable. He’s adorable. All awkward and desperate and blushing while holding a condom like it’s about to combust in his hand.

“I’m really glad he did,” you say, voice low, leaning back into him.

His eyes meet yours again, darker now, wide with awe and want. “Me too.”

And just like that, the humor melts into heat again. His hand finds your hip as you straddle him once more, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s messier this time—hotter, needier, deeper. You reach for the hem of the hoodie and start to tug it up, and he lifts his arms instinctively, watching you like he’s witnessing something sacred.

The moonlight washes over you both—soft silver glow, bare skin, deep shadows.

Asahi looks at you like you’re holy.

And when your fingers trail down his chest, your mouth following suit, he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy.

“Please,” he whispers again. “Let me love you.”

He’s panting into your mouth when you finally murmur against his lips, “Not here.”

Asahi stills, blinking like it takes him a second to understand.

You glance toward the row of hotel rooms just off the porch—still quiet, but not private. If anyone wandered out for a water bottle or a midnight snack, they’d catch you straddling your teammate, red-faced and wrecked-looking, a condom in his hand.

He follows your gaze and immediately nods, face flushed. “Right. Yeah. Shit.”

You slip off his lap, legs shaky, giggling quietly when he groans at the loss of you.

“C’mere,” you whisper, reaching for his hand.

He follows like it’s instinct. Like he couldn’t say no if he tried.

You lead him down the hall on quiet, quick feet, barefoot and grinning like you’re both in high school and about to get caught sneaking out. You pause at your door—the extra room they gave you when one of the assistant managers dropped out last minute, leaving a spare. You’d been staying there alone all week.

But not anymore.

You push the door open and step inside, glancing over your shoulder.

Asahi’s standing just outside the threshold, hesitating, his big frame backlit by the hallway light. His hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide with something so deep it knocks the breath out of you.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice soft. “You can still say no. I—I mean it.”

You reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

“I’m sure.”

And that’s all it takes.

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

The moment it clicks closed, you’re in his arms again, his mouth back on yours like he couldn’t bear another second without it. But now there’s urgency in him—soft desperation, the kind that only comes from wanting something for so long it aches.

He walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sink into the mattress with a gasp, and he follows—hovering over you, braced on his forearms, kissing you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls back, chest heaving, lips parted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

You cup his face, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You’re everything, Asahi.”

And god—the way his eyes soften. The way he looks at you like he’s about to cry and fall apart and explode all at once.

He kisses you again. Deeper. Slower.

Then his hands start to wander.

He takes his time, even though you’re both already trembling with how badly you want it—touching you like every inch of your skin deserves to be known and remembered. Like he’s been holding back for years, and now that he has you, he’s never letting go.

And when his fingers skim beneath the waistband of your shorts, when you arch into him and whisper his name—he breaks.

He finds the foil packet again with shaky hands.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice rough and full of love. “Just let me show you.”

The foil packet glints in his hand before he sets it gently on the nightstand. His hands are already returning to you—tentative but aching, thumbs brushing along your waist where his hoodie has ridden up. You feel him hesitate, like he’s asking permission with his touch.

You nod, and he breathes out something that’s not quite a moan, not quite a prayer.

He tugs the hoodie up slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious. His eyes trail every inch of skin as it’s revealed, wide and reverent, and when the fabric slips over your head and off your arms, he just stares.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

You move to sit up, reaching for the hem of his shirt next. He freezes when your fingers brush his stomach, and when you pull the hoodie off him, he lifts his arms obediently, eyes locked on yours.

His skin is warm and flushed, a dusting of hair across his chest that makes your fingers itch to explore. You run your hands along his torso, and he shivers—visibly—biting his lip so hard it goes pale.

Then your fingers drift lower, brushing the waistband of his shorts, and he chokes on a breath.

“Can I…?” you ask softly, voice low.

He nods immediately. “Please. Anything.”

You help him out of the gym shorts, slow and careful, and when he’s left in just his boxers, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to his stomach. He gasps—shudders—hands threading through your hair like he’s trying not to melt.

His voice is wrecked when he whispers, “Your turn.”

You nod, guiding his hands to your waistband. They’re shaking. He looks up at you one last time, and you smile.

“I trust you.”

He exhales hard, then slides your shorts down your legs with reverent fingers. His touch is gentle—never hurried, never rough—like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And now you’re both nearly bare, tangled in the moonlight, hearts racing loud enough to fill the room. The silence is soft and heavy between you.

But he still hesitates when his hand skims your thigh and brushes just below your clit.

“I don’t want to mess anything up,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s barely there.

You take his hand, guiding it where you want him most, and whisper, “You won’t.”

He groans—low and full of need—his body arching toward yours like gravity itself is pulling him down.

Then he kisses you again, deeper than before, his fingers tightening on your waist. You feel the length of him press against you, hot and hard and barely restrained.

And when you whisper his name, soft and pleading—he finally breaks.

Your breath hitches when his fingers skim further down—tentative at first, like he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch you like this. You shift beneath him, hips rolling gently in encouragement, and his mouth drops open when his fingertips brush against your leeb.

You're already so warm. So soft.

“Asahi,” you whisper, your voice wrapping around his name like silk. “It’s okay.”

He presses his forehead to yours like he’s overwhelmed. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, guiding his hand again. “I want you.”

The way he exhales—like he’s relieved, like he’s unraveling—is enough to make your heart ache.

He kisses you then—deep, slow, his lips trembling—and gently slips one finger past the feeble ring of resistance your needy hole gave.

You gasp into his mouth, your back arching, and he stills immediately.

“Too much?” he asks, panicked. “I can stop—”

“No,” you breathe. “It’s perfect.”

He moans, soft and broken, eyes fluttering closed as he starts to move—slow, careful, completely entranced by the way you cling to him.

“You’re so tight,” he whispers, voice raw. “So warm. You’re gonna ruin me.”

He curls his finger just right and you whimper, hips grinding against his palm. The sound you make tears a quiet groan from his throat, and he presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he can reach.

“Let me do more,” he begs, so full of want it hurts. “Please.”

You nod, too breathless to speak, and he slips in a second finger, watching your face like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. His fingers were larger than yours—that much you can tell. How the hell could you take him if you were breaking around his fat fingers?

Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering, and he melts.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “So good. I want to make you feel everything.”

His thumb brushes gently against your throbbing clit, and when your thighs twitch around his hips, he loses it just a little—hips jerking, breath ragged.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, eyes glassy, voice almost slurred with adoration.

He curls his fingers again and watches you fall apart beneath him—soft moans, flushed skin, your name gasped on his lips like a prayer.

And when you start to tremble, when your hands grab for his shoulders and you grind into his touch like you can’t help it—

He knows he’s never going to be the same again.

Your walls clench around his fingers as he moves deeper, slower, more deliberate—his lips still brushing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, like he needs to ground himself in your skin. Every tiny sound you make goes straight to his head.

But it’s the way your hips start to roll into his hand—desperate and uncontrolled—that makes him completely lose it.

“Asahi—” you gasp, voice cracking, “Fuck! A..ah please—I’m—so close—”

He shudders, thumb circling against your clit more vigorously than before, his breath stuttering in your ear. “Please,” he whispers, “please let me see it. I want to see you fall apart. I want—everything.”

And when you break—when your body tenses, your thighs twitching, your back arching off the mattress as his name spills from your lips in the sweetest, most unrestrained moan he’s ever heard—

He loses his mind.

His fingers slow but don’t stop, working you through it gently while his eyes drink you in.

Your flushed chest, the tremble in your legs, your mouth parted in pleasure, your brows pulled together so beautifully—he’s never seen anything like it. Not in real life. Not even in dreams.

“You’re—” he starts, but he has to stop. His voice cracks.

He presses his forehead to your collarbone, overwhelmed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He slides his fingers out carefully, tenderly, like he’s handling something sacred. Your body’s still shaking from the aftershocks, and he holds you through them, murmuring your name like a promise.

Then he looks at you again.

The softness in your eyes. The way you’re still catching your breath. The dazed, blissful smile on your lips.

And it hits him all over again—how much he loves you. How far gone he is. How there’s no going back.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes.

Asahi’s breathing is uneven as he slowly pulls his fingers away from your sopping hole—slick, shining, trembling just slightly as he lifts them to look. And then, like he can’t help himself, like he has to know—

He brings them to his lips and tastes you.

A soft groan leaves his throat the second he does. His eyes flutter closed, and his shoulders tense, like the pleasure of it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

“God,” he whispers, licking them clean. “You taste so good.”

You just stare—heat rushing to your face as he looks down at you like he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. You’ve never felt so shy in your life.

He leans over you again, slow and heavy with tension, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands brace beside your head.

“You’re okay?” he murmurs. “Still good?”

You nod, pulling him closer. “I need you.”

He breathes out hard, almost like he’s in pain. Then he kisses you again—deep and sweet, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he shifts against your body.

When his hips press against yours, you feel him. All of him.

And holy hell.

You reach down instinctively, and your fingers wrap around the outline of him through his boxers. You feel his whole body jolt.

“Asahi,” you breathe, “you’re… you’re huge.”

His face flushes deep red, and he gives a sheepish, strained laugh. “Is… that okay?”

You bite your lip, heart racing, and nod. “Yeah. I just—god.”

His breath is ragged as he nudges his boxers down, baring himself completely to you. And when you finally see him, your jaw drops.

He’s thick, long, flushed a deep shade of pink at the tip. His hands tremble a little as he kneels between your legs, trying to breathe.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says again, voice tight. “Are you… ready? Can you take me?”

You look up at him—nervous, sure, but aching for him. The stretch will be intense, you know that, but…

You reach for him, pulling him down until his forehead rests against yours.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. “Even if I can’t take it all at once… I want to try.”

He groans—low and desperate—and kisses you like he’s about to give you everything.

Because he is.

Your fingers wrap around him, slow and steady as you guide the condom over his length. He twitches in your palm, hips stuttering like he has to move or he’ll combust.

“God,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard.”

You glance down at him—thick and flushed, resting heavy in your hand—and you can feel the nerves starting to crawl up your spine. He’s just that huge.

And he’s watching you like you’ve hung the stars.

You ease him back onto the mattress until he’s against the headboard, legs spread, hands clutching the blankets at his sides. His breath is shaky. His pupils blown wide. When you straddle his lap, his hands immediately rise to your hips—but he doesn’t grip. He waits.

He lets you take control.

You reach down and guide him to your soaked hole, and the moment the thick head presses against you, you freeze—not from fear, but from the sheer pressure of it.

You’re already soaked from how badly you want him, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s just that big.

“Asahi,” you breathe, heart racing, “I don’t… I don’t know if I can—”

“You don’t have to,” he blurts, face already flushed. “We can stop— I can stop—”

“No,” you pant, gripping his shoulders. “I want to. I just—god, you’re so thick.”

He groans, head tipping back, hips twitching beneath you even as he tries to stay still. His hands grip the sheets like if he touches you, he’ll snap.

You start to sink down, slowly, feeling the wide stretch as your walls part around him. It burns. Not in a bad way—but in a way that makes you dizzy, like you’re being filled too deep already, and you’re only halfway.

You gasp and stop, shaking slightly, thighs already trembling.

“Fuck, Asahi—”

“I’ve got you,” he says immediately, voice wrecked. “You’re doing so good—so good—do you want to stop?”

You shake your head, biting your lip, eyes fluttering shut.

“I want to take you.”

He whimpers—actually whimpers—as you slowly lower yourself another inch.

You can feel every pulse of him inside you, feel your walls stretch to accommodate the sheer size of him. It's intense. He feels everywhere, impossibly thick, and your body’s struggling to take him all in.

“You’re so—tight,” he rasps, “you’re—squeezing me so hard—”

You exhale shakily, forehead pressing to his. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”

“You don’t have to take it all,” he whispers, desperate. “Just—just what you can. I don’t care. You’re already—perfect.”

You shift your hips slightly, adjusting, and his hands fly to your thighs—but still, he doesn’t move. He just holds you, helping ground you through the stretch.

Another inch.

Then another.

Until you're almost seated fully, and it feels like he's in your stomach.

Your breathing is ragged. Your whole body trembles. But Asahi looks like he’s ascending.

“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, voice gone hoarse. “You’re so good—I don’t deserve this, I don’t—”

“You… fuck— y…you deserve everything,” you whisper, and finally, finally, you sink the last bit down.

You’re shaking in his lap, overwhelmed by fullness, heart pounding like you just ran a marathon—but his hands steady you, warm and careful, lips brushing your temple as he holds back every urge to move.

You’re stuffed, stretched, and aching—and completely addicted to the way he looks at you.

Like you’re his whole damn world.

You stay still at first, breathing hard, trying to get used to the overwhelming fullness. Your cunt flutters around him, adjusting, and he lets out a long, low groan—his fingers pressing into your thighs like he’s barely holding on.

“I—” his voice is hoarse, desperate, “I can feel everything.”

You give a soft, breathless laugh, but even that feels shaky. “You’re—you’re so deep…”

His hands trail up your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “You’re doing so good,” he says again, almost like a prayer. “So good for me.”

You rock your hips—barely—and his entire body shudders beneath you.

Your pussy clenches again at the stretch, but this time there’s pleasure beneath the burn. Your hands settle on his chest as you lift yourself just an inch or two, then slide back down.

Asahi’s head falls back with a broken moan. “Pretty girl—“

You do it again—slow and shaky, still adjusting—but the way he reacts to every tiny movement makes it impossible not to keep going. His breath comes out in harsh, stuttering gasps, hands trembling as he resists the urge to move for you.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me—feels so good, you feel so good—“

You bite your lip and start to ride him in earnest—lifting and rolling your hips in slow, deliberate motions. It’s still a stretch, still intense, but the pleasure is blooming now. Deep and full and raw.

Your cunt hugs every inch of him as you start to find a rhythm, your thighs burning from the effort, your breath catching with every slow thrust down.

“Asahi—” you whisper, “you’re so big—so full—“

His eyes snap open, dazed and wild, looking up at you like you’re a dream.

“You’re beautiful,” he chokes out. “I—I can’t—”

His hands rise to cup your face like he needs to see you, feel you, hold you.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers.

You lean in, kissing him slow and romantic/y as you roll your hips again—and that’s when he finally breaks.

He gasps into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, his whole body trembling beneath you as he moans your name over and over, completely gone for you.

And through it all, you keep moving.

Giving him everything.

Taking everything.

And loving every second of the way he falls apart for you.

You're riding him slow, hips rolling in deep, dragging circles, and Asahi is gone.

He’s not even pretending to hold it together anymore—his head tossed back, mouth parted, eyes rolling every time your pussy sinks back down over him. He’s breathing like he’s been running, flushed and sweating, hands roaming your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you to believe this is real.

“Shit,” he gasps as your hips sink again, “I can see myself—look—look, baby—”

You blink through the haze and follow his gaze down to your lower stomach—and your breath catches.

There’s a bulge. Faint, but there. Pressing up from inside you every time you sink all the way down, your insides sucking him in to the base.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Is that really—”

“That’s me,” he moans, utterly wrecked. “I’m so deep—I’m so deep—”

Your cunt pulses hard around him, and he jerks, groaning like he’s trying not to cum right then and there.

“Feels too good,” he breathes, wide-eyed and shaking. “You’re so tight, so wet, I can’t—fuck, I can’t think.”

You can feel how full you are, feel the stretch of him inside you every time you move. It’s unbearable in the best way—like your whole body was made to fit around him, like you’re split open and stuffed and loved all at once.

You roll your hips again, deeper this time, and his hands shoot up to cup your waist, trembling. “Don’t stop,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please don’t stop—I’m already so close—I’ve never felt anything like this—never—”

You lean over him, chest to chest, and his arms wrap around your back instantly, holding you like you’re going to disappear. His hips twitch up into you, just once, and the sound you make shatters him.

“Baby,” he pants, “you’re milking me—your pussy is so good—it’s too good—“

He’s not just hard—he’s pussydrunk. Absolutely gone, so far into you he doesn’t even remember his name.

And still, he looks at you like you’re his everything.

“I love you,” he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked and raw. “I love you so much—please—please let me cum inside you—”

You're riding him slow, teasing now—hips dragging up until only the tip of him stays inside before you ease down again, just barely, keeping that maddening pressure right where he wants more.

Asahi is begging.

“Please,” he whimpers, eyes glassy, head pressed to your shoulder. “Please let me cum—I’m so close, I can’t—please—“

You pull back enough to look at him, fingers threading into his hair. “You- y-you think you’ve —shit— earned i-it— ah! — already?”

He chokes on a moan, his hands tightening on your hips. “I’m trying—I’m trying so hard—“

“Mmh! T-then be a good boy and — ah! — wait.”

His whole body trembles. You feel his cock throb inside your core, and you don’t let him thrust—not even a little. Just keep rocking, slow and deep and frustratingly controlled, even as he sobs softly into your skin.

“You feel too good,” he gasps, hips twitching like he’s fighting himself. “I can’t think—baby, I can’t—“

“Hold it,” you whisper into his ear, voice thick with power and affection. “You said you’d-you’d — ngh! — be a g-good bbboyy for me, r-right? Shit!”

He nods desperately, but the second you tighten around him—just slightly—he snaps.

With a broken, gasping sob, his hands fly to your waist and he forces you down, burying himself all the way to the hilt in one uncoordinated thrust.

You squeal—your cunt clenches hard, the bulge in your stomach pressing impossibly full—and it sets off a chain reaction neither of you can stop.

“Asahi—!”

He cries out as he cums, the orgasm hitting him so violently his whole body arches. His cock throbs inside you, pulsing with wave after wave of heat as your own climax crashes down right behind his.

Your legs tremble. Your walls flutter. The fullness, the stretch, the feel of him losing it inside you—it pushes you over the edge so hard you can’t even breathe.

And Asahi’s sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, still buried deep, his arms wrapped around you like he’s scared you’ll pull away. “I couldn’t—I tried—you felt too good—I’m sorry—“

You lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth, and roll your hips again.

He gasps, jerking beneath you, and his cock—still painfully hard—twitches again, already sensitive.

“Y-you’re—baby, you’re still—” he gasps.

“Oh, we’re not done,” you whisper, voice wicked against his throat. “You said you wanted to feel everything, right?”

His breath catches.

Then you move again—slow and deep, pussy dragging around him, still pulsing from your orgasm—and he breaks.

You stay there for a moment—both of you catching your breath, skin sticky with sweat, your thighs trembling as you rest against his chest. Asahi's arms are still tight around your waist like he’s grounding himself with your body.

Eventually, you shift, gently easing yourself off of him.

He lets out a soft whimper at the sensitivity, hips twitching as his softening cock slips from your cunt. You reach down, fingers brushing his overstimulated length, and start to carefully peel the condom off.

He blinks at you through the haze, dazed and flushed. “W-wait… why are you taking it off already?”

You glance up at him, lips tugging into a lazy smile. “Because I don’t need it.”

His eyes widen, brain still catching up. “Huh?”

You tie the condom neatly, toss it into the small bin beside the bed, then turn back to him—naked, glowing, still pulsing with heat. You lean down, your mouth brushing against his ear.

“I’m on birth control,” you murmur, soft but deliberate. “So next time… you don’t have to pull out.”

He short-circuits right there, his cheeks flaming as his breath catches in his throat.

“N-next time?” he echoes, voice cracking.

You just smile, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair. “Oh, baby. You didn’t think I’d let you off with one round, did you?”

[scoutofmymind]

With Me — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, angst, pining, unrequited love, guilt, mentions of death, five years in the future in this one, a lowkey cliffhanger ending again, I’m an asshole

Wc: 7,681

Notes: five years later and at times continents apart, you’ve finally come to realize that some currents are impossible to resist — no matter how far you’ve travelled to escape them.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

This is a sequel to Without Me

Five years carve themselves differently into different things.

Into the barn's weathered planks, they've etched deeper grooves, splitting paint and warping wood.

Into the fields beyond, they've cycled twenty harvests that blur together like a kaleidoscope.

Into your hands, they've written their own history — small calluses from surgical instruments instead of hay bales, faint chemical burns from disinfectants replacing the mud stains of your youth.

You time your visits home with the care of someone defusing a bomb.

Three days when the Mangiones are in Milan.

A weekend while Luigi attends a business conference in Chicago.

Christmas morning but never Christmas Eve, Easter dinner but never the egg hunt that follows.

Your mother stopped asking why around year three, just confirms your arrival with "They'll be gone by then" or "He's in New York until Tuesday," a subtle acknowledgment of the careful romp you've arranged around his absence.

The farmhouse you once called home’s kitchen smells the same — cinnamon and coffee grounds, the lingering ghost of last night's dinner, all undercut by the sweet decay of fruit ripening too fast in the bowl by the window. Still, your mother isn’t used to the two pairs of hands not around anymore to raid the kitchen after a day in the sun.

She moves around you, pulling down plates that haven't changed since childhood, her hands marked by new spots but following the same patterns they always have.

Time is both frozen and racing here.

You think back to all the times the elders told you to appreciate your youth whilst you have it — you’re not dead, nor have you gotten old, but life feels a little heavier than it ever did.

"Your old room's all made up," she slides eggs onto a plate, the yolks perfect half-moons of sunrise yellow. "Though I swear those sheets are going to disintegrate soon. You should take some of your things this visit, we're not a storage unit." There's no bite to her words, just the same gentle nudging she's been attempting for years — trying to make you confront the boxes of memories you've left to gather dust in her attic.

You nod, knowing you'll leave without opening a single one.

It’s true that wounds scab over if you're careful enough, developing a protection that holds as long as you don't pick at the edges.

And you’ve become an expert at not picking.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase of practical things — clothes, books, the silver pendant your grandmother left you — and abandoned the artifacts that might have hurt too much to carry; the shoebox of river stones collected each summer, photographs chronicling two lives so intertwined they seemed impossible to separate, evidence of a friendship that had grown into something you couldn't name without destroying it.

Your life now spans three continents, filled with colleagues who know nothing of sunrise swims or teenage promises whispered under star-scattered skies. You've crafted yourself into someone defined by action rather than attachment — the veterinarian who stays just long enough to heal before moving on, whose apartment holds furniture selected for function rather than memory.

You tell yourself it's freedom.

Most days, you almost believe it.

But the guilt comes in waves — during transatlantic flights when there's nothing to do but think, or in the moments before sleep. You replay that last night by the water, his hands cradling your face, the desperation in his voice as he offered you everything while you offered only a goodbye.

Sometimes you draft text messages you never send, explanations that sound hollow even in your own mind.

I needed to find myself.

I was scared of disappearing into us.

I didn't know how to love you without losing me.

What you never say, even to yourself, is that you miss him with an ache that hasn't dulled with distance or time — a phantom limb pain for something vital you chose to amputate.

"Did you hear about Marco?" your father asks, settling at the table with a grunt, his knees creaking like the porch steps. "Cancer's spread. Doctors gave him six months, but Sofia says he's fading faster."

You nod, focusing intently on buttering toast that doesn't need such concentration. You've heard, of course — gleaned from conversations with your mother that never directly mention Luigi, though his absence in these updates sits like a ghost at the table.

You wonder who's running the company now, if the pressure has etched new lines around his eyes, if he still laughs with his whole body the way he did before you left.

"That poor boy been handling everything," your mother adds, as if reading your thoughts. "The business, the medical decisions. Sofia's not coping well." She pauses, watching you with eyes that see too much. "Lu asks about you, you know. When he calls to check if your father needs help with the south field."

The knife stills against bread gone suddenly tasteless in your mouth. "He shouldn't," you manage, the words scraping your throat raw.

"And yet he does," your father’s weathered hand covers yours briefly before returning to his coffee mug. "Some things don't change just because we wish they would."

Today's miscalculation feels like fate's sick joke.

Your father's birthday celebration was supposed to be safe — Sofia had mentioned to your mother her plans of taking Marco to specialists in Boston, a last-ditch consultation for treatments that weren't working. You'd verified twice, casual questions that weren't casual at all: "Will it just be us?" "And a less subtle “The Mangiones around?" Your mother's responses had been reassuring — at least that’s how you’d felt in the moment.

“Just family this time," and "Sofia's with Marco at that hospital."

What she failed to mention was that Luigi had flown back alone.

You realize this as headlights sweep across the kitchen window, illuminating family photographs, a contrast to where you've been carefully cropped out of your mother's social media posts — another protection measure in your elaborate system of avoidance.

The car engine cuts, and the silence that follows feels longer than the five years you've spent running.

Your mother gives you a look that hovers between apology and guilt. "He brings us wine every year now,” she looks toward the hallway leading to the door. "Some Italian red your father loves. I didn't have the heart to tell him not to come."

Your hands grip the edge of the countertop, knuckles white against butcher block worn smooth by generations of anxious grips just like yours. There's nowhere to run now — no flight to catch, no work emergency to fabricate.

Just the sound of footsteps on the porch steps, the familiar rhythm of someone who knows exactly which boards creak and how to distribute his weight to minimize the sound.

And then the knock comes — three gentle taps, the same signal from childhood that meant come out and play, I've found something amazing — and your separate life collapses like a house of cards.

For a breath-stealing moment, your body forgets how to move. Muscles locked in the ancient instinct of prey caught in open terrain, and your mother glances between you and the door again, a silent question in her raised eyebrows.

When you remain frozen, she sighs and moves toward the entrance, her footsteps deliberate as if giving you time to flee. But where would you go? The bathroom window is too small, the back door leads to a yard with no cover, and dignity — what little remains — prevents you from hiding under the kitchen table like a child.

The door opens, and your mother's voice carries that special warmth she's always reserved for Luigi — the tone that once made you wonder if she secretly wished he was her child instead. "There he is! Right on time as always."

Right on time?

Suddenly, you realize you’ve been set up.

And so has Luigi.

Their shadows stretch across the entryway floor, elongated by the porch light behind them. You can see the wine bottle passing between their silhouettes, hear the soft murmur of his response though the words themselves are lost beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears.

"She's in the kitchen," your mother tells him, louder now, unmistakably meant for you to hear — a final warning before the inevitable.

And then he's there, standing in the doorway between worlds — yours and his — a presence so familiar yet altered that your mind struggles to reconcile memory with reality.

He's filled out, his shoulders carrying a tension they never did before, hair longer than you've ever seen it, but cut in a way that seems so New York City. The playfulness that once animated his features has been replaced by something more contained, more deliberate.

He wears the responsibility like one of his tailored Brunello Cucinelli dinner suits, both perfectly fitted and slightly constraining.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

What could possibly follow five years of silence?

What greeting spans a canyon of that width?

"Hey, stranger," his voice is deeper than you remember, the casual words belied by the way he keeps his distance, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt at just the sound of his voice. The phrase — your phrase, the one you always used when he returned from summer trips to Italy — feels like a key unlocking a door you've kept bolted shut, afraid of what lives behind it.

"Luigi,” you manage, your own voice sounding foreign in your ears. Not quite steady, not quite yours.

His eyes move over you, cataloging changes with the precision of someone checking a beloved book for damage after lending it out too long, and you feel suddenly conscious of everything — the faint scar along your forearm from a leopard cub with more fear than sense, the way you hold yourself now, a little straighter, a little more guarded than the girl he knew.

"You look-“ he starts, then stops, recalibrates. "It's been a while."

The understatement of it breaks something in the air between you, and you find yourself exhaling a laugh that's not quite humor but not quite pain, either. "Five years, three months, two weeks." The precision of your count betrays your nonchalance, and you see the recognition flash across his face — you've been keeping track.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, staring at the date for a moment before finding your gaze again.

"And four days," he adds quietly, confirming what you both already know; neither of you have forgotten a single moment of the separation you've enforced.

Your father saves you from whatever might come next, bustling in from the living room with forced cheer that doesn't match the knowing look he exchanges with your mother. "There's the wine man!” Your father’s smile is infectious, but even so, you can tell Luigi’s is forced. “Sofia still in Boston?"

Luigi's attention shifts, that professional mask sliding back into place. A boy forced to be a man far too soon. "Yes, she's — the doctors there are trying something new." He doesn't elaborate, but the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth says everything you need to know. "She said to wish you happy birthday, though. She's sorry she couldn't be here."

"How is he?" Your father asks, the question gentle but direct, a farmer's practicality cutting through polite fiction.

"Not good." Luigi's answer is equally unvarnished. "Maybe weeks now, not months like we thought originally."

Your chest tightens, unexpected sympathy washing through you. Marco, with his booming laugh and endless supply of stories of his childhood in post war Palermo, who taught you both to drive in his vintage Alfa Romeo despite Sofia's horror, who called you piccola leonessa — little lioness — for standing up to him when no one else would.

You hadn't allowed yourself to imagine him diminished, hadn't wanted to picture Luigi facing that loss alone.

"I should check on dinner," your mother announces to no one in particular, a transparent excuse to leave that your father immediately supports.

"I'll help," he adds, though he's never voluntarily assisted with meal preparation in forty years of marriage; it was never for lack of trying.

Cooking just had never been his strong suit.

Their retreat leaves a vacuum of sound, filled only by the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, counting seconds that stretch like taffy. Luigi shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets in a gesture so achingly familiar it makes your throat close. "I can go," he offers, misreading your silence as discomfort. "I didn't know you'd be here. Your Ma just said-“

"No," you interrupt, surprising yourself with the speed of your response. "No, it's your tradition too. The wine." You gesture vaguely toward the bottle now sitting on the counter, trying to ignore how domestic this feels, how easily you could slip back into old patterns if you allowed yourself. "How's the company?"

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Demanding. Expanding. The same." He leans against the doorframe, maintaining the careful distance between you. "I heard you were in Kenya. Then Malaysia. They keep me updated, though I think your Ma edits the dangerous parts."

Of course she does. Of course he asks.

While you've been deliberately avoiding any information about him, he's been collecting fragments of your life like precious artifacts.

"Just finished a rehabilitation project for elephants affected by poaching," you say, falling back on the professional details that feel safer than personal truths like I’m lonely there and I work so much I’ve had no time to make human friends, only the mammal kind. “Starting a new position next month with a conservation group in Borneo."

"Always moving," he observes, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You found what you were looking for?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with meaning that stretches far beyond your career trajectory.

Have you found yourself, separate from him?

Have you discovered who you are without the counterbalance he always provided?

Has the freedom been worth the cost?

"I found... parts," you admit, the closest to honesty you can manage with him standing there, looking both like a stranger and exactly like the boy who knew every single secret you ever had. "What about you? Did you-“ You can't quite bring yourself to ask if he's happy, if he's built a life that satisfies him, if there's someone else who knows him the way you once did.

"I found parts too," he echoes, understanding your unfinished question as he always did. "Some fit better than others."

The clock in the hall chimes seven, and Luigi straightens, seeming to remember himself. "I should let you have your family dinner. I just came to drop off the wine.”

And just like that, he's gone, moving toward his car with the fluid grace that always made him seem like he belonged to some other world — one with fewer sharp edges and hard landings than yours.

Your mother waits in the kitchen doorway once she hears the front door close, "He never stopped checking on us, you know," she says as you pass her, avoiding eye contact. "After every storm, during your father's surgery last year. Even helped reroof the chicken coop in January — thirty-degree weather and he's up there hammering like he was born to do it."

The guilt twists sharper in your chest. "Mom, please-“

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, honey." Her hand catches yours, squeezing gently. "Just thought you should know what kind of man he's become while you were finding yourself.” There’s another silence, her voice quieter when she finally says, “He needs you more than ever.”

Sleep eludes you that night, your childhood bedroom both comfort and cage.

Through the window, you can just make out the distant lights of the Mangione estate — fewer than there used to be, concentrated now in what you know is the west wing where Marco's medical equipment has transformed a sunroom into a temporary hospital suite.

You wonder if Luigi is awake, too.

Morning arrives in layers of gold and rose, dawn mist clinging to the fields like reluctant ghosts.

You dress quietly, slipping from the house while your parents still sleep, drawn by some magnetic pull toward the water that featured in so many of your dreams during those nights in Kenya, in Malaysia, in sterile, lonesome apartments across the world.

The path feels both foreign and achingly familiar beneath your feet — wider in some places, narrower in others, the subtle changes of five years' growth and erosion. Dew-heavy grass soaks your sneakers as you follow the trail through wildflowers nodding drowsily in the early breeze.

The reservoir appears suddenly as you crest the final rise — a mirror of silver-blue stretched beneath the awakening sky, foggy mist rising from its surface in delicate tendrils.

The sight stops you mid-stride, a physical ache blooming beneath your ribs.

How many mornings did you watch this same phenomenon with Luigi beside you, his voice quiet in the dawn as he explained the science behind it, your shoulder pressed against his as the rising sun painted you both in gold?

You make your way down to the shore, to the flat rock that has served as your sitting place since childhood.

It's still there, unchanged except for new patches of lichen decorating its edges like natural embroidery.

You settle on its cool surface, drawing your knees to your chest, allowing yourself to really be present in this place that shaped so much of who you are as the water laps gently against the stone shore, its rhythm unchanging despite seasons and years.

Dragonflies skim the surface near the reeds, their iridescent wings catching light in blue-green flashes.

A heron stands motionless in the shallows, its reflection perfect in the still water — patient, watchful, belonging in a way you once did.

You lose track of time, lulled by the gentle sounds of morning gradually asserting itself over night's quiet, and as the sun climbs higher, warming the rock beneath you, and you close your eyes, face tilted toward its heat.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, the constant hum of anxiety that's become your companion fades to background noise; here, you are neither the accomplished veterinarian with international credentials, nor the farm girl desperate to escape her roots.

You are simply yourself, existing in a moment that asks nothing of you but presence.

But the deliberate scuff of shoe against stone breaks the spell.

You don't need to turn to know who stands there; your body recognizes his presence before your mind can catch up, an awareness embedded too deeply to be erased by time or distance.

You open your eyes but don't turn, watching his reflection appear in the water beside yours — distorted slightly by the gentle ripples, but unmistakably Luigi. He stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of jeans that look expensive but well-worn, his posture hesitant in a way that the boy you knew never was.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the slight uptick at the end makes it almost a question.

Now you do turn, shielding your eyes against the strengthening sunlight that silhouettes him against the sky with your hand. "Liar," you reply, the word lacking any heat. "You hoped I'd be here just as much as I hoped you wouldn't be."

The honesty startles a laugh from him — just a breath of sound, but genuine. "Still calling me on my bullshit." He shifts his weight, uncertainty written in the tight line of his shoulders. "Mind if I join you?"

Simple words that carry the weight of all the space you've deliberately placed between you for five years.

You could say yes, maintain the careful distance that's become your habit.

Or you could make room on the rock that's always been big enough for two.

"Since when do you ask permission?" You shift slightly to the left, the invitation clear even as you wrap the words in the familiar barbs of your old banter.

Luigi hesitates for a moment longer before crossing the remaining distance, settling beside you with a careful space between your bodies that never used to exist. His presence brings with it the same scent from last night — expensive cologne layered over familiar soap — and something else you can't quite name.

Hospital antiseptic, maybe, or just the peculiar scent of prolonged worry.

"You're up early," you observe, keeping your gaze on the water. Speaking is easier when you're not looking at him directly, when you can pretend this is just another morning from before you left.

"Haven't really been sleeping much," he admits, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his fingers — a nervous habit you'd forgotten until this moment. "Papa gets confused at night, thinks he's back in Palermo, starts speaking only Italian." There's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound much older than his twenty-five years. "The nurses call when they can't calm him down."

The simple honesty of it catches you off guard — no pretense, no careful social masks, just the raw truth of what he's facing. "I'm sorry about Marco," you say, and mean it. "He was always so kind to me."

Luigi's smile is crooked, tinged with sadness. "He asks about you, you know. On his good days. Wants to know if the leonessa is still roaring at the world."

The nickname — born after you'd stood up to him during a heated debate about local agriculture when you were sixteen — brings an unexpected lump to your throat. "And what do you tell him?"

"That you're saving exotic animals across the world. Living the adventure we used to talk about." His voice drops slightly. "He's proud of you."

The words shouldn't hurt — they're generous, kind, even — but they land like bullet holes against your chest. How can he be proud when you left without looking back, when you've spent five years deliberately avoiding every connection to this place?

"I'm not sure I deserve that," you admit, the pitiful confession slipping out before you can catch it.

Luigi is quiet for a long moment, his gaze following the path of a kingfisher as it dives into the water and emerges with a small fish clutched in its beak. "Maybe not," he says finally, the honesty both startling and refreshing after last night's careful dance of politeness. "But pride isn't always about deserving. Sometimes it's just about loving someone enough to celebrate their happiness, even when it comes at your expense."

The words hang between you, too honest to ignore, but too painful to acknowledge directly.

You stare at the water, watching ripples spread from the kingfisher's dive, circles expanding outward just like the consequences of choices made five years ago.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," you say finally, the words inadequate but necessary. "I just needed-“

"Space. Freedom. A life that wasn't defined by this place." Luigi finishes for you, no bitterness in his tone, just tired acceptance. "I know. I always knew that about you. You always told me as much." He turns the stone over in his hand one more time before skipping it across the water's surface — one, two, three, four bounces before it disappears beneath the surface. "What I never understood was why it had to be all or nothing. Why there wasn't room for both of us."

You watch another stone skip across the water, five bounces this time.

"I was afraid," you admit finally, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water against shore. "Afraid that if I let you come with me, I'd never know if I could stand on my own. Afraid that one day you'd resent giving up everything here for me. Afraid that-“ You stop, the final fear too raw to voice.

Afraid that you'd realize I wasn't enough, that you'd leave anyway, and I wouldn't survive it.

Luigi's shoulder brushes against yours as he shifts, "Fear is a shitty compass," he says quietly. "Keeps you running from things."

"Says the man who never left home.”

"I didn't stay because I was afraid to leave." His voice takes on an edge you've never heard before. "I stayed because someone had to. Because Mama fell apart when the diagnosis came, because the business employs forty-three families who depend on it, and because Papa asked me to." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "Not all of us have the luxury of just walking away."

The words land like a slap, all the more painful for their truth. You have walked away — not just from him but from every responsibility, every connection that might have anchored you when your dreams proved more complicated than expected.

"That's not fair to you, Lu.”

"No, it's not." His smile is sad but not unkind. "Life rarely is."

Another silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable but heavy with all the words still unspoken, and the sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist from the water's surface.

A little family of ducks paddle along the far shore, ducklings following their mother in perfect formation.

"He's dying," Luigi says suddenly, the words stark in the morning quiet. "Maybe weeks. Probably days. The cancer's in his brain now, that's why he gets confused." His voice remains steady, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the tight line of his jaw. "I wasn't ready to be the man of the family yet. Not like this."

Without thinking, you reach for his hand — the first time you've initiated contact in five years. His skin is warmer than you remember, his fingers thinner, but they close around yours with the same instinctive certainty they always did, like two pieces designed to fit together.

"No one ever is.”

Luigi looks down at your joined hands, "Why did you come back now? After all this time?"

The question is deceptively simple but layered with meaning. The easy answer — your father's birthday, a planned visit — feels like a deflection too cowardly to offer. The truth is more complicated, harder to shape into words when you've spent so long avoiding examining it too closely.

"I think maybe I needed to see if this place still fit," you say finally, your eyes on the water rather than his face. "If I still fit here.” Your thumb grazes his knuckle, “I come usually for only a couple days, this time I just-“ you shrug, “Had a feeling I’d need to stay longer, I guess.”

"And do you?" His voice is carefully neutral, but his thumb traces small circles against your skin — an unconscious gesture of comfort or connection that he might not even realize he's doing, returning the same gesture as you. “Fit?”

You look around at the reservoir, at the fields beyond, at the distant silhouette of the barn where you both learned to climb, to kiss (maybe once or twice), to dream. Then at the man beside you, familiar and strange all at once, carrying burdens you can only begin to imagine.

"I don't know yet," you answer honestly. "But it feels possible. In a way it didn't before."

Luigi nods, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more as his gaze drifts back to the water, to the gentle ripples that distort your reflections into wavering approximations of yourselves. "Our spot is still here," he smiles. "Some things don't change, even when the people do."

It’s not quite reconciliation, not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

You sit in shared silence as the morning deepens around you, two people finding their way back to familiar ground, uncertain what will grow there but willing, at least, to see.

The reservoir glitters in the strengthening light — impossibly clear, every stone and fallen branch visible beneath the surface just as you remember. In summer heat, this crystalline clarity was always your sanctuary, the secret paradise only the two of you knew about, hidden from tourists and transients.

Luigi releases your hand and stands suddenly, his movement decisive in a way that catches you off guard.

For a moment, you think he's leaving, that this reconnection has reached its limit; Instead, he stares out at the water, something shifting in his expression — the weight of responsibility and grief giving way to something lighter, finally more familiar.

"You know what your problem always was?" he asks, turning to look down at you, a spark igniting in eyes that had seemed so tired just moments before.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," you reply, wary of this sudden change but unable to resist the pull of old patterns.

"You think too much." He kicks off his shoes with practiced ease, then reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Always did."

Your pulse quickens as his fingers work downward, exposing the lean planes of a chest both familiar and new — slightly broader than you remember, more defined, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His smile gleams — the first genuine one you've seen since your return, a glimpse of the boy who once convinced you to skip school to drive to the coast in his father's borrowed convertible. He drops his shirt onto the rock beside you, hands moving to his belt buckle, "I'm going swimming."

"Luigi, it's barely seventy degrees — the water's freezing," you protest, even as something long dormant stirs inside you, a recognition of this ritual played out hundreds of times through childhood and adolescence and beyond.

He laughs, stepping out of his jeans to reveal black boxer briefs that cling to powerful thighs. "Since when did that ever stop us?" His eyes hold a challenge as he backs toward the water's edge. "Or have you really forgotten how to play this time?"

The words — so similar to ones from long ago, from the last summer before everything changed — hit their mark. You've built a life of careful control, of prompted responses, of calculated risks assessed through the lens of professional detachment.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

Before you can answer, he turns and dives — a clean arc that barely disturbs the surface before his body disappears beneath it. The water welcomes him like an old friend, his form visible through the blue as he glides beneath the surface with the same effortless grace he's always had.

He resurfaces with a triumphant gasp, dark curls slicked back, water streaming down his face. "Holy shit, it's colder than I remembered!" His laugh echoes across the reservoir, bouncing back from the rocks on the far shore. "Always worth it."

He floats onto his back, face turned toward the sky, the morning sun gilding the water droplets on his skin. "Come in," he calls, not looking at you, somehow knowing the direct challenge would make you retreat. "Unless Kenya made you soft."

The taunt is gentle, playful in a way that tugs at memories you've kept carefully boxed away. How many summer mornings did you spend like this? Racing to the reservoir at dawn, competing to see who could stay underwater longest, floating on your backs while discussing constellations and college applications and all the places you'd someday go?

"Malaysia," you correct, standing despite yourself. "Most recently, anyway."

"Malaysia, Kenya, Timbuktu — doesn't really matter." He flips over, treading water as he watches you, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "Water's the same everywhere. Either you're brave enough to jump in, or you're not."

The double meaning isn't lost on you.

This isn't just about swimming — never was, with the two of you. Water was always your shared language, this place your confessional, your playground, your private world away from expectation and obligation.

"I didn't bring a suit," you stall, though your fingers have already reached for the hem of your sweater.

Luigi's smile widens, a touch of the old mischief lighting his eyes. "When has that ever stopped you? Besides-“ his gaze sweeps over you, “it's seriously nothing I haven't seen before."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you find yourself pulling the sweater over your head anyway, some long-dormant part of you responding to this familiar challenge. The practical cotton bra you're wearing is a far cry from the colorful bikinis of your teens, but Luigi's appreciative glance makes you feel seventeen again, fearless and seen in a way no one else has ever managed.

You step out of your shorts, hesitating for just a moment before diving in — a clean, practiced dive that contradicts the years since you last swam here. The cold is a shock, stealing your breath as you plunge beneath the surface, but your body remembers this, muscles responding automatically to the embrace of water that tastes like childhood and possibility and home.

You surface with a gasp, pushing wet hair from your face to find Luigi closer than expected, his smile softer now. "See? Some things you don't forget."

Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, to the slight stubble along his jaw that wasn't there five years ago. This close, you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension he carries in his shoulders even now. But his smile — that's the same, the crooked lift at the left corner that always made your heart stutter in your chest.

"Some things," you agree, treading water, conscious of the narrowing space between you.

Luigi dips lower, only his eyes and nose above the surface like a crocodile watching its prey, and he suddenly disappears, a swirl of bubbles the only evidence of his descent. You have just enough time to take a breath before hands grasp your ankles, pulling you under in a move he's been perfecting since you were twelve.

You kick free easily — you've always been the stronger swimmer — and chase him through the clear water, both of you visible to each other in the underwater clarity that makes the reservoir so magical.

For a few precious moments, you're not adults weighted by choices and consequences, not strangers rebuilt from the fragments of who you once were to each other. You're just two bodies moving through blue, chasing and evading in a dance as old as your friendship.

When you both surface, you're laughing — really laughing, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.

"There she is," Luigi says softly, treading water just an arm's length away. "I was beginning to think she was gone for good."

"Who?" you ask, though something in you already knows.

"The girl I’ve always known. Didn’t forget how to play.” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the open air around you. "The one who wasn't afraid to jump."

The words should feel like an accusation, but instead they land like recognition — like being seen for the first time in years by the only person who ever really could. You float in silence for a moment, letting the water hold you, conscious of how your bodies have drawn closer without either of you seeming to move.

"I didn't forget," you admit finally. "I just packed it away. Like everything else I left behind."

Luigi's hand finds yours beneath the surface, fingers intertwining with the same perfect fit they always had. "Not everything fits in boxes," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as water laps gently around your shoulders. "Some things just wait."

The distance between you shrinks further, your bodies drifting together as naturally as the current pulling toward the reservoir's center. His free hand rises to brush wet strands of hair from your face, the touch so familiar that your eyes close briefly against the surge of feeling it evokes.

"I've missed you," he whispers, the words barely audible above the gentle splash of water against shore. "Not just having you here, but seeing you. The real you.”

When you open your eyes, he's close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises, count each individual eyelash jeweled with water droplets. His body radiates heat despite the cool water, a beacon calling you home after years adrift.

"I've missed me too," you confess, the truth of it surprising even you. "I've missed us."

His smile then is everything — recognition and forgiveness and possibility all tangled together in the crooked lift of his lips. His hand slides to cup your cheek, water cool against your skin where it drips from his fingers.

There's no hesitation when your bodies finally meet, drawn together by currents stronger than time or distance or walls. His arms encircle your waist, your legs tangling together as you both tread water, keeping each other afloat as you always did.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the small space between your mouths.

"Well,” his nose nudges yours, “welcome home.”

You’re not sure if he means your spot, the farm, or the circle of his arms.

Perhaps they're all the same thing — all the pieces of belonging you've been searching for across continents and careers. Here in the blue that witnessed your first secrets, your first promises, the puzzle of who you are slots back together — not erasing the person you've become in the years away, but completing her, filling the spaces you could never quite reach no matter how far you traveled.

When his lips finally meet yours, it feels inevitable — like gravity, like sunrise, like coming home to a place you never should have left.

The kiss tastes of water and morning sunshine and five years of longing distilled into a single point of contact. His body against yours is both familiar and new — the same shoulders your hands have memorized, but leaner now; the same chest, but bearing new scars and stories your fingers itch to learn.

You float together in the clear blue that's always been your sanctuary, your bodies finding their remembered rhythm, closer than you've been to anyone in the five years since you left. The water cradles you both, witness to this reunion as it's been witness to all the moments that shaped your shared history — every laugh, every race, every whispered dream, every touch that built the foundation of something you tried to leave behind but never truly could.

In the water, with Luigi's arms around you and the sun warming your upturned faces, you finally understand what you've been running from all these years — not him, not this place.

But the terrifying perfection of belonging somewhere so completely that losing it would unmake you.

The fear that loving like this — totally, without reservation — meant there would be nothing left if it ended.

"Stop thinking so much," Luigi murmurs against your lips, reading you as easily as he always has. "Just be here. With me.”

For once, you listen.

Tomorrow will bring complications — his dying father, your job in Borneo, five years of separate lives that can't simply be erased. But here, now, in the water that's always been your truest home, you surrender to the current pulling you back to where you've always belonged.

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed the Radio Star - Tape #1 (Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader)

A/N: After being dead on this account for years, like Christ (or bread?), I have risen (I'm not religious). The point is, if you are new to this series, welcome! I am rewriting this series for myself (and anyone still reading after all this time). It is something I want to see through and that I loved re-reading all these years later. The original reception was so warm and lovely, sometimes making me feel guilty for leaving so abruptly. I loved every reblog, comment, tag, and like for this series. I hope that if you're still here, you like the remake. This series DOES contain sensitive matters such as kidnapping, death, torture, sexual themes, and more. If you struggle with this material please know you are not alone and always reach out for help. I will be making a new masterlist once I have more chapters out. Please let me know what you think and enjoy! - Much love, Em <3

Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist

Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Next Chapter: Tape #2

WARNING: stalking, mention of kidnapping, blood, cursing, and sensitive material ahead.

Tape Contents: You start recording videos for the BAU once you find out you have a stalker.

Word Count: 2,196

Tape #1- December 29, 20XX

Your face looks a little apprehensive as you move away from the webcam on your computer. Your eyes flick off the screen, leaning forward to read something as if you had planned out a script for yourself. You wave at the camera, offering the lens a weak and shy smile. Your posture slumps for a second, letting out a prolonged sigh. “I,” you frown at the camera, “I’m not good at talking to myself on video, it seems.” 

“I guess bluntness might be a saving grace for both of us,” you whisper as you play with a ring on your middle finger, sliding it up and down your finger, “You know that feeling you get when you’re driving home late at night and you think to yourself, ‘Oh my god. I think that car behind me is following me.’ I think it all started with that.” A hand reaches for your hair, and you timidly move a stray strand away from your eyes. 

“I tried everything I could think of and kept turning randomly, but it was too late. I would rush up to my apartment, and across the street would the same red van every fucking weekend. I tried to get the plate one day as I watched them leave from my window, but no such luck.” You swallow thickly, your voice suddenly full of emotion. 

A sad smile crosses your face as you shake your head, “Fucking dumb, this is so fucking dumb.” you cry softly as tears dance along your lash line. You take a deep breath and push your shoulders back in a desperate attempt to regain your composure. 

You hold up a wilted, purple rose. Loose petals fall as you twist the stem between your thumb and index. “Got this last night, just on my windshield.” You mutter with a tone of disdain. “Don’t even like roses.” you joke lightly as you set the rose on your desk. 

“I’m going to the police tomorrow. I just… thought maybe doing this would make me feel better,” you pause and let out a bitter laugh, leaning toward the camera, “It hasn’t.” 

Then the screen goes black. 

Tape #2- January 3, 20XX. 

Your eyes have bags under them, and you gently rub the bridge between them. “So, got told off by the police.” 

You lean back in your desk chair and shake your head before pointing accusingly at the camera. “Went to the station, brought my stupid fucking rose and everything. They told me they would patrol the area. Of course, what car do I not see across the street anymore? That fucking red van. Guy told me that I was just imagining things.” 

You relax for a second before speaking again, your shoulders squaring defensively. “And! And, the second they leave, guess who is back again. Every single weekend, 7 pm to 11 pm.” You let out a weary sigh and rest an arm on your desk, staring directly into the camera. 

“The Police said they couldn’t even do anything until something boarding physical assault happens.” You trail off with a sideways glance away from the screen. 

“I’m not going to just sit idly by waiting to get assaulted.” You hiss out, leaning forward and stopping the video. 

Tape #3- January 14, 20XX 

You’re playing with the edges of your sweater as you lean back into your chair, rocking slightly. “Got another love present today,” Your voice distant as you pull a Polaroid from the desk, holding it up for the camera to see. 

The Polaroid was of you at the library where you worked. You were sitting in a striped sweater, your hair down. You were smiling at one of the volunteers who works ‘story hour.’ You threw the picture back on the desk with a grimace. 

“No one told me that my sweater that day looked so hideous.” You croak out in a desperate attempt to make yourself laugh in the moment, and for a second, it works. You start with a slight chuckle, but it quickly takes a sharp turn for the worst and becomes a full-on sob. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out before you wipe tears from under your eyes, “I’m just scared. My mom and I talked about it, and she said that maybe it was a ‘secret admirer,’ which… does not make it any better. I feel like everyone thinks I’m fucking crazy.” Your voice raises before you cut yourself off and look down at your sweater again. 

“I’m not,” 

Camera off.

Tape #4- January 17, 20XX

You smile at the camera and scoot a little closer. “Hey,” you say with a gentle sigh of relief, “Great news—I’m organized!”

You lean back and relax in your chair slightly, “So I’m Y/N L/N. I work as a librarian here in Richmond, Virginia. My apartment will be in my records, I’m sure.” You laugh out softly, holding up a photo of a tattoo that seems to reside on your lower collarbone. 

“I didn’t want to flash the camera, so I took the liberty of taking a photo of this lovely tattoo of mine,” you say, glancing at the photo of the line-art floral tattoo next to your face. “If you think this doesn’t seem like me… well, you’re partially right. I was drunk in Vegas for my twenty-first birthday, and then I woke up missing a good chunk of money and a tattoo.” You shrug as you slowly set the photo on your desk. 

“I’m not trying to freak anyone out if they do see this. I just…” you pause, releasing a slow and controlling breath, “I want to be found if I do go missing. I want to be easily identified if I’m not alive. I want people to know I was a person and not just a body, you know?” You let your lips grow into a weak smile, nodding slightly, seeming to agree with yourself. 

“I’m making these to help myself, to feel like I have more control. The presents stopped recently, but they’re still watching me every weekend. It feels like it's about to get worse. I can’t explain it. I’m not trying to make the police feel bad. I just… don’t like going down without a fight.” 

“Speaking of not going down without a fight,” You reach over to grab a photo and proudly turn it over to the camera. “You know who this is?” You ask your silent audience. “This is the lovely Jennifer Jareau.” You answer with a weak smile, feeling strange as you talk with yourself. 

“I decided to beg the police to email this video folder to her. Currently, just the police have this, as I’m annoying and persistent but also very charming. That’s a lie. My coworker's boyfriend’s friend works at the station. Hopefully,” You swallow gently as the photo slips away from your fingers. “Hopefully, they won’t have to send it to her and the BAU team, but in the unfortunate case, she does see this.” You smile, wave a little, mouth a soft ‘hello,’ and lean forward—screen black. 

Tape #5- February 10, 20XX

You’re wearing a red, pink, and white striped sweater with a white headband pushing your hair back as the camera focuses again on you. “Happy Early Valentine’s Day to everyone who got a gift from their stalker on the top of their car today,” you say with mock happiness before your smile falls, and you hold up a copy of Wuthering Heights. 

You flip through the pages before stopping on one and facing it toward the camera, trying to get it to focus, but you quickly find the task irritating. You groan and decide to read the line, “Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad.”

“That's one of the lines circled, underlined, and highlighted…” You say, flipping through more pages slowly. 

“The only scenes highlighted seem to involve Heathcliff and Catherine, which are romantic scenes, of course, but just that one quote is emphasized.”  You say, shaking your head, and you laugh a little, setting the book somewhere outside the frame. 

“What a shitty gift, I already have a copy.” You joke before the screen turns black. 

Tape #6- February 14, 20XX

Your face is flush red, eyes swollen and raw from crying as you sit in front of the camera, speechless for a short amount of time. You look positively catatonic for a second, unmoving. The sound of you raking in a shaking breath scares you as you bring yourself to speak. Your face doesn’t match your attire, as you sport a sweater with a giant pink heart in the center and small heart-shaped earrings hanging from your ears. 

“They were in here,” your voice is soft and hoarse. “They were in here, everywhere. They left roses everywhere. They were in here! They got into my apartment and left dozens of rose petals on my bed, floors, couch, and kitchen table!” Your voice raises in volume as you cut yourself off, a small tear rolling down your cheek. 

“Something isn’t right,” You were shaking your head and letting out fast breaths, on the verge of hyperventilating. “This is all getting so,” you raise your hands to run through your curls, pulling gently. “I need you to find me. I’m doing so much already. I went to the police station, and they searched everything: cameras, streets, but there was nothing! Just petals!” You yell softly, voice rasping softly at the end of your outburst. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” you mumble softly, tears filling your eyes. 

Tape #7- February 17, 20XX

You smile awkwardly at the camera and hold up Jane Eyre, opening it to a dog-eared page. “You are my sympathy --my better self --my good angel.” You read off the quote softly with a light sigh at the end of your reading. 

“Seems like we have a Brontë fan in our midst,” you try to be light-hearted as you set the book to the side. 

“I wrote down all my passwords, but it's not like you’ll need them. Nonetheless, you can never be too safe.” You quip the sentence in a soft voice. 

“I’m trying my hardest not to do anything crazy. I just, nevermind.” You say, annoyance thick in your voice as you shut the camera off quickly. 

Tape #8- March 2, 20XX

A terrible gnawing was growing in your stomach. Your hands clutched your waist gently as you leaned back in your chair. You felt like you might be sick as you stared off-camera toward your newest ‘gift.’ Your throat felt taut as you swallowed, a shaky sigh coming from your lips as your pale face looked at the camera. 

“I’m scared this might be my last video,” you say, your voice hoarse and tense, “It all just suddenly stopped. There was no more red van, no more gifts—nothing to write home about, but today,” 

You lean over to pull a pair of white, blood-soaked panties from a plastic bag into the frame. “These were on my door knob today when I got home. I tried not to touch it. I put it in this bag to ensure I didn’t contaminate it more. It doesn’t look like blood blood, more like period blood.” As you throw the bag back to your desk, your voice edges into an emotional tone, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

 “I think that they’re mine,” You cried softly, shaking slightly as you tried to control your breathing, “Th-the panties, not the blood. I haven’t, those can’t be from my period. Mine hasn’t come y-”

“I’m not going to be okay. I was stupid to think I might be, but I’m not!” You cry into your hands, and your shoulders shake as you let out a weak sob. “Please find me if I go missing. Please,” Tears fall on your cheeks as you lean toward the computer. 

“I need you to find me.” 

March 5, 20XX. 

A clicker is in J.J.’s hand as she turns off the videos. “Richmond PD sent this over this morning when twenty-eight-year-old Y/N L/N didn’t show up to her job,” She hands out folders as she speaks, “Her coworker called her mother to see if she had gone out of town when she said no. Y/N’s coworker’s boyfriend called a cop friend to check her apartment and found no trace of her or anyone else in her apartment. They sent this video folder over the second he called it in.” 

Spencer was frowning as he flipped through the pages of your file, hating the idea that you knew. He knew that dread, that feeling when something bad was about to happen to you. That innate and raw feeling that pushes through a person like a wave. He opens his mouth to say something, but Hotch is already speaking before he can get the chance to. 

“We leave here in ten,” He says before leaving the room, cutting everyone’s comments short in one small miraculous moment. 

Within ten minutes, the team finds themselves away from their jet, stuffed into groups in black SUVs, barreling toward Richmond.