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ll-bowman · 2 days

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Cool girl

ghoap x female reader / 18+ warning: the boys are foul - could be considered dub con / part one / part two

Two (three) can play at that game.

"When you're done being a brat, call us."

You decide within a week, that you're very much not done being a brat.

And you're very much done with them.

Fuck them, you coach yourself in the mirror as you fix your makeup. Fuck them both. And her, whoever she is, though you know she doesn't deserve your wrath. She probably has no idea the tangled web she's walked into, she's the one stuck in the trap, now.

The doorbell rings, and you check your reflection one more time, satisfied with your dress, the way it gathers across your breasts, how it flatters your shape. It's a tad short, there's a bit of cleavage, little pieces that make it more than perfect. Something about this style, the way it fits, always drove the boys nuts, so it should be more than good enough for your date.

Fuck them.

You bring him to the dive. It's a safe choice, the bartender knows you, pays attention. You feel safe here, familiar. It's a great option for a first date.

And because you're a cool girl, you don't know how to play pool.

Of course, he's happy to teach you.

You start with a tequila. It scalds on the way down and settles like fire, but it takes the edge off. One turns to two, and it's enough to get you closer, allowing him to rest his hand on your knee at the bar, allowing him to keep a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to the finally empty pool table.

He's handsy, and normally, you'd be a little put off.

But not tonight.

"Okay, it's simple. You use the white ball to break." He lines up your shot for you, folding you into place, bending forward, hand brushing against your thigh as he leans beside you.

You intentionally short the shot, barely breaking the triangle of balls free. He chuckles. "Not bad for a first go."

"What do I get if I win?" Your smile is shy, and it's only half forced. You do like this guy, he's very nice, very attractive. Tall with a strong jawline, kind eyes. His fingers find yours, and his touch is gentle, patient.

"A kiss?" He ventures, testing the waters. You nod.

"Sure thing."

You're halfway through the game when the energy in the bar shifts. It's like everyone freezes, a collective whoosh of air washing through the bodies hunched over at the bar, loitering on the walls, perched on the wrought iron chairs out back.

The regulars look at one another and then return to studying the TV, or each other, their half empty drinks.

You don't need to look, to know.

You can feel them.

Apparently, so can your date.

"Don't look, but there are two guys staring at you, across the bar." You bat your eyelashes.

"Who?" It's innocent, this kind of play. Playing dumb. It's pure, until your chin turns over your shoulder and find them, white knuckled and focused, Johnny alight with anger, Simon stoic as ever. Sadness, and rage, roar inside your head, and you force yourself to look them in their eyes. Force yourself to be brave.

After a second, you turn away and into your date. He pulls you closer, palm resting on your lower back, mouth dangerously close above your ear. "Are they bothering you?" What a nice guy.

"No." You assuage immediately. You know what would happen, if he tried to be your knight in shining armor. You know how it would end.

With blood. Broken bones. And tears.

"Let's keep playing." You suggest. "Will you show me how to hold the stick?" Your teeth hold onto the last syllable, hand wrapping around the polished length of the wood, slowly moving it up and down. Your heart pounds, but a thrill rushes through you at the same time. Fuck them. Your date raises an eyebrow, mouth cocking into a sly smile, and nods.

After your third drink, you can't delay using the bathroom anymore. Skin tingling from all the places his hands have traversed, you're dizzy with the pulse of power, the high of your performance. It's wrong, and twisted but...

they deserve it. They deserve worse.

"I'll be right back." You promise, tracing a fingernail down his arm. "Get another round?" He trots off, eager to please.

The chairs scrape as soon as you turn into the dingy hallway, and their shadows fill the air, sucking it dry. You resist the urge to turn, palm flat against the swinging door of the toilets.

"What are ye doin'?" Johnny rages, and you turn to mouth off, only to jerk backwards at the realization of how close he is. You can count the flecks of gold around his irises, see the shimmer of cerulean blue. Simon stands at his back, a wall blocking out the rest of the hall, hiding you from view.

"I'm on a date." Simon laughs.

"You call this little show a date, sweetheart? Is that what you think that is?"

"Not sure you'd know what I'm like on a date since you never took me on one." You spit, and Johnny goes rigid, muscles hardening.

"Not sure that little boy would know the first thing about handlin' ye."

"Handling me?" The squeak your voice makes is embarrassing and incredulous at the same time. "Handle me? You think I need handling? I'm a full grown woman. I don't need-" He presses closer, close enough you can smell him, and your mouth drops open when he pushes you against the wall, cock hard under his jeans. "J-johnny."

"Aye, we think ye need handlin'. Ye're only supposed to be handled by us. Not by some sad wank who cannae stop droolin' like a dog."

"Stop." The resolve in your voice wavers, your resistance cracking and crumbling as Simon appears beside him, mouth pressing to your ear.

"You think that boy has a fat cock to feed you, sweet girl? Think he knows how-" One of them cups you between your legs over the fabric of your dress, palm grinding against your clit, and you grit your teeth against the friction, the moan it tries to pull from your throat. "to take care of this pussy?"

"She's high maintenance, ye know." Johnny snickers, lips dotting your cheek, down to your neck. He cups a fistful of your breast, thumb stroking where your nipple strains beneath your bra. "Ye think he'll be able to make ye gush for him? Make ye cum on his cock?" You're boiling, anger and desire feeding twin flames, trying to sputter out a response.

"What's going on here?" Your date practically shouts from the edge of the hallway, and Simon's grin turns feral. Predatory.

Fear strikes, and turns you cold.

"D-don't." You try to implore.

"Are you okay?" Your poor date catches your gaze, and you try to will him away with your eyes.

"Leave him alone." You plead.

"Fuck off mate. This is between us and our girl. Ye're done here."

"Excuse me?" He steps closer, and Simon pushes off the wall. Desperate, you latch onto his forearm.

"Simon, please. He's not-"

"He said you're done here." Simon snarls. "Run along like a good boy."

"Fuck you." He postures, and you shake your head frantically, trying to step out between them. Johnny doesn't budge, keeping you half pinned against the wall.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Maybe you'd like to watch us fuck her, after we make you beg for it. After we stretched out your neglected little hole." Johnny laughs, a cackle full of crow, smart and mischievous, and you nearly faint. Your date looks sick.

He takes one look at you, another look at the boys... and then flees. Johnny whistles. "Coward."

When they both turn back...

you burst into tears.

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ll-bowman · 2 days

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https://www.tumblr.com/peachesofteal/749034526975672320/ghoap-x-female-reader-18-everything-was-fine?source=share

OH PEACHES. TELL ME THIS WASNT A ONE OFF. PLEASE. OH GOD.

Cool girl

ghoap x female reader / 18+ / part one

It turns out, you're not that cool.

Your lungs scream on the walk home, arms wrapped around your chest, rushing away from the hotel and it's fancy restaurant and the boys-

-oh god were they staying there? With her? Did they get a suite for the night, something nice, something fancy? Will they order room service? Did they pick up the check? Did they have after dinner drinks? Will they call her sweet girl, and sweetheart, and bend her over the bed?

Your stomach revolts, turbulent with your half eaten meal, red wine burning your esophagus, fire flaring from your heart to where your eyes blur with tears.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuck-

Your name rings out like a gunshot. Shattering the silence, bouncing off walls of the buildings that flank you.

Still, you don't stop. You can't.

"Wait." Footsteps thud behind you, and you know there's no hope. There's no chance you'll outrun him, or out maneuver him, or shake him off. He's Simon. "Wait." He says again, and this time, fingers close around your elbow, gently tugging you to a halt.

You keep your eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

"Sweetheart, we-"

"It's fine." You're quick with it, the cool girl response rolling off your tongue naturally, shrugging out of his hold. "I'm fine." His eyes narrow.

"Let me expl-"

"There's no need." Your arms cross over your chest. A shield for your heart, maybe. "I know the deal."

"The deal." He echoes, words flat. "Sure you do." What's that supposed to mean? You sniff.

"I'm not your girlfriend, you two can do what you want. Right?" He nods, but there's something off about him, something unsettled.

"That's right."

"So... enjoy her, I guess." He steps into your space, immediately. Crowds you, blocks you in, and dips his head to catch your eyes. He turns from endearing to severe, thunderstorm roaring across his face, fingers closing over your shoulder.

"Is that what you want?"

"Yeah." Why not you? Why aren't you good enough to be taken out to dinner, to be seen with Johnny holding you at the waist? He frowns, and then delivers a sucker punch that drops your jaw wide.

"When you're done being a brat, call us."

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ll-bowman · 2 days

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Ghoap x female reader / 18+

Everything was fine.

Your phone was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. You would wait. You’ve waited before.

Sometimes it took a while for them to ring. They had a life together, a home, things to take care of. They had lives to rebuild every time they touched down, got home, got out of their work clothes. Pieces to patch, blood to wash clean.

You weren’t their girlfriend. They aren’t beholden to you, there’s no sacred vow tethering the three of you, no promises or pledges. You don’t know Johnny’s middle name, or Simon’s, anything about their families, their private lives. You barely knew about their jobs, only holding the scraps tossed to questions lobbed back and forth across pillows. They leave little marks across your mind, little spots of scars, knowledge scratched into your skin, sunk into your body, but never too much.

You weren’t a part of their life, really.

You were a part of the dark hours. The soft ones. You were in the orange rays of sunlight cresting over the city, and the emerald abyss of pitch black night. You were the flickering yellow street light, the grey blue smoke of Simon’s cigarette. The in between. Here in the moment, gone with morning.

For months, you had spent their time home pressed between them, folded beneath them, balanced above them. They made you sing. Made you scream, made you cry.

But most of all, they made sure-

you understood the status quo.

“Say it.” Simon cradled your jaw, thumb and finger full of steel, like he was oblivious to Johnny beneath you, his cock sliding in and out of your body, his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, your back to his chest, eyes wide and mouth agape, Simon did not flinch.

“I- I’m not-“ a gasp, a groan, words bitten off when Johnny strokes faster, curved deep against the spot that makes you see stars. Sweat builds across your skin, slicking down your spine, and Johnny chases it, tongue sweeping salt clean. You swallow to try again. “I’m not- not yours.”

“Not ours.” Simon’s fingers wrapped around the engorged length of his cock, stroking leisurely, eyes half lidded. “You’re not ours, sweet girl. But we’ll take care of you, when you’re here.”

So, you fell into it. Fell into them. Got comfortable waiting for the phone to ring, going weeks or months at a time- holding your breath. You got into a rhythm, syncopated behind the swell of their voices, their bodies, their souls. Along for the ride. A passenger.

It was fine. You weren’t looking for anything serious anyway. Maybe someone to hang out with here and there, grab a drink, have some fun. All of these things, they gave you. All of these things were provided. Granted, you only went out with them to a dive around the corner, a dark, bottomless place with tar licked floors and worn away wooden bar. The kind with dusty stained glass pendants swinging over pool tables that have seen better days, wrought iron back patio furniture that squeaked when Simon would pull you onto his lap and hook the hem of your panties to the side to stare at your pussy, hungry and desperate glint in his gaze under the silver glow of moonlight. He’d flip up your dress and stroke you with the back of his knuckles, just the down the seam, cooing, telling you how lovely you look, asking how much you missed them.

They never took you out for meals, or dates, or anything like that. They kept you in bed, buried beneath them, wrung out, drained dry. They took and took and took until you had nothing left to give. They’d feed you, make you come, fill you up and put you to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

And it was all… fine.

Even tonight was fine. Johnny had emailed, said they were back in service range and they’d be around soon, if you weren’t busy. Typically, a phone call came later. Late, in small hours, when half the city slept.

So when you fell asleep to nothing, you weren’t surprised. They’d catch up with you.

They always did.

You didn’t hear from them the next day. You forced it away easily, didn’t let the unease nag at you, pasted a smile on your face for your friends when you agreed to meet them for dinner.

No strings. You’re not their girlfriend, you’re not theirs. You’re cool. It’s cool. You’re fine.

Besides, your friend had gotten a reservation at a very nice restaurant in one of those shiny new hotels that just went up.

You shoved the boys from your mind.

You were the cool girl. You were unaffected.

You’re fine.

“So how’s work?”

“Oh, it’s fine. You know, same shit different day.” You roll your eyes, touch light on the thin stem of a wine glass. The red is a shade darker than your nails, and your lips, and it tastes like sweet cherries soaked in acid. Stringent. Sweet. You’re about to reciprocate the question when the bulk of a man catches your eye, handsome width of a shoulder you’d know from a mile away.

Interest in your friend’s conversation evaporates, and your tongue turns tarnished, sticking in the back of your throat like an overgrown thorn.

It’s Simon. Your heart pounds, and you drink in the sight greedily, elated to see him outside of their flat, or in the bar. Thrilled to get a glimpse of him in the real world, in a restaurant, a real, tangible place, in a real, tangible moment.

“I’ll… be right back.” You manage, slipping from the both to the wall, openly gaping across a room full of diners. As he moves, you mirror it, coming closer and closer to a hallway, a lead off down to the bathrooms.

“Simon.” His name slips from your lips without permission, a build up of excitement and anxiety, all twisted into one heap that darts out in front of your intentions, your resolve. Not cool.

You expect him to be surprised, certainly. You expect to see that small spark, the little fire burning behind his irises, expect him sweep the length of your body.

You don’t expect the surprise to be blanketed with the white fog of indifference. The grey slab of a stone wall.

It confuses you. Startles you. And when you take a step-

Johnny turns the corner, an arm slung around the waist of a pretty, thin, blonde.

His lips part, brows knitting together in slow motion. The girl, their date, it seems, is oblivious. She only bats her eyelashes at Simon and then gazes up at Johnny, sweet and hopeful.

You turn cold. Your fingers go frigid, ice cracking through your veins and attacking your heart, slowing your pulse.

The room spins.

And you’re alone in it. Dining room chatter falls away, drowned out by the thrumming between your ears.

You’re alone. Alone, staring at them, trying to piece it all together, trying to breathe, trying to be-

Cool.

“I uh…” You teeter, precarious in your shoes that now feel like a mistake, like your dress is a mistake, being here is a mistake, getting up from the table-

You’re not their girlfriend. You’re not theirs.

“I’m just gonna… go.” You begin to backpedal. Johnny says your name, says it quietly, and takes a step, lurching forward, an animated corpse seeking its last meal.

“Bonnie, ye-“

“I’ll see you around.” You blurt, stepping back out of reach. Johnny’s fist clenches, and he casts a dubious glance towards Simon, who’s tense and focused on you. “See ya.” You croak, and then spin on your heel, trembling all the way out the door and into the cold, crisp air.

Very uncool.

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ll-bowman · 3 days

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ll-bowman · 3 days

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Strangers

john price x fem!reader | masterlist | ao3

John Price remembers every life he's ever lived. When death takes him in one universe, he's born into the next with all his memories and past experiences still intact. Throughout the lives he's lived, you're the only thing that ever seems to quell the ache in his chest, and he spends every life searching for your comfort. Except, in this life, he's too late

cw: soulmate!au, murder, suicide, feticide, kidnapping, drugging, possessive john price, non-con elements, one shot, dead dove: do not eat!!!

In every life you’ve ever lived, John Price finds you.

He’s drawn to you like an animal is drawn to its cage. The glint of the metal bars look like stars if he squints hard enough, and the smell of blood and iron is the fairest perfume in the world. There is no life that he wishes to live without you in it. Tucked close to his chest in bed at night. Curled up underneath his thumb. Where you go, he follows you, hidden in the shadows until he’s ready to reveal himself as the soulmate who’s been tracking you across eons worth of lives.

It’s a simple curse. One that’s haunted him since he first poofed into existence so long ago he can’t recall how much time has passed. Forever bound to remember every life he’s ever lived while everyone else debates the possibility of a god or heaven, forgetting their reincarnated selves in other universes. It’s a particularly lonely ailment. He had been locked in chains in one life for attempting to convince the world that there was life after death, not through a god, but through sheer human will. Had to sever the artery in his tongue with his teeth and drink down his blood to escape a life of imprisonment, and just like he knew he would, he woke up in his next life a free man.

These days, he spends his lives on something more worthwhile: you. Just as he does, you look the same in every universe with a smile he knows by touch alone and a laugh that is the only melody that can soothe the immortal ache in his chest. He’s fried his brain with drugs and killed his liver with drink, forever carrying the burden of memory, and yet throughout his travels, you remain the only thing capable of soothing that terrible ache that haunts him. If death has already taken you in one life, he kills himself and moves onto the next, a wild man forever on the hunt for you.

The only other thing that stays consistent throughout his many lives besides the desire to be yours, is the taste of fresh tea. He prefers Yorkshire tea, but the Earl Grey they substitute at the shop is fine enough. Quiet muttering fills the air around him as he sits in the corner of the shop, alone with his thoughts. He takes a sip of the tea, allowing the hint of lavender to wash over his tongue as if cleansing him. It’s the only thing that tastes and smells like home. Besides you, of course; but he hasn’t found you yet, and it’s getting late.

Usually, he’s lucky enough to find you by the time both of you are in your twenties. It’s easy to win you over at that age. He holds a maturity well beyond his years, and you hold a wide-eyed innocence that has you in his grasp before you even realize it. But he’s in his thirties, and that has him anxious. Too much time has passed — a decade more than usual — which leaves him with a variety of possibilities. Ones he doesn’t like entertaining.

No matter. He’s learned to be somewhat patient over the countless lifetimes spent searching for you, because it always pays off in the end. All the marriages, the children you have, the love you make. John Price is the luckiest man in the world, being able to replay his favorite memories with you for all eternity. He could never tire of you, would never dream of such a terror.

So when the bell attached to the shop door rings with the entrance of another customer, it quickly turns to music to his ears when he sees you. Afternoon sunlight illuminates the world behind you, blinding him with the beauty you carry across universes and worlds. Your familiar eyes scan the area briefly, hardly paying him any mind before you approach the counter with a grace and poise that has his heart thudding in his throat. He can never get used to the first time. The first time his eyes land on you, he hears your voice, or skin touches yours; it’s the only thing that can tear him apart as well as you do.

He tries not to stare at your ass when you order your drink. It’s always been his favorite physical feature of yours. There’s something different about this version of you, yet still familiar. Nothing is ever entirely unknown to him, not when it concerns you, but you’re glowing more than usual. It’s captivating in a way that makes him feel like a dog, looking at a woman in such a perverse way, but he knows you like it when he stares. You always have in every other life.

When the barista hands you a to-go cup, John knows he doesn’t have long before you slip away. Such a sharp girl, quick on her feet. Always buzzing around, never staying in one place for too long, as if the imprint of your soul enjoyed the chase of him following after you. It’s a game he enjoys very much; one he doesn’t mind entertaining at all.

John rises from his seat, cup still half full, where he slips to the door just as you turn around to leave. His pace is leisurely, certainly in no rush as his hands reach out for the exit, only for him to pause. How silly of him to have left his drink behind, the only reason he even came to that shop in the first place. When he turns around, it’s quick and violent, and catches you so off guard you run right into him.

Piping hot tea splashes around in your to-go cup, and if it wasn’t for John’s quick reflexes and a firm grip on your wrist, you would’ve gotten yourself hurt. Your gasp is sweet and melodic on his ears, and he nearly melts under your gaze as your wide eyes stare at him. Your surprise is cute. As if you couldn’t remember meeting him in countless different universes like this.

“Terribly sorry, darling,” he says as if surprised. His grip loosens on your wrist just as his other hand comes up to rest on your waist. It’s quick, he knows; but in some way, you’re already used to it. “You alright?”

It takes you a moment to catch your breath, and once you do, John feels you slip out of his grasp as you take a step back. Both of your hands come up to hold the cup, afraid of dropping it, and you give him a polite smile and nod.

“Yes, thank you, I… good save,” is all you can manage as you chuckle and gesture to your drink.

John’s hands mourn the absence of your warmth, yet he allows them to politely fall back against his side. His lips yearn to be on yours. For him, this isn’t a first time greeting, but a long awaited reunion. Still, he calms his nerves and hardens them to steel as he chuckles with you.

“Would’ve hated for you to have gotten hurt,” he comments as his eyes glance down at your legs. The brief thought of that searing hot liquid broiling the supple skin of your thighs invades his mind before he can push it away. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

Whatever your response is, he can’t hear it. The dazzling bling of your betrayal drowns out the sound of your voice and everything around him. It’s beautiful; your ring. Its gemstone glints in the sunlight streaming through the windows as if attempting to blind him. No, not blind him. Something worse. It screams at him the very thing he had feared for the last few years; he was too late. Bound to another man in matrimony, a silly mistake you had made before ever seeing the light.

The aftertaste of tea suddenly tastes putrid on his tongue. His sweet mate, too impatient to wait for him in that lifetime. You’d fucked other men in other lives, and though it had always made his stomach turn, John could understand. But marriage?

His teeth threaten to shatter under the pressure of his clenching jaw.

When the sound comes back to him, his eyes comprehend the expression on your face. Discomfort — near disdain. In this universe, John Price is not your lover. He is a man, and only that. One who just so happens to be barring you from the exit.

He remembers himself, and smiles at you kindly as he quickly steps to the side, muttering an apology with a jaw that’s much too stiff. And still, he reaches behind him to hold the door open for you, and despite your apprehension you thank him quietly and say goodbye before you vanish into the streets. Your smell lingers in the air next to him for only a moment before it dissipates and drowns in the aroma of herbs and teas. His face goes cold as he glares at the corner where his now cold tea sits.

This was the first life he ever lived where you married a man that wasn’t him. Something broke. Shattered in his chest where the shards cut him apart from the inside out. When he breathes in, he can smell the blood pooling inside of him and it wakes him up to the terrible realization that — for once in his many, many lifetimes — he’s late. He’s late, and he doesn’t know what to do.

As the sweet smell of tea fades and is replaced by the putrid aroma of London, John tells himself to let it go. So what he wasted thirty plus years just for your heart to already be stolen away from him? There’s a millennia behind him, and a millennia ahead of him. When one life doesn’t go right for him, there’s always the next. Yet as pavement turns to brick and The Thames sprawls out in front of him beyond metal bars, he finds himself hesitating. The idea of letting go can’t quite sink its tendrils into his mind, and his knuckles grow white as he grips the barrier in front of him.

Bitter wind bites at his face as he looks at the water below him. Hesitation. He doesn’t know why it paralyzes him. There’s never been any need or use for second guesses, because he’s always known what’s waiting for him on the other side. All he needs to do is lift his leg, hoist himself up, and then let gravity do the rest. He’s done it before, in some other life. He’s felt his body hit the frigid water with needle-like pain blossoming across his skin just before it swallows him whole. It’s not an easy way to die, but it’s the only thing violent enough that has the capability of smothering the bitterness growing in his heart.

The answer to his confusion comes as a whisper on the back of his neck, where it tingles until it reaches the base of his spine and flutters throughout every cell of his body. Principle. It’s the principle of it all. In every single life, you’ve been his lover, his wife, the mother of his children, and if you are not, then you are dead. Rotten. Decaying in some grave by the time he finally finds you. You’re not just his desire, the love of his life, his reason for being; you are his right.

How long can someone love a soul before it becomes theirs? Before it’s ripped out of their lover and tucked safely away into a cage?

John chuckles as his hand slips from the railing, and he slides them into his pockets as if he had been enjoying the view of grey water and even more grey skies this entire time. Kill himself? No; you’ve been his this entire time. You just don’t know it yet.

He’s only ever done this a few times before; kidnap someone. In a few of his past lives, he’s been a soldier. A stone-hardened man who’s stolen families as bartering tools to make terrorists talk when their mouths were otherwise sealed shut. Killing is a good way for him to let out the anger that builds in a man’s soul after so long, and though he prefers to keep it to people who deserve it, his fingers can’t help but twitch as he watches your husband drop you off at the yoga studio.

Doesn’t he — your husband — deserve it? Death? Shouldn’t he pay the ultimate price for stealing you away from your true lover? The man who’s looked after you for eons? John wants to do it. Kill him. Smell the sanguine aroma that mixes with the harsh gunpowder that expels after a bullet is shot. He wants to, and he could do it, but murder muddles things up more than he would like, and though he’s good at covering his trail, he’d rather steal you away without incident. He’s been carefully plotting this ever since he saw you in that tea shop all those days ago; he can’t ruin it.

A smile pulls at his lips as he thinks about the look on your husband's face, when his pretty little pretend wife doesn’t return home. When he realizes how he’s failed you.

John’s hands tap at the steering wheel as he waits, patient as ever, for your session to end. Silly of you to go to a night class, really. Even sillier of your husband to allow such a terrible thing. If anything, it's greater proof that this new man in this new life isn’t good for you. It could have been anyone sitting in that car park, waiting for you to leave. Waiting to take you home.

Good thing it’s only him.

John exits the car just before eight. Cool air does its best to calm the electricity sizzling in his veins, but ultimately it’s his own mind that stills his nerves. Everything is planned out in his mind with moves expertly rehearsed in a past now forgotten, yet still ingrained in his memory; he knows he’ll get exactly what he wants. You. It’s all he craves. All he ever does.

You exit the studio with a laugh and a wave goodbye to the other women in your yoga class. That pathetic husband of yours is late, which only proves to be good fortune for John as he slips by your side. His feet are dangerously silent on the pavement and his arm is just as warm as ever as he wraps it around your waist, blade in hand. Even through the fabric of your shirt its point is noticeably sharp, and your feet stumble as he presses it against you in warning.

“Not a word, darling,” he whispers, too saccharine to be a stranger.

You listen, just like he knew you would, and he steers you away from the pavement and into the car park. It’s difficult for him not to chuckle as he recalls you in another life. How you once batted your pretty lashes at him, all but begging him to use a knife in bed with you. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to feel the cold sting of it against your skin. He wonders if some part of you feels that way in this life.

Once you reach the car, he slips the zip ties over your wrists in a single fluid motion before opening the door for you. Any onlookers would just think he’s being a gentleman helping you into the car like that, but there’s a method to his madness. As soon as you’re seated into the passengers side, your eyes meet his and they widen with terrified recognition. Not quite the look he hoped for from you, but your expression quickly melts away the moment a needle pierces through your pants and into your thigh. All that’s left to do is buckle you in and drive off.

He likes to pretend he’s carrying you to your honeymoon room as he curls you up into his arms. A sweet bride, passed out against his chest as he carries you to bed, safe in the confines of the cage he’s spent that entire lifetime preparing for you. You don’t stir when he places you in bed, but he lays down next to you as if both of you are resting. He lays in front of you so he can see your face while it’s peaceful; not while it’s twisted with confusion and disgust like it was in the tea shop a few days ago. No, he likes you much better like this. Quiet and pliant.

The tips of his fingers trace the features of your face, and it’s a dance he’s grown to have well memorized. They brush your lips and the tip of your nose before dipping underneath your jaw where they continue to wander. It doesn’t feel wrong, even though he knows you’d beg to differ. He’s done this before, in a life you don’t remember. Touch you like this. Feeling the dip between your breasts and the skin of your stomach. He pats your hands, still bound together with a zip tie — he tells himself he’ll remove them once you start behaving — before caressing your thighs. He wants to slip upwards, to brush his thumb against your clit just like how he knows you like it, but he refrains. He’ll wait until you wake up to do that. Your gasps are always sweeter when you’re aware.

The sweet bliss of numb eternity melts away as the drugs begin to wear off, and when your eyes flutter open you’re met with the face of a stranger. Truly, he’s not a stranger at all. Or, at least that’s what John would have you believe with the knowing smile he gives you. Your bound hands move up and press against his chest, desperately attempting to earn some space between the two of you. This only makes him laugh, and his hand rests on top of yours.

“Easy, darling,” he soothes.

An incoherent response stumbles out from your lips just as fearful tears swell in your eyes. His hand pants yours against his chest before he frowns. The gemstone on your wedding ring stands out like a sore thumb against his palm, and it serves as a stark reminder as to why he had to do all this in the first place. You don’t — or can’t — fight against him as he slips the ring off your finger and places it on the nightstand next to him. He’ll dispose of it properly another time, but for now he just can’t stand to see that proof of ownership on you.

“Please.” It’s the first word you’re able to slur out, and John hangs onto the syllable like it’s dessert. “W-Whatever you want… please… my husband, h-he’ll give it to you just… let me go, please.”

Husband. He hates that word on your lips when it’s not in reference to him.

“I’ve already gotten what I want, love,” he whispers.

Your eyes wrench shut and tears fall free at the realization that there’s nothing you can do to get away from this crazed man. He shushes you as he holds your face in his hands and presses his lips against your forehead. It’s not enjoyable, the way you recoil from him, but giving you the same love he’s given you in every other life feels right. It feels more wrong to withhold it from you.

Because this is his right, isn’t it? Of course it is, and in some sort of way, you seem to know this too. Your hands no longer press against his chest in disdain, and it’s all too easy to prop himself up on his elbow and press his lips against yours. The pressure is firm, as if he’s holding himself back from taking more from you. He groans at the taste of salt on your lips, and nearly chuckles at the way you tremble. It’s a one-sided embrace that you refuse to return, but he tells himself you’ll learn otherwise soon enough.

When John pulls away, your eyes refuse to focus on him as the shame eats you from the inside out. Your entire body is limp, bound hands resting against your stomach as he sits up. Deciding you’ve been behaving well enough, he reaches for the knife on the nightstand and he turns back to you, ready to cut the ties from your wrists.

The very moment the glint of the knife catches your eye is the moment you begin to squirm. Legs thrash and mess up the sheets as you scramble away from him until your head and back is pressed against the headboard. Your chest heaves violently as your terror overtakes you, and John pauses as you retreat. He’s never seen you look at him like that; not in any life he’s ever lived.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises.

“Please don’t,” you beg, his assurance falling on deaf ears. Your pleas turn into mindless stuttering for a moment before something visibly breaks in you, forcing you to share a secret that feels like sealing your death: “Please, you can’t just- I- I’m pregnant! Please!”

Everything stops. The world. His heart. It all falls quiet except for the sound of your hyperventilating which is almost as deafening as the ringing in his ears. Pregnant. Anything kind in John’s eyes dies quietly as he clenches the knife in his hand.

Pregnant. Not with his child. It must be a lie — it has to be a lie. You don’t look pregnant. There is no swelling of your stomach. Yet your hands lie on your lower abdomen as if you’re cradling something. Cradling someone. You have never been good at lying in any of your lives, and the candor sheen in your eyes tells him you’re not good at lying in this one, either.

John tells himself he only wants to embrace you. To mourn the life the two of you could have had if you only behaved. He doesn’t register why you’re screaming until the blood covers his hands, and then you fall quiet. His knife sinks into your stomach like it’s butter, and it pulls free from you even easier. You stare up at him, confused. As if you can’t comprehend why he would do this to you.

Ichor flows free from you like a river, and all you can do is gasp and paw at your wound. Your legs flail as John pulls you against his chest, chin resting on top of your head as if this is something he can soothe away with a hug. It’s not. He can’t soothe away your betrayal. Can’t come to terms with the fact you carry another man’s child when you should be carrying his.

“I know,” he shushes with a strained voice. “I know. It’ll be over soon.”

Your death is not kind, and he mourns every minute you bleed in his arms until you eventually still. It’s only when your blood goes cold that he allows himself to cry. Angry, hot tears that sear his skin as they soak into your hair. Damn this ruined life. Damn the years he wasted trying to find you only for you to be soiled by the time you were in his grasp. He hates the gore that stains your being, but he assures himself it was necessary.

In every life, you belong to him. In the lives that you don’t, you’re already dead.

John carefully places your body back on the mattress where he takes in the sight of you. There’s no more glow to your skin, not like there was while you were alive. But you’re dead, and he knows the life inside of you is dead, too. He tries to take comfort in that fact before angling the knife towards himself.

Killing himself is easier than killing you, as driving the knife into his throat is a well practiced motion. It’s something he’s done before, and he’s so used to it he doesn’t even groan at the sting as the blade slices his artery. Darkness is quick to cloud his vision as the blood loss overwhelms him, and he sputters and stares down at your cold body below. There is little comfort he feels when his blood meets yours on the stained sheets of the bed he wished to love you on. The mixing of blood is the only bond the two of you will ever have in that life.

He coughs as he falls forward. Soon, he has no use for any sort of comfort at all.

There is no blood in your next life. No iron taste in your mouth, or rotten flesh haunting your nose. No, there is only ink, paper, and well loved books.

You love your job. Books are your livelihood; the tool you use to escape reality on rainy days, so it only makes sense that in this life you work as a librarian. The building is dated with poorly insulated windows, and a bell that chimes as another patron enters, but that’s what makes it charming. Millions of words have been consumed in that library, and they linger in a way that never leaves you feeling alone.

Several books sit tucked safely in your arms as you wander aisles, on the hunt to return them home. Every shelf is well memorized. You could find any book in that building blind folded, and you hum to yourself as you go to return Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself to its rightful home on the top shelf of the WXYZ aisle.

Your feet are nimble as you climb the step stool to reach the shelf. It nearly reaches the ceiling, which is no small feat for a building of that size. Your arm stretches over your head and you breathe in the scent of stale paper and well loved books. Just as your fingers slide the item into place, the stool below you jerks, and your stomach drops as you fall to the side.

The books in your arms tumble onto the ground, but you’re saved from that same fate as a pair of arms swoop around you. You squeak as your hands grip the shirt of your savior, and you look up with wild eyes at the man. John Price is younger in this life when he finds you. In his twenties this go around. His face is clean shaven, but his eyes still hold the wisdom of forgotten ages and dead worlds.

“Terribly sorry, darling,” he apologizes. His grip on you loosens, but he doesn’t quite cut you free just yet. “You alright?”

“Yes, thank you, I… good save,” is all you can manage through a breathless chuckle.

There’s an innocence in your eyes that has John smiling at you. His hands are kinder in this life. The angry claws that ended your previous life don’t exist anymore. They do not wield a knife in anger; they only hold you with unbridled adoration. It’s the way things are supposed to be, with you in his arms and looking up at him with that innocent gaze, just the way he likes you. For a moment, John worries that you somehow recognize him when you tilt your head, yet as you bashfully return his smile, he takes comfort in knowing that you don’t remember anything.

You don’t remember anything at all.

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ll-bowman · 3 days

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Into Your Veins- Part XI

Ao3 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

It only takes one pass around the inside perimeter of the base for Nikto to come to the conclusion that this might be the most secure base currently in existence. He’s seen his share, of course. Ever since things went to shit, he’d bounced from encampment to commune to outpost until finally landing at the farm, completely alone and more than a little restless.

Keep reading

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ll-bowman · 3 days

Text

the space in between- part xii

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11

after what feels like an eternity, price finally shows up to the attorney’s office. you hear him before you see him, the low rumble of his voice through the door as he talks to kyle about something you can’t quite make out- malaria, it sounds like? when the handle on the door starts to turn, you can feel your pulse beating in your throat, anxiety at an all time high. price at least has the decency to enter the room with an air of caution to him, as if there was an angry bear in the room and not just your fat ass and the lawyer. the door clicks behind him, loud as a gunshot against the deafening silence in the room as you both stare at one another while kate grabs her coat and briefcase.

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ll-bowman · 4 days

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Hii, I was wondering if you have an account on the character AI, if not I think it would be amazing to create a character from your fics there, for example mafia141, just a suggestion, I love mafia 141 and there the readers could interact more with the character

uhm... yeah, no.

i never plan and do not give anyone permission to take my fics and put them on any ai platform. honestly the thought of it alone seriously makes my stomach feel like it's splitting in half. like the thought that i've put in so much effort to build these characters and scenarios and someone would just put all that into an ai is just... mind boggling to me.

ai steals works from creators. creators like me, the writer who's given you guys these characters, and other amazing authors. anything the ai would churn out would just be a pale imitation of other peoples hard work. work that we've poured hours into creating for you guys.

honestly, i pride myself in creating and publishing works and posts as often as i do despite my hectic irl life, and the fact that it seems like you're wanting more despite it, and wanting to put it through something that unapologetically plagiarizes other works really hurts. if you want to interact more with the characters, you can wait for me to publish more works, and if it's not enough for you, you're more than welcome to write your own fics based on your own ideas. you can send me asks about them! or literally interact on the posts here on tumblr! i feel like i do a pretty good job at responding to you guys! at least i hope! but please don't put it into ai.

i'm trying to stay level headed about this, but i feel like i can speak for a lot of authors when i say it feels really insulting when people do this. like i literally love and look forward to your guys reactions and comments and thoughts and make time in my day to interact with everyone so this just feels like a punch to the gut lmao.

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ll-bowman · 4 days

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Your new blog title and header!!!! Bear price bear price bear price!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have been going absolutely FERAL and eating up all of the bear shifter!Price fics on tumblr and ao3 because that shit is *chef’s kiss* DELICIOUS GAWD DAMN

ahhhhh, noooo, i love bear shifters too and think the fics about it are absolutely godtier, but it's actually in reference to a real bear—The Boss (tagged as Bear 122)—from Banff National Park lmao

he's older than me, was hit by a train twice, is a cannibal, has a rival (Split Lip, Bear 136), and sired about 70% of the parks bear population. i just love bears—but this one a bit more than the rest!

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ll-bowman · 5 days

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Simple Math / Part Thirteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Nurse!reader. Domestic slice of life. Feelings of fear, self loathing, anxiety, dread. Complicated emotions. Verbal depiction of domestic violence. Non sexual intimacy. Scars from cigarette burns. Very brief daddy kink. Sick character (not reader). Comfort. Confessions.

The park is quiet.

You hoped it would be- middle of the day, in the middle of a work week, in the middle of the city. There are a few people around, walking, running, lingering. Enjoying themselves, the warmth of the sun on their face, a bright spot amid a typically grey winter.

It makes it easier. To look.

To watch.

To wait.

And you do. You wait, and you wait. You sit steady on the park bench, pretending to be remotely interested in the rough paperback cradled in your lap, spine already cracked flimsy by Simon’s grip. It’s Stephen King. Carrie, if you’re precise. A story of stolen girlhood and rage.

You swallow the shards of glass and acid the pages bring forth.

Deep breath.

The breeze gusts, and your shoulders nearly shake. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve sat out in the open like this.

Easy prey.

You may have always been easy prey. Easy and young and stupid, easy, and naïve and manipulated. You fell for every trick in the book. You didn’t see the signs until it was too late.

Still, you watch. You wait.

You considered, for a while, that if Philip was around, if he was in the city, looking for you- he’d arrive here. Like magic. Like a classic villain, materializing in a plume of smoke.

And while it’s not exactly comfort you feel as each minute ticks by and he fails to appear, there’s relief in your soul for certain.

It’s a risk, to sit here. A question. With an answer, for now.

Will he? Won’t he?

Today, the answer is he won’t.

Your phone vibrates, and you don’t need to look at it to know, guilt worming its way into the depths of your heart, anxiety piquing as you imagine both Simon and Johnny at their house, their home, worried.

Don’t fool yourself. Don’t give yourself too much credit. Don’t get carried away.

Someone clears their throat over the back of the bench, and you whirl.

“Hey, sorry.” Your pulse slows from a gallop to something slower, and you shake your head.

“You can’t sneak up on me like that.” The man shrugs his second apology, legs spreading into the spot next to you. You’re practiced at this, familiar. Knowledgeable enough to keep your hands from shaking, even though the tremor builds through your bones.

“Been waitin’ for you to call.”

“I’ve been busy.” You eye the black bag in his hands, a small black fabric pouch, gold zipper glinting in the sun. “That everything?” He nods.

“Can I ask-“

“No.”

“Just seems strange, is all. Pretty, polished thing like you, needin’ all this. Most of my clients are more… rough around the edges.” Your teeth dig into your tongue. Already, this guy is less discreet and more obnoxious than your last purveyor. You wish you had hidden your face.

Like Simon.

“We’re solid, then?” You unzip the pouch, cursory eye roaming over the collection inside, checking off a mental list. Usually, you would feel relief at this point, but today, it sours and rots. Liberation burns into a roaring wave of uncertainty, and your fingers tighten over the zipper.

“We’re good.” He stands, giving you one last long look, and then his mouth shifts into a half smile. “Good luck.” Your polite nod is strained and forced. A nonverbal fuck off.

He takes the cue, and slinks away, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

The bag weighs heavily in your hands. A terrible reminder of the truth.

You’ll never have a life. You’ll never have a family. You’ll always be alone.

You’ll never be pretty or polished or perfect.

You’ll always be this.

Scarred. Sectioned off. Scared.

Desperation wells, and you close your eyes. You see Johnny, and Simon. Their faces. Sunlight in bleak darkness.

Love and family and strength.

The ache in your chest widens. You want to be home, with them. Curled up, with them. Sitting at the table and eating dinner, with them. All these things, these domestic, familiar things that once seemed so unattainable, now within arm’s reach.

But still so far away.

Your shoulders relax a fraction, dipping lower, the strain on your injury zinging through your muscles as you roll them, and you shove the little bag into the backpack, above the clothes you pulled from your apartment.

Deep breath.

Johnny’s the first you see after locking the front door. He’s in the kitchen, half leaning on his crutch, fishing something out of a pot, a noodle of some kind, and he freezes, eyes heavy with relief, when you come around the corner.

“Bunny.” His good arm reaches, fingers brushing together, cold against warm. He coos. “Ye’re freezin’.”

“It’s cold.” You agree, unzipping the front of your jacket. He slides cautious and slow touch around your waist beneath it, and you go with him, face burrowing into his chest, just below his collarbone. Your nose is nearly smashed, but you can still breath him in, feel him, be in this moment with him.

His hold tightens. “What is it?”

“Sorry it took me so long.”

“That’s alright, was jus’ worried is all. Text us back next time.” You nod, but stay silent, still taking gulps of air, nosing against the collar of his shirt to find his skin. “Pretty girl,” his hand strokes over the back of your head, warm breath on your cheek. “Ye alright?” You breathe through the threat of tears, though they sting and threaten to sink you.

“Ye-yeah.” You choke, and he tries to pull back, grip steady on your upper arm, but you follow him, still trying to crawl inside and hide, wrap yourself up in him and disappear.

“Hey now,” he clucks his tongue, trying to re-focus you, trying to get your attention, nimble fingers cradling your jaw, “what is it?”

There are no words to explain it, these feelings. The fear. The dread. The bile rioting in your stomach, the anxiety churning like a turbulent sea. It’s like no matter what you do, it all comes back, no matter how deep you bury it or how much you try to change the tide.

It’s easier to lie.

“I’m tired.” You whisper, and he rubs your back.

“Did ye eat?” No.

“Yes. I got something at the hospital.”

“Paperwork all in order so ye can hang out wit’ us until ye’re better?” His smile is infectious, a mirror blooming across your own face, and he dots your nose with his lips. “There’s our girl.” Your toes curl. He tugs the backpack into his grip, and you let him, let him push you up into the counter, drop your bag to the floor, slip his tongue between his teeth. You let it all go to your head, let yourself get lost in him, twist your fingers in his hair, nipples pebbling stiff as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck.

He takes it all away. Every time.

“Johnny.”

“I’ve got ye.” He finds an opening, a soft spot between your jeans and your shirt, hands roaming upward and over, everywhere. He’s everywhere, effortlessly, and you’re along for the ride, clinging so tight like you’re afraid you’ll fall.

And then-

It stops.

He’s holding your face, blue gaze unwavering, focused. “Bun, talk to me.” Your throat throbs, words sticking like taffy, clawing their way up in a jumbled mess until the only thing intelligible is what spills out.

“Is this real?” You’re a child. Small and scared, desperate for some sort of reassurance, some semblance of security.

“Is what real?” His fingers close over yours, lifting them to his lips. “This? Us?”

“Everything. All of it… I- I-“

“It’s real. It’s been real since ye held my hand the first time. Or at least, it’s been real for me… since then. Thought ye were an angel. An answer to a prayer.” He cracks a smile, thumb rubbing across the slope of your cheek. “An’ I’m not the praying type.”

“There’s… you don’t know me, Johnny. There’s so much… you don’t know.” Your chest heaves, anxiety stuttering inside your lungs, air turning thin in your mouth.

“I know, shhh. I know.” You press your face back into his chest, words slowing to a stop, a trickle. “Ye remind me of him, ye know. A lot prettier though.”

“Who?”

“Si.” He kisses your temple, your forehead, peeling away to peer at your face. “Guarded… but scared under it all. Ye dinnae even know how life can be, too busy runnin’ away.”

“Johnny-“

“Ye’ve got secrets, I know. But it’s the same thing I used to tell him. Eventually you’ve got to let go, let me in. Let us in, Bun. We’re not goin’ anywhere. We’re not afraid. Let us prove it.” Your lower lip trembles, eyes burning with the brunt of tears. “Shhh, dinnae cry. Ye’re alright, everything’s going to be okay. I swear it.” You do nothing, nothing except stand there, half folded into him, breath and touch agonizingly slow, steady in his hold.

The two of you stay there, in the silence, until the agonized sear of distress starts to fade, and you begin to balance, ship righting itself after a long night in rocky seas.

Penny’s bedroom door is open.

The soft glow of a nightlight floats into the hall, and you peer past, finding Simon with his arms full, reclined in the rocking chair, a nearly asleep Penny gap mouthed in his arms. You wave.

“Hi,” he whispers, “get everything you needed?”

“Yeah, all set.” You nod to the baby. “She’s knocked.”

“Bath time was rough.” He traces her cheek, twirling a finger in her hair. A soft, faultless picture, his features delicately framed by shadow, thick arms the perfect place for a baby, an easy cradle.

It’s an intimate moment, and inside it, you feel out of place.

“I’ll see you downstairs?” You shift away, motioning, and he hums.

“In a few.”

Everything is slow with them in the evenings, you’ve realized.

They move leisurely, dancing around one another, Simon constantly watching and waiting, for both you and Johnny, anticipating. It’s a natural role, one that seems more permanent over necessary considering the circumstances, Johnny falling into an unhurried pace, languishing on the couch after dinner and dishes are done, fingers mindlessly stroking into the soft spot beneath your ear. Simon leans over, kissing Johnny and then settling at your side, an arm stretching around your back. “Should we watch something?” Johnny brightens.

“A movie?”

“If you’d like. Bun, any suggestions?” You blink. It’s a surprise, one that’s never occurred to you, the ability to simply choose a movie.

“Umm… no?”

“What’s yer favorite?”

“I don’t know. Whatever is fine. What do you guys like?”

“We know what we like. We want to know what you like.” What do you like? Comedies, you suppose. Something light and funny, something to distract the never-ending stream of thoughts cycling through your head.

“Uh, have you guys ever seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall?” Johnny chuckles.

“It’s been a while.” He flicks through the icons on the screen, thumbing over to where he starts to type it in. What if they don’t like it? What if they’re humoring you? What if you picked wrong? “Or, if you don’t like that, we can do something else. Anything. I’m not picky. It doesn’t have to be-“

“Hey,” Simon murmurs, warm palm resting on your knee, “that’s perfect. We both like that one.”

“Dracula musical.” Johnny smiles, finding it easily and clicking play. Your breath catches at the ease of it all, of picking a movie and that being that, no anxiety about a reaction or something triggering popping up on screen.

You can just… enjoy it.

The light in their bathroom is a little too bright.

Your toes stretch across the tile, nerves thrashing in the pit of your stomach as you stare in the mirror.

You don’t know who it is looking back at you.

You don’t recognize the girl getting ready for bed, brushing her teeth, wearing a pair of pajama pants and Simon’s shirt.

There’s a disconnect, some semblance of wires crossing, some phantom of someone else, living in your skin.

Because it can’t be you, getting ready to crawl into bed between them. It can’t be you, who fell asleep with her head on Simon’s stomach during the movie, can’t be you who stole a kiss from Johnny as Simon propped his leg up on the stack of pillows.

You’re playing house. Playing a game.

It won’t last.

It can’t.

You wrap a finger up in the hem of Simon’s shirt, frayed and torn edges pulling apart below the seam. It’s an old one, something he tugged out of a drawer and tossed on the bed, faded graphic turned from white to grey against a rusted black backdrop. It’s soft, and worn, and comfortable, an article of clothing well loved, and you wonder if Johnny’s worn it too. If it’s been passed around, washed, and dried a hundred times.

“Everything alright?” Simon leans into the bathroom, Johnny in view just past his shoulder. He’s not wearing a shirt, just soft, flannel pants, and you stare at the scars dotting his torso before dragging your gaze away.

“Yeah, sorry… I got distracted.” You turn the tap, rinsing your toothbrush before placing it by itself on the edge of the sink, out of place next to the cup holding theirs, and Penny’s.

You blink slow, allowing your eyes to close for a fraction of second.

“Ready for bed?” Johnny beams at you, lush and sleepy, hand outstretched, reaching.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Simon’s bedside lamp is still on, barely illuminating the dark. It’s quiet, and warm, and you bask in the space between their bodies, fingers playing idly with the hem of your shirt.

When Johnny’s fingers graze the skin under the fabric, your chest tightens. He strokes back and forth, over your navel, blazing heat from his palm tingling into your skin. You’re being torn in two, swallowed by the ocean, tugged in different directions.

You struggle to regulate your breathing, small draws coming in quicker, and Simon covers Johnny’s hand with his own, stopping the movement.

“Will you show us?” He murmurs.

“Sh-show you?”

“The scars.” Oh.

Will you?

Even though Simon’s already seen them, this feels different. This feels like a choice. Like you’re peeling something back, baring yourself.

You close your eyes and pull the bottom of your shirt to the top of your ribcage, cool air ghosting over your exposed skin. Johnny makes a sound, a twisted whisper of something pained, and you shiver.

A thumb slides over the raised skin on the left side of your belly. “These are from cigarettes?”

“Yes.” You almost want to look, want to see, but can’t bring yourself to do it, to witness their disgust, their shock. You’re hollow. Drifting. Falling away from them. Someone shifts, the bed moves, jostles slightly, but you block it out. Every muscle in your body is taut, jaw locked, and fists clenched.

This morning was intimate but this… this is something else. Something more.

“Can ye feel them, still? Do they hurt?” Two hands roam, rubbing gently, skimming.

“No but… they’re hideous.”

“No.” Simon croaks, voice thick. “There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t perfect.” Your heart cracks, and the light touch of fingertips disappears, replaced with a swath of breath and then-

Lips.

He’s kissing them.

It stops your heart, dries your mouth. Robs you of your breath, your head spinning into an enormous vortex of disbelief. Simon’s mouth travels, dotting your skin between each ugly, raised bump, carefully pressing a kiss to each one, gradually. He takes his time, and with your eyes closed, you can feel his body hovering above you, holding steady just over your frame. Johnny’s forehead rests against yours, and he cups your cheek, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek, sweet and slow.

“Will ye tell us… about how you got them? Who gave them to ye?” Simon cradles your hips, firm pressure folding into your skin, the curve there, and he squeezes, prompting you, expecting. You don’t know how he does it, how he’s so easily able to guide you, and Johnny. It’s seamless.

“I…” You don’t know what to say, if you were to say anything at all. How to answer. How to begin to explain. How to confirm what you know they already suspect, how to start this story. This nightmare.

Are you really doing this? Could you really do this?

There’s a sliver of sun, begging. Pleading. It rails against the cracks in your heart, desperate.

So, you spit out the only thing you know for sure.

“He liked to hurt me.”

“Who?” Simon’s question is immediate, and your ribs expand with a long breath.

“My… ex.” Stop talking. Stop this, stop it, stop- “He’s a monster.”

“The healed breaks on your x-rays…” He trails off, and you reach blindly, searching for an anchor. Johnny gives it to you, clutching your hand in his, thumb soothing over your knuckles.

“Yes.”

“And more.” Simon whispers, and Johnny draws a sharp breath. You nod.

“And more.”

“Your neck, and shoulder?” There’s a long silence, as you sit atop the wall. As you wait and try to decide if you want to jump off or continue to sit here… trapped at the top, teetering on the edge while they wait below.

You’re in their life now. You said you’d try. They should know.

You trust them.

Don’t you?

“He found me.” You confess, cracked and bleeding and hung out to dry. Three words barely scratching the surface of the truth, saying almost nothing at all and still so much. You stumble, and panic, fear bubbling up to the surface. “I’m sorry, I told you before- I said-“

“And we told ye; nothing is going to get ye while ye’re with us. Ye’re safe, bunny.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about!” you blurt, a near snap, and Johnny freezes. “It’s you guys, and Penny, and your friends, you- you don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t understand. He’s chased me across the world, he always finds me, no matter what, no matter what I do, o-or where I go-” You’re rambling, nearly hyperventilating, and slipping away, succumbing to the rolling black clouds overtaking your mouth and mind, stuttering and falling, drowning in an endless darkness.

They don’t know. They don’t understand. They can’t.

You’re weak. You’re stupid. You’re nothing.

You’re a child again. A lost girl. Alone and scared. Trapped in the dark.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.” You shake your head, and Simon catches it between his palms, holding you still. You can fight and flail and run, but he’s still there. Strong and safe and beautiful in every way, a foundation of love, of trust. “It’s just us, we’re here. With you. Look.” Johnny tightens his hold, and your bones rattle inside your skin, aching and splintering, shredding you from the inside out.

“I can’t.” You hiss, trying to curl away. You can’t face them, or this. The reality. The truth.

It’s easier to run. Who were you kidding? You can’t do this. You should have already been gone.

But they won’t let you go. Not now. Not when they have you so close to the light. So close to the sun.

And maybe it’s time to accept it.

“Look at me, pretty girl.” Johnny murmurs. “Ye can do it.” The pull of his voice drags you closer, comforts you, and you long for him, long to see his blue eyes, overgrown mohawk and gorgeous smile. You long to relax into him, to hear the thump of his heart, steady and strong. He’s a lighthouse in the pitch-black night, a guiding light. It’s enough to lessen pressure building in the back of your skull, and you slowly blink, both of their concerned faces coming into view.

The three of you linger silence, holding each other, decompressing from your confession, your fear that feels too much sometimes. It all fades, night turning long, and eventually you yawn, blinking away the sleepy stars in your eyes.

“There’s our bunny.” Simon kisses your cheek. “My good girl.” My good girl. Turning it over in your mind makes you squirm, allowing it ricochet back and forth with his accent, and you wish you could latch onto it, memorize it, hear it every day. Johnny gives you a bemused smile.

“Ye liked that?” He raises an eyebrow at Simon, and then presses his lips to your ear, whispering. “Ye want to be a good girl for daddy, little bunny?” Daddy. You choke. You anticipate disgust, revulsion, but none of it comes.

Only… intrigue. Warmth.

“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Simon interrupts gently. “Thank you, sweetheart. For trusting us. I know it’s hard.” You turn into Johnny, and Simon rolls to flick out the light, pulling up tight behind you, sliding an arm under the pillows. You burrow deeper into the blankets, snuggling between them to find the warmest spots, and sigh.

“You both… make it easier. You make it easy.”

The world from yesterday is forgotten the next day when Penny wakes up with a fever.

The house is thrown into confined, regulated chaos, but chaos all the same. She wails almost the entirety of the morning, miserable, and you ache for both her, and her dads, who are unmoored and anxious. You don’t even balk when Simon asks you to hold her, explaining he has to call her pediatrician.

“Hey, you’re okay.” You coo, rubbing her back. She’s warm to the touch, but not scorching, and it gives you some comfort, even with what little you know about peds. You rock her, pacing, as Johnny watches uneasily from the couch, typing unending questions into a web search about babies and fevers. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I know you don’t feel good.”

“It’s 38.1… that’s fine, right? As long as it’s under 39?”

“I think so.” You try to reassure him. “I’m not a little human nurse though, so I can’t be sure. But it hasn’t been that long, Johnny. We don’t need to worry until at least twenty-four hours.” He nods, lips quirking into a small smile. “What?”

“Ye said we.”

“Well… yeah…” you trail off, and he shakes his head.

“Jus’ like the sound of it, is all. Like how ye look, holdin’ our baby.” You give him a look, half exasperated, half doe eyed, as always, because you can’t help but feel a little lovestruck or dazed whenever you glance his way, always taken by him, no matter the moment.

Simon steps back inside from the patio, swooping to rub his nose in Johnny’s hair and squeeze his shoulder affectionately. “The pediatrician says if she gets worse, or doesn’t improve by tomorrow, to bring her in.”

“Good.” You bounce her, propping her up on your shoulder. “That’s good.” She gurgles, croaking through her miserable fever. “Poor baby girl, I’m sorry.” You pat her again, trying to help settle her-

She coughs, and something warm runs down your back.

“Shite.” Johnny curses, Simon immediately trying to pull her from your arms, but you shake your head.

“There’s no sense in her throwing up on you too.” You explain.

“I’ll go grab a towel, and some clothes. Do you want to change your shirt?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” You keep your hand steady on her back. You’ll both need a thorough wipe down now, maybe even a shower.

“Sorry, bun.” Johnny frowns, but you reassure him, still rocking Penny in your arms.

“It’s fine, really. I’ve been through way worse with bodily fluids, trust me.” The bottom stair creaks, in the way that it only does for Simon, his mass too much for one of the wooden slats.

When you look up, you realize he’s not moving, only standing shock still, clothes and towel and a baby blanket in one hand,

and the contents of the little black bag in the other.

You left it on the dresser. You left it out in the open, unzipped, on the dresser.

Your blood freezes. Johnny frowns, looking between his partner and you, trying to desperately draw a conclusion that doesn’t come.

Simon holds the little navy-blue book up, the one with your picture in it, but with a name they won’t recognize. A person they wouldn’t know.

A person you don’t even know, yet. A new life. A new identity.

“What’s that?” Johnny’s quizzical, intrigued.

“Bunny.” Simon breathes, and you shake your head. It’s all you can do, just shake your head back and forth until your brain is rattling around in your skull.

You can’t stop it.

They’ll never love you. They won’t accept you. They won’t understand.

“It’s- it’s j-just in case,” you stammer, panicked and tongue tied. “you… you don’t understand, I have to have it… just in case.”

“What is it?” Johnny demands, and Simon flips the front of the booklet around-

revealing the cover of a brand-new American passport.

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