#a fragile world between sharp teeth fic

[bylightofdawn]

The final chapter of AFWBST is up. WIP Sunday is sadly not going to happen but have 5K words of mostly Cody and Rex found family feels instead as an apology?

[colouredbyd]

hey, can i request a poly!marauders fic where remus ends up hurting reader so bad durig a full moon, like lots of angst and obviously u can pick a fit ending. i love ur writing, ur so talented!!

Secrets Have Teeth

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: A prank gone wrong shatters the quiet trust between four lovers, leaving behind wounds deeper than any scar. In the aftermath, two broken souls face the wreckage with guilt clinging to skin and silence weighing heavier than blame. When forgiveness finally flickers to life, it does not erase the pain but dares to ask if something softer can still survive.

warnings: graphic injury, blood, post-transformation trauma, emotional breakdown, panic attacks, guilt, bathing scenes (non-sexual), intense regret, betrayal, depiction of self-loathing, partial nudity (non-sexual), heavy angst, complex grief, subtle references to recovery and healing. basically The Prank but with some comfort

w/c: 10k

a/n: this was abit challenging to write but i loved the idea <3

masterlist

Secrets are heavy things. They press against the ribs, nestle deep in the cavity of the heart, whispering their weight into your bones.��

You’ve carried theirs for months now, cradled in the hollow of your chest like something fragile, something dangerous. It lingers in the spaces they leave behind, the silence that drips from their mouths when they think you’re not listening. 

It’s the way Remus flinches when you touch his hand sometimes, the way his eyes flicker with something haunted, something raw.

It’s James, all restless energy and tight-lipped smiles, his gaze skittering away from yours at the end of every month like he’s afraid of what you might see there.

It’s Sirius, with mud caked on his boots and leaves tangled in his hair, laughter too bright, edges too sharp.

You know them. You know them like you know the lines of your own palms, the shape of your own breath. You know the way James’s voice softens when he’s apologetic, how Sirius’s grin goes crooked when he’s lying, how Remus’s shoulders tense when he’s afraid.

But this is different. This is not a harmless prank or a secret rendezvous. 

This is something that twists in the pit of your stomach, something that grows between them like tangled roots, thick and unyielding.

You feel it most in the silences. Those quiet moments where the world narrows to the space between heartbeats, and the air feels heavy with something unspoken.

You see it in the way they look at each other sometimes, as if speaking without words, as if deciding what not to say.

You wonder if it’s you. If you are the fracture in their perfect, unspoken language. If you are the secret they cannot share. It claws at you, fangs of insecurity sinking deep. 

Because you see it—the way their eyes meet across rooms, quick glances like unspoken conversations, the way they slip away without a word, leaving you in the warmth of the common room fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answers.

You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to be patient, but patience is a fraying thread, and you feel it unraveling more and more each day.

You hate it—the way your mind spirals into questions you don’t want to ask. Are they tired of you? Are you a burden? Something to be set aside while they run off to do God-knows-what in the dead of night?

You imagine them whispering secrets you aren’t privy to, huddled together under the weight of something important, something sacred, and your chest aches with the hollowness of being left behind.

Sirius still kisses you like you are his favorite sin, hands tangled in your hair, mouth all heat and promise. James still pulls you onto his lap with that bright grin of his, fingers tracing circles on your hips as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Remus still holds you like you’re fragile, cradles you against him with a gentleness that feels like both love and apology. 

But it’s not enough to quiet the questions. Not enough to drown out the whisper of doubt that lingers in the back of your mind.

You start to second-guess everything. The way Sirius’s gaze sometimes flickers away when you ask him where he’s been. The way James laughs off your questions with a joke or a grin, always deflecting, always distracting. The way Remus looks at you with eyes full of ghosts, haunted and hollow, like he’s holding back an ocean of secrets.

It gnaws at you, eats away at your resolve until you can’t tell if you’re being paranoid or perceptive.

Sometimes, you catch them whispering in low voices, huddled together in the corners of the library or just outside the common room door.

They fall silent the moment you approach, smiles too bright, voices too loud, shifting to jokes and easy laughter as if nothing at all is wrong.

But you see it—the way Sirius’s hand will linger on Remus’s shoulder, the way James’s fingers brush against Sirius’s arm, a silent promise, a wordless reassurance.

You feel like you’re chasing shadows, hands grasping for something that slips through your fingers every time you get close. You want to ask them. You want to demand answers, to force them to share whatever it is they’re keeping from you. 

But you don’t. Because some part of you is afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean if you tear down the walls they’ve built and find yourself standing alone on the other side.

So you wait. You wait and you watch, heart heavy with the weight of secrets that are not yours to keep, wondering if there will come a day when they finally decide to let you in—or if the door will remain locked, the key hidden away in whispered conversations and midnight disappearances.

Because secrets are heavy things. And you are tired of carrying theirs.

The day unfurls like fraying ribbon, slipping through your fingers faster than you can hold on. There’s a heaviness to it, a weight pressing against your shoulders as you move through the halls, weaving between groups of students who laugh too loud and talk too fast.

Marlene walks beside you, her voice a gentle hum, but the words blur together, softened by the roar of your thoughts.

You think of them—of Sirius’s sharp grin and James’s steady hands, of Remus’s soft-spoken words and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. You think of the way they’ve always been yours, and you theirs, a tangled mess of limbs and laughter and quiet whispers beneath the covers. You think of the way it feels like coming home, like belonging.

But lately, there’s been something else.

A flicker of something that passes between them, a look, a whisper, moments that pull tight like thread, snapping back before you can catch hold of it.

It’s the late-night disappearances, the hushed conversations that end the moment you step into the room. It’s the way Sirius’s eyes dart away from yours sometimes, how James’s smile falters, how Remus’s hands shake when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You try to brush it off, try to bury it beneath logic and trust and the weight of their love. But it festers in the quiet moments, slipping in through the cracks when you’re alone, curling around your thoughts and whispering things you don’t want to hear. It’s loneliness, sharp and unyielding, and it grips tight, leaving bruises where you can’t see them.

Marlene’s hand finds your arm, squeezing gently. “You alright?” she asks, voice softening at the edges.

You blink, dragging yourself back to the present, to the corridor stretching out before you and the sunlight slanting through the windows. “Yeah,” you lie, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. “Just tired.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. You’re grateful for it. The silence stretches out between you, comfortable and warm, and you let it hold you for a moment, let it cradle you in something soft and unspoken.

But the weight is still there, pressing at the back of your mind, a whisper of something fragile and breaking.

By the time you reach the dormitory, the ache has settled low in your bones, a steady thrum that makes you want to curl into yourself and hide from the world.

Marlene offers you a soft smile and a quick hug before she disappears down the hall, and you watch her go, feeling the space she leaves behind like a phantom limb.

You push open the door, and the warmth of the room spills out to greet you, soft and familiar. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the soft murmur of conversation drifts through the air. For a moment, you just stand there, watching them.

Sirius is sprawled across the couch, his head in James’s lap, eyes half-lidded as James’s fingers card gently through his hair.

There’s something unguarded in the way he leans into the touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame with each gentle stroke.

James is murmuring something soft, too low for you to hear, and his other hand is resting on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him.

Remus is curled up in the armchair, a book spread open across his lap, fingers idly tapping against the spine in rhythm with whatever thought is playing behind his eyes.

He looks peaceful, brow unfurrowed, mouth softened at the edges. It’s a rare thing—to see him unburdened, unbothered—and you don’t want to break it.

You linger in the doorway, watching them, and for a moment, it’s enough just to exist there, on the edge of something beautiful.

But then Sirius glances up, his gaze catching on yours, and his eyes brighten.

“There she is,” he drawls, a lazy smile stretching across his lips, though you can see the way his hand trembles where it rests against James’s knee. “Wondered when you’d come back to us.”

You force a smile, stepping into the room, the wooden door groaning behind you. The space is warm with the soft glow of lamplight, and you take in the tangle of limbs, the way Sirius leans so comfortably against James, the way Remus’s long fingers are still pressed into the spine of his book. It looks like belonging, like home.

And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing on the edge of it, fingers curled around the windowsill, peering in.

You clear your throat, and three heads turn towards you, Remus’s eyes softening the instant they land on your face.

He’s the first to rise, marking his page with a quick slip of parchment before crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands are warm when they cup your face, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that nearly unravels you.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. His gaze is steady, achingly gentle, and it makes something splinter in your chest.

You lean into his touch, your hands wrapping around his wrists. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, voice catching at the edges. “Wanted to be with you. All of you.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or something darker—but it’s gone before you can name it. He nods, presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“We’re right here, my love,” he says softly. “Always.”

You hear movement behind him, and Sirius appears at his side, James right behind him, both of them looking at you with expressions that tighten the knot in your chest.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and you’re pulled into the warmth of their arms, the scent of cedar and smoke and something distinctly theirs flooding your senses. It’s grounding, familiar.

But beneath it, the ache lingers. 

When Remus pulls away, his hand is gentle at your back. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft as spring rain. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

His eyes are warm, and the softness there unravels you completely. You nod, and let him lead you towards the bathroom, his touch a tether in the quiet.

The bathroom is softly lit, shadows dancing along the tiled walls as Remus moves about, turning the tap and letting steam fill the space.

He turns back to you, his hands finding yours, guiding you gently to the edge of the tub. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice like something sacred.

Steam curls at the edges of the mirror, blurring the reflection into softened shapes and tender echoes. The bathroom is awash with warmth, the flicker of candlelight catching on water droplets that gather and run down the tiles like tiny rivers.

The tub is filled nearly to the brim, wisps of lavender and cedar curling through the air, softening the edges of everything sharp and jagged.

You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself as Remus’s hands work at the buttons of your shirt, fingers deft and gentle.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, just unfastens each button with practiced ease, his gaze steady and patient.

When the last one comes undone, he slides the fabric from your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of cotton.

James is already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something unyielding in his gaze, an anchor that keeps you grounded even when the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Sirius is beside him, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, a grin softening into something tender as he watches you, eyes bright with a fondness that makes your heart twist.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice soft but unsteady.

Sirius’s grin widen just a bit, a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

“Can you blame me?” he drawls, pushing off the counter to step closer. His hands find your shoulders, warm and grounding.

“We’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world standing right here. You expect us not to look?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you look down, eyes catching on the curve of your bare feet against the tile.

Remus’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and grounding. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and achingly tender. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly, and his gaze is steady, unyielding. “You know we love you, right?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve heard before, one you’ve answered a thousand times.

But tonight, the weight of it settles heavy in your chest, and you swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. “I know,” you whisper, though it wavers at the edges.

Sirius’s fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think you do,” he says softly, and his voice is raw, stripped down to something real. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy with unspoken things. James steps forward, his hands settling at your waist.

“Whatever that pretty mind of yours is telling you, it isn’t true, darlin', you know that, right?” he whispers, the words slipping through the quiet like a prayer.

His thumb strokes gentle circles into your hip, grounding and real.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and James’s smile softens at the edges. His hands guide you to the edge of the tub, and Remus’s hands are still at your shoulders, steady and sure.

“In you go, darling,” he murmurs, and you let them guide you down into the water, warmth curling around your skin and washing away the chill.

The water laps softly at your shoulders, steam curling around your face. Remus kneels beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Lean back,” he says gently, and you do, letting your head rest against the lip of the tub as he scoops water into his hands, drizzling it over your shoulders.

James is at your other side, his hands gentle as he brushes back your hair, fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Sirius perches on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the water. His thumb strokes lazy circles there, his grin soft and unguarded.

They work in tandem, hands moving with practiced ease, soft murmurs passing between them as they pour water over your skin, rub gentle circles into your shoulders, your arms.

It’s reverent, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world just to be here with you.

“You’re safe here,” Remus whispers as his hands brush over your collarbones, his eyes steady and sure. “With us. Always.”

But your breath catches, fingers curling against the edge of the tub. Safe. Always.

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with meaning you want so desperately to believe. “For keeps?” you whisper, and the question is so small, so fragile that it barely breaks the surface of the silence.

Sirius’s hand stills on your knee, and he leans in, eyes dark and unflinching.

“For keeps,” he answers, and the promise hums between you all, ancient and unbreakable.

His thumb resumes its gentle circles, grounding you back into this warmth, this moment.

A grin breaks across his face, wild and free, and James lets out a breath of laughter, his hand squeezing yours beneath the water. “See?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You nod, the knot in your chest unraveling just a bit, the warmth of their hands grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

For a while, it’s just that—the gentle lap of water, the steady rhythm of their hands, the murmur of their voices threading through the quiet. They wash away the ache, the doubt, until there’s nothing left but warmth and the soft thrum of belonging.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth, the steady rhythm of their hands soothing the ache in your chest.

But then, James’s hand splashes against the water, breaking the stillness. His eyes flicker with something bright and mischievous.

“Would you look at that?” he grins, flicking a bit of water towards Sirius, who jerks back, sputtering.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Sirius huffs, eyes narrowing with playful fury.

Before you can blink, he’s scooped a handful of water and splashes it back, catching both you and James in the crossfire.

You squeal, hands coming up to shield your face, but the damage is done—water drips from your lashes, and James is laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained, the sound filling the bathroom with unrestrained joy.

Remus, who had been standing up to grab towels, turns back to see water arcing through the air, James slinging droplets at Sirius, who’s now fully on his knees beside the tub, splashing back with reckless abandon.

His eyes widen, a hand on his hip. “You lot are absolute children, you know that?”

“Only sometimes,” Sirius counters with a grin, flinging another handful in Remus’s direction. “We’ve got to keep it interesting, haven’t we?”

A flicker of laughter escapes you, and Remus’s stern expression softens, though he rolls his eyes. “I’m gone two minutes, and you’ve already started a war.”

James shrugs, unbothered, droplets dripping from his hair. “What can we say? We’re efficient.”

Remus sighs, grabbing a towel and shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

“And you love it,” Sirius quips, leaning back with a splash. Remus just shakes his head, moving to your side with the towel, his eyes softening as he meets yours.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you out before these two flood the whole place.”

The night slipped away in a haze of warmth and whispered jokes, Sirius launching playful jabs at James, who retaliated with splashes that left the room echoing with laughter.

By the time Remus pulled you from the water and wrapped you in soft towels, your heart felt lighter, the fog of your earlier doubts dissipating under their hands.

The four of you ended up tangled in blankets, Sirius still chuckling softly at some joke James had made, Remus’s arm curled around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You drifted off like that, wrapped in them, feeling—if only for a moment—that maybe everything really was as perfect as it seemed.

But morning brings clarity. You wake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space beside you empty but still warm. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from the common room, low and hurried, punctuated with soft laughter.

You follow the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and catch sight of them huddled together—Remus’s face drawn and pale, Sirius leaning in, his hands gesturing wildly, James with a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

They don’t notice you at first, too caught up in their whispered words and secretive glances. You hover in the doorway, something heavy and unyielding curling in your stomach.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen them like this—locked in some private world that you are not a part of. But this time, it’s different. This time, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s breaking them apart.

When James catches your eye, his expression shifts—softens—but there’s something guarded there, too, something that makes your breath catch.

Remus straightens, running a hand through his hair, and Sirius plasters on a grin, too bright to be real.

“Morning, love,” Remus greets you, his voice softer, wearier. “Did you sleep well?”

And just like that, the walls go up again.

Whatever it was, whatever they were discussing, it’s hidden behind their smiles, and you feel it like a bruise.

You smile back, but it feels hollow. “Yeah… I did.”

But doubt settled in your bones, curling thick and unyielding around your heart. Something was wrong. And for the first time, you were sure of it.

You dressed quietly, Marlene’s chatter a distant hum as she twisted her hair into a knot and rambled about Quidditch practice. Your hands worked methodically, tying laces, fastening buttons, but your mind was elsewhere.

Something was off. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since the whispers and the lingering glances.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way to breakfast, but it lingered, curling around your ribs and pressing tight.

Classes dragged. Potions felt endless, Slughorn’s voice fading into the background as you stared blankly at your bubbling cauldron. Transfiguration was much the same—McGonagall’s sharp eyes missing the way your quill stopped moving halfway through her lecture.

Even Charms, which you usually enjoyed, was nothing more than a blur of flicking wands and murmured incantations.

By midday, you found yourself wandering through the courtyard, the chill biting at your cheeks as you made your way toward the edge of the castle grounds.

That was where you usually found them, tucked away from prying eyes, sprawled out beneath the trees or leaning against the stone walls, thick scarves looped around their necks and laughter dancing in the air.

But when you approached, there was no laughter. Just low voices, hushed and clipped. You stopped short, slipping behind a stone column, heart hammering in your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but curiosity rooted you to the spot.

“…tonight, then?” Sirius’s voice was the first you recognized, low and edged with something you couldn’t place.

“Has to be,” James replied. “Full moon, and if he’s right, Snape’s already sniffing around. Bloody idiot’s got a death wish.”

Remus didn’t speak, but you could hear him—his sigh, heavy and weary, like he’d aged ten years since you’d seen him at breakfast.

You peeked around the edge, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

He looked exhausted. Worse than yesterday. Worse than last week.

“Full moon?” you whispered to yourself, brows knitting together.

Why would that matter? And why would Snape be sniffing around? You racked your brain, but nothing came up. Nothing that made sense.

Then, footsteps—too light to be James or Remus, too quick to be Sirius.

You shrank back, just in time to see Severus Snape stride up to them, black robes billowing out behind him. You clamped a hand over your mouth, confusion sparking like wildfire in your chest.

Snape? With them? They hated Snape. Always had. There was the incident with the Potions classroom first year, the hex Sirius threw at him in third, the prank James had pulled just last term.

And yet, here he was, standing just a few feet away, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Sirius.

“You’d better not be lying, Black,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Sirius just smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would I lie to you, Snivellus?”

“Just be there. Midnight. Near the shack.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. “I will.”

You barely heard the rest, heart thundering in your chest.

The shack? Midnight? What the hell was going on? Your mind whirred with questions, none of them landing long enough for you to grab hold. But there was one thing you knew for certain.

You were going to follow them.

Whatever this was—whatever they were hiding—you would find out. You had to.

Night came slow and heavy, the castle settling into stillness as you pulled on your cloak, heart thrumming with anticipation and something else. Fear, maybe. Or desperation.

You slipped through the corridors on silent feet, weaving between shadows until you found yourself near the Entrance Hall, waiting. Watching.

They moved in silence, slipping through the doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

Then James and Sirius, their footsteps softer than usual, expressions set and grim.

Whatever Sirius had told Snape, James and Remus clearly didn’t know about it—the tension rippled off them, sharp and electric.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before following, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to stay hidden.

You ducked behind a tree, watching as James pulled something from his pocket—a small, rounded object that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

He pressed it against a knot in the tree, and the branches stilled, frozen mid-sway.

You sucked in a breath as they disappeared beneath the roots, vanishing into shadow.

Remus had looked like he was seconds from collapsing, his steps unsteady, shoulders taut with strain. James and Remus didn’t seem to know about whatever Sirius had told Snape—it was clear on their faces, etched in their tension and the way Remus’s hands shook slightly as he vanished into the darkness.

Whatever lay beyond that entrance, you were going to find out. Even if it broke you.

The night stretched out heavy and silent, moonlight bleeding silver across the grounds. It felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and lingered there, whispering unease with every breath.

You shivered as you waited, huddled in the shadows just beyond the Entrance Hall, heart pounding in your ears. It was a reckless idea—mad, really—to follow them out here.

But you couldn’t ignore the coil of dread tightening in your stomach, the way it had wound itself around your ribs ever since you’d heard them talking near the courtyard.

They moved in silence, slipping through the great doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, and you could almost hear the strain in his breathing from where you hid.

Something was wrong—you’d known it for weeks—but tonight, it clung to him like a shadow.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before you moved, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to keep your distance.

You waited, breath held tight in your lungs. That’s when you saw him—Snape, creeping through the shadows, eyes alight with that familiar, hateful gleam.

He moved with purpose, hands shaking with adrenaline as he approached the now-frozen branches of the Willow. He stopped just shy of the entrance, glancing around before taking a tentative step forward.

Before he could slip inside, James appeared, blocking his path, wand raised and voice sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Snape sneered, lifting his chin. “Black told me. Said there was something interesting inside. Something you three have been hiding.”

James’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re not going anywhere near there.”

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Snape taunted, his voice a venomous whisper.

James stepped closer, the tension snapping taut between them. “I’m warning you, Snivellus. Turn around. Now.”

Snape glared, fists clenching at his sides. “Why? So you can keep covering for your precious friends? Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of what your little club is really up to.”

James didn’t flinch, his wand steady and gaze unyielding. “Last chance.”

But Snape didn’t back down. He only smirked, the kind of grin that made your skin crawl. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

He took another step forward, but James moved quicker, wand tip sparking with light. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the frozen earth. For a heartbeat, everything went still—no wind, no whispers, just the heavy thud of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

“That’s enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Sirius stepped into view, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between amusement and something sharper. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

James didn’t lower his wand. “What the hell were you thinking, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just a bit of fun. Snivellus is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thought I’d give him something to find.”

James’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Are you out of your mind? Remus is in there! What if he got in? What if he saw?”

Sirius scoffed, waving a hand. “James, please. He wasn’t actually going to get inside. It’s just a bit of a scare.”

“A scare?” James’s voice rose, disbelief cracking it. “You think this is a fucking joke? He could have died, Sirius. Remus could have killed him—and it would have been your fault!”

Sirius’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “Well, he didn’t. You stopped him.”

James took a step forward, wand still in his hand, knuckles white around it. “You’re not listening. You don’t get to just...just throw people into the line of fire for fun. That’s not a prank, Sirius!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he swallowed it back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” James shot back, voice trembling with fury. “Remus doesn’t even know. You did this behind his back! I swear, if he finds out—”

But before he could finish, a sound broke the argument—a low, guttural growl that rumbled from the depths of the shack, primal and raw.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. It was followed by another, more desperate sound.

“Remus,” you whispered under your breath, fear coiling tight and sharp in your stomach.

You slipped through the tangled roots, heart lurching as you reached the back of the shack.

Its wooden slats were splintered and rotting in places, gaps wide enough for you to catch flashes of movement inside. Shadows flickered across the walls—elongated and monstrous, twisting with the flicker of lamplight.

There was a small hole, nearly hidden behind a stack of fallen branches, just large enough for you to fit through if you were careful.

You hesitated, breath clouding in the frigid air, before steeling yourself and crawling through. Your hands scraped against rough wood, splinters catching on your palms, but you ignored the sting.

The shack groaned under your weight as you landed inside, breath catching in your throat. It was dark, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic that made your head swim

Your breath puffed white in the cold air, heart pounding, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming at you to stop—to leave, to turn around, to run. Something was wrong.

Inside, the shack was musty and dark. Dust hung thick in the air, floating in the moonlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows. Broken chairs lay in jagged pieces, shadows clinging to every surface. It was too quiet.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees.

Your eyes scanned the room—empty. No sign of Remus. No sign of anyone. Only the stale scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic, and wrong.

Then—from outside—you heard it.

Yelling.

You turned your head toward the front of the shack.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sirius?” James’s voice, loud, shaking.

Snape’s voice cut through: “You’re all bloody mad—”

“You brought him here? To this place?!” James roared. “You think this is a game?! You told him how to find Moony?!”

A scuffle. Scraping feet on frozen earth. Something breaking.

Then Sirius, laughing—a harsh, ugly sound. “It was a prank, James! A joke! He wasn’t supposed to actually come!”

“A joke? A bloody joke?! He could have died, Sirius! Or worse—Remus—”

The argument grew louder, more violent, their voices crashing against each other like waves. You blinked, unsettled, heart pounding harder now—not just from what they were saying, but from something else. Something inside.

You turned, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Why had James been so desperate to keep Snape away? What was so dangerous, so hidden inside this shack?

You took a slow step back, suddenly aware of how thick the air had become. Your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you didn’t know why.

Then you felt it.

A shift.

A presence behind you.

The breath caught in your throat.

You turned.

And the world split in half.

The wolf stood there, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Towering. Muscled. Massive. Its amber eyes gleamed like twin suns, fixed solely on you. Its breath came heavy, the sound guttural and animal and wrong.

You didn’t understand.

You couldn’t understand.

Then it moved.

Fast. Too fast.

You screamed as its weight slammed into you, hurling you backward. You crashed to the floor, your head cracking against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded across your vision, stars blooming behind your eyes.

You barely had time to breathe before it was on you.

Claws tore through your coat, then your skin. Blood spattered the walls. You screamed again, voice raw and terrified. The wolf’s snarl was deafening, fangs snapping inches from your face. You scrambled, twisted, tried to crawl away, but it was no use. Another rake of claws—your shoulder. Your side.

You sobbed, pain white-hot and everywhere.

From the front of the shack, you heard the door shake violently.

“Moony!” James’s voice, frantic. “Moony! No!!”

“She’s in there!” Sirius screamed. “She’s in with him!”

You kicked, thrashed, felt blood soaking into the wood beneath you.

The shack shook from the weight of them slamming into the door.

“Open it! Open it!” James was screaming.

You tried to call out—but your throat barely worked, raw with terror and smoke and blood.

“Remus, Stop!” Sirius shouted, voice cracking.

“It’s her—it’s her!” James bellowed. “Moony, no, no, no, no, gosh!”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

It kept going.

And you lay there, barely breathing, praying they would break the door down in time.

You stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, and the beast—Remus—stalked forward, claws scraping against the wooden floor with each step. His eyes—those eyes you’d known for so long, gentle and warm—were wild now, feral with hunger and rage.

He lunged, the force of it sending a gust of wind spiraling through the room. 

“Remus!” you cried, voice cracking with desperation, but there was nothing human in his gaze—just the moon’s curse and the monster it carved from him.

He turned, shoulders heaving with each breath, and for a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that primal hunger.

He snarled again, saliva dripping from his fangs, and you scrambled backward, mind racing for an escape.

Your back hit the far wall with a thud, dust and debris scattering from the impact. Remus prowled closer, head low, eyes locked onto yours like prey.

You were shaking, adrenaline burning through your veins as you searched frantically for a way out—any way out. But there was nothing. Just you and him, trapped in the confines of this cursed shack.

The breath rattled from your lungs as he lunged again. 

Agony burst across your stomach as claws tore through you like paper. Your scream shattered the silence.

Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking your clothes, splattering across the floor. Another slash—your thigh, deep and unrelenting. Your vision fractured with pain, body writhing beneath him as you tried to crawl away, but he pinned you easily.

Claws dug into your ribs. Fangs grazed your shoulder. You could hear your own heartbeat, deafening, drowning everything else out. The air stank of blood and sweat and the sharp edge of death. You sobbed, barely able to breathe, choking on the taste of iron and fear.

Then—the shack door burst open with a splintering crack.

Sirius came first, Padfoot in full form, fur bristling, eyes blazing.

He threw himself at the wolf with a savage growl, tackling Moony off you with all his strength.

The force of the impact sent them both crashing into the far wall. You were left gasping, blinking through blood and splinters and shock.

James followed—Prongs—before shifting back mid-step, falling to his knees at your side.

“Hey. Hey, no, no, no,” he breathed, voice shaking, hands hovering over your wounds like he didn’t know where to touch, where to start. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you weren’t. You could feel yourself slipping, the cold creeping in.

You turned your head just enough to see the trail of blood stretching behind you, the smear of crimson across the wood. Your hand twitched, fingers stained red.

The last thing you saw was Sirius, still fighting tooth and claw to hold Remus back, and James’s face—ashen, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror.

You were here because they kept secrets. And secrets are heavy things to carry.

-

You woke to pain.

It throbbed in waves, hot and pulsing and sharp, blooming in your abdomen and thigh. Every breath was a struggle, every inch of movement a riot of agony beneath your skin.

The air was cold, sterile, heavy with antiseptic. The ceiling above you was white stone, too clean, too quiet. The scent of blood clung to your skin. You blinked, your vision swimming, your mouth dry and thick with the taste of iron and betrayal.

And then—realization. It hit like another wound. Remus. The wolf. Lycanthropy. That’s what they had been hiding. That’s what James had refused to tell you, what Sirius had laughed off, what Remus had always tucked behind those sad eyes and hollow smiles.

You remembered it now—his eyes, glowing in the dark; the snarl that tore from his throat; the claws, the fangs, the way the pain swallowed you whole.

He had mauled you.

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, and James was there in an instant.

He nearly stumbled into the room, hair wild, eyes wild, like he hadn’t slept. His chest was heaving as he rushed to your side, voice already breaking.

"You’re awake—thank Merlin—" He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand but hesitating at the last second when he saw the bandages wrapped around it. "You—you're okay. You're safe now. We got you out. We—"

But before he could finish, Sirius was in the doorway, shoulders tense, face pale and drawn.

One step in—and James turned on him like a storm breaking.

"No. No, get out."

Sirius flinched. "James—"

"No!" James shoved him, not holding back. "She’s bleeding, Sirius! There was so much blood—I couldn’t—I didn’t know if she was breathing—"

Sirius’s voice cracked. "Jamie, please—she’s my girlfriend too—"

James slammed him back against the wall, rage surging.

"Don’t fucking 'Jamie' me right now, Sirius! Remus is out there asking where she is, completely clueless about what happened—what the fuck are you gonna tell him? Huh? You gonna say you brought Snape In as a prank, and instead our girlfriend snuck into the shack and got ripped apart?"

"Is that what you’re gonna say?”

Sirius flinched like the words had struck him in the face. His eyes were glassy now, guilt etched so deeply into the hollows of his cheeks it looked like it might never leave.

His lips parted as if to defend himself but there was nothing firm behind the breath he drew in. Nothing solid enough to hold against James’s rage.

“I didn’t know she followed—” he tried, voice trailing off into silence like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

“But you knew what that shack was,” James snapped, louder now, voice raw and fraying. “You knew what Moony was. You knew what would happen.”

They were so close now they could’ve been mirrors of fury and betrayal. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing like it hurt.

The kind of closeness that had once meant brotherhood, now sparking with something jagged and breaking.

“You think saying she’s my girlfriend too makes it better?” James’s hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he was choking on grief. “You endangered all of us—Snape, her, Moony—because you wanted to mess around like it was a fucking joke.”

Sirius tried to speak again, but his voice came out cracked and too soft to stand on. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” James said, and this time it wasn’t a shout. It was something worse.

His voice dropped into that space where hurt lived, where betrayal was a living thing in the room.

“That’s the problem. You never think past the spark of it. It’s always a fire to you, isn’t it? A dare, a thrill. And now she—”

You were sitting up now, breath catching like it didn’t know how to move through your chest anymore.

Their voices filled the room like smoke, thick and impossible to swallow, and still they didn’t see you. Still they didn’t stop.

The anger curled in you like a second pulse, slow and volcanic, fed by the sound of your name twisted in their mouths like an afterthought.

You looked down at your body, at the map of pain they’d drawn across your skin, at the bandages tight around your arms and side and thigh.

You reached for one with trembling fingers and peeled it back slowly, too slowly, like your body was a secret you weren’t supposed to see.

The wound beneath was deep and still red-raw, an angry thing that refused to scab. You stared at it, not blinking. As if staring long enough would make it make sense.

As if blood had a language you could finally understand.

What stared back at you were jagged, red scars, the kind that didn’t heal clean. Bite marks turned purple at the edges, cruel crescents sinking into your skin like the moon had tried to eat you alive.

Deep gashes crossed your side in a brutal lattice, torn flesh barely held together by uneven stitching and the trembling hands of someone too late. A shudder rolled through you, slow and relentless, like something crawling beneath your skin.

You would carry these forever.

Your hand rose to your neck, fingers ghosting over the place where you remembered teeth grazing bone, where the pain had cracked you open from the inside.

You didn’t need a mirror to see it. It was carved into memory. A sob caught in your throat, not loud, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Get out," you said, your voice low and cracked like dry earth before the storm.

They didn’t hear you. They were still yelling, still wrapped in their own pain, their own shame, drowning in the echo of their guilt while you sat there bleeding.

"I said get out!" your voice shattered through the room like glass, and the noise stopped instantly.

The silence rang.

They turned to you slowly, like they’d just remembered you were there, like it hadn’t occurred to them that the thing they were fighting about had ears and a spine and a soul.

James took a hesitant step forward, his eyes soft with apology, but you met him with something he hadn’t seen in you before. Not fear. Not even heartbreak. Just fury, quiet and precise, the kind of anger born from betrayal that simmers instead of explodes.

"You kept this from me," you said, each word dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere scorched.

"All of you. You let me walk in there blind. You let me bleed for a secret that was never mine to carry."

James opened his mouth but no words followed. Nothing could. His guilt hollowed him, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Sirius looked wrecked, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but your eyes stopped him cold.

You didn’t want to see his sorrow. You didn’t want to be comforted by the hands that led you to the edge and watched you fall.

"I almost died because of your secrets," you whispered, and though your voice trembled, it rang with steel. "Because none of you trusted me enough to tell the truth. You called it love, and then you let me be devoured by it."

They were silent. Boys made of noise, finally quiet. And somehow that silence was louder than their shouting ever was.

You looked at the door, then back to them, the air around you sharp as broken promises.

"Out," you said again, quieter now, but it cut deeper for it.

Neither of them argued. They didn’t beg or explain or try to fix what had already bled too long. They just turned, slowly, and walked away.

The door shut behind them with a hollow click.

And the silence that followed was unbearable.

Not because it was empty.

But because it sounded exactly like the moment you realized you were alone.

It echoed louder than the shouting, louder than the pain, louder than the memories still clawing at the edges of your mind. The silence didn’t offer peace—it rang like a scream swallowed too late, like the lingering howl of something wild and ruined.

You sat there in it, trembling, your hands shaking in your lap, the gauze dark with the slow seep of blood.

You stared down at them, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to you, like maybe none of this belonged to you, not the pain, not the scarred skin, not even the breath you were struggling to draw in.

Each inhale scraped your throat like broken glass, each exhale trembled beneath the weight of everything they never told you.

The tears came suddenly—choking, ungraceful things, messy and aching. They clawed up from somewhere you hadn’t known existed, from the place where trust once lived.

They spilled past your defenses, soaked your cheeks, made your chest rise and fall in ugly, shuddering sobs.

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth to trap the sound, to make yourself small, but the grief pushed through your fingers anyway, raw and human and desperate.

You didn’t want to be here. Not in this bed, not in this room, not in the body that remembered every second too well.

You didn’t want to be near that shack, or that truth, or those boys whose love had been too conditional, too secret, too much like a trap. Not when it all still clung to your skin like smoke, like something scorched into you that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared like fire beneath your skin, sharp and blinding, but you gritted your teeth and bit down on the sound.

You forced yourself upright, spine shaking, the world tilting like it didn’t know where to place you anymore. You reached for the nightstand, knuckles white around the edge, and steadied yourself against the weight of gravity and grief alike.

Madam Pomfrey would return soon. She would ask questions—about the bite marks on your shoulder, the blood staining your sheets, the torn muscle stitched back into place like fabric.

Dumbledore would be informed. Whispers would curl through the corridors. Rumors would spread, sprouting like weeds in spring. You could already hear them.

You didn’t want to lie. You weren’t sure you even could. But the truth? The truth was worse.

The truth was a monster’s name whispered behind closed doors.

The truth was betrayal in the shape of friendship.

The truth was pain that had no neat answer, no punishment that could make it make sense.

You took a step. Then another. Every motion dragged behind the last like you were underwater, like your body was remembering how to exist and failing.

It hurt in places you hadn’t thought could ache—bone-deep, nerve-deep, the kind of hurt that didn’t just throb but screamed.

You passed the mirror near the infirmary door and caught sight of yourself.

You stopped.

Your reflection stared back like something unrecognizable. There was dried blood in your hair, matted at the roots like rust. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone and down your arms like ink spilled under the skin.

The bandage over your ribs had darkened, blood soaking through in slow, patient circles. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes—God, your eyes.

You looked like a ghost still wandering the world, too stubborn or too broken to realize it had died.

You turned away before you could recognize yourself, before your reflection could speak back all the truths you weren’t ready to hear.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you couldn’t stay.

The hall was dim and quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came long after midnight had folded over the world. The torches burned low, their flames flickering soft shadows across stone, and even the portraits lining the walls seemed to sleep, their painted eyes closed or turned away.

Your footsteps echoed in the emptiness—slow, uneven things that barely registered, like the castle itself was trying not to notice you. Each step jarred your side, sharp pain flashing behind your eyes, blooming like lightning beneath your skin.

One hand clutched your ribs, your breath catching each time your heel met stone.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed. Maybe you should’ve screamed louder when it happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have followed the sound at all.

You could trace every mistake in your mind, each one lit like a torch in the dark, but none of it mattered now. Not really. Not when the damage was already done. Not when the blood had already soaked the floor, your skin, your memory.

You were already bleeding.

You made it to the end of the corridor before the tears found you again, rising from the pit of your stomach like a storm breaking loose. You crumpled without grace, back to the wall, forehead pressed hard to the cool stone as if it might hold you together.

You didn’t bother to stifle the sob that slipped from your mouth, cracked and breathless. Let the castle hear it. Let the ghosts carry it through the walls, let them whisper your name into every corner of this place. Let every brick and beam know exactly what had happened. Let the truth echo where their silence had lived.

You were in this mess because people you loved had looked you in the eye and decided you didn’t deserve the truth.

And through the sobs, through the broken air and the trembling of your limbs, that thought was the one that stayed.

This didn’t have to happen.

You could’ve stayed safe. You could’ve stayed whole. But they let you walk in blind. They let you bleed for something that was never yours to carry.

Pain flared again, a cruel spike up your side, white-hot and dragging like a knife pulled slow—but it was nothing compared to what twisted beneath your ribs.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, to the bandages under your robes, and for a moment you hoped the sharpness would ground you, keep you tethered.

Instead, it felt like drowning, like trying to breathe through water, through memory, through the echo of a scream that wouldn’t stop playing behind your eyes.

You thought of the Shack. Of the way the air smelled inside, coppery and wrong. You thought of the creak of old wood under your feet. Of the sound his bones made when they broke—sharp, wet, unforgettable. Of the stillness just before the scream shattered the world.

And you broke.

The sob that tore from your throat wasn’t soft. It was jagged, ugly, ripped straight from the center of you. Another followed, then another, and then you were falling—knees folding, back sliding down the stone, until you were curled on the cold floor, cheek pressed to it, chest heaving with each desperate breath.

Your body shook with the force of it, and still the sound came, raw and real and unrelenting.

It was too much. Too much to carry. Too much to name. Too much to bury beneath bandages and silence.

You didn’t even realize you were whispering his name until it left your lips.

"Remus…"

Just a breath. A ghost of a sound. But it shattered something in you. Cracked the dam wide open.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he had done.

And somehow—God, somehow—that made it worse.

That you had been ripped apart by someone who would never remember. That the hands that once traced poems into your skin had unknowingly rewritten you in blood.

That the boy who looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen was the same one who had carved your name into the floorboards with claw and fang.

You curled in tighter, arms wrapped around your ribs, trying—failing—to hold yourself together. But everything inside you was unraveling. Your breath hitched, broken. Your fingers trembled like your bones were afraid. You could still feel it—all of it.

The weight of him, wild and terrible. The heat of breath on your neck. The moment skin gave way.

You remembered his smile. The one he saved just for you. You remembered how his voice softened when he said your name, like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him for even a second.

You remembered how he once said, “You shouldn’t love me.” And now you knew why.

Because teeth remember hunger. Because wolves don’t ask permission. Because even the gentlest boy can disappear beneath the moonlight.

But oh, God, you hated that he didn't know. That he would wake up in the morning with his soul intact while you were left stitching yours together in the dark.

You pressed your hand to the wound at your side, felt the throb of it echo through your whole body. You wanted to forget. You wanted to go back. You wanted him to be anything but the thing that had hurt you.

You didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The boy and the beast. The hands that once brushed your cheek like a promise, and the claws that had torn through your skin like paper. The mouth that had whispered your name like it meant something—and the one that had bitten down to the bone. It was all the same now.

One shape, one shadow, stitched into the fabric of your memory with blood and betrayal. You couldn’t separate him from it. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You pressed your forehead to the cold stone wall, the chill biting into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire still burning inside you. Your tears came hot and fast, streaking your cheeks, scalding your lips.

You tried to swallow them back, to bury the noise, but your body wouldn’t obey. You wanted to scream. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to tear yourself apart just to match the way he’d already broken you open.

But all you could do was sit there. And feel it.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You hated that the boy who had once kissed your temple like it was sacred was the same one who’d left you bleeding in the dirt.

Maybe if they'd told me, you thought bitterly, each word laced with salt and fury, I wouldn’t have followed that sound.

Maybe if they’d trusted me with the truth, I would’ve run the other way.

Maybe if I’d known what he was, I wouldn’t be standing here trying to forgive something that nearly killed me.

But they hadn’t.

So now you knew.

Remus was a wolf.

James and Sirius were liars.

And you were just the wreckage left behind.

The pain grounded you for a moment. Not enough. You remembered James shouting. Sirius pleading. Both of them drowning in their own guilt and still too proud to hand you a life raft. They hadn’t told you because they were afraid. Not for you—but for him.

You meant less than the secret.

You were an acceptable loss.

You forced yourself to stand, legs trembling, hands white-knuckled against the stone. You thought your knees might give out, but you didn’t care.

You had to see him. You had to know. If he still had your voice in his bones. If anything in him recognized the destruction he’d left behind.

You limped through the hallway like a shadow. The castle around you was too quiet, too still, as if it knew something had gone terribly wrong and was trying not to breathe.

Your side ached with every step. The bandages beneath your robes were warm and wet, and you didn’t want to know if it was fresh blood or just the old wounds leaking again. It didn’t matter. You felt hollow. Not empty—stripped.

You walked past the portraits, but none stirred. Even the ghosts seemed to shrink from you. Maybe they recognized you now. Not as a student. But as someone touched by death.

And then—shouting.

Ragged, desperate. Voices you knew.

Your heart twisted violently, nausea rising. You quickened your pace despite the pain, your breath hitching with every step. The ache in your chest sharpened as you turned a corner and—

Remus was screaming.

James had both arms locked tight around him, teeth grit as he struggled to keep Remus from hurling himself down the corridor.

Every inch of Remus's body fought against him, wild and unhinged, as if the rage had torn through muscle and bone and made something feral of him all over again.

"You brought Snape?!" he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious, Sirius?! You brought him—there—knowing what I am?!"

Sirius didn’t move. He stood like a statue, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

"I didn’t think he’d actually go in," he said flatly. "I thought he’d get scared. Turn back."

"You thought—?" Remus’s breath hitched, then came out in something like a growl. "You don’t get to think, Sirius. You don’t get to gamble with that."

He thrashed in James’s arms again.

"And where the fuck is she?! Why is no one telling me where Y/N is?!"

James held tighter.

"Moony, don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Remus twisted around to face him. "Don’t ask why no one will look me in the fucking eye?! Don’t ask where the girl I—" His voice caught, strangled in his throat. "Where is she?"

And then he saw you.

The world stopped moving.

You stood at the far end of the hall, pressed against the stone wall like it might hold you up if your legs gave out. Your shirt was torn at the shoulder. The bandages had come loose. Blood had soaked through. A thin line of bruising curled along your cheekbone. The mark on your collarbone—his mark—was dark and angry and violet.

Remus's gaze dropped to your arms, your limp, slow steps. Then back to James.

"I did that," he whispered. The words seemed to strike him in the throat. "Didn’t I?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

Remus folded to his knees like his body had finally realized the weight of the truth. His hands hit the ground. He stared down at the stone like it might split open beneath him.

"Tell me I didn’t," he murmured. "Tell me I didn’t do that. Please, James. Tell me I didn’t do this."

No one spoke.

"Tell me I didn’t hurt her," he begged, louder now. "Tell me I didn’t—"

"You don’t remember," you said.

Your voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Three heads snapped toward you. But you only looked at him.

Remus's breath caught. He looked like he’d been stabbed.

"I—I don’t remember what happens," he stammered. "I never do. I wake up, and I’m—covered in blood, and I never know if it’s mine or someone else’s and—"

He clawed at his own sleeves, nails digging through fabric, through skin, desperate to feel pain that might match what was screaming inside his chest.

James tried to steady him, arms still locked tight around his shoulders, but Remus tore away with a howl that didn’t sound human.

“I tore her apart,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I—I felt it—I smelled blood—I wanted it—Merlin, I wanted it—” He curled forward like the words had gutted him, fingers clutching at his head.

“I should be locked up. I should be dead.”

“No,” James said firmly, stepping forward, but Remus flinched and scrambled back like he’d touched fire.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—I’m not—I’m not safe—” He looked at you again, and this time, he really saw you.

Your limp. Your wince. Your bruises and the slow, shaking breath you took just to stay standing. His entire body stilled. Then: he crawled backwards, hands raised, like distance might erase the horror.

“I hurt you.”

Your name was a sob in his throat.

“I hurt you—I knew I would—I told them to keep me away—I told them—fuck—”

“Remus,” you whispered.

He looked away.

“Remus,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracked but sure.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t come near me. Please—I’ll hurt you again. I will.”

You took a step forward anyway, ignoring the scream of pain in your leg and the sharp crack of your ribs.

Every breath was a jagged knife, but something inside you refused to stay still.

“I said don’t!” he roared suddenly, flinching hard enough to slam his back against the cold stone wall. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he couldn’t bear to see the damage—your pain, his pain, everything shattered between you.

“Please. I’ll ruin you. I ruin everything. Don’t—please—”

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Each step was a struggle, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Five staggering steps. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, breathless and broken, the room tilting around you.

And then, without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him.

Every muscle tensed, every breath caught in his chest. For a long, endless moment, he didn’t move at all.

You were warm. Solid. Real. Against the ruins of his skin, against the guilt that was tearing him apart from the inside—you were alive.

And you were holding him.

He tried to pull away, voice frantic and raw. “No—no, don’t—I don’t deserve this—I hurt you—”

“I know,” you whispered softly, your voice a fragile thread in the silence, sinking into his hair, his chest, every ragged breath he took. “I know.”

He started to cry again—violently, uncontrollably. The kind of sobs that wrench a person apart from the inside out. His body shook like he was trying to shake free from some invisible weight dragging him under. His breaths came in ragged, broken gasps, each one tearing at his chest with fresh agony.

You could feel the rawness in him, the shattered pieces trembling just beneath the surface. And still, you held on tighter, as if your arms could somehow keep him from falling all the way apart.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown across the storm.

You said it again, over and over, even when his head shook so hard it seemed like it might come off his shoulders.

Even when he whispered, so broken it barely sounded like words, yes I am.

Even when his fingers clawed at the floor, desperate and frantic, as if tearing at the ground could tear him out of his own skin.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster. You’re not.”

Your words became a chant, a prayer. You said them so many times you thought your throat might break.

But still, you kept saying them. Because if you didn’t, who else would? If you didn’t believe it for him, then how could he ever believe it for himself?

Then, slowly, painfully, he collapsed into you. It was as if he’d been falling forever, and for the first time he found something to catch him—a place to land, even if it was fragile and trembling beneath the weight of his grief. His body sagged against yours, heavy and defeated.

You cradled his head in your shaking hands, fingers threading through his hair as though anchoring him to the world. You held him through the sobs, through the storm, through the unbearable silence between each tear.

“I forgive you.”

And again.

“I forgive you.”

Your voice cracked, raw with all the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling down your cheeks. Your throat burned like fire from saying it so many times. Your bandages pressed painfully against his skin, a sharp reminder that your body, too, was broken. But still, you said it—because someone had to say it.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the hardest thing to give and the most necessary thing to hear.

“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Remus broke completely. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if you were the only solid thing left in the world.

His face buried deep in your shoulder, muffling the desperate whispers of I’m sorry that spilled from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, like a curse he couldn’t undo. The weight of those words hung heavy between you, suffocating and real.

Maybe some wounds could never fully heal. Maybe some mistakes could never be undone. But you held him anyway, steady and sure, even when your own body trembled with pain.

Because sometimes, love is the only thing strong enough to hold two broken people together when everything else falls apart.

He didn’t look up. His head hung low, shoulders trembling with a quiet, desperate shudder. His breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, like the air itself was betraying him.

Your fingers found his face, trembling as you gently cupped his cheeks, warm beneath your cold touch.

For a moment, he froze—still as if your presence was something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Look at me,” you whispered, voice soft but firm.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Remus. Please. Look at me.”

Slowly—agonizingly slow—his eyes lifted, meeting yours.

What you saw there nearly shattered you.

It wasn’t guilt. Not even horror. It was grief. Endless, bone-deep, all-consuming grief.

Like he had already buried you somewhere inside his mind and didn’t know how to find his way back to the living world. Like a weight pressed so hard on his chest he couldn’t breathe without breaking.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as it slipped silently down his face.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“It’s not,” he croaked, voice raw and broken.

“But I’m here.”

You let the silence stretch between you, letting your touch be the anchor in the storm of his pain. Letting the quiet speak the words you both couldn’t say aloud.

Then, with a gentle nudge, you reached up and helped him to his feet. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just followed as you led him down the corridor, your fingers laced with his, your steps slow and uneven.

He swayed as he stood, unsteady, eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t let go of him either.

Your fingers laced through his, and you took a small step forward. He followed. Another step. Another.

You guided him through the corridor like that, hand in hand, limping slightly with each movement but refusing to stop. His steps were heavy, dragging, as if every footfall carried the weight of what he’d done. But he followed you.

When you reached the bathroom, you nudged the door open with your shoulder and led him inside.

The light was dim. Everything smelled like old tile and lavender soap. The only sound was the drip of a tap and the hush of your breaths. You turned the knobs with aching fingers, letting warm water spill into the tub, steam curling into the air like a kind of gentleness neither of you had known in days.

He stood by the door, unmoving.

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

He flinched.

“I can go,” you said, voice low, careful.

He looked at you—just looked—and then, finally, shook his head

You peeled the tattered shirt off his frame, revealing bruises and scratches and old scars that mapped out years of hurt across his skin. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You undid the buttons of his trousers, helped him step out of them, folding them into a soft pile on the counter.

He didn’t speak. He only watched you with wide, haunted eyes, as if each tender movement was something he couldn’t understand.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this softness.

You reached for his hand again.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “It’s warm.”

He let you guide him into the tub. The water rose around him, lapping gently at his arms and shoulders. He shivered—not from cold, but from everything.

You knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. Then, slowly, you brought it to his skin.

You washed him the way you’d cradle something delicate.

You ran the cloth down his arm. Across his shoulder. Behind his ear. Over his chest, where his heart beat wild and trembling under your hand.

You bathed him in silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if you could wash away the weight of everything between you. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully wiped the dried blood from his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles where the skin was torn and raw.

You cleaned the sweat that clung to his brow, cool and sticky beneath your touch. Then you pressed your palm gently over his heart, feeling the faint, uneven thud beneath your palm—a stubborn, fragile reminder that it was still beating, still alive.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, water swirling around him, eyes distant and unfocused, lost somewhere far away, in a place you couldn’t reach—yet.

But you promised yourself, silently, fiercely, that you would reach him. No matter how long it took. No matter how many walls he built around himself.

He was still there when you finally broke the silence. Your voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper carrying through the fog.

“I wish someone had told me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his gaze. “I wish you had told me.”

Remus tensed beneath the water, muscles knotting, and you felt it through your fingertips. You wrung the cloth between your fingers, heart pounding with every second of silence that stretched between you.

“I don’t care how painful it would’ve been,” you added, voice steadier now, more certain. “I deserved to know.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves carved into him. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Your tone sharpened, the raw hurt breaking through your calm. “You didn’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to protect me by lying. Not when it nearly killed me.”

The weight of those words fell heavy into the space between you. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the cloth.

Then his eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever—fragile, vulnerable, full of everything he’d been too scared to say.

“I didn’t think you'd ever look at me the same,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “If you knew.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, sharp and sudden, breaking the tension.

“You think I don’t see you now? You think I’m not looking at you, right now, with every part of me?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with something almost like hope.

“I see you, Remus. All of you. I see the way you flinch from love like it’s a blade. I see the grief carved into your silence. I see the boy who would rather bury himself than risk hurting someone else.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands—wounded, trembling, wrapped in ragged bandages—and the pain in your voice was honest, unfiltered. “But I also see the boy who never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And that… that hurts more than any scar.”

He looked broken, hollowed out in a way that left your chest aching, but he didn’t turn away. Didn’t close his eyes. Instead, his voice came, raw and low.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of your words settling between you like a fragile promise. “Yes. You should’ve.”

The steam from the warm water curled around your faces, softening the harsh edges of everything unsaid, blurring the sharp lines of pain into something almost gentle.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing in the shared silence. Then he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours, a quiet gesture that spoke of tentative hope and fragile trust.

“I want to try,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

Your own voice trembled as it broke free. “Start by telling me everything.”

He nodded again, slower this time, like anchoring himself to the present. And with that, something shifted—an opening, a fragile thread weaving back between you.

And this time, he did.

It came slowly at first, like drawing words from the marrow of his bones—halting, rough, like he’d forgotten how to shape language without flinching.

He told you what he could remember from that night—shards of memory coated in blood and fear, barely coherent. He told you what it felt like to lose himself, to slip out of time, to wake up in a skin that didn’t feel like his own.

The nightmares that curled around his ribcage. The silence that tasted like penance. The months—years—spent learning how to live without letting anyone close enough to see the damage. How he'd convinced himself that silence was kindness, that distance was protection, that truth was a luxury people like him couldn’t afford.

And still, you listened.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t turn away. You let his voice break against you like waves on a cliffside, let him collapse into pauses and shake through the parts he couldn’t finish. You held the silence between his sentences like it was something sacred. Even when it hurt.

Even when it cracked open something raw and old inside your chest. Because somewhere inside you, you knew—this wasn’t just a story he was telling. It was a confession. A quiet unraveling.

Not everything was said. Not everything could be. There were still silences he couldn’t break open and wounds you weren’t sure how to touch. But it was a beginning. A single stone placed in what might one day be a bridge.

And still, there was so much more.

The things Sirius had done—reckless, cruel, even if born of desperation—hung in the air like smoke that would not clear. You had not spoken to him since it all unraveled. You were not sure what you would say.

You didn’t know if Remus would ever find it in himself to forgive Sirius, or to trust him again. Some things fracture differently. Some betrayals do not bleed clean.

And James, with his steady eyes and soft-spoken guilt, had kept his own silences. Even he, who had always tried to protect you, had made choices that left you cut open.

All three of them had lied in different ways. Lied in the name of protection. Lied out of fear. Lied out of love. And those lies still lingered in the spaces behind your teeth. You hadn’t even begun to decide what to do with that.

You knew, deep down, that some scars would not close. That no amount of tenderness could undo certain kinds of damage. That some trust, once fractured, might never return in the shape it once held.

You had changed. They had, too. And now you would have to figure out if those new shapes could still fit beside one another without splintering again.

You would have to grieve what you’d lost—who you’d been before all this. You would have to learn how to trust again, not just them, but yourself. Your instincts. Your worth. You’d have to forgive the parts of you that stayed too quiet, too long. You would carry this with you, no matter how far you ran—these bruised memories, these broken truths—but you didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.

Healing would not be a soft road.

There would be nights you’d wake trembling. Days the anger would rise without warning. There would be guilt, and fear, and moments when you weren’t sure if you could keep choosing to stay.

But there would also be mornings, slow and gold. There would be laughter again, strange at first, then easier. There would be cups of tea gone cold on the windowsill. A hand held out when you least expected it. A voice calling you back when you wandered too far.

But you also knew this. You were no longer alone in it.

You helped Remus out of the tub when the water turned cold. He was quiet, pliant, letting you wrap the towel around his shaking shoulders. His head tilted toward yours as you led him through the dim apartment, your steps slow but steady, his breath catching in the hush between rooms.

You found him a fresh shirt, helped him into bed without asking, and tucked the blanket over his trembling limbs. He lay still as stone, but his fingers found yours. And held.

You sat beside him, watching the moonlight shift across the floorboards, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

When Remus finally turned to face you, his expression was soft with exhaustion, but something in his eyes had steadied.

He took your hand again, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, “there’s a chance for us? After everything?”

The question lingered between you. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest.

You took a breath and met his gaze. “Yes,” you said. “I do.”

His hand tightened gently in yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting that answer settle inside his chest.

Then he looked at you again, quieter this time.

“For keeps?”

You blinked, heart rising painfully. You didn’t hesitate.

“For keeps.”

a/n: this is so over the place, i am so sorry anon </3

[softforsukuna]

Drown out the rain.

im ovulating and ignoring my college assignments, enjoy. 🫶🏻 sukuna x fem! reader, hes just really in love w you

tw: suggestive content(?), cliffhanger bc idk how to write smut so i avoid it

a/n: deadass realised all my fics are portayed in rain and storm, im just a cliche

• ──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── ��

The rain came down hard outside, tapping against the roof like a ticking clock. The kind of night that wrapped the world in gray and left nothing but warmth behind closed doors.

You were curled on the couch in one of his oversized shirts, legs tucked under you, flipping through a book you were only half-reading. Sukuna sat nearby, sprawled out with his usual lazy, predatory grace—shirtless, tattooed, his eyes heavy-lidded and tracking your every move like you were the only thing worth worshipping.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-slick, “you look real fuckin’ sweet in my clothes.”

You glanced up, brows raised and that teasing smile on your lips. “Yeah? I figured you liked me better out of them.”

He smirked, sharp and slow. “That too.”

His hand found your ankle, calloused fingers dragging up your leg with deliberate weight, stopping just beneath the hem of the shirt.

“You’re warm,” you said softly, leaning into his touch.

He tilted his head, that dangerous softness in his eyes again—the kind he didn’t show to anyone but you. “Rain’s loud. Might as well give it somethin’ worth drowning out.”

Then you were in his lap, mouth caught in a kiss that was all teeth and heat and possession—but his hands, those hands? Gentle. Worshipful. As if even in hunger, he never forgot what you were to him.

His girl. His soft thing. His.

The kiss deepened, messy now, hungry. His hands slid beneath your his shirt, rough palms traveling from your thighs to your hips, claiming you without apology.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled against your skin, lips brushing your neck, your shoulder. He bit down, sharp, deliberate.

Your fingers curled in his hair. “Then show me.”

That grin he gave you was sin incarnate—sharp, dangerous, reverent. He laid you back on the couch like you were something fragile… just before dragging you down into the fire with him.

“You askin’ for trouble, little thing,” he murmured, mouth hot against your throat as his hips pressed into yours, slow and devastating. “And I got nothin’ but time.”

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other sliding between your bodies with agonizing control. Outside, thunder cracked. Inside, all you could hear was the rasp of his breath and the dark velvet of his voice:

“Let me ruin you real sweet, yeah?”

[wonderlandwalker]

The Kiss She Doesn't Need

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x medic!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.0k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby is used to handling her own injuries—until a certain someone makes it very hard for her to maintain her deep-rooted professionalism, lucky for her, the feeling's mutual. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: medical injuries and treatment but that's about it I think, apart from just general filthy thoughts ofc, mdni, slightly 18+, ellie being part of the seattle crew but that's just cause I love her too much to not include her

𝐚/𝐧: Finally decided to write my first Abby fic since I haven't been able to get her out of my head recently, but hopefully you guys are just as obsessed with her as I am (also if you haven't yet go check out @littlexdeaths's fics on abby they're the ones that sparked this (i changed the title cause of pt. II but might chance it again idk i'm very indecisive)

For once, the medbay is actually quiet—no shouted orders, no groans of pain, and no harried medics rushing between cots. The usual post-patrol chaos has settled into a rare lull, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

Outside, the muffled sounds of Seattle’s ruins seem worlds away, as if the dim, sterile walls of the WLF clinic have carved out a fragile pocket of calm. ⁠Abby leans against the exam table, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the edge. The throbbing in her shoulder has sharpened into a persistent ache, and the longer she waits, the more her muscles coil with restless irritation. Screw it, she finally decides, pushing off the table. She’s about to call it a lost cause—skip the mandated check-up and deal with the fallout later—when—

"Sorry for the wait."

Your voice cuts through her thoughts, smooth and steady, and she turns to see you stepping into the room, clipboard in hand. There’s an apologetic tilt to your smile, the kind that softens the edges of her annoyance before she can even lean into it. Abby opens her mouth, ready with some dry remark about WLF medical efficiency (or lack thereof), but the second her eyes land on yours, the words die on her tongue.

Because fuck.

She’s noticed you around before—passing in the halls, patching up other Wolves—but never like this. Never with your full attention fixed on her, brows slightly furrowed in concern, teeth catching your lower lip in a way that sends an unexpected spark down her spine. The overhead light catches the sharp angles of your face, shadows pooling under your cheekbones, and suddenly, the dull ache in her shoulder isn’t the only thing making it hard to focus.

Up close, she sees things she never had the chance to before—the way your sleeves are rolled to your elbows, revealing faded ink and the faint scars of a life spent stitching people back together. The slow, deliberate way you move, like every action is measured and practised. The scent of soap and something faintly herbal clinging to your skin, cutting through the sterile clinic air.

Her pulse kicks up, an unsteady rhythm beneath her ribs. She wants to reach out, to smooth the worry from your brow with her thumb, to press her mouth to the spot where your teeth worry your lip—

"You’re Abby, right?" you ask, flipping through the chart.

The sound of her name in your voice snaps her back to the moment. She clears her throat and shifts her weight. "Last time I checked."

A small, knowing smirk tugs at your lips, as if you can see right through her attempt at nonchalance.

"So", you continue, "what can I do for you today?"

Your voice is calm, professional—infuriatingly so—yet there’s something beneath it, something warm and teasing that makes Abby’s skin prickle. She clears her throat, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat cooling on her skin and the grit of dirt still clinging to her from patrol. The air here is too clean, too sharp, and she feels grimy in comparison—like a wild thing dragged inside, still thrumming with the restless energy of the ruins.

"Shoulder," she mutters, gesturing vaguely. "Dislocated it. Normally I’d just pop it back in myself, but—"

"But someone saw before you had the chance?" You finish, amusement curling at the edge of your voice, she can hear the smirk without even looking.

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "Took a nasty fall. Figured I’d humour them."

You hum, stepping closer, and Christ, that’s worse. Now you’re right in front of her. Your fingers brush the hem of her tank top, moving it just enough to expose the angry swell of her joint. Abby swallows hard, muscles tensing under your touch—not from pain, but from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone as you lean in to inspect the damage.

"Your heartbeat’s a little fast," you remark, frowning slightly, fingers hovering by her pulse point. "But that could be the adrenaline lingering."

Abby nearly chokes.

Yeah. Adrenaline. Sure.

It has nothing to do with the thoughts already racing through her head—the ones where she pins you against the med cabinet, where she flips you onto the examination table, where she finds out what flavour that damn chapstick is if she just leans forward a little further. She wonders how your breath would hitch if her hand slid under your shirt, if you’d gasp if she bit down on that spot just below—

"Swelling’s not too bad," you murmur, your voice low and focused. Your fingertips trace the edge of the injury, feather-light, and she has to bite back a shiver. The contrast of turned tables is maddening—your clinical interest versus the way her pulse jumps under your touch. "I take it this has happened before?"

"Once or twice."

You glance up, meeting her gaze, and something flickers in your expression—something sharp, knowing. Like you can see the way her mind’s spiralling, like you’re cataloguing every hitch in her breath, every flicker of tension in her jaw.

"I’ll bet," you say simply.

And then—just for a second—your thumb presses a little harder into the curve of her shoulder, a deliberate stroke that could be medical, could be assessing the joint, could be—

You shift, hands settling firmly on her arm. Your touch is warm, careful but assured, fingers pressing just enough to map the tension coiled beneath her skin. When you guide her arm through its range of motion, you step even closer, the heat of your body seeping into hers, and fuck, Abby can’t stop the way her jaw clenches. All from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone when you lean in, from the way your lashes cast delicate shadows against your cheeks as you focus. She wonders if you can feel it—the way her veins hum where you press, the way her skin burns in the wake of your touch.

"This’ll hurt," you warn, voice low.

Abby grins, reckless. "I can take it."

The sharp pop of the joint sliding back into place echoes in the hushed clinic, and a ragged groan tears from her throat before she can stop it. Sure, she’s endured worse—far worse—but pain is pain, and this fucking stings. Her jaw locks, teeth grinding together as she forces herself to focus on you instead—on the way your fingers linger just a second too long against her skin, warm and steady despite the violence of the adjustment.

You’re not looking at her face, your attention fixed on her shoulder with clinical precision, but she sees it—the way your pupils dilate at the sound of her stifled noise, the faint hitch in your breath.

Interesting.

You’re close enough now that she could count your lashes if she wanted to—and there’s one loose, clinging stubbornly at the corner of your eye. She’ll dream about this later, she already knows: brushing it away with her thumb, pressing her lips to the spot where it fell, whispering make a wish against your skin like it’s something tender, something sacred.

Then your tongue flicks out, wetting your lips in concentration, and she watches, transfixed, as you bite down lightly on the bottom one. Her stomach tightens.

Fuck.

She should say something—anything—to break the tension, but the words dissolve in her throat. Because right now, with your hands still on her, with the air between you thick and heavy, all she can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance. To see if your mouth is as soft as it looks.

And from the way your gaze flickers up to hers—just for a second—she wonders if you’re thinking the same thing. Your fingers—steady despite the electric charge thickening the air between you—slide up the strong line of her jaw, pressing gently against her temples as you tilt her head toward the unforgiving light. The sudden shift sends her pulse skittering, a rabbit-quick thrum you must feel beneath your fingertips, betraying her despite the carefully schooled neutrality of her expression.

"Have you been experiencing more of this… trailing of consciousness?"

The question lands like a grenade at her feet. Your breath ghosts across her lips—spearmint and coffee and something faintly sweet—as you wait for an answer she can't give.

Not honestly.

"It's really just the shoulder," she mutters, forcing her voice steady despite the way her ribs cage her lungs like iron bars. The exam table creaks ominously under her white-knuckled grip, the cold metal biting into her thighs. "Doesn't even hurt that much. I just needed the all-clear from a medic to rejoin duties."

You don't pull away. Instead, your thumb brushes almost absently along her hairline. The contrast between your clinical tone and this unconscious intimacy sends a confusing rush of heat through her veins.

Abby swallows hard. Your thumb is still resting against the pounding pulse in her neck.

You feel that? She wants to ask. That's all because of you.

But the words stick in her throat, and the moment stretches, fragile as the tension in your touch—professional concern warring with something far less clinical, something that makes her wonder what would happen if she closed the last inch between you—

You look up, meeting her eyes, and—

Christ.

Your gaze is a scalpel, sharp and searching, peeling her apart layer by layer. You see too much: the flush creeping up her neck like spilt wine, the tell-tale twitch of her fingers against the metal edge of the exam table, the way her throat bobs when your thumb brushes the delicate hinge of her jaw. Every minute reaction catalogued, studied—claimed—without ever breaking eye contact.

"You should know better than anyone—" you murmur, voice dropping into something low and deliberate that raises the fine hairs on her arms, "—how important it is to be… thorough."

The shift in your tone sends a bolt of heat straight to her gut. Less like a medic now, more like a predator circling its prey. The clipboard hits the counter with a muffled thud. Your breath is warm against her mouth now—close enough that if she tilted her chin just so—

Abby's pulse roars in her ears. Every instinct screams to close the distance, to test if your lips are as soft as they look when you bite them in concentration. But she stays frozen, torn between the weight of protocol and the electric pull of your proximity. The rational part of her brain—the part that remembers the chain of command, fraternisation rules, and a hundred reasons this is a bad idea—drowns beneath the static filling her head. Your knee brushes against the outside of her thigh, deliberate, and she can feel your smirk when she inhales sharply when—

"What the fuck's taking you so long—?"

The door slams against the wall with a crack that echoes through the clinic, and Ellie barrels in like a stormfront, combat boots scuffing bloody prints across freshly mopped tile. Her eyes—bright with suspicion, dark with something sharper—dart between the two of you, lingering on the scant inches of charged air still humming between Abby's bare shoulder and your hastily withdrawn hands.

Abby barely suppresses a full-body flinch, her muscles locking tight as your stethoscope swings wildly from the sudden movement, the metal clinking like a guilty verdict. You're already two steps back, the warmth of your proximity replaced by the sterile chill of the clinic air, fingers flying to straighten non-existent wrinkles in your coat.

"Just need to check for a possible concussion," you announce, voice smooth as the polished countertops, but your knuckles are white around the pen now scratching violently across Abby's chart. The lie comes easily—too easily—professional detachment slamming down like a blast door. "She's showing some symptoms that could cause problems later if untreated."

But Abby doesn't miss the tells: the shallow rise of your chest, the way your pulse jumps when Ellie takes another step forward, her shadow falling across the exam table like a warning. Most of all, she doesn't miss that split-second glance you steal—hot and heavy and full of unfinished business—before turning to rummage in a drawer with excessive focus.

"Once I finish the dilation check—" you add, clearing your throat with a roughness that wasn't there thirty seconds ago, "—she's all yours again."

Right.

She's on borrowed time.

It's ridiculous—she's usually the first to complain about the FOB's restrictions, the way they herd soldiers through medical like livestock. But now, the sterile expanse of the clinic feels suddenly cavernous. Too many empty corners where you aren't. Too many hallways that don't lead to you. There's no plausible way to "accidentally" bump into you again without looking like a fucking stalker. Not unless—

Ellie's boot hammers an impatient staccato against the linoleum, her glare hot enough to brand the side of Abby's face. The lights hum louder, merciless in their exposure—every hitched breath, every flex of Abby's jaw muscle, every drop of sweat sliding down her spine suddenly illuminated for interrogation.

So Abby does the one thing she can think of that makes Ellie's foot freeze mid-tap.

"I've been experiencing some dizziness, too." She lets the words drop like spent shell casings, casual as commenting on rations. "If that's relevant."

The lie hangs between them, glowing like a neon sign.

Ellie's eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. She stares at Abby like she's just announced she's taking up interpretive dance. "Since when?" The question cracks like a whip. But Abby keeps her eyes locked on you—on the way your lips part just enough to reveal the barest flash of teeth, on the subtle whitening of your knuckles around the clipboard. 

"In that case", you say, slow and syrup-thick, "I definitely think we should run a blood test." The corner of your mouth twitches. "Wouldn't want something happening to you on my conscience."

Ellie's head whips between you two like she's watching a tennis match. "Are you serious—?"

"Why don't I just meet you after dinner?" The words escape like prisoners breaking formation—messy, unplanned, betraying everything she hadn't meant to say. Her voice sounds foreign even to her own ears.

"I could use the rest. And I'm sure they've already found someone to cover my next shift anyway."

Ellie's expression morphs into something between disbelief and impending homicide, her silence louder than any outburst. The promise of a brutal interrogation lingers in the set of her jaw—one that will absolutely involve since when do you volunteer for extra needles and since when do you skip meals for anything less than arm day? But for now, she just drags a hand down her face, exhaling through her nose like she's praying for patience from a god she doesn't believe in. "Feel... better?" she asks, voice dripping with enough confusion to drown a man.

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing Abby alone with you and the exhilarating, terrifying knowledge that she’s just jumped off a cliff without checking for water below. Her pulse thrums in her throat, palms damp against her thighs, ribs tight like she’s bracing for impact. It’s ridiculous. The military trained her for hostage extractions, close-quarters combat, and how to dislocate a man’s knee with her bare hands—not this. Not the way her skin still burns where your fingers had brushed her wrist, casual and clinical and maddening.

Focus, Anderson.

"Ever get tired of treating idiot soldiers?" The words come out rougher than she intends, edged with a restlessness she can’t name.

You glance up from your notes, and fuck—there’s that quirk of your lips again, the one that sends a traitorous jolt straight to her gut. "Sometimes." The pen taps against your clipboard—once, twice—a metronome counting the seconds between them. "But you’re my last check-up for the day, so it’s not all bad right now."

Shit.

Now she just feels worse for keeping you. Guilt knots sharp under her ribs, warring with the part of her that wants to drag this moment out forever. Her fingers drum an erratic rhythm against the metal edge of the table, her pulse hammering in time beneath her skin.

Think, Abby. Do something.

"Why don’t I walk you back while you ask me the rest of the questions?" The suggestion tumbles out before she can stop it. "Save you the trouble of being stuck in here."

Your brow lifts, and oh—there it is. That spark in your eyes, the one that says you see right through her bullshit. "Pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you here." Amusement colours your voice, but she doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to make her wonder if you’re as eager to stretch this out as she is.

The grin she shoots you is all teeth. "Consider it a favour to me. Never been great at sitting still."

A pause stretches between you, thick with something unspoken—then, a smile ghosts across your lips, soft and fleeting, but she catches it. Holds onto it. Tucks it away like a match struck in the dark.

"Alright, sure," you relent, voice dropping into something warmer, quieter—like the hum of electricity under skin. "Just give me a minute."

The first thing you do is shrug off your doctor’s coat, and fuck—Abby suddenly gains a newfound appreciation for the crappy AC as the fabric slides from your shoulders. The thin tank top beneath clings to the planes of your back, the dip of your waist, and she catches the faint sheen of sweat along your spine before she forces her gaze away. 

"You always this accommodating with patients who lie about feeling light headed?" The question comes out rough, lower than she intended—almost a challenge.

You pause, half-turned away from her, and she swears she sees the corner of your mouth twitch. When you speak, your voice is honey-slow, dripping with an implication that sends a bolt of heat straight to her core.

"Only the ones who make it worth my while."

You turn back to her, eyebrow arched in silent question, and Abby’s pulse kicks hard against her ribs—a frantic drumbeat she’s sure you must hear in the sudden quiet. She doesn’t do this. Doesn’t let herself get distracted, doesn’t let her mind wander where it shouldn’t. Not when distractions get people killed. Not when every glance, every lingering touch, is a risk she can’t afford.

Yet right now, all coherent thought has narrowed to a single, dangerous point: how your mouth might feel when it’s too occupied to talk, when those clever words dissolve into something messier against her skin. But instead of giving in—because she wants to, God she wants to—she’s already moving toward the door, holding it open with a sweep of her arm.

"After you, Doc."

The hallway beyond is dim, the emergency lights casting long shadows that make the narrow space feel even more intimate. Too close. Not close enough. Every accidental brush of your arm against hers as you walk sends electric currents racing up her nerves—making her wonder if they’re deliberate.

"You know," you murmur, voice pitched low enough that the words vibrate straight down her spine, "most people don’t volunteer to escort me back unless they’re hoping for a private consult." Abby huffs a laugh, sharp and breathless, but her fingers twitch at her side, itching to reach for you. "Maybe I just like knowing where the medics are." She flexes her recently healed shoulder pointedly. "In case I need one."

"Uh-huh." You slow your steps deliberately, forcing her to match your pace until you’re nearly standing still in the shadowy corridor. The space between you is a battlefield, and neither of you is backing down. "And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse."

The implication hangs between you, heavy and undeniable. She should shut this down. Should. But the way you’re looking at her—eyes dark with knowing, lips slightly parted like you’re already tasting the kiss she hasn’t offered—makes her throat go dry.

Her jaw tightens. "Would it work if I was?" The words slip out before she can stop them, rough and honest, and the second they do, she realises she should regret them, but she doesn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a half-step closer—close enough that she can feel the warmth of your breath against her lips, can taste the faint hint of antiseptic and mint on your tongue. Your fingers hover near her hip, not quite touching, but the ghost of contact is enough to make her muscles lock with anticipation, her body coiled like a spring.

All Abby can think about is what would happen if she just… let go. If she gave in to the feeling pulling at every muscle and bone in her body, the urge to drag you flush against her and kiss you until she suffocated from it. Until neither of you could remember why this was a bad idea. Until the only thing that mattered was the heat of your skin under her hands, the way your breath would shudder when she finally—finally—acted on all those thoughts racing around her head.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, torn between reaching for you and maintaining this fragile, trembling distance. One movement, one breath too deep, and the spell might break. Or worse—it might not.

Now you're both standing frozen before your door, the moment stretched taut between you. Your hand hovers near the keypad, unmoving. Uncertain. The quiet is deafening—just the ragged sound of your shared breathing, the occasional distant echo of footsteps somewhere in the compound. A reminder of the world outside this hallway, outside this.

A thread of tension pulls tighter with every second neither of you makes the first move, winding like a live wire between your bodies, sparking with every shared breath.

Abby swallows hard. "We should—"

Go inside.

Walk away.

Pretend this never happened.

But she doesn’t finish the sentence. Because your gaze drops to her mouth, just for a second—dark, hungry, wanting—and it’s all the answer she needs.

So she finally just fucking kisses you.

And fuck, it almost makes her believe in the gods she’s spent her whole life denying, because this—this—is nothing short of divine. The second her lips meet yours, a moan tears from your throat, raw and desperate, and the sound of it goes straight down her spine, lighting her up like a fucking wildfire. Her fingers fist in the fabric at your waist, dragging you impossibly closer, her body moving on pure instinct, need, like she’s been starving for this and only just realized.

You taste like heat and something faintly metallic—she licks into your mouth like she’s trying to memorize it. Every rational thought she’s ever had about restraint, about discipline, about fucking fraternization, evaporates in the white-hot haze of you. Your hands are in her hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and she revels in it, in the way your breath shudders against her lips when she bites down, just to hear you gasp.

She’s lost in it—in the slick slide of your tongue, in the way your hips press against hers, in the ragged little sounds you make when she pins you harder against the door—when suddenly—

A sharp click of boots on concrete.

"Anderson."

You both freeze.

Abby pulls back just enough to see your lips swollen from her mouth, your pupils blown so wide your irises are nearly gone. For one dizzying second, she considers ignoring the interruption, dragging you inside, and finishing what you started—

But reality crashes back in.

Isaac’s standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Command tent. Now."

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

[what-have-i-unleashed]

Dustard but it used to be kustard (they reunited) and ... 2 (for the fic requests)

i am not beating the kpop allegations.....

2. like that - babymonster

Say you want love, boy, I know what that means Make you feel way better than in your dreams If I show you that I know where it's at Baby, would you like that? Baby, would you likе that?

murder blinks.

red is here, impossibly real, standing in the soft glow of light, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, all nonchalant. but his eyes betray him. they’re too sharp, assessing, staring into his worthless soul as if trying to decipher a mystery.

only, there’s no mystery to solve. murder stands there with his gloved hands smeared with dust and blood, a manic, shaky smile on his gaunt face.

“sweetheart…” red says, his voice low. his gaze drags over murder, taking in the bloody hands, the eyebags, the dusty jacket. “you’ve changed. you don’t look like you anymore.”

murder laughs, the sound hollow. “do i still look beautiful at least?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. he hates how small they sound, how desperate.

red’s mouth twitches, something between a grimace and a frown. he doesn’t answer, and that silence tears into murder worse than any knife could.

“do i?” murder presses, his voice cracking on the verge of hysteria. “or is this what i am now? just… this.” he holds out his hands, palms up, the blood there dark and dried.

“sans-” red starts, but murder snaps.

“no! don’t call me that!” his eyes blaze in a glorious mixture of red and blue, and red takes a step backwards, alarmed. steeling his frazzled nerves, murder attempts a smile, unsuccessful. “you think i deserve love? after everything i’ve done?” he meets red’s gaze, eyes glassy. “i don’t. i can’t. i can’t give you that kind of love anymore. this love-” he grins, a wild, unhinged expression, “-this is all i can give.”

red doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t look away. his jaw tightens. “maybe you don’t deserve love,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “maybe none of us do. but that doesn’t mean i’m gonna stop caring.”

murder breaks into a gasping laugh, sharp and bitter. “you care about me? don’t you see what i’ve done?” he steps forward, his voice rising, pleading now. “if you care, then you should do it. just end this for me, please.”

“what?” red utters, his eyes narrowing.

“you heard me,” murder says, smiling. he spreads his arms wide, exposing where his soul should be. “kill me. judge me. do your job. that’s what you came for, isn’t it? to put this monster down once and for all.”

red stares at him. neither of them dare to breathe in this fragile silence. murder stands there, eyelights sparking in his sockets. red swallows, then steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, until the space between both of them becomes negligible. his hand lifts, and murder can’t help but flinch. but then there’s no strike, no attack, no judgement – red only grips murder’s shoulders with both hands, firm and steady.

“you want me to end this?” red asks, teeth grinding. “fine. i’ll end this. but in my way.”

murder’s breath catches, his ribs tightening. “red-”

“no,” red snaps, his voice rough, cutting through the haze in murder’s mind like a blade. “you don’t get to decide how this ends. not like this. you think you’re beyond saving? fine. maybe you are. but i’m not gonna let you go again.”

the world blurs, the edges melting into something soft and unreal in murder’s swimming vision, but red’s grip on him remains solid like an anchor. murder doesn’t know if this is a dream or a nightmare or something else entirely. he doesn’t know if he cares.

all he knows is that red hasn’t let go. not yet. and he leans into it, free falling.

[zerun0]

please a Jayvik fic? that would be super cool and awesome sauce so I can pretend s2 didn't happen and they're having fun working as lab partners <3

"For now" — Viktor x Jayce

English is not my first language. Feel free to comment on any of my mistakes and i will update the post, also I more than happy to receive suggestions, and advice on how to improve my work.

— !SFW! — Established relationship, Fluff, Flirting, kissing. — Word count: — 1,9k (Full uncut version on AO3)

The Hextech lab buzzed with the energy of early afternoon. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the high windows, lighting up the chaotic jumble of notes, tools, and half-finished devices strewn across every surface. Jayce and Viktor stood side by side, arms crossed, looking down at the creature sitting proudly on their workbench, a round, fluffy Poro with stubby legs and an unshakable confidence.

“I trust you two implicitly! ”— Heimerdinger declared, his tiny hands clasped behind his back as he beamed up at them. “This little one has a, shall we say, spirit for exploration, when it’s not napping.”

Jayce leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. — “Professor, are you sure you can’t just take it to your meeting? I mean, it’s not like the Council Chamber is a lab full of fragile, priceless equipment.”

“Oh, nonsense!” — Heimerdinger waved his hand dismissively. — “They wouldn’t understand his unique needs. Besides, you’re the perfect duo for the task.” — He gestured between the two of them, eyes twinkling. — “Viktor with his sharp mind, and Jayce with his...big heart. Surely you’ll manage.”

Viktor arched an eyebrow. — “Professor, I am not certain that babysitti-”

“Ah! Not babysitting! Mentoring!” — Heimerdinger corrected. He patted the Poro, which chirped happily. — “He has much to learn about the world, and you’ll provide him with a safe, structured environment.”

The Poro hopped in place, nearly knocking over a flask of shiny blue liquid. Jayce caught it mid-air with quick reflexes, sighing sharply as he set it back down. — “Safe and structured,” — Viktor repeated dryly but in a low tone, unheard.

“Now, I must be off. Don’t let him out of your sight!” — With that, the diminutive professor bustled out, leaving the two young inventors staring at the small, smug creature that now ruled their afternoon.

Jayce straightened, running a hand through his hair. — “Okay, this can’t be that hard. He’s just a little…fluffy thing. How much trouble can he cause?”

The Poro tilted its head innocently before leaping off the table and darting into the maze of equipment.

“Right,” — Viktor muttered, already reaching for his cane to follow.

— Half an hour later, the lab looked like a storm had hit it.

“Where did he go this time?” — Jayce asked, hands on his hips. “Under the shelf,” — Viktor replied, not even looking up from where he was recalibrating a delicate instrument.

Jayce knelt down, peering into the shadows. — “Come on, little guy,” — he coaxed, waving the brightly colored toy Heimerdinger had left. The Poro eyed him warily, a small item clamped in its teeth.

“Don’t chew on that!” — Jayce lunged, but the Poro darted out of reach, bounding across the lab and knocking over a stack of schematics.

“Jayce,” — Viktor said calmly, — “please do not let him destroy everything we have worked on in the past three weeks.”

Jayce groaned, gathering up the scattered pages. — “Why does it like chewing on stuff so much? What does Heimerdinger even feed it?”

“Chaos, apparently,”— Viktor replied, glancing toward the Poro as it hopped onto one of the tables. It sniffed at a set of neatly arranged tools before pawing at them — “He must be bored. Perhaps we should entertain him?”

Jayce stared at him. — “Entertain? Viktor, it’s a Poro, not a toddler.”

“Clearly, you have never babysat before.” — Viktor sighed and set down his tools. He approached the Poro. With surprising gentleness, he reached out, holding the toy at the perfect angle to catch the creature’s attention.

The Poro sniffed it, intrigued, before pouncing.

“See?” — Viktor said, holding the Poro in place with one hand while it gnawed happily on the toy. — “It is not so difficult.”

Jayce folded his arms, watching with a surprised smile. — “You’re good at this. I guess all those late nights in the lab have taught you patience.”

“Or perhaps I am simply better at adapting than you.” — Viktor’s smirk was subtle, but it lingered.

Jayce chuckled. — “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.” — Viktor replied.

They stood in silence for a moment, Viktor holding the Poro steady while Jayce leaned against the table, watching the two of them. The afternoon sunlight caught in Viktor’s pale features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the focused intensity of his eyes.

“You know,” — Jayce began, his voice quieter, — “you’re always surprising me.”

Viktor glanced at him, eyebrow raised. — “Am I?”

“Yeah. Like,” — He paused for a second — “I didn’t think you’d be the kind of person who’s good with animals. But… you are.”

“Hmm.” — Viktor considered this for a moment before returning his attention to the Poro. — “I suppose I have an affinity for difficult creatures.”

Jayce laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. — “Are you calling me a difficult creature?”

“Do you require constant supervision and occasionally eat things you should not?” — Viktor shot him a sidelong glance.

Jayce held up his hands in mock surrender. — “Okay, fair-”

The Poro squeaked suddenly, leaping from Viktor’s hands and bounding toward another set of delicate instruments.

“Not again,” — Viktor sighed, already moving to intercept. Jayce followed, their shoulders brushing as they reached the table at the same time. Viktor’s hand caught the Poro, and Jayce steadied the precarious setup of tools.

For a moment, they were close, closer than usual. The Poro squirmed between them, but neither moved.

“Jayce,” — Viktor said quietly, his tone neutral but his gaze intent. — “You are staring again.”

Jayce blinked, caught off guard by Viktor’s observation. The air between them felt heavier now. He straightened awkwardly, still holding the resistor, and glanced away.

“I, uh… wasn’t staring,” — Jayce said, his voice not quite as confident as usual.

Viktor’s expression softened just a fraction, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back slightly, shifting his weight onto his prosthetic as his golden eyes lingered on Jayce.

“You are a terrible liar,” — Viktor replied, his voice quieter now, almost teasing.

Jayce exhaled a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. — “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just too good at reading people.”

“That is possible,” — Viktor admitted, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, studying Jayce as if trying to decipher an equation. — “But it is not often you are at a loss for words. I find it…interesting.”

Jayce’s pulse quickened under Viktor’s gaze, and he suddenly felt very warm in the already stuffy lab. — “You’ve got this way of throwing me off balance, you know that?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. — “And here I thought you were the unshakable one.”

For a moment, silence fell between them, broken only by the faint hum of the outside world and the occasional chirp from the Poro, now happily chewing on its toy on the other side of the room. Jayce hesitated, then took a small step closer.

“Viktor,” — he began, his voice low, — “I don’t know if I’m just imagining this, but…”

“You are not,” — Viktor interrupted, his tone even, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

Jayce’s breath caught. Viktor rarely spoke so plainly, and hearing him admit it sent a rush of heat through Jayce’s chest. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing Viktor’s forearm. Viktor didn’t pull away.

“Are you sure about this?” — Jayce asked, his voice barely above a whisper. — “Am I reading the signs correctly?”

“Yes” — Viktor broke the silence after a few long teasing seconds.

Jayce smiled, his heart pounding as he closed the remaining distance between them. The quiet hum of the lab seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the sound of their breaths, shallow and uneven. He lifted his hand, fingers trembling slightly as he lightly cupped Viktor’s jaw. Viktor’s skin was cool under his touch, his breath hitching in response.

Viktor’s hand hovered uncertainly at Jayce’s waist before finally settling there, his grip hesitant but firm. Jayce felt a shiver run through him at the contact, his chest tightening as he took in the vulnerability in Viktor’s gaze.

Slowly, he leaned in, his thumb brushing along the sharp line of Viktor’s cheekbone. When their lips met, it was tentative at first, as if testing the waters. Viktor tensed briefly, but then he relaxed, leaning into the kiss with a quiet sigh.

Jayce’s hand slid to the back of Viktor’s neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. Viktor’s fingers tightened at Jayce’s waist, drawing him in as if the space between them was unbearable. It was unlike anything Jayce had expected… soft, electric, and somehow grounding all at once.

Viktor’s other hand came up, tentative at first, brushing against Jayce’s chest before resting there. Jayce could feel Viktor’s pulse through his fingertips, quick and unsteady, mirroring his own. Their movements grew less cautious, lips parting as the kiss turned warmer, more urgent.

Jayce’s free hand found Viktor’s waist, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his coat. Viktor responded with a quiet noise in his throat. He pressed closer, feeling the cool edge of Viktor’s prosthetic against his leg, a detail that grounded the moment in reality despite the overwhelming intensity.

“Jayce,” — Viktor murmured against his lips, the sound low and breathless.

“Yeah?” — Jayce replied, his voice rough as he barely pulled back.

Viktor didn’t answer, instead tugging him back into another kiss, hungrier this time. Jayce’s hand slid down to Viktor’s hip, fingers gripping just hard enough to make Viktor’s breath hitch again.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Jayce and Viktor broke apart with the speed of two guilty schoolchildren, Jayce stumbling back into a stool, nearly knocking it over. Viktor turned sharply, his hand darting to adjust the nearest instrument as if he’d been working all along.

“Ah, there you are!” — Heimerdinger’s cheerful voice filled the lab as he bustled in, utterly unaware of the thick air of awkwardness hanging between them.

“I’ve come back for our little friend,” — Heimerdinger continued, oblivious to the tension. — “The council meeting finished ahead of schedule, and I believe it’s time for a walk, and perhaps a treat!”

Jayce cleared his throat, his face burning as he tried to compose himself. — “Oh, uh, great! He’s… been fine. No trouble at all.” — He shot Viktor a quick glance, but Viktor was steadfastly avoiding his gaze, his attention fixed on the tools in front of him.

Heimerdinger crouched down to scoop up the Poro, who chirped happily at the sight of its owner. — “Ah, there you are, my mischievous little friend! I trust you didn’t cause too much chaos?”

The Poro squeaked innocently as it nuzzled against Heimerdinger’s face.

“No chaos,” — Jayce said quickly, flashing a nervous smile.— “Everything was… under control.”

“Splendid!” — Heimerdinger said, cradling the Poro like a prized treasure. He glanced around the lab, seemingly pleased with what he saw. —“And you’ve made excellent progress, I see. Such dedicated young minds, you make me proud!”

“Thank you, Professor,” — Viktor said smoothly, though there was a slight stiffness to his tone.

Heimerdinger didn’t seem to notice. — “Well then, I won’t keep you from your work any longer. You’ve certainly earned some peace and quiet.” — He gave a final, beaming smile before heading toward the door, the Poro perched happily in his arms.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the lab in heavy silence once again.

Jayce exhaled a long breath, running a hand through his hair. —“That was…”

“Fortunate,” — Viktor finished, his voice dry but his cheeks faintly flushed.

Jayce turned to him, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. — “I thought he was never going to leave.”

Before Jayce could say anything else, Viktor leaned in, his lips brushing against Jayce’s in a quick, soft kiss. It was light, almost tentative, but enough to send a jolt of warmth through Jayce’s chest.

When they pulled away, Jayce smiled, his heart racing. —“I think we’re good,” he murmured.

Viktor’s lips curled into a soft smile. — “For now.”

[paperbackribs]

Witch Steve

(working title)

next: Chapter 2: The Aftermath

So 👉👈 You were all so encouraging that I was inspired to write 14 chapters of Witch Steve. This will eventually be going up on Ao3, but while I'm finishing it up and re-editing I'll post the start of it all on Tumblr. Chapter content: steddie to come, platonic stobin, ~2K words.

Edit/Update: This is a 15 chapter fic. Ao3 here.

Chapter 1 The Sacrifice

Robin fiddles with the vodka bottle full of gasoline in her hands, “…in the face of the world ending, the stakes of my love life feel spectacularly low.”

She sighs, stuffing one of their rags into the mouth of the clear glass and completing their next Molotov cocktail. Steve watches the resignation on her face and thinks that if anyone deserves to have a moment of love and joy in the face of the world ending, it’s Robin.

It’s all of them, he reflects, looking out onto the grassy clearing.

The forest of trees behind Lucas and Erica reminds him of where they will be taking their battle to shortly. Vecna waiting in the Upside Down like a venomous spider in his web. Manipulating the troubled emotions and frightening visions of his victims, ready to break them in more than one way for his selfish desires.

Exuberant laughter draws his eyes over Nancy tailoring her weapon to Dustin as he dodges Eddie’s outstretched hands. Fondness rises within Steve like the warmth of rising bread. The fading sun frames the two boys as Eddie speaks earnestly into Dustin’s grinning face, the bond between them obvious even from here.

“Maybe it’s not the time for romance,” he admits, pensive as he watches Eddie tackle Dustin to the ground with a cackle. “But isn't love the most important thing when it is the end of the world.”

Robin knocks her knees amicably against his and he knows that this is her way of saying she loves him. He smiles back at her; he loves her too. He says it silently because he does, more than he can say at this moment. The words heavy and stuck at the back of his throat.

He wishes she could have had her moment with Vickie before they face the coming danger. The fragility of their situation leaves him with a disturbing feeling of unease churning in his gut.

It’s the fear of losing Robin that further feeds into Steve’s increasing sense of foreboding, making his teeth clench and nails dig into his palms. He has to Know, Steve decides; he needs to make sure there is hope for a later where love and romance can be indulged.

In the heart of the quiet afternoon, Steve allows the sounds of the boys roughhousing and Erica’s sharp, but not unkind, words to become muffled. While he relaxes his fists and Robin fades from his sight, Steve unfurls his uncanny gift to see into the murky depths of their futures. He hears a soft, haunting melody reaching out to him through the ethereal and a glimmering sheen covers his vision.

Like a weaver of fate, he gently unravels the white threads of destiny that intertwine around the lives of those he cherishes. Even Eddie, new to the party but just as entrenched in their fight, running scared; yet Steve thinks, just as courageously meeting the more experienced members toe to toe.

And it is only Eddie’s fate that gleams a terrible ox-blood red, a twisted tapestry of the future revealing a grim reality. Steve’s unease deepens as he Sees two roads diverging before Eddie, each leading to vastly different destinies.

One road, he is unsurprised to find, is golden bright and brilliant, full of joy, love, and friendship. This Eddie would be the guiding light for those he loves and who will love him just as fiercely as he holds them to his heart.

Steve swallows over the hard knot in his throat at the thought of all the beauty that is stolen if Eddie loses that path: because the other is shrouded in a terrible darkness.

If Eddie chooses this road, a jagged tear will be torn through the tapestry of too many lives. An unravelling thread that leads to the frayed fabric of its survivors in a way that Steve thinks the self-deprecating Eddie would never suspect.

Aside from family, only one other person knows Steve’s truth. Keeps his secret close to her breast, alongside twin confessions on a bathroom floor. Robin haltingly refusing Steve’s advances to favour Tammy Thompson and Steve blurting out that he comes from a long line of Witches. Taught at his nana’s knee and made to understand that this is something just as private to him as Robin understands her sexuality to be to her.

He watches Dustin’s wide smile, still innocent amongst a grim collection of dark moments, and Knows that this will be a turning point for his young friend. One in which Dustin lives a life spirited and mirthful or another irrecoverable scarred and linked to a critical event of grief and regret. A shiver runs down Steve’s spine and he decides he can’t stand idly by, watching as Eddie teeters on the precipice of these two divergent paths.

Drawing from long lessons of heritage and the power he and his kind hold, Steve decides on a potent action that will allow him to weave a new pattern.

---

Scarlet lightning roars in the darkness behind Eddie and Dustin as the boys wait for Steve, Robin and Nancy to depart and attack Vecna. The trailer behind the boys is tightly wrapped in the sinister vines of the Upside Down and the smell of sulphur rains down with the grey ash that coats the world in a bitter blanket. Steve watches the ghostly flakes drift onto the cloud of Eddie’s bound-back hair, and he knows that this is the moment that he readied for.

Steve reaches out to Eddie with his uncanny gift — a glass sphere, like a marble, is cradled innocently at the centre of his hand. It is as big as an apricot pit and strangely swirls with warm browns and flecks of gold, like the gentle play of sunlight flickering through to a forest floor. Steve holds his open palm out to Eddie, his hazel eyes filled with a heartfelt entreaty.

"Eddie," he asks softly, "take the marble and swallow it. Please, trust me."

Even in the short time that Steve has known Eddie, he gets that the other guy isn’t known for his impulse control. Despite this, he’s still somewhat surprised when Eddie, with no hesitation, takes the marble and swallows it down. Doe-eyed pools of warm brown look up at him through dark bangs.

“I do,” Eddie shrugs with a mysterious smile.

“What was that” Dustin shrieks, the faux military tags he had insisted on wearing jingling in agitation.

Robin stays silent behind him; Steve knows she’s holding her questions for later, having cottoned onto that he was up to something mystical when he’d hidden in the RV for a while. Only clasping his arm briefly in support when he had walked past, sweating and still pale.

Nancy though is just as surprised as Dustin and looks on at them suspiciously.

Eddie knocks an arm lightly into Dustin’s side, “I don’t know, but it tastes like hot chocolate. Warm,” he chuckles softly, “even comforting.” He turns questioning eyes back to Steve, “but, yeah, what was that?”

Steve feels how tight his smile is. “A little insurance.”

He talks to both of them, trying to instil them to obey by the force of his words alone. Knows that Dustin can be a stubborn little shit. “Just… if this goes south, I mean, at all. You abort.” But his focus turns, inevitably, to Eddie. “Don’t be a hero, man. Okay?”

A flash of emotion crosses Eddie’s face too quickly for Steve to understand before he slings an arm around Dustin’s skinny shoulders. “Of course, look at us. We are not heroes.” Under his hoodie and headband, Dustin grimaces in agreement.

The deep feeling of foreboding in his gut is untouched by their reassurance, but Steve doesn’t bother to unravel his Sight again. He’s done what he can and now he follows the girls to battle Vecna and maybe free them all from this nightmare once and for damn good.

As they travel through the dark forest, neither girl notices the small glowing pulse that Steve presses to each of them. The marks fade softly before the other can notice it. Transported by a light brush over Nancy’s tight shoulders and a firm squeeze of Robin’s sweaty hand in his.

The attack against Vecna is fierce but the three of them have never struck more certain or true. Steve with his axe, Robin and her cocktails, and Nancy with the shorn-off shotgun. Their attacks land every time and between their physical assault and Max’s diversion, something must go right because the world shudders once, then twice, but stays steady before Vecna screams harshly and his pale, grotesque body falls broken to floor. His web of terror finally shattered.

The rest of the decrepit house, vines and all, quickly catch from the blazing gasoline and the three stumble after each other, racing to the still-rancid outdoor air. But it’s air free of Vecna and that makes it all the sweeter.

With a whoop, Robin jumps into Steve’s waiting arms and breathlessly he swings her in joy. Resting his forehead on hers, he knows she can see every nuance of his relief, sensing him finally releasing the suffocating fear of the Upside Down. “This is it, Robin. I can feel it.” Steve exclaims.

Robin’s blue eyes, which sometimes can be so cynical for a person this young, gleam in belief. Belief in Steve and that he can See the truth of it all. She wraps her hands around his shoulders and is shaking in a combination of comfort and ebbing adrenalin. “Thank god,” she breathes.

“Let’s hope so,” Nancy interrupts. But she’s looking on at them with a small smile.

Steve knows it will take a long time for her to believe that it is true. And she doesn’t have the benefit of Steve’s Knowing as they do. But she’ll get there, he thinks. Much like it will take them all time to heal, they will. And the kids will bounce back, he thinks with faith. They’ve been made to be too resilient for children their age but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s at the thought of Dustin that Steve remembers Eddie and those two paths he had seen; he urges the girls on, back to the uncanny version of the trailer park. Impatience sparking through to his fingertips.

They’ve not quite reached it yet when Steve hears the haunting cries of anguish that echo through the empty forest and roads of the Upside Down.

Dustin is hunched over the still-warm but devastatingly motionless body of his beloved Dungeon Master and friend. Bright red blood spills everywhere, coating Dustin's hands and across his face where he has smeared a hand over his cheeks. Eyes filled with tears and pain, Dustin looks up at Steve and cries out that the older boy had tried to save him.

“He said he didn’t run, Steve. But he did. He did. He ran to the demo-bats and they— they—"

Dustin starts hiccupping between tears and short, frantic breaths. He grabs at Eddie’s camouflage jacket, shaking the body as if it will jolt the older boy awake.

“Eddie!” Dustin cries. His voice, often bigger and louder than his short body would seem, breaks through the empty quiet of the Upside Down. No more swarming bats or jagged bolts of red lightning to distract from the palpable sense of grief saturating into their tired bodies. The only cruel answer is the flakes of ash gathering over Eddie’s unresponsive body like this terrible world is already trying to bury him away.

Steve’s heart is breaking, he feels the crack of it cleanly through his chest and in the thickening at the back of his throat and burning behind his eyes. But he is not powerless; this is exactly what he prepared for.

With a firm, yet gentle hand, Steve unlocks Dustin’s stiff fingers and shifts him into Nancy’s waiting embrace. She tries to turn him in her arms, but Dustin refuses to look away.

Nancy must think that Steve is going to quietly close the lids over Eddie’s blank eyes, which should be bright and expressive; eyes that were full of mischief just hours ago. Or that Steve will try to pick up the body and take it back with them, impossible as it seems in the moment, to think of carrying a heavy and limp weight vertically and against gravity where climbing through the Upside Down gates, with only their own bodies to support them, had been hard enough.

He’s not going to do any of those things, Steve thinks fiercely. He won’t need to.

With an unwavering determination, Steve drops to his knees and pushes his left hand down, through and deep into the realm of the mystical, until he finds an answering beat, a corresponding warmth. He pulls, straining with every ounce of physical and spiritual strength he possesses. A pearlescent light suddenly pushes out from Steve's link to Eddie, it pours unendingly into the dark landscape before pulsing sharply. The ethereal cuts precisely through the unclean atmosphere before rapidly shrinking back into the connection between the two boys.

Steve's own spirit is being drained, a live wire shooting up his arm and threading through every vein of his body in a white, blinding heat. But Steve knows that it is in this critical moment where he could lose his own body and soul, where the world hangs in the balance between life and death, that something miraculous can happen.

And it does.

Eddie draws a shuddering breath and his eyelids flutter open. His chest starts to rise even as his gaze looks unsteadily out into the living world once more.

“Steve?” he whispers hoarsely.

“I’ve got you, Eddie,” Steve murmurs, checking that the wounds are healing under the slick blood. His left arm is numb, but he uses the shaking right to examine Eddie’s torso where jagged gashes are rapidly closing over.

“It’s all right, we’ll get you help, you’re gonna be okay."

“No, Steve, your eyes…” Eddie lifts a shaking finger to touch Steve’s face, leaving a red fingerprint behind to mark Steve with the very essence of his mortal life.

Steve knows what he must see since this has worked. Because reality is not the same as when Eddie had closed his eyes for seemingly the last time. As Eddie returned from the brink of death, Steve now sees the world through one rich hazel eye, while the other will remain forever white and sightless, an eerie testament to the price paid to mend the shattered threads of destiny.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

Taglist

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[aghost-writer]

Love Me... Until the End

Special Chapter 1

First time with Y/N meeting her Yanderes Hide, Kaneki, and Touka!

This is a Yandere Tokyo Ghoul x Female Reader Fic!

MDNI!!

The memory of the first time Hide met (Y/N) was like a faint, elusive dream—one that danced in his mind, flickering between the present and the past, never fully clear but always present, like a shadow he could never quite escape. He had been twelve years old, far too young to understand the kind of bond they would form, far too naive to recognize the possessiveness that would grow in his heart. But even then, something about her, something in the way she had looked at him, had made his heart race. From that first meeting, she became someone who would be with him in his thoughts—someone he would never truly forget.

It had been late afternoon, the sun dipping low in the sky, casting the world in soft golds and oranges as Hide made his way home from the park. He had spent the day tossing a ball with Kaneki, laughing over something silly. Hide wasn’t particularly good at sports, but it didn’t matter. Kaneki was his friend, and it felt good to have someone to be with, someone who didn’t make Hide feel like he was just a shadow in the world.

But as he walked down the familiar street, his steps slowed when he heard something—faint at first but unmistakable. It was a soft, high-pitched cry, and then a dog’s bark. The bark was aggressive, almost as if it were warning something or someone. It was the sound of distress, of fear, and it tore through him like a sharp sting.

Hide’s breath hitched in his throat. Without thinking, he turned and ran toward the sound. His sneakers slapped against the pavement as he rushed down the street, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t explain it, but something was pulling him toward the sound, like an invisible string tugging at him from the depths of his chest. His mind screamed at him to go faster.

As he rounded the corner, he froze. The sight before him was worse than he could have imagined. A small girl—no older than six or seven—was backed into a corner of a narrow alley, tears streaking down her face. Her arms were outstretched, trying to shield herself, but she was trapped. The dog was large and menacing, growling, teeth bared. It wasn’t letting up, and neither was the girl’s terrified sobbing.

Hide’s heart dropped into his stomach. The raw, frantic fear in the child’s eyes made his blood run cold. Without another thought, he grabbed the ball under his arm, wound up, and hurled it at the dog. The ball hit the dog square in the side with a satisfying thud, and the dog yelped, skittering back in surprise. For a moment, it hesitated, then turned and bolted, retreating into the shadows.

The child was still sitting on the ground, trembling with fear, her tiny body shaking uncontrollably. Hide didn’t waste any time. He rushed to her side, kneeling in front of her. He had to make sure she was okay. He couldn’t leave her alone in such a state.

“Hey, it’s okay now,” he said softly, trying to calm her. His voice was gentle but firm, like he needed her to know that she was safe now. His hands instinctively reached out to wipe the tears from her cheeks. His touch was tentative at first, as though he were afraid she would flinch away. But to his surprise, she didn’t. The trembling stopped, but the silence lingered, heavy and thick.

The girl looked up at him with wide, tear-streaked eyes. She blinked a few times as if she couldn’t quite believe that the dog was gone. Slowly, she hiccupped, sniffling as she tried to steady her breath. Hide gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“That’s better,” he said, relieved to see her calming down. “You’re safe now. Don’t worry.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she just stared at him for a moment, her tear-streaked face filled with confusion and wariness. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke in a soft, hesitant voice.

“I’m (Y/N),” she said, the words so small, so fragile, and yet, they had the power to lock his heart in place. There was something about the way she said her name—something so innocent, so pure—that made his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn’t name.

Hide couldn’t help but smile, a warmth spreading in his chest. There was something special about her, something that he couldn’t quite explain. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to keep her safe from all the dangers in the world. The protective instinct surged through him, overwhelming and powerful.

“I’m Hide,” he said, his voice soft. “Let me walk you home.”

The girl blinked up at him, looking unsure for a moment. Hide’s heart raced as he waited, wondering if she would refuse. But after a few seconds, she seemed to relax, and with a small nod, she allowed him to help her up.

As they began to walk down the street together, Hide couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of calm settle over him. It was as though everything in his world had aligned at that moment. The sun was setting, the world was quiet, and he was walking beside (Y/N), her small hand clasped in his. It was a simple, mundane moment for anyone else, but to Hide, it was everything.

He glanced down at her as they walked, noting the way her hand still held tightly onto his. There was something about her touch—something so innocent, so fragile—that made him feel protective in a way he had never experienced before. It was as if he were meant to be the one to keep her safe, to shield her from all the cruel things in the world.

By the time they reached her home, Hide felt a strange sense of loss. He didn’t want to let go of her hand. He didn’t want to part ways, even though he knew he had to. He wanted to stay by her side, to make sure she was always safe, always protected. He couldn’t explain it, but (Y/N) had already become someone who mattered to him more than anything.

“You’ll be okay now,” Hide said softly, standing at the gate to her house. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, the same fear that had been there earlier now replaced with something else—something he couldn’t quite place. There was a flicker of trust in her gaze, and that made his heart skip a beat.

“I’ll see you later, (Y/N),” he said, his voice more uncertain than he’d intended. But the words felt right, like they were sealing something important between them.

She nodded quietly, her small form stepping back toward the door.

And as Hide turned to walk away, something inside him shifted, something deep and primal. He knew, in that moment, that he couldn’t let her go. (Y/N) had somehow burrowed herself into his heart, and he wasn’t sure how to let her out.

Now, in the present, Hide stood in the darkness of his room, the memory of that first meeting swirling in his mind. His fingers clenched around his mask, the tightness in his chest a constant reminder of the feelings that had only grown since that moment. (Y/N) was his. She had been his from the start, whether she realized it or not.

Hide’s lips curled into a soft, possessive smile. The years had only made him more certain of one thing: (Y/N) belonged to him. And nothing, nothing would ever tear them apart.

He needed her.

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・・。・。・

Haise gripped his head tightly, his nails digging into his scalp as pain and confusion rippled through him. He could feel Kaneki fighting him for control, pushing against his mind with all the force he could muster. Kaneki was desperate, grasping at fragments of their shared memories, trying to force his way to the surface. Haise struggled to hold him back, but the effort was futile.

The ghoul pushed forward a memory, one that felt strangely familiar, even though it wasn’t Haise’s. It was Kaneki’s—his, from long before Haise had even come into being. A moment so precious to Kaneki that he couldn’t let go of it, not even for a second. The memory of when he first met her. The human. (Y/N).

Haise’s vision blurred as Kaneki’s dominance grew stronger, and his mind was assaulted by images of that day. He felt a sharp, possessive ache deep in his chest. The desire to claim her as his own, to protect her from anyone and anything that might hurt her. Kaneki’s feelings surged through him, overwhelming Haise’s own. He wanted her too—his heart, his thoughts, they screamed for her. His chest tightened with frustration, and for a split second, Haise lost control.

Drool dripped from the corner of Haise’s mouth as he witnessed the memory, the sensation of Kaneki’s emotions flooding him as though they were his own. He could see it. He could see her—(Y/N). The girl who had been Kaneki’s from the very beginning. The girl who was now slipping away, slipping further from Kaneki’s grasp every day.

“Kaneki, wait up!” Hide’s voice rang out, cutting through the air like a soft breeze. The two of them had been walking together, Hide and Kaneki, but now Kaneki had stopped and turned to see Hide walking toward him.

Kaneki’s eyes briefly flicked to Hide’s hand. He was holding someone’s hand. A girl’s hand. And in that moment, jealousy burned inside him like a fire that refused to be extinguished. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to be Hide’s friend. But that girl… She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to be with Hide.

As Hide reached Kaneki, he pulled the girl closer, almost as if he were showing her off to Kaneki, his face radiating a strange pride. Kaneki watched them silently, unable to tear his eyes away from her. The girl was shy, hiding behind Hide a little, her cheeks flushed with a soft pink. She glanced up at Kaneki, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. Kaneki felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Kaneki, this is my friend, (Y/N),” Hide said, his voice full of excitement and happiness. “I saved her from a wild dog and wanted to introduce you two.”

Kaneki looked at Hide for a long moment, then at the girl. His heart skipped a beat. She was… beautiful. There was something about her—something about the way she looked, the way she moved, the way her eyes held a mixture of innocence and something deeper that Kaneki couldn’t place. The air around her seemed to shimmer, as though she were untouched by the world, untouched by the chaos Kaneki had known for so long.

(Y/N) took a small step forward, her tiny frame almost dwarfed by the larger boys around her. She bowed to Kaneki, and Kaneki felt his pulse quicken at the sight of her.

“I am (Y/N). Please treat me well,” she said softly, her voice sweet but tentative. The words made his heart thrum.

Kaneki, stunned, bowed in return. He had to fight back the overwhelming urge to stare at her, to bask in her presence. His smile was gentle but sincere, though his eyes roamed her figure more than they should have. He had to be careful. He couldn’t let her think that he was anything but kind, but inside, he couldn’t help but feel a deep hunger—a desire to be closer to her, to know her, to be the one by her side.

“I am Kaneki,” he said, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his emotions. “Please treat me well.”

When he rose from his bow, he saw her smile, bright and radiant. That smile—he couldn’t look away. It was as though the entire world had stopped moving, and it was just him and her. Her warmth, her presence, it was everything Kaneki had ever wanted. He had never met anyone like her.

(Y/N) smiled back at him. “Let’s be good friends, Kaneki,” she said, her voice like honey, wrapping around his heart, pulling him in.

Kaneki’s heart swelled with happiness. Her words were like a song to him, filling him with an aching kind of joy. He wanted more. He needed more. He took a step toward her and, without thinking, reached for her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, and then they were intertwined. Her small, delicate hand in his, and it was like the world had suddenly made sense. Everything felt right.

“Yes, (Y/N),” he whispered, his voice full of promise. “Let’s be the best of friends. Forever.”

But as his hand closed around hers, he felt it. A flicker of something—something not quite right. He glanced over at Hide, who was watching him with a sharp look in his eyes, a frown tugging at his lips. It was subtle, but Kaneki didn’t miss it.

Hide was jealous. Hide didn’t like the way Kaneki was looking at (Y/N). Hide didn’t like that he was the one holding her hand.

Kaneki could feel the shift in the air, the subtle tension. He was sure of it now. Hide wasn’t just his friend. He wasn’t just a companion anymore. No, Hide wanted something more. He wanted (Y/N) for himself. Kaneki had always known there was a possessiveness in Hide—he had felt it even back then, in the very beginning. But now, seeing it in his eyes, Kaneki felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of protectiveness for (Y/N). She was his. She had to be. Hide couldn’t have her. He couldn’t take her away from him.

Haise’s eyes fluttered open, snapping back to the present. The memory faded, slipping away like smoke through his fingers. He could still feel it though—that hunger, that desperate desire. Kaneki’s longing for (Y/N) was still there, lurking beneath the surface. Haise had been able to hold him back before, but now… Now he was slipping.

Haise gripped his head tighter, his mind a battleground. Kaneki surged forward again, his presence overwhelming. The desire for (Y/N), the possessiveness, it was all so strong. Kaneki’s thoughts poured into Haise’s mind—fragments of images, flashes of the past.

She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was meant to be his.

Haise’s chest tightened. He could feel Kaneki’s lust, his longing for the girl. Haise didn’t want to admit it, but the feelings were mutual. He wanted (Y/N) too, perhaps in ways that Kaneki didn’t fully understand.

But Haise knew one thing: Kaneki would hurt her. Kaneki’s obsession would destroy her. Haise wasn’t like that. He would protect (Y/N). He would be the one to keep her safe, to make sure no one took her away from him again.

For now, he would wait. He would bide his time. But when the moment came, when (Y/N) was finally his… Kaneki would have no choice but to watch as Haise claimed what was rightfully his.

But for now, Haise had to deal with the ache in his chest—the ache that came from wanting someone so badly that it hurt, from knowing that she was slipping further and further away with every passing second.

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・・。・。・

Touka sat quietly on the floor of her small, dimly lit room, her back resting against the cold wall. She stared at the collection of photos pinned up across it—dozens of snapshots that all featured one person: (Y/N). She ran her fingers lightly over the edges of the pictures, each one holding a memory that Touka both cherished and regretted. Her eyes drifted to the shirt that lay folded neatly in her lap, the one (Y/N) had left behind all those years ago.

The scent had long since faded, leaving only the faintest trace of (Y/N)’s presence. Yet, even though the fabric was worn and soft, Touka couldn’t bring herself to part with it. It had belonged to her. A small piece of her, a connection to the human who had slipped into her life so quietly and then left just as quietly.

Touka brought the shirt to her face, breathing in deeply, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of the familiar scent. The memories came rushing back, unbidden and powerful. It had been years, but the recollection of the first time they had met felt as vivid as ever.

Touka had been waiting tables, as she often did, when she heard the soft jingle of the doorbell above the café’s entrance. She didn’t think much of it at first—after all, the café wasn’t particularly busy at that time of day. But something about the girl who walked in caught her attention. She was plain, almost forgettable in appearance at first glance, but there was something intriguing about her. A quiet presence that Touka couldn’t quite place.

The girl had entered with an air of nonchalance, her gaze unfocused as she looked around. Touka didn’t think much of it until she caught the faint, subtle scent that trailed behind her—a delicate, sweet smell that felt warm and inviting, like fresh rain on a spring morning. It was a stark contrast to the usual blend of coffee and sugar that filled the air.

Touka finished taking the order of the table she was serving before turning her attention to the new girl who had seated herself at a small table by the window. She approached, pen in hand, ready to take the order.

“May I have a name?” Touka asked, her voice polite, yet her curiosity piqued.

The girl glanced up from her phone, her expression relaxed but kind. She gave Touka a small smile that, despite its simplicity, made Touka’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t the typical friendly smile that most customers gave her—it was different. It was warm, genuine, and just a little bit shy.

“It’s (Y/N),” the girl answered softly, her voice low and calming.

Touka looked at her for a moment longer, caught off guard by how easily she was drawn to this girl. She had an unassuming beauty, one that wasn’t loud or attention-grabbing, but it was there, subtle and undeniable. Touka quickly shook herself out of her trance and forced her focus back on the task at hand.

“(Y/N)… Nice to meet you,” Touka replied, jotting the name down.

(Y/N) paused for a moment before continuing. “This is my first time here. Would you mind recommending me a drink?”

Touka tilted her head slightly, trying to think of the best suggestion. She was a little surprised by the question; most customers didn’t bother asking for recommendations—they just ordered what they knew. But there was something about (Y/N) that made Touka want to make the perfect choice for her.

“What’s your favorite type of coffee?” Touka asked, her pen hovering above her pad.

(Y/N) thought for a moment, her expression distant as though lost in her own thoughts. She was the kind of person who didn’t rush to answer, taking her time as she formulated her response.

“I normally have a hot black coffee in the mornings,” (Y/N) replied casually, almost as if she were talking to herself. “But in the afternoon, I like an iced black coffee with hazelnut crème.”

Touka nodded, already visualizing the drink in her mind. It was a perfect blend of simplicity and sweetness—just like (Y/N). There was something comforting about the way she spoke, her voice low and steady, like a soft melody that could lull you into a sense of peace.

Touka smiled, the beginnings of a warm feeling stirring in her chest. “How about a black coffee with a hazelnut scone? I think that would go well with your usual choice.”

(Y/N) gave a small, thoughtful nod, her eyes lighting up a bit. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Touka’s heart gave a small, almost imperceptible flutter at the smile that followed. It wasn’t the kind of smile that could brighten an entire room, but it was enough to make Touka’s pulse quicken. There was something about it—something simple, yet undeniable.

“I’ll be right back with your coffee and scone,” Touka said, her voice sounding slightly more flustered than usual. She turned and hurried to the counter, her mind racing. She was used to serving customers, but something about (Y/N) had unsettled her in a way she couldn’t explain. The girl was so… calm. Unbothered. So different from the usual chaotic energy of the café. And yet, it was magnetic.

As she prepared the drink, Touka found herself humming softly, her hands moving with a kind of absent confidence. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, as though the simple task of making coffee had suddenly become something worth savoring. With each movement, each step closer to (Y/N)’s table, her thoughts swirled around the girl’s presence.

She finished pouring the coffee and placed the scone on a plate, carefully drizzling the hazelnut crème over the top. As she made her way back to (Y/N)’s table, she couldn’t stop the smile from forming on her lips. The girl was still there, still looking so effortlessly cool and composed, but there was a soft spark of something in her eyes as she glanced up at Touka.

Touka gently set the cup of coffee and plate down in front of (Y/N), her hand brushing against hers for a brief moment. It was almost electric.

“Thank you, Touka,” (Y/N) said simply, her voice still calm but tinged with genuine gratitude.

Touka felt her chest tighten. She was in trouble. She had fallen for this girl, this human, this presence that had come into her life so quietly and left such an indelible mark. She forced herself to smile back, her heart hammering in her chest.

“You’re welcome,” Touka replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

As she walked away, Touka could feel her gaze lingering on (Y/N)’s table. She couldn’t explain it, but she wanted to be near her. To talk to her more. To know her better. Her chest tightened with a longing that she hadn’t felt in a long time. There was something about (Y/N)—something so gentle and soothing, something that made Touka crave her company more than anything.

The memory of that moment, that small exchange, stayed with Touka long after (Y/N) had left. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, about how easy it had felt to be around her. The connection, the way they had both been so comfortable in each other’s presence—it was rare. Too rare.

Now, as she sat alone in her room, clutching the shirt that (Y/N) had left behind, the ache in her chest grew stronger. She missed her. She needed her. She longed for her calm, her kindness, her simple presence.

Touka buried her face in the fabric of the shirt, inhaling deeply. She wanted her back. She wanted to share more quiet moments over coffee. She wanted to be close to her again, to hold her and never let go.

(Y/N) wouldn’t leave her again. Touka wouldn’t let her. Not this time.

[shredsandpatches]

and mostly I wanted to post some ficbits. This bit carries on from the one here but is going behind the cut for hypothetical gore and actual smut. It's from the sexy demonic possession fic and also contains some bloodplay, whatever the demon equivalent of internalized homophobia is, and Mephistopheles being his aggressively emo self (this is Marloweverse where he's aggressively emo).

"I don't remember ordering you," he says.

"No," Mephistopheles says, touching a fingertip to the hollow between Faustus' collarbones, where the scattered drops of blood have begun to congeal; now he traces a path downward, eliciting a thin stream of red blood that bubbles up from soft white flesh to cling to the sparse, greying hair that lies across Faustus' chest and dwindles into a fine line that bisects the pale expanse of his belly. Faustus, otherwise spare of physique, is somewhat well-padded about the middle, and yet Mephistopheles can feel his abdominal muscles tense as his own sharp-edged fingernail plows its shallow furrow across the skin, an infinitesimal foretaste of the world to come. He presses a little harder as his path curves around Faustus' navel, and as more blood wells up he imagines how it would feel to slit open the skin properly, to cut through fat and muscle and peel back the peritoneum to rummage around in the hot, pulsating entrails. Faustus might even let him do it: he is deeply compelled by pain, more curious about the inner workings of his body than those of his soul and intoxicated by his ability to endure injuries that would be fatal in ordinary mortals.

Now, though, he merely groans softly as Mephistopheles withdraws his hand, just as he reaches the place where fragile skin gives place to coarse hair, and brushes the bloody tip of his finger across Faustus' lips, which part eagerly for him—for the taste of his own blood. Mephistopheles' mouth twists into a smirk as he pulls his hand away again, bending in to kiss the blood from Faustus' lips, pausing to bite at his throat before moving downward to lap at the drops of blood that trickle down his chest. Faustus' hands make their way into Mephistopheles' hair and clutch tightly as Mephistopheles' teeth graze the soft curve of his belly, pausing to nick the skin as he kisses his way downward. He can feel Faustus, tense and breathless, trembling beneath him as he licks up the blood he's drawn forth, savoring its earthy, metallic tang, savoring the choked gasps and hoarse moans that escape Faustus' throat. He is already fully hard again by the time Mephistopheles bends to take his cock in his mouth, and the cry it tears out of him as Mephistopheles swallows him to the hilt is a far more pleasing sound than his irritating questions.

Faustus comes quickly, spilling his seed into Mephistopheles' throat, salty and metallic and human as blood. Mephistopheles draws in a breath he doesn't need and raises himself up enough to rest his head on Faustus' belly, listening to his breathing gradually even out; his fingers tangle themselves idly in Mephistopheles' hair, but he has abandoned his line of questioning in favor of a comfortable, sated silence. Mephistopheles is spared from admitting the simple, awful truth: he puts up with sharing his master's bed not out of subservience, not to more fully ensnare his soul, but because he simply enjoys it. It is shameful, pathetic, perverted: to have lived in torment for millennia, deprived of true intimacy, and then to find it with a human, a fragile scrap of flesh, a clod of soil driven by electrical impulses. What does Faustus expect him to say? That he loves him? It is as impossible as it is disgusting—and yet, were Mephistopheles pressed to put a word to his feelings—

He runs a finger over Faustus' bare skin and imagines peeling it from his wretched mortal body. He wishes, as he has done countless times, that he could sleep.

[sadmushroomgoblin]

okay I wanna see how you write a fic based off one of my favorite obscure songs

"Tear me apart, my eyes wide open staring into yours as I cry / Crush my heart, was my life worth a second of your time? / I see you in the waiting room / I see you praying "don't leave" / I see you in Saint Mary's womb / I see you kiss goodnight / Maybe you're just like one of us"

Thank you!!!! I hope you enjoy!

(And please feel free to use this idea for prompt gathering too)

A Second Of Your Time

He stares, unseeing, the beeps and chirps of the terran Medbay all passing by unnoticed. His consciousness flits between this world and another. In between, the Network. It's poisoned by his own hand and that poison is eating him alive.

The Medbay is illuminated by the scalding golden light of the Charon's mycelium core and yet the light no longer hurts. He's only partially here.

The only thing keeping him here, preventing him from fleeing this fragile and vulnerable form all together, is the hand that finds his in the small hours when noone is watching.

Paul knows his lover's touch even with his mind scattered across reality. It draws him back, keeps the poison at bay.

When Hugh's fingers that have brought such pain to others brush gently against his forehead, the hissing and burning retreats and cool safety washes over him. It's a dangerous and addictive feeling, one foreign to him.

Theyre terrans, this secret love cannot be the cure. Hugh cannot be seen to care beyond the remit the Emperor assigned to him. Still, caught between worlds, Paul hears his whispered prayers and curses against the universe.

They tangle with the words of another Hugh, one who he recognises from the mind of another Paul, one who died and now resides in the network too. One who skirts around the edges of Paul's vision like a ghost.

He can't imagine loving that Hugh. His Hugh is hungry, sharp, a monster like him with teeth dripping blood. He's not afraid to cup his Hugh's face and leave blood smeared there because Hugh's hands have left similar marks on his own skin.

They're both monsters. They yearn for the gnashing of teeth and claws. They done know how to be anything other than monsters and yet this other ghostly Hugh is the opposite.

Paul might fear him. He avoids the other Hugh as much as the other Hugh avoids him, running towards the poison rather than face that version.

[bylightofdawn]

Chapter Seven is up and we FINALLY get out family reunion. Anf I earn those character tags. 🙌

[superbfics]

Yeah. So. Um. I can't see my phone very well cause I'm writing this through some pretty intense blubbering. Carol, you're just a fucking talented person my god. It's just heartbreaking and heartwarming in the same breath. You write just the amazing little one liners that can make a person laugh out loud and then just cut you to your core. I love how I know their world and their life in just a short glance into it. ALSO FUCK ALL THE WAY OFF FOR SETTING THE SMUT TO UNCHAINED MELODY IT'S MINE AND MY HUSBAND'S SONG AND I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU.

Anyways. I need more of them please 💛💛💛💛

'It's important that he feels in control of the situation, a lot of his role when he was in this situation was to protect others. Try not to baby him about it, he might be fragile, but he doesn't like to feel like he is.'

I should have fucking known from this I'd be an inconsolable blubbering baby by the end of this.

Every day was a reminder to him that he didn't come out of this a stronger person. His dad let him know that at every visit, treating him like he had a son made of glass.

I'll kill John Harrington with my bare hands I swear to fuck.

He shakes his head slowly, tongue tight between his teeth. He thought he knew better than to fall in love with someone who had a tongue as sharp as his.

So she tries it...she puts on a silly voice for Samwise, and she continues with her silly voices. Gruff and manly for Aragorn, gleeful for Sam, some weird form of Scottish for Gimli. She bites her lip, smiling as she tries each one, shaking her curly head at her ridiculousness and stops. Then she hears it...the low rumbling giggle from Eddie in his hospital bed.

"Keep going, it's funny..." he said with a grin, eyes still closed.

"You can hear me?" she asked, trying to stifle her giggle.

"I can hear you every night," he said, eyes peering open slightly, "It's the best."

"Do you want me to keep reading?" she asked with a blush.

He nods, a soft grin pulling up on his lips while he eyes closes again, "Only if you do the voices."

“I know, mommy just thinks she can do it all,” Eddie coos, resting his hands on Nancy’s stomach while she slices cheeseburger toppings on the counter, “She just won’t rest, are you gonna be like that too? You gonna run me ragged? You gonna be just like mommy?”

I NEED them desperately. Like I said I need more of this story and this world and like them included holy fucking is my heart ACHING.

When everything’s loaded up you give each other a hug, watching as Eddie and Steve have a mildly stern conversation about who is grilling what.

‘It’s my grill.’ 

‘And? It’s my meat.’ 

“Do you think they should just kiss?” you ask while you watch them.

**INTENSE SOBBING BREAK AND MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR THE FUCKING POWERFUL AND CAPTIVATING WRITING OF THE PTSD FLARE UP AND PANIC ATTACK AND COME DOWN. I COULD *SEE* THIS ENTIRE SCENE AND MY HEART WAS BEATING SO FAST**

“You looked really pretty today,” Steve says gently, almost sheepish, “I should’ve told you.”

“You looked really handsome,” you say back, “But you were kind of being an asshole so I didn’t want to tell you.”

“You should’ve told me, it probably would’ve cured my PTSD,” he says seriously but sarcastically, “Could’ve saved the entire afternoon if you just said how good I looked. Prob’ly wouldn’t have had an episode.”

“You’re such an ass,” you laugh, smiling. He leans in to kiss you and it’s the kind that makes you too weak to stand.

I hate you Carol. I hate you so much for writing this fucking fic. How can I wanna reread something that's hurting me so much. How can you put shit like this in there and not expect me to fall in love with you?

The smile sends you reeling, his pretty teeth, the way his nose scrunches. He leans forward again to kiss, he just can’t stop kissing, can’t stop tasting your lips, feeling you against him. Steve’s hand reaches down to pull himself out of his sweats, pushing the waistband to the tops of his thighs while he uses the other to push one thigh out off the couch.

“You ready f’me?” he asks huskily, tip dragging slowly from the pool of slick at your opening up in between your folds. He lets his thumb run in slow circles over your clit while he waits for your answer, your slow nod while you lean your head back on the arm rest gives him the okay. He eases himself in slow, the tip pushing past your opening with some resistance.

“Open up a lil’, honey,” he mumbles quietly while he guides the tip in again, “Open up for me.”

OPEN UP A LIL', HONEY?!

OPEN UP A LIL', HONEY?!

FUCK OOOOFFFFFF CAROL YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO PUT THAT IN THERE YOU-

You nod to each other while he embraces you in an old movie kiss, wrapping himself around you, pressing him to his chest while his thrusts get purposeful, controlled. 

“I love you,” he pants into your ear, “I’m yours, m’all yours.”

When he cums it’s deliberate, spilling inside you with your eyes on each other. You give one another breathless kisses, bodies interlocked, sticking to the couch in new found exhaustion.

The phone rings. Neither of you get up to answer it.

‘BEEP. You’ve reached the Harrington residence – Did you forget my last name isn’t Harr– If you’re calling before October 1997 then it’s not just the Harrington residence yet but – whatever you know what I mean. Leave a message, we might call ya back.’

always something there to remind me (s.h.)

summary: ten years after the sealing of the upside-down, you and your fiance steve head to a cookout to unwind during memorial day weekend. with steve on edge after a rough half sleep full of night terrors, you hope the day can be salvaged by seeing the party and just relaxing, but a violent thunderstorm changes those plans for the worse. pairings: steve x reader, lumax, edancy. heavy on the steddie brotp tho.

tw: 18+ as always. this story deals with themes of mental illness and ptsd, it is only intended for mature audiences. descriptions of ptsd flashbacks, internal and external (please be advised they are dramatizations). partner violence (unintentional). drinking/smoking. discussions of mental illness. very moody steve but very soft steve. features some tense arguments. smut, like, very loving and passionate smut. this relationship is not perfect, it's also a depiction of a moment in time in 1997. the emotional load was very much a woman's job and i personally think steve would be 'too proud' to be 'too soft' about his stuff. so there are parts that seem kind of 'eh' but -- that's just how things were sorta. gif by @kingofscoops

His pill case sounded like a rattle when you took it from the medicine cabinet, taking it into the kitchen where he was shrugging on his freshly ironed polo. The ironing board and hot iron still set up by the counter. The black stone contrasted nicely against your cherry wood cabinets that he installed two summers ago. That was when you both thought he might be getting better: the night terrors were less and less frequent, the flashbacks far and few between, he was less tense, less irritable. Seeking you constantly for soft touches and kisses, any kind of affection he could pull from you he'd take willingly. Two years ago was your two year anniversary -- when he finally told you the real story. Why he had all those scars, why he can't sleep, why he wakes up in a cold sweat crying. Why you'd never been able to figure out which health care company was providing him with so much medication and therapy when he was working part time at the hospital -- it's because it was the FBI.

It was two years ago where they took you to an underground office where they told you everything. Steve sat next to you, gripping your hand so tightly you thought it might break. They reassured over and over that nothing was coming back, that everything was over, but that Steve and his friends will likely never recover emotionally and mentally from what they endured. Four years into things now, you were both his fiance and his nurse. You checked in monthly with his caseworking team, but in these last few months, they've had nothing but shaky reports. You wondered if maybe his mind just isn't as sharp as it used to be -- you both just entered your thirties, maybe things get knocked loose quicker when you've been to hell and back. "Here, honey," you say softly, putting his pill case on the table. He looks at them and sighs, amber eyes lingering on the 'Saturday' section of the pill box. "Let me get you some wa--" "You don't need to give me my pills every day," he says -- it's soft and sharp, "I know I have to take them. I've been takin' them for ten years."

You offer him a tight smile, "I know, Stevie..." You trail off. 'It's important that he feels in control of the situation, a lot of his role when he was in this situation was to protect others. Try not to baby him about it, he might be fragile, but he doesn't like to feel like he is.'

"It's just...I don't want a repeat of last year," you quietly remind him. He had gotten too sure of himself when he started to feel better -- missing days, stopping altogether, off and on.

He reaches for the pill case and pops open the Saturday square, tossing the main five pills into his palm and then into his mouth. Pain, anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, migraine, blood thinner. The heavy stuff sat in the cabinet above the fridge: Quaaludes, Oxycontin, Sumatriptan, Clozapine -- among others. Every day was a reminder to him that he didn't come out of this a stronger person. His dad let him know that at every visit, treating him like he had a son made of glass. "Don't," he says after he swallows, "Don't start with me."

Your eyes narrow in on the finger he puts up in warning and travels down to his big hand, a vein popping in his forearm and under the band of his watch. His bicep flexes against his polo, you follow it across the expanse of his chest and down the other arm, landing back on the pill case.

You knew last night what kind of day it would be this morning. Desperate reaches for you while he woke up from another nightmare, his damp chest up against yours while he hid his face in your neck. He hugs you so tightly to him so he doesn't float away, and you match his strength as best you can until he falls back asleep. Sometimes it takes hours of stroking his hair and soothing him before he feels safe enough to even close his eyes. In the years you've been together, he's been more and more embarrassed over these needier nights. 'It's just, baby -- I'm a man. I have to get over all this shit.'

"I'm not starting anyth--" "You are," he warns, eyes narrowing. He clenches his jaw, "Don't."

"M'sorry," you breath out. You take the pill case when he sets it back down and bring it back upstairs to the main bathroom. You refill the case before placing it back in the medicine cabinet with a sigh. When it closes you look at yourself in the mirror, no longer the fresh 26 year old he met at the hospital admin desk when he started his part time job as an assistant in the children's psych floor. Gaining hours towards getting his pediatric therapist licensure to help kids who were like him and his friends -- well, sort of. To some extent. You smooth over your button down dress, his favorite one in your closet -- navy blue with beige flowers littering the fabric. It flounces over you in dips and swoops, falling just under your knee. Another sigh and you grab your purse from the bedroom and slip on your sandals, clip clopping down the stairs where you hear him grab the keys. Another Saturday morning where the group gets together and just hangs out, even though Steve sees Eddie, Rob, and Dustin pretty often throughout the week. They've been doing it for years now, but the outside buzzed with the promise of summer, Memorial Day weekend making everyone feel more at ease. Everyone except Steve.

He slams the car door when he gets in the drivers seat, making you jump in the leather of his Lexus. He runs his hands over his jean clad thighs, having grown in size over the last six years with age and trips to the gym. 'I just wanna be in like, peak physical condition if anything tries to come back. I wanna be more ready than when I was a kid, y'know?' And while the muscle was certainly titilating, it made for a very wary you when things went left. "Don't be like that, Stevie," you say softly, your voice calm and gentle like it is with patients on the floor, "I promise I wasn't trying to get on your case. Do you -- I don't know, do you wanna just stay home?" "No," he snaps, looking ahead toward the road as he starts the car, "I didn't pack a cooler full of all the shit you made for this cook-out just the stay home." "Can you relax?" you ask a little harsher than you planned, "Are you even good to drive?" "I'm good. To drive," he says through gritted teeth, pulling down the street. "Are you sure? 'Cause -- Honey you -- you didn't sleep so good last night and I --" He hits the breaks hard, stopping short at a stop light turning to look at you, tilting his head a bit to glare at you down the slope of his straight nose.

"Drop it," he says, the tenseness in his voice sends a chill up your spine. "Stevie I'm not trying t --" "Drop. It." he warns again, "Don't make me raise my voice at you." "Don't talk to me like that," you say sharply while he pulls the car forward when the light turns green. "Then don't talk to me like I'm a fucking child," he snaps back. "Well maybe if you didn't have an attitude with me like one I wouldn't have to," you cross your arms over your seat belt and huff. He shakes his head slowly, tongue tight between his teeth. He thought he knew better than to fall in love with someone who had a tongue as sharp as his. "You're askin' for an argument when you say shit like that to me," he says lowly, the Lexus crunching over helicopter seeds while he navigates through the neighborhood. You see his shoulders rise and fall while he attempts to steady himself -- fuse lit and ready to blow. "I'm sorry," you follow up, a deep breath filling your chest. You uncross your arms to lean your elbow on the edge of the window, resting your cheek in your hand, "I didn't mean that." "You did," he responds, tight and frustrated, quiet. He hastily reaches into his back pocket with one hand, eyes still on the road. Steve pops a cigarette between his full lips and you sigh at the sound of the lighter flicking. “What’s wrong now, hm?” he asks while the cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, “What’s your problem?” “Nothing,” you say – it’s something. He takes a drag and blows the smoke out the open window, “It’s just that you bought that pack yesterday and it’s already half way gone. You always chain smoke when you –” “Give me a fucking break,” he snaps, voice raising with each word, “God, can you let me have fuckin’ anything?” “No Steve, I guess not. God forbid I look out for your heal–” you start sarcastically. “Look out for yourself, baby,” he says sharply into the rearview so you can see his glare, “I’m doin’ just fine without you on my back.” You bicker the rest of the way to Ed and Nancy’s house, he only raises his voice one more time. 

Eddie and Nancy's wedding was one for the ages, something about the mixture of straight laced and all over the place that made sense when they tied the knot. The pair, you were told, seemed unlikely until Eddie was in recovery after being removed from the Upside Down. He was down there for six months, tested on for another six. The Party and the older kids would visit him every day, keeping him updated and fed and hydrated. They'd cheer him on when he made advances in his mobility -- but for the most part he just needed rest. Nancy was working a lot, throwing herself into journalism like she always wanted, so she'd come to the hospital late. She wasn't really one for small talk so instead, she'd just read. She'd read aloud while he was asleep, her voice slow and calm -- stoic. Keeping him lulled like still water, she didn't even know if he knew she was there. One night, she picked up where she left off on the first installment of Lord of the Rings, continuing in her soft stoic voice. She watched him lay there with his eyes closed, breath steady, the beeps of the hospital machines in quiet rhythm with him. She at frist felt silly before she started, but maybe in his dreams he could hear her, and maybe just maybe if she does something fun, he won't have nightmares tonight. So she tries it...she puts on a silly voice for Samwise, and she continues with her silly voices. Gruff and manly for Aragorn, gleeful for Sam, some weird form of Scottish for Gimli. She bites her lip, smiling as she tries each one, shaking her curly head at her ridiculousness and stops. Then she hears it...the low rumbling giggle from Eddie in his hospital bed. "Keep going, it's funny..." he said with a grin, eyes still closed. "You can hear me?" she asked, trying to stifle her giggle. "I can hear you every night," he said, eyes peering open slightly, "It's the best." "Do you want me to keep reading?" she asked with a blush. He nods, a soft grin pulling up on his lips while he eyes closes again, "Only if you do the voices."

When you park in the driveway it's clear that the rest of the group arrived before you, their cars already Tetris'd into their places. Steve lugs the cooler out of the back seat with a grunt, hoisting it to rest on his broad shoulder. You roll your eyes at his machismo, like someone is watching him at all times and he has something to prove. You both walk to the back, the sounds of music and conversation and laughter bubbling louder and louder as you get to the gate of the yard.

A symphony of 'Heeeyyy!' and 'There he is!' and 'Finally!' come from the group as he opens the gate and you follow in toe. Eddie comes over quickly to help with the cooler, his hair still as long as it was when he was 20 – the only real updates being his five o’clock shadow and the ring in his nose. A few more weary tired lines by his eyes. His home made Iron Maiden muscle tee had a small sweat mark by the neckline – they must’ve been out here getting ready all morning. “Hey man,” he grins when the cooler gets set down, pulling Steve in for a tight hug. “Hey,” Steve smiles, patting his back hard, savoring the hold. “You alright?” Eddie asks when he lets go, putting a hand to his face, “You feeling okay?” Steve smiles tightly and nods but Eddie only half buys it, returning his look before turning to you. He comes forward, kissing both your cheeks with his full lips, scruff scratching at your skin, “Hi, sweetheart.” “Hi Ed,” you grin, watching everyone else come up to say their hellos. “Where’s Nance?” Steve asks, but his question is answered when she waddles out of the sliding door of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade. From the back, you’d have no idea she was seven months pregnant, but from the side – let’s just say, it was gonna be a real big boy. “Honey, what did I say?” Eddie calls out, walking over to her and taking the pitcher. “It’s not even heavy,” she chides back with an exasperated eye roll. You giggle at their bickering, listening to their sweet back and forth with a gentle ache in your chest. You wonder if Steve will be the same way when you’re pregnant. You wonder if the back and forths will sound so sweet, so innocent, so soft. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the cooler opening, turning to look and grab what you can to put in the fridge inside. Steve takes the meat out to put by the grill and a few appetizers that you put together last nice. You take the icebox cake and chocolate covered strawberries, hurrying with them through the sliding door into the kitchen. “I know, mommy just thinks she can do it all,” Eddie coos, resting his hands on Nancy’s stomach while she slices cheeseburger toppings on the counter, “She just won’t rest, are you gonna be like that too? You gonna run me ragged? You gonna be just like mommy?” Nancy laughs and it’s half airy, half from deep in her belly, “Look, it’s just better if I’m active so that I’m not surprised by it when he’s born.” “I know,” he says, kissing her cheek, “I know. You still love me, Wheeler?” “Love you always,” she grins, blushing when she sees you come in with desserts, “Oh! Oh my goodness, let me help you!” “I got it!” you say, “Just hope there’s room in the fridge!” When everything’s loaded up you give each other a hug, watching as Eddie and Steve have a mildly stern conversation about who is grilling what. ‘It’s my grill.’  ‘And? It’s my meat.’ 

“Do you think they should just kiss?” you ask while you watch them. “Honestly, I feel like they need to at this point," she laughs, "Go on outside, I’ll be out in a few,” Nancy encourages and you make your way back out into the very early summer heat – mugginess starting to soak the air around you. Before you know it, you’re already being pulled over to the picnic table to watch a game of Magic the Gathering between Lucas, Max, Dustin, Mike, and Will. El doesn’t come back to Hawkins very much,so you’ve been told – she’s the only person from the group you haven’t met. “So is this like D&D?” you ask, resting your cheek against your palm while you lean on the table. “Yes and no,” Max explains, looking at her options, “It’s like…” “Like poker but D&D,” Dustin says, making Mike, Will, and Lucas snort. “I think that’s the easiest way to explain it to you,” Mike says. “I trust that,” you laugh with them. You’ve been consistently hopeless with trying to learn the mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons but still enjoy watching, loving it more when Steve decides to join a campaign. He lets loose in ways you’ve never seen when he does, smiling and laughing, free like a child in the summertime. The sun beating on your back suddenly disappears when you hear Steve come up behind you with a hand on your shoulder, “Can I have my glasses, honey?” “They’re in the glove box,” you say, turning around, “Why do you need them?” “Oh, is Erica making you read her thesis outline?” Lucas asks, “Just tell her to buzz off. She already passed it in.” “Sinclair – don’t be an asshole,” Steve gives him a look that can only be described as ‘bitchy’, “She wants some assurance. We need another psychologist in the family, and she’s obviously the only one smart enough to get it done.” “Rude,” Max deadpans, flicking her eyes up at him. “You’re rude, twerp,” he says back, he turns back to you after sucking his teeth, "My glasses?"

“I just said, in the glovebox,” you repeat, a little sharper than you meant to. He lets out a huff through his nose, looking at you like he can’t believe you’d get snippy with him before stomping off toward the gate of the yard. “Is he alright?” Dustin asks quietly, “I saw him on Thursday he just…I don’t know, he seems a little tense.” “He had a bad night,” you explain, toying at a splinter in the wood, “He’ll be okay.” The sun disappears again but not from the expanse of your fiance’s shoulders and chest, but from a thick cloud moving slowly across the sky. The relief from the heat is almost welcomed until you feel the humidity raise a bit in the air – a little too tight, a little too suffocating for your taste. 

The party is in full swing while Meredith Brooks’ ‘Bitch,’ blares from the boom box, Nancy and Max screaming the lyrics with abandon while the boys groan. You smile at how much fun they’re having, the afternoon going smoothly enough that you haven’t had time to notice how cloudy the sky had become. Your eyes linger on Steve, glasses on while looking at Erica’s thesis outline with her on the back porch. He had a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the fifth one in the last hour and a half.  "You got something here," he says to her, tapping his pen while continues reading, "Your argument's really strong -- especially about the rates of homelessness, it's almost always trauma related." "Well -- I am me," she says. He raises his brows and nods in agreement. "Can't spell America without Erica," he teases. You watch him, how gentle he is and how he taps through outline, asking her questions about how she feels about the finished thesis, where she got it bound, if the articles he sent over were helpful. They speak in words you don't understand, but it's okay -- he looks calmer, brows softened while they talk, so encouraging. "I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint, I do not feel ashamed --"

Eddie's rasp pierces the groups singing and conversation as he belts the lyrics next to his wife. Everyone looks up to watch him go, laughing as he does. "We should cover this," he grins, "Me and the guys, we gotta cover this at the next show." "So you can get boo'd off the stage?" Mike laughs. "So I can make sure your ass doesn't get in the bar?" he asks back. Mike scowls while Dustin laughs at him -- it's always smarter to not try it with Eddie, he'd always get you back ten fold. With a jolt, you feel something cold hit your hand, looking down to see a water drop splat against your skin. Then another, and another, and another. After the fourth or fifth, the rain starts to come down -- and then it starts to pour. "Alright!" Nancy calls, "Everyone grab something and head inside." The Party rises, wincing as the rain pellets down on them while everyone grabs a foil tray or covered Pyrex filled with food. You follow suit, hurrying inside with the undressed cheeseburgers and buns, laying them safe on the counter in the kitchen. Everyone else starts to file in, Steve and Eddie turning off the grill while the sky starts to darken significantly. The first rumble of thunder sends everyone's face to a flat line -- you wished Robin wasn't spending the weekend in New York City so that you'd have someone on the front lines with you and Nancy to keep everyone at ease. Nancy and Robin definitely had their moments but had a much tighter grasp on the world around them now.

A few flashes of lightening crack followed by deep rumbles of thunder. Boom, crack! Boom, crack, crack! You notice everyone resettle themselves around the kitchen table -- jittery, quiet. You sit down across from Steve while he looks down, following the woodgrain with his finger. You keep your gaze on his chest, watching for a tell -- he swallows the frustration he feels from having your eyes on him. "It's alright guys, just a storm," Nancy reminds everyone gently while she brings in the last of the food from outside. Eddie gets her seated before opening things back on the counter, the kitchen smelling like barbecue while he opens the foils. The conversations start around you again while you sit across from Steve, the tension sitting like a weighted stone in your chest. Another flash of lightning and that's when you notice it, the twitch of his hand. The thunder rumbles and he reaches up to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger under his glasses. Shit. "You okay, honey?" you ask him softly. He swallows, jaw clenching, "Mhm." "Okay," you nod, trying not to bring attention to it just yet, just incase it passes. The thunder booms again and he lets out a breath through his nose, he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes more agressively. You tap your foot under the table and he can hear it, he can hear everything in the room -- the scrapes of foil on foil. The separate conversations. Eddie's laugh while he talks to Nancy. The clinks of silverware. Ice in cups. The drumming of fingers. Your tap. Tap. Tap. Tapping. Under the fucking table could you just stop tapping your fucking foot -- The next crack of lightening is so intense it shakes the house and everyone gets quiet. 'Just a storm', Nancy reminds, but her voice sounds far away. Thunder rumbles again in the distance and he swears when the lightening flashes through the windows it's red. He rubs his eyes again, a short burst of breath coming through his nose. 'Honey?' he hears you but its like he has cotton in his ears. The thunder rumbles again, the slick squelching of vines starts to creep into the sound of it. Another crack of lighting and the lights in the kitchen flicker. But when they turn back on Steve isn't with the group anymore. He's not even in the kitchen. He's back at the Creel House. 'Baby? Steve?' your voice is distant -- does Vecna have you? Did he find you? Is he taking you away from him? Steve whimpers, getting out of the chair, pulling at the roots of his light brown locks -- desperate to pull himself out of the memory, "Help, please..."

"I'm here, Steve," you say rounding the table while the rest of the group stands back, getting ready to help. Max grabs a boom box and Lucas runs to his car to grab his tapes with everyone's favorite songs on it -- just in case. Dustin approaches him slowly, hands out in front of him while Steve shrinks to the floor, back against the cabinets. "Steve, it's me, it's Dustin," he says calmly and slowly, "You're in Eddie's kitchen, Steve." But Steve only hears Dustin saying his name -- Dustin must be in trouble. "I'm coming," Steve says, eyes shut tight, falling further away. You watch as sweat grows on his hair line and neck, muttering a fuck under you breath. This was gonna be a bad one. "Honey, honey," you continue, kneeling down in front of him to ease his hands off of his hair, "You're okay, you're safe. I'm with you." 'Honey.' He hears your voice in the distance, searching for you in the blue black haze of the Upside Down, the thick particles of dust in his eyes. The slither of vines covers the walls and the floors while he ascends the stairs -- where are Nancy and Robin? Weren't they with him? "Nance?" You watch him call out for Nancy and she goes to get up but Eddie puts his hand delicately on her shoulder. He shakes his head no at her, "Just talk to him," he says to her. 'I'm here, Steve, it's okay!' 'It's okay!' But it's not Nancy's voice, it gets more an more deep, more gravelly, more like him. Steve flinches in front of you, soft 'no, no, no's slipping from his mouth. 'Stevie...' Where are you? Does he have you? 'S̷T̴E̶V̴I̷E̵.'

The sound of Vecna's voice booms in his ears, the thunder rumbling, the red lighting flashing to light up the house. You were never here -- Vecna tricked him. He breathes hard, looking around while the vines snake around, searching for him. "Okay, okay baby," you say hurriedly, watching him while he starts to hyperventilate. You raise your voice to get through to him, "Honey you gotta take some deep breaths for me, okay? Can you hear me?" Max and Lucas come back, smacking the tape into the radio and fastforwarding until Marc Cohn's Walking In Memphis crackles through the speakers. They both heave breaths while the song plays, leaning over the table to settle down from running. "You hear the song, honey?" you ask, "Can you hear it? Talk to me, Steve." You reach your hands up, sliding slowly up his chest to rest your hands by his jaw in a soothing touch. But for Steve in the Creel House, the vines have found him, slithering up his chest and around his neck, tighter and tighter against the wall. He tenses, big hands coming up and grabbing your wrists with a grip so tight you whimper. "No, shit, shit, shit! Fuck! STOP! NO! I CAN'T!" he panics, gasping for breath while his nails dig into your forearms and drag painfully downward why he tries to pull you away. "Ow, ow baby, hey, you're hurting me," you yelp out. He doesn't stop, eyes switching from tightly closed to open and unfocused while he reaches up to your biceps, clawing at them in defense. You reach out a final time. "Honey, honey, please, it's me," you say, tears balancing on your lower lashes while he rises, taking you with him. He handles you real rough, grabbing you by the shoulders and throwing you to the ground with a loud thud. And god does it hurt.

"HEY!" Eddie's voice booms out, gruff and loud like the rumbles of thunder outside. He gets behind Steve, pulling his arms close to his chest while Steve struggles against him. Erica and Mike hurry toward you to help you slowly up off the floor. You reel at first, wanting to run back to him. "Stay in front of her Wheeler," Ed warns, "You all stay right there." You stand behind Mike with Erica who takes your hand tightly in hers. You feel the pulse of pain in your arms when you look down -- gouges and deep scrapes, the blood shines in the line of the kitchen. You shake your head out of it and watch on as Eddie and Dustin do what they can to help -- the song continues to play in the background. "No, no," Steve whimpers, twisting his wrists in Eddie's grasp to break free, but in this state Eddie is stronger. He pulls him close, Steve back to his chest while they sink back down against the cabinets. "Shh," Eddie soothes, still holding him tight, "We got you, just listen -- you're in my kitchen. You hear the song playing?" Steve grunts, thrashing while Eddie hugs him tighter to him. "Steve, listen, listen to the song," Dustin says, "Focus on me and Eddie's voice, listen." Steve struggles, less intense than before, "Shh, shh, it's okay Harrington," Eddie soothes, rocking him slowly back and forth. "They need me," Steve cries weakly, breaths slowing while he pulls again at Eddie's hold, "Gotta save 'em..." "Steve," Dustin says again, getting closer. He rubs his shoulder slowly, pressing his thumb into the joint, "We're safe, all the kids are safe." "Safe..." he repeats back. Eddie sighs a little in apprehensive relief, letting go of one wrist to run a hand over his head, turning Steve's face into his chest and holding him close. "That's right, Steve," Eddie says softly, "Safe." 'Saw the ghost of Elvis, on Union Avenue, Followed him up to the Gates of Graceland And they watched him walk right through...' Steve can hear the lyrics, warbled and tinny in the Upside Down. 'Safe, safe, safe.' Echoing through the walls -- it gets dimmer. 'Now security they did not see him, They just hovered round his tomb...' Dimmer and dimmer. 'Almost over buddy, I can tell, we're right here. You feel Henderson?' A soft warm rub on his shoulder, the lyrics to the song, Eddie's voice. The sound of vines fade away, he hears the rain, it fades to black. "Walkin' in Memphis..." Steve whispers, half confused, while his eyes open and focus -- squinting in the light of the kitchen. Overwhelmed he looks around while the room tilts on it's axis. He grips Eddie's leg tightly to steady himself, he's breaths picking up again. "It's okay buddy, it's just us," Eddie says again, "You with me?" Steve nods, face cracking while he lets out a broken sob. You can only watch while Eddie flicks his eyes up at you in another warning to not come closer yet. Dustin let's go while Eddie starts to hoist him up, wrapping Steve's arm around his shoulder while he helps him to the guest room down the hall. "C'mon big boy," he says gently, "Let's get you some rest."

Things feel a little quiet after Eddie comes back from the guest room, he's tense -- no longer having fun the way he was before. His eyes are dark while he heads outside into the rain to have a cigarette. Lucas turns off the stereo and The Party sits back down at the kitchen table for a moment to decompress. They silently take out of the Magic the Gathering cards and start to set up again, Erica joins them seamlessly. When things seems a semblance of stable, Nancy gets up and takes your hand and leads you to the bathroom, "Let's check you out, alright?"

You sit on the toilet seat cover while Nancy takes out a first aid kit from under the sink. You listen while she hums the climax of Whitney's 'I Have Nothing' quietly, searching the medicine cabinet for some Bactine for your cuts.

"Are you okay?" she asks, taking both of your hands to outstretch your arms, she turns them to see the damage -- she tries to hide her face of disappointment but it's clear.

"I'll be fine," you say softly while she wipes down the gouges and scrapes, "I can take care of it Nance."

"No, you just -- just let me," she says softly. The Bactine stings -- so does the way she looks at you -- pitifully. You hear Eddie's boots clomp down the hallway before he shows up at the door frame of the bathroom.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks -- you wish people would stop asking. They only ask when they see him lose control. You do this all the time, you take care of him all the time.

"I'm okay," you repeat, "A little banged up, but y'know. It's okay."

"Does he do that alot?" Eddie asks, his jaw clenching, "Does he hurt you a lot?"

"This is one of maybe...I don't know -- four times he's gotten physical with me during an episode," you explain, "And you all know about them."

"Does he hurt you when he's here?" Eddie asks, tapping at his temple.

"No, Ed, don't be ridiculous," you sigh, exasperated that he'd even ask.

"Steve's not like that, Eddie," Nancy says, "We've been over this." "Well, here's the thing Nance," he starts, tense, "We're ten years out of this shit and no matter how bad my shit got I've never put a hand on you like that. Ever." "Eddie --" "No, no, listen," he says, "I don't like that, and I especially don't like that happening in my house in front of my pregnant wife." "And what would you like me to do about it, Ed?" you snap, "I can't -- fuck -- I can't fucking fix him for you." "I'm not asking you to fix him," he says back, a pain deep in his chest coming through with his voice, "I'm asking you to be sure that you still want to be a part of this -- your wedding's what -- October? You really wanna be worrying about this?" "For better or for worse, right?" you ask back, choking on the lump in your throat, "That's the promise." Eddie tucks his lips in, his own eyes getting teary while he scans the gouges that Nancy carefully puts bandaids over. "Ice your hip and shoulder for the first couple days," he mutters, biting the edge of his them, "After a fall like that. Then heat." You nod, quietly murmuring a thank you. "S'what my mom used to do," he says under his breath. Eddie scans you slowly one more time, swallowing hard before pushing off the door frame and walking back down the hall. You hear their bedroom door click closed in the distance. "You know how he gets," Nancy says, "Stuff like that y'know -- that's hard for him." "I know." She takes a washcloth, running it under cold water before squeezing it out. Droplets fall on the fabric of her light purple maternity shirt, leaving dark people marks on the top of her belly. She hands it to you. "Here, for his head," she says softly, "In case he's not all the way back yet."

You creep slowly into the guest room, seeing him laying on his stomach with half his face buried in the pillow. His sculpted arms tucked under it to give him something to hold. "Baby?" you ask quietly, "You awake?" He nods with his eyes closed and you look him over -- big hulking man who needs to be held. He hates it but you can't help but love him for knowing he needs it. You put the wet face cloth on the side table, sliding down next to him while he moves over to his side. In one swift motion you've replaced the pillow -- arms wrapping tight around your waist and up your back, one hand molding over your shoulder. He hides his face in your neck and you can feel his tears on his lashes and cheeks. His shoulders shake while he cries for a while, cold sweat damp on his shirt and the back of his neck. You never check how long he cries for – as long as he does. “I’m here,” you say softly, nails grazing his scalp in a steady swipe, “I’m right here.” You adjust a bit in his hold and you feel his grip tighten slightly, a soft whine of desperation leaking from his throat. “Don’t go, please,” he begs softly. “M’not going anywhere big guy,” you soothe, “This wedding’s already put us ten grand in the hole. Where would I even go, now?” You hear a soft ‘tsss’ come out of him, a tug of a smile against the skin of your neck where he hides. 

“Oh, is that funny?” you joke, still coasting your fingers through his hair. He groans, letting his arms let go of you so he can sit up, you can see the tension in his body still. Steve looks down at you with tear stained cheeks and tired eyes, beckoning you forward with his fingers. You sit up for your thank you kiss, his warm palm cupping your cheek while he holds you gently in place. He kisses once slowly, then twice, three times – holding the last so you know he means it. When you break away he rests his forehead against yours, offering a few shallow breaths. You stand up off the bed while he sits off the edge of it, standing between his thighs. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asks softly. He asks after every episode ever since he did hurt you back when you first started dating. A swift smack to the arm that stung for a solid twenty minutes afterward with the amount of power he put into it. It welted. He cried for hours. He wrote you love letters every day for a week. 

You nod, showing him the scratches and bandages on your arms, "I think you thought I was a vine or something. You threw me. Like, to the ground. It was pretty hard."

His lower lip quivers, "No, no, no." “No, Steve,” you assure, trying to calm him, “It’s okay, you didn’t know. It’s alright, I’m alright. It was an accident.” 

His face contorts while the tears start again, his big hands reach out to your waist, pulling you close to him, "It's not okay, it's not alright."

His voice raises an octave while he cries, "I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay, Stevie, shh," you whisper to him, he pulls you in tighter, body shaking while pressing his nose against your cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he cries, sniffling, "You know I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," you say back, your own cry getting caught in your throat. He sniffles again, leaning back to face you, both of his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing the apples.

"I love you," he says with a depth and intensity that makes the lump in your throat give way. You cry with him and it breaks his heart, "I love you so much honey, you know I’d never…"

You nod, trying to calm your cry the way he was able to calm his -- so used to swallowing it up even though you'd beg him not to.

"I – shit – I have to tell you something," he says softly, hands sliding from your cheeks back down to your waist and then your hips. He looks down at the small triangle of mattress between you and the apex of his thighs.

"What's up, Steve?" you ask, running your hands through his hair again soothingly, "What is it?"

He lifts his head up, eyes shutting at the comforting touch, but when he opens them he looks defeated -- guilty, "I haven't been taking my meds at night. I was -- was flushin’ them cause I just -- baby, I don't know. I can't keep depending on this shit."

"Steve."

"I know," he nods, "I know...That's why -- that's why my shit's getting worse."

"You're not just taking this stuff to take it," you say, cupping his cheeks, "It's to keep you here. It's to keep you with me."

"I know," he repeats, voice cracking again, "I'll call my shrink tomorrow I promise. I'll get back on track. Fuck -- I'm sorry -- and I'm -- I'm sorry I was so mean to you this morning."

"It's okay," you nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You drop your hands and rub his shoulder, "I think we should go home, alright? We can get on the couch for the night and just rest."

"Okay," he says quietly, nodding. He slowly gets up off the bed, a little dizzy, using you for support. You both slowly walk out of the bedroom, Nancy peeking around the end of the hall.

"Everything good?" she asks.

You smile at her, "Yeah, I think we're gonna head home."

She smiles tightly, heading into the kitchen where the rest of the group still sits, eating and talking. Their heads turn when you both come into view -- soft eyes and smiles.

"I'm okay, guys," Steve nods, barely able to meet their gazes, "It's fine."

Nancy approaches you with a few tupperwares filled with food and dessert, "We'll get the cooler back to you on Tuesday."

"Don't worry about it," you smile, gathering the tupperware in your arms. You watch as the group gets up one by one to give Steve a hug goodbye. Their movements are slow and controlled, warning touches on his shoulders beforehand to remind him ‘It’s just me, it’s just my arms, I’m hugging you’. Soft mumbled words of support, nothing too loud – don’t startle each other. Wraiths of the friendship they all shared earlier. Rehearsed reactions to all of their sensitive needs – if you’ve seen one episode, you’ve seen all of theirs. And you had, once or twice. “I’ll get a copy bound for you,” Erica says while she hugs him. “You make me so proud, Sinclair,” he smiles. Nancy walks you both to the door and you turn, “How’s Ed?” “He’ll call later,” she nods, a look behind her eyes that matches yours. You hug goodbye, share quick reminders about food for the baby shower and a few crafty decoration plans before heading to the car with a very tired Steve. The rain patters on the hood of the Lexus while you both sit in the leather interior, this time with you in the driver's seat. He rubs at his temples with his eyes closed while you rifle through your purse for a sandwich baggie of emergency migraine medicine. “Here,” you say, handing him the pill, “Before it starts to get bad.” “Hmm,” he grumbles in agreement, popping it in his dry mouth to suck it down.  “We’ll be home soon, okay?” you say, hand coming down on his thigh reassuringly, “Just close your eyes for now.” 

He takes the tupperwares when you get out of the car, fishing his keys out of his back pocket while he does. His strides are long while you hurry up behind him, following him into the house only to bump into his back while he’s stopped by the thermostat to turn on the air. “Sorry,” you say softly. “S’okay,” he replies back, barely above a whisper. He puts the food in the fridge while you head upstairs to start a shower, a ritual you’ve both come to learn well after days or nights like these. You take out the good soap, the shower oil, all the aroma therapy you can to get him to ease up. Anyone else watching you get things ready would assume it was about to be a very sexy time for you. On the same coin, these showers are probably the most intimate moments you have with each other. He comes in as the room starts to steam and you help him ease off his polo, you start on the buttons of your dress while he takes off his jeans and socks. He helps with your bra, both of you shedding your underwear at the same time before you step in. Steve soothes almost instantly, his muscles relaxing under the hot stream, sighing further while he gets soaped up. You don’t have to be in there with him, but you do. He needs you so close so he doesn’t float away. His favorite part comes near the end, sitting in the flow of the shower together while you wash his hair. His eyes flutter closed while your nails scratch and massage him – he swears his hair is even thicker than it was before with all the blood flow you encourage. You wash his hair twice, then deep condition, holding him to your chest while you wait the five minutes it takes to settle in. He leaves soft kisses on your collar bone, on all the marks he left on you in Nance and Eddie's kitchen. He holds your hand, so you can’t float away. You both end up on the couch afterward, the leather groaning beneath you both while you lay across the deep seat cushions, you lay on your back, he lays on his side against you. The heat of his bare chest warms you through your oversized sleep shirt. His soft sweat pants tangle up with your bare legs. You let whatever’s on TV play – reruns you guess, you’re thinking about too many other things. “How’s your head, baby?” you ask while his eyes shut, leaning on your shoulder. “S’fine, better,” he says, he lifts your hand and kisses your fingers before placing both his and your hand on your chest over your heart. The ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dum lulling him to sleep. You half watch TV for however long until your own eyelids get heavy. You click off the TV and opt to turn the stereo on low, just so he doesn’t get lost while he sleeps.

You wake up to oldies, music your parents would listen to on records in the living room growing up – songs that came out a few years before you were born. Oldies. It's dark outside but you can still hear the rain. Steve’s already awake, just watching you while his hand smooths back and forth over your sternum. “You snored,” he says. “Good,” you reply quietly. You both snort out breathy laughs, feeling the warmth of his lips as they smoosh against your cheek. “How you feeling?” he asks, hand coming up to rest on your cheek, sliding down the side of your neck. “A little banged up,” you say, “Might bruise.” “M’sorry,” he says again, a tinge of guilty pink tinging his ears. “It’s okay,” you repeat for what feels like the thousandth time in the past six hours. “You looked really pretty today,” Steve says gently, almost sheepish, “I should’ve told you.” “You looked really handsome,” you say back, “But you were kind of being an asshole so I didn’t want to tell you.” “You should’ve told me, it probably would’ve cured my PTSD,” he says seriously but sarcastically, “Could’ve saved the entire afternoon if you just said how good I looked. Prob’ly wouldn’t have had an episode.” “You’re such an ass,” you laugh, smiling. He leans in to kiss you and it’s the kind that makes you too weak to stand. That kiss got him a second date, it proved that they said about old King Steve in highschool. On the stereo, Sherry Baby bleeds into Unchained Melody.

His hand reaches up under your neck to tilt you up toward him, tasting your tongue with his, guiding you with his kiss, “Angel…” he murmurs. He breathes through his nose while he keeps his lips pressed to yours, desperate to stay here in this moment, attached to you. “Steve,” you say softly, breaking away, “Stevie…” “Please,” he whispers, nuzzling your nose slowly, “Please.” “Lemme take care of you.” “I…” your thoughts trail off while he kisses your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot just by the hinge of your jaw. He waits for your soft sigh, the tilt of your hips towards him – your allowance. He grins when he hears the air pass your lips, the realignment of your spine beneath him while he settles between your squishy thighs. His hands travel south, pushing up the hem of your big t-shirt to your waist, holding you there for a moment while his kiss takes over your mouth again. He tugs your cotton panties down, breaking the kiss while he sits up on the couch to slide them off your ankles. Steve looks down at you with an expression that makes your breath catch in your chest, serious – with supple lips, needy eyes. He leads himself back down again, big hands sliding down the sides of your thighs over your hips to your waist again. Instinctively, your legs spring up to wrap around him while his hips align with yours, feeling his strained cock in his sweats against you. “Jesus…” he whispers again, eyes fluttering closed. He buries his face in your neck while you rock slowly against him, the pressure and friction against the underside of his erection sending low volts through his body. “Mm-mm,” he grunts, shaking his head ‘no’ while mumbling, “It’s supposed to be about you.” “Well stop dangling it in front of me then,” you giggle quietly, he giggles too. The smile sends you reeling, his pretty teeth, the way his nose scrunches. He leans forward again to kiss, he just can’t stop kissing, can’t stop tasting your lips, feeling you against him. Steve’s hand reaches down to pull himself out of his sweats, pushing the waistband to the tops of his thighs while he uses the other to push one thigh out off the couch. “You ready f’me?” he asks huskily, tip dragging slowly from the pool of slick at your opening up in between your folds. He lets his thumb run in slow circles over your clit while he waits for your answer, your slow nod while you lean your head back on the arm rest gives him the okay. He eases himself in slow, the tip pushing past your opening with some resistance. “Open up a lil’, honey,” he mumbles quietly while he guides the tip in again, “Open up for me.”

Your little gasps float out of you and into the fuzzy part of his brain, gliding down his spine. You angle your hips upward, one thigh up against the couch cushions and the other dangling over the edge, spread as wide as you can. He holds himself above you with one arm, the other aiding in pushing himself further in, the tip finally breaching your core. He keeps guiding, slow back and forths while you ease open for him – taking him in, inch by inch. “Oh yes, mhm,” he groans to himself softly, “Thass–hmm-that’s it, angel.” He let’s go when he’s three fourths in, crowding over you, forearms on each side of your head while he strokes slowly to start – getting you used to him, accommodating his size. “That’s good?” he breathes. “Ye-yeah,” you breathe back to him. His mouth latches to yours again, feeling him guide your hands up beside your head, lacing fingers while he presses you deeper into the couch cushions. He keeps his strokes slow and deliberate, feeling every ridge of you inside, how you suck him in and hug him tight in place – but how he feels isn’t nearly as important. It’s the way your brows contort, the way you bite your lip, your whines into his mouth while he kisses you. Each slow thrust makes you coat him in a new flow of slickness. “C’mere,” he says into your jawline, letting go of one hand to sneak behind you at the waist, pulling you flush to him. The new angle makes you let out a whine while he hits a spot deep inside you, he grunts at the reaction, the feeling of you taking him in. His pace picks up the smallest tick, face centimeters from yours – your noses brush, lips barely touching while his amber eyes keep steady on yours. You let out short huffs, little whimpers every time the head of his cock pushes deeper with every roll of your hips. “S’nice, hm?” he asks, brows slanting, softening. “Mhm,” you squeak back, “S-so good, honey.” Your legs pull in again, socked heels resting on the top of his butt while he sighs at the change in pressure. “Thassperfect, god,” he hisses out, head dropping down to your chest, pressing sloppy kisses above your breasts while he gathers himself. He groans into your neck while wet warmth tightens over him, soft velvet walls coaxing him closer and closer to the edge. 

Steve’s shoulders flex while he balances on his forearms above you again, your forgotten hand taken by his, fingers interlocked. His face inches from yours while he looks at you, the way your eyes flutter, the soft parting of your lips, the high pitched  ‘Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn,’s coming out of them — you’re so beautiful.

“So pretty,” he says to you, huffing a breath into a smile, “So pretty, baby.” 

You kiss him a thank you. You see him swallow when he breaks away, his eyes getting glassy. 

“S’gonna be okay,” he assures, nodding down at you, nose to nose, “We’re gonna be okay.” Slow thrusts  between statements. 

“Gonna get married,” he says, a groan flowing right down into your mouth while he kisses you, “Gonna be just like Ed and Nance, right?” 

You nod while his thrusts get more passionate, deeper.

“Yeah? That’s nice?” he asks, “Marry you? Take you just like this after the wedding?” 

“Yeah,” you gasp back, “Yes, Stevie.” 

“Give you a baby?” he asks in a low whisper into your skin, lips pressing against your cheek, his strong nose dragging against your cheek bone, “Give you so many babies. You want that?” 

“I want that,” you nod, face pinching while you feel yourself building up and up in a slow churn. 

“You want that?” he asks again, coming back to hover over you — tears in his eyes, “You want that with me?” 

You nod to each other while he embraces you in an old movie kiss, wrapping himself around you, pressing him to his chest while his thrusts get purposeful, controlled. 

“I love you,” he pants into your ear, “I’m yours, m’all yours.”

“I love you, too,” you rasp back, free’d fingers interlocking in his hair. He gets leverage on his knees, the leather of the couch squeaking under him while he repositions. Soft smacks of skin between you echo in the living room against the backdrop of the low stereo.   “Oh my god, Steve,” you moan out, “You’re – oh god you’re so deep.” “So deep, angel, Christ–” he huffs, trying to make a mental note of this position so he can remember it for October – really make it stick. His thought process stifled when your nails drag down his back, making his passionate thrusts quicken – a signature cocky smirk flick across his lips. “Mmm, that feels good honey?” he asks – he knows the answer. Your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, tears glazing over your eyes while he feels you pulse over him. Thank god the couch was leather. Watching you bathe in the afterglow of your orgasm he works you toward the second with ease, chasing his pleasure with each soaking thrust into you – so nice like this, so pliant – his little ragdoll. When he cums it’s deliberate, spilling inside you with your eyes on each other. You give one another breathless kisses, bodies interlocked, sticking to the couch in new found exhaustion. The phone rings. Neither of you get up to answer it. ‘BEEP. You’ve reached the Harrington residence – Did you forget my last name isn’t Harr– If you’re calling before October 1997 then it’s not just the Harrington residence yet but – whatever you know what I mean. Leave a message, we might call ya back.’

“Hey Harrington it’s Munson, um, just making sure you’re okay, man. Sorry I disappeared for a little bit there. Love you, call me back when you can. Bye.” 

thanks for reading. <3

[yaut-jaknowit]

Pls. Breeding fic, size difference, and old man yautja. Go wild.

Mating Season

Pairing: Uihoy (Male Yautja) x AFAB reader

Warnings: biting and clawing, blood, pain kink, little prep for you, primal play (sort of), HEAVY BREEDING KINK, knotting, lots and lots of cum, unrealistic idea of how sex works but you know – aliens, no aftercare, no soft Uihoy, very rough sex, very rough Uihoy, on the floor sex.

Word Count: 1897

Summary: Every year, it happens almost like clock work. Mating season. Some dread it while others enjoy it. Uihoy has mixed feels but can't help to fall victim to it. Especially with on of his mates on board and they say yes.

Author Note: I hope it was okay to use Uihoy. He's an old man Yautja. I sure tried to go wild with him. This was the perfect excuse to show the other side of Uihoy too. Ehehe.

P.s. I'm trying to write my stories a little bit shorter if possible. I hate not getting through requests as quickly as I want. Though almost 2000 words is a good amount.

Masterlist

Ao3

Part 2 (Yes, I finally did a part 2)

Thick arms wrapped around your torso and pulled you from the ground. You gasped and squirmed for only a second. Until a husky growl sounded next to your ear and caused the skin to prickle into goosebumps. Claws dug into your skin, sharp could easily tear through flesh. You heard a deep breath taken in before it fanned over your shoulder.

The body that held you was beyond blazing hot and tense. Each muscle strung tight like a bow. Beads of moisture rolling down purple scales. A hand twitching close to your waist. A long, spilt tongue licking at  your neck and curled over the shell of your ear. “Do consent?” he growled into your ear and held steady.

Nothing would be done to you until the words ‘yes’ left your lips. Neither of your Yautjas would touch you without permission. Ever.

And you wouldn’t leave alone during the mating season.

“Yes.”

In his hungry, desperate state, Uihoy pinned you right there, in the middle of the cockpit. You put up a little fight, as if you were a female Yautja but Uihoy was quick to pinch your nape between deadly fangs. This had you stilling and relaxing underneath his hold. He kept that same position though as he tore your clothing from your body without a care in the world. You gave a little protest yet did nothing else.

Hands, coarse with time roamed over fragile skin. One was used to tug yours apart from one another, forcing you to exposed yourself to him. That same limb swiped through your folds to stop at your clit. A thumb was placed on top of it. Your hips immediately swirling to gain any sort of release with the predator pinning you down.

A dangerous growl rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your skin. The teeth that were on the verge of drawing blood tightened. You groaned but didn’t stop. Uihoy forced himself to bite harder. Blood pooled around the fangs in your skin before dribbling down to the warm floor below. The Yautja snarled again before ripping ever article of clothing that blocked him from that hot cunt waiting for him.

His blazing cock slapped against your labia once freed. You jumped, thigh muscles rippling as they clenched. A curse already falling from your lips. Your dull nails clawed at the metal floors with no luck of purchase. Uihoy seesawed his hips and rubbed his thick, heavy cock between your legs. The friction on your clit had you bowing your head. Accidently, you were able to see his actions as he pulled back fully.

Only the tip throbbed against your moist entrance. You bit harshly at your lips and sucked in a deep breath that filled your lungs. This wasn’t your first rodeo with him while he was in this state. He wasn’t his caring, loving, needy self. This was a Yautja in need of a cunt to breed and soak his cock.

Your thighs trembling as the Yautja shifted on his knees. The hold on your shoulder was released. Uihoy licked up a stripe from between your shoulder blades to the base of your neck. From there, he dragged his tongue to the crook of your neck. Iron filling his tastebuds.

The pointed head of his cock speared through your labia with a brutal thrust. Your head was thrown back and knocked against his broad shoulders. Uihoy pulled back out, only to push the rest of himself in on the second thrust. A pathetic cry scratched at your throat. Pain was apparent with little preparation for his size. That didn’t stop you from spreading your legs further apart to get more of him inside of you.

With his hips meeting the back of your thighs, it felt like he had forced the head of his penis into your womb, ready to seed you. Uihoy pulled out without any hesitation just to shove back into you.

Immediately, you began to pant as if you had crossed a desert running. Whimpers and whines filled the air besides the sounds of painfully slapping skin. Words of blabber to say something in praise tried to tumble from your loose lips. “Uie-Uie. Fu-ah, mmm. Go-od. Really good.” Neither of you could truly understand what had been said. The Yautja far too gone to truly care what you were saying. His main focus was breeding you, filling you with his thick seed in your womb while sealing it away with his large knot. You would be round with his children.

Uihoy’s cock throbbed inside of you, causing you to cry out in a high pitch. He didn’t stop, not once slowing down for anything.

When more time passed, the sounds of your dripping cunt grew in volume. Now, he could easily slip in and out without any struggle. At this point, you were struggling to stay perched on your elbows below him. He forced a great amount of his weight on you, practically draping himself over you.

Sweat stuck to you like a second skin. Beads of it dripped down your face and fell to the floor. You clenched the best you could around Uihoy. In retaliation, he thrusted particularly hard. It officially knocked you off of your elbows and onto the cockpit floor.

Talons clawed down your sides, dragging over fragile skin and drawing blood. That was final nail in the coffin. Your head reared back and smack against Uihoy’s shoulder again. It exposed your whole throat to him. He took the open opportunity and latched his inner mouth to the crook of your shoulder. Pain sprung to life as your orgasm crashed over you. His name left your lips in a mewl as you trembled underneath him.

He didn’t stop, thighs slapping against yours. They left marks of red skin behind in their pounding wake. Uihoy forced you to go though a shattering orgasm without a break to even catch a shallow breath. What he did next though surprised you.

A massive hand found its way around your throat and dragged you up. The male had you balancing on your knees as he drilled into you. He kept that grasp there, nails slightly biting into your skin. Blood already falling down the length of your body from the bites he created from earlier.

Your eyes were threatening to roll into the back of your head almost permanently now. His thrusts grew harsher, his snarls grew deeper, and his bite became more painful. All that had you squirming and writhing in Uihoy’s hold.

His other hand grasped the back of your knee and tugged it flush with your chest. A new angle that tugged a pathetic cry from your lips.

One last hard thrust had you sobbing. Your hands clawed at the hand around your throat as he held you there. His hips stuttered against you, pulling at the swelling knot inside of you. A blazing heat filled you, your womb full of his seed. The head of his cock piercing your cervix to breed you, to seed you.

The full size of knot kept every drop of him inside of you, not wasting anything. Everything was given to you. But he had more to offer.

Uihoy panted ruggedly which allowed you to breath almost freely as well. Tears prickled the corner of your eyes before rolling down your cheeks. He snarled shoved you down back to the floor. Your chest pressing into the ground. A huge paw keeping you pinned between the shoulder blades, unable to get up.

Then, he pulled out the knot. You gasped harshly but could only lay there and let him have his way with you. Your hands scrambled for anything that could give you something to hold but found nothing. The floor too smooth. You felt a huge gush of his seed spurt out and pool on the floor. Heeds of it coated the sides of your thighs.

The Yautja wasn’t satisfied, one knot wasn’t enough, his mind supplied. His tip was lined up with your red, soaked labia before pushing full force into you again. The sheer strength of him had you sliding up the floor. He grasped the back of your neck and pulled you back to him. He sheathed himself back into you fully. The large ball of flesh at the base of his cock catching on your entrance. That was the least of his worries right now.

Already, your cunt was feeling sore and rubbed raw. An effect they could have on you during this time of the year. But you fucking loved it. Loved it when Uihoy lets go and just uses your body for his pleasure, uses you to fill his seed into.

One of your hands found its way to your clit, on the verge of another orgasm. Your shaking fingers swirled around your drenched bundle of nerves. Shocks of pleasure and lust racing up your spine to settle in the base of your skull. You keened and shook as the orgasm built more and more as he moved inside of you.

The thickness of his cock filled you full, pushing what cum that stuck to your walls back out and dribbling to the floor. He kept rubbing at your g-spot. That electrified your clit and pushed you against another orgasm. You clenched your teeth when he raked his claws down your back. More blood swelling to the surface.

You mewled as an orgasm rolled over you in overwhelming waves. Your walls pulsed around him the best they could so stretched out. As if trying to pull him in deeper and deeper, to keep him far inside of you. A curse rolled off your tongue, barely understandable. Your whole body trembled like an earthquake rolled through you. But, you weren’t able to move more than an inch with his weight upon your back.

Uihoy forced his half-deflated knot back into your drenched cunt. More of your juices poured out of you into the pile between your shaking legs. The ball of flesh swelled again and sealed him deep inside of you again. You arched to the best of your ability, tears falling down your face again.

With how much he’s pumped into you these two times, your belly had grown noticeably. He had filled your uterus with a lot but not enough in his opinion to breed you.

More. He gave more and more and more. Until his body was beyond exhausted. He seated his knot past your entrance one last time and collapsed on top of you. An elbow prevented all of his weight to sit upon your much smaller frame. You gasped at the sudden weight then grunted.

He purred thickly in the back of his throat and tiredly nuzzled into your neck. Sharp fangs scratching across your skin without care. You couldn’t even shutter, body far beyond exhausted and drained of energy. The best you could do was huff and blink slowly, eyes staring blankly at the dark wall in front of you.

A hand petted down your sweaty skin before settling on your hip. With the rest of his energy, Uihoy rolled on to his back and pulled you with him. His knot almost slipped out due how much slick was between your legs. He let an arm be thrown over your torso before promptly passing out. Not a second later, you followed suit.

[charnelhouse]

will there be any dark thor for spooky season ?

A/N: Thor x F!Reader. This was originally supposed to be a whole fic, but I don't know when it will ever get done so here is a drabble. I believe this verges into non-con territory. Kidnapping. Character death. Blood-licking. Torture. Semi-public sex. Spit.

It always felt as if she was trying to calm a great beast. The Darkhold had rewired Thor to the point where his empathy had dwindled to nothing. There was only her and then his memories.

He still woke in the night with his heart in his throat, the sheets turning black from his lightning. 

“They made me kill her,” he mumbled into the hush of their bedroom, his gaze locked on some distant point. A different time. A different reality. “They made me kill her.”

He lowered his head to her lap, begging her to touch him. She did and his words changed. “They made me kill you.”

Except he wasn't talking to her, but the other one. He was speaking to a reflection. An echo.

A different girl altogether.

***

He had stolen her away. The Scarlet Witch had promised him. She would take Thor to another version of his dead lover in exchange for his muscle. He’d killed whoever she asked even if it was a kid. 

“In the end, it didn’t matter,” he explained, stalking toward her, intent on bringing her back to his reality by force if he had to. “The witch asked me to kill the Chavez girl and I did. I took out the rest of Kamar-Taj because they wouldn’t give her up.” He grinned, his teeth white against the shadowy scratch of his beard. He was beautiful and terrifying and she was out of options. 

Her back hit the wall and she fell to the floor. Every bone in her body had gone hollow. She couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Thor kept smiling even as he loomed over her. “None of that,” he tutted before snatching her wrist and tugging her to her feet.

Without another word, he swept her into his arms causing her palms to fly to his chest plate to anchor herself. He surged forward and kissed her, his tongue warm and insistent. Everything about his gestures were frantic, painted in sincere desperation.

“This was my dream” he marveled, tracing his nose across her cheek. His tone grew thick and she realized he was crying. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think -”

***

He took her back to his world. Months went by. 

She found him alone, whispering to nothing. His back hunched, his cape blood-red as it flowed over the marble floor. His golden head was bent forward, his palms flat atop a stone table. A book was open.

“Who are you talking to?” she asked. He turned slowly, his expression flat except for his eyes that burned like charred wood. 

“No one, my love,” he replied mechanically despite the quiver in his fingers. She swallowed the distinct lump that had formed in her throat before walking towards him.

“What did you give them, Thor?” She touched his cheek, his jaw. He leaned into it.  ��What did they take from you?”

He shot up. His tone fierce.

“Nothing I wasn’t willing to give.” He gripped her waist, pulling her hard against his body. “Nothing I wouldn’t give again.” He lowered his face to press a kiss to her temple. “I’d hand everything over.” He kissed her mouth. “Always and always.” His enormous hand cradled the back of her skull as he forced her closer. His tongue was slippery behind her teeth. Instinctively, she responded to him, arching into his touch. The muscle of his thigh rubbed between her legs and she clung to him like a cat in heat. 

She loved even this one. 

***

He grew rougher. Nothing she couldn’t handle, but his infatuation blinded him. He often spoke of the other her.

He’d be inside her, fucking her. “You told me…she told me it wasn’t my fault,” he’d mutter as he drove deep, hitting the center of her until she shattered. “There was blood…I tried to kiss her…smeared it everywhere…Hulk…Banner pulled me away.”

He could turn on a dime, grieving and then hardening. His fragility twisting into something sharp and dangerous. His gaze suddenly hungry as it lingered on her face. 

“Open your mouth,” he growled as he held the hinge of her jaw firmly. “Open it.”

She did, her fingers twisted in his hair, her thighs spread as he rutted against her. He spat and she took it just as she had taken everything he had given her.

“Good girl,” he crooned with another violent snap of his hips, so bruising it punched her up the bed. 

***

Thor doled out pain. He tortured by a thousand cuts rather than utilize his old, more humane ways. He no longer bludgeoned. No more quick smashes of his hammer and it’d be done. He enjoyed causing violence.

Together, they fought wars. He intended to conquer, continue where Hela and Odin had left off. 

“I can protect us this way,” he explained, scanning the many maps that revealed the enemy army’s location. He stood over the great table as his advisors encircled him. They were bright with excitement, fully in favor of battle. Of course, Thor removed anyone who disagreed with him.  “No one will touch our Asgard again. No one will dare come for us once I burn it all.”

No mercy. No warnings. He decimated with the force of a nuke. 

***

At one point, she was nearly taken out. It was stupid. A blade nicked her. It skimmed her shoulder and cut her deep, but hardly fatal. Thor was so distraught that he scooped her up and carried her back to his war room. He called for the man who had wounded her to be brought to him.

“I can’t lose you,” he snarled into her hair. “I can’t.”

She tried to tell him she was fine, but she knew. She knew what he was about to do because he had done it before. 

Anyone who had hurt her or insulted her? He broke them.

***

He smiled as blood stained his hands to the elbow. He cupped the man’s insides in his palms. “You came for her,” he accused as he weighed the entrails, his blue-black gaze slanted toward the dying man who was no longer a man at all. Thor’s voice remained at a soft, low volume. He threatened quietly. He taunted in a breath - a husk - a secret. 

Thor gestured to her over his shoulder. “You tried to take her from me.”

The bound man’s eyes were flat and glassy. His chest was still and it was obvious that he was no longer there. Thor frowned. “Pity,” he mumbled before turning his head to look at her. His appraisal was filled with the entirety of his adoration.  His love burned brighter than an exploding star and it left her aching. 

Thor’s stare left her face to rest on her shoulder. The wound still bled, but it was only a trickle. Regardless, he glared at it, transfixed. He swallowed thickly. 

“Thor,” she whispered, her tone full of sadness. 

He made a distraught noise of protest. The silence seemed to say:

Don’t say a word. Don’t be sad.  I love you. I love you. Everything I do is for you. Don’t you see?

“Come here,” he finally ordered as he dropped the bloody mess and crooked a red-slick finger at her. Wordlessly, she went, her obedience visibly pleasing him. 

She stood as he sat and the positions allowed him to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his cheek against her belly. It was full of a strange intimacy that surpassed anything they’d shared before. As she petted his scalp and the nape of his neck, the dead man gaped at her. She tried to focus on Thor, concentrating on not throwing up her breakfast. 

“You smell good,” he praised. 

“So do you,” she replied automatically. She swore she could hear him purr. 

“Do more,” he whispered. “I want to feel you.”

She acquiesced, skating her nails under his braided hair. He shuddered, his hands tightening on her hips. She could feel the heat of him. She could sense his desire and she didn’t know if it was the man he’d tortured for her or if it was the battle itself, but it all seemed to churn his lust. Maybe, he simply got off on protecting her because it seemed like she had turned into a piece of him. She was an extra limb or organ. A hurt against her was a hurt against him and - 

“The floor,” he said huskily. “Let me take you here. Will you let me?”

*** 

Everyone could see if they looked. She was certain they could hear. 

They were completely naked. Their armor torn and scattered around the tent. He needed all of her. He needed her bare. I want your sweat. I want your blood. I want.

His giant body moved over hers, his arms braced by her head. He bit into her shoulder, his tongue sliding along the wound that bled freely. He wasn’t careful as he entered her, hips flexing until he was fully seated. 

“Let me in,” he demanded. She turned away and he caught her chin between his thick fingers. “Look at me.” His expression softened. “Am I so unworthy now, my love?”

No. She loved him. She even loved the monster he had become. 

She shook her head and his mouth curled. “I want to be worthy of you,” he confessed. “I want everything.”

She felt like she was spread out on a table. He was examining her, cutting her open with every spear of his cock. There was still a dark arrogance in his features. A smugness from his youth that was now even more emphasized due to the Darkhold. Every humble lesson he had learned had fled.

He hitched her knee higher, angled her pelvis in a way that made him too big and hot. It stretched her, split her in two. He began to rock forward, easing himself deeper as her cunt began to inevitably warm for him. 

She didn’t want it this way in this tent. She didn’t, but it felt so good. She whimpered and it seemed to drive him on, make him swell. His thrusts became more savage, scraping her naked ass across the dirt floor. He stroked the back of her head possessively, her nails dug into his biceps. 

“We can’t do this,” she hissed as he openly watched her, his eyes boring straight into hers. “It’s wrong.”

It was the dead body. It was the desecration. It was his army only feet away. He frowned, thumb brushing over her lips. 

“Funny,” he drawled as he ground his hips between her thighs. “I can hear your heart.” He was buried to the hilt and she couldn’t catch her breath. He delivered another sharp stroke that forced a gasp from her chest. “You’re lying, little queen. You’re cunt won’t let me go.”

At his words, her body clenched. The pleasure throbbed and pulsed until she was coming on his cock. She cried out and he smiled. There was blood on his cheeks and his forehead. She could count his lashes. 

It was absurd. The whole of it. 

“We’re so messed up,” she laughed as he continued to fuck her. Her tone was caustic. Bitter. It burned sour in the air and Thor cocked his head.

“Such a fighter,” he mused as he cradled her face between his hands, the snapping of his hips had begun to slow to long, lazy strokes. It felt like he was savoring her pussy, dragging his length in such a way that it absorbed her essence. “No more guilt. I could make sure of it.”

She closed her eyes. She knew what that meant. 

Thor had been ripe for the taking just as Wanda had been. Two enormously powerful beings who were drowning in grief and vulnerability. Perfect specimens for that damned book. 

It was propped up in the corner of his tent. She could hear the flutter of its pages. There were distinct smells on the wind: nightshade, rot, cloves, apples.

He drew himself out until only the tip remained inside her. He braced his weight, the muscles in his abdomen spasming as he regarded her with utter hope. “Say yes,” he urged before he began to sink back into her wet heat inch by inch. “Say yes and you will never worry again.” She bloomed around him, accommodating his size. He’d already branded her. Her body would know him in the dark, begging for Thor to sate the raw, open wound of it.

“Let me make you feel good. It’s all I want…to please you…to love you.”

She was his in all the ways it counted. She couldn’t recall who she’d been before. She no longer knew how to refuse him. 

Okay.

Abruptly, she grasped his face and pulled him to her. She kissed him hard, her tongue slick over his as his heart pounded furiously with her own. 

[delimeful]

pull apart at the seams (7)

continued from this fic! some of the chapters for this (5&6) are only on ao3 so make sure to check there if you haven’t!

warnings: arguing, PTSD, panic, dehumanization, angst

-

“Logan Sanders!”

Above him, Logan froze, and for a moment his expression was nearly comical, reminiscent of nothing more than a cat caught with both paws stuck in the canary cage.

A heartbeat later, his features forcibly smoothed down into a cold neutrality, and with the giant’s shadow still weighing heavy over him, Virgil was swiftly reminded just who the canary was in that metaphor.

The giant didn’t reach for him, though, stiffening up from his admittedly incriminating looming position to turn and face Patton’s glare head on. Virgil didn’t think he’d ever seen Patton look so angry, and he probably never would again if his estimate of how likely he was to get out of the situation alive was correct.

Behind Patton’s shoulder, the other werewolf— Roman?— was peeking out past the doorway, making sheepish eye contact with Logan, and silently but exaggeratedly mouthing what looked like an apology. It made a confusing addition to an already alarming situation.

Virgil himself felt as though the rug had been yanked out from beneath him. First, some semblance of a conversation and even a near-apology from the guy he’d been convinced would horrifically murder him for the past week, and now Patton was, what, defending his property from his packmate?

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” the giant in question continued, lips curling up in a barely-suppressed snarl.

“We were simply having a conversation,” Logan replied, sweeping a hand back slightly to indicate Virgil in the ‘we.’

Virgil just barely managed not to flinch, remaining perfectly still instead. Patton’s gaze flickered to him for a moment before returning to Logan somehow more intense than before.

“Was it really just a conversation?” he asked, firming his stance as though to say that he wasn’t going to let this go.

Logan’s shoulders rose a few millimeters defensively, but his demeanor only grew icier. “I wasn’t aware that you were the only one in this household who was allowed to try and communicate with the human.”

“Communicate with--,” Patton stepped forward, “You looked like a scavenger bearing down on a pup! Why would you corner him like that?”

Logan clicked his tongue irritably. “It’s impossible not to corner him, he’s a human! Being in the same room as a creature that small and slow could qualify as ‘cornering’!”

“You know what I mean!”

Still hovering in the doorway, Roman was grimacing, glancing between the two of them as though watching a particularly heated tennis match.

Virgil felt more like he was watching bombs go off, the argument too loud, too harsh, too reminiscent of his months in conditioning. Each sharp gesture or cutting glare registered as wrong-bad-hisfault, electric-spark phantom pains building up in the back of his skull. He swayed on his feet.

“He’s terrified of you, and you’ve certainly given him plenty of reason to be!” Patton shouted, and the room went quiet and suffocating, Virgil’s survival instincts dragging his attention back to the present.

“He told you.” Logan’s voice was monotone, but it sent terror racing down Virgil’s spine worse than any growl. His mouth formed the shape of protesting words, I didn’t I swear I didn’t, but no sound came out, his lungs constricted by the tense certainty that this was it, this was really how he died.

Patton shook his head, some of the anger fading from his frame, washed away by misery. “I guessed, Logan. The pieces were all there, sitting in front of my face, but I… I didn’t want to see the full picture.”

There was a terrible, fraught stretch of silence, and then Logan’s gaze slid to the side, going distant and glassy. “How long do I have to pack, then?”

“What?” “What?” The other two giants asked, voices overlapping.

“I understand. I’m being evicted for my transgressions,” he forced through grit teeth. “How long do I have?”

“Logan, no,” Patton replied fretfully. “We’re not kicking you out, you’re part of this family! We want you here!”

“I don’t believe the human I tormented will agree,” Logan bit out, but the words were double-edged with guilt, cutting back against himself. “Forcing him to share a residence with me would be cruel.”

Cruel.

There was a sharp, bitter sound, almost unrecognizable as a laugh, and Virgil only realized it had come from him after every eye in the kitchen turned his way. His chest seized with panic again, and he crumpled to his knees.

“Vee!” Patton gasped, and steps thundered closer, a hand hovering overhead--

“Don’t!” Virgil managed, the cry cracking halfway through. He curled in on himself, as though presenting a smaller target and begging would do anything but diminish him in their eyes even more. “Please don’t.”

Patton paused above him. “Don’t-- Don’t what, kiddo?”

Don’t grab him, don’t touch him, don’t look at him. How was he supposed to explain? They didn't understand anything.

“Don’t,” he said again, and flinched away from each of Patton’s movements.

“I-- I don’t understand,” Patton started weakly, and this time it was Logan that cut him off.

“Forcing him to share a residence with me would be cruel,” he repeated slowly, like he was puzzling each word against Virgil’s reaction to see how they fit. “Forcing-- Oh. Forcing him to stay where he doesn’t feel safe… would be cruel.”

A beat later, Patton’s shadow retreated from him entirely. The bands around his chest eased slightly.

“Let me go,” he choked out, each word bringing back memories of singed hair and tingling skin. “Just let me leave. Please. I didn’t want to be bought. I’m a person.”

A beat of silence, and then a set of footsteps rushed out, followed shortly by another set, leaving him behind. The fragile threads of Virgil’s hope dissolved back into nothingness.

“Leave and go where?” the last giant in the room asked.

Roman stepped closer, meeting Virgil’s gaze stubbornly. “To go get caught again? Or die out in the first storm that catches you? Everything here is just as huge as us.”

“Better than… dying here,” Virgil spat, and then his throat closed up, deciding that was enough words for today and quite possibly forever.

“What about living here?” Roman asked, glancing after his packmates briefly with unhidden worry. “Genuine living. Not as a pet or a-- a captive. Just as a roommate. I mean, obviously you don’t precisely trust us at the moment, but a mutually beneficial arrangement could be worked out.”

Virgil stared at him with dull, confused eyes, watching as the giant got more antsy with each passing moment of Virgil’s unresponsiveness.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still find humans downright impertinent, but if you go off and die, my pack is going to be miserable and morose for more than a few moons,” he continued to ramble. “We can negotiate terms, set up rules, anything within reason to ease their guilt and your terror.

“And this way, you have a real chance,” he finished. “Think on it, won’t you?”

It seemed to be an earnest request, but Virgil’s mind had done enough rapidfire processing for one day, and was now thoroughly shutting down.

Good thing he didn’t have to worry about thinking while unconscious.

[x-infernhoes-x]

Dangerous Game- Dominic x Reader [SMUT]

Dominic aka Hot Aswang Leader, Abswang, Zadddy Aswang x Reader

Warnings (?):  Smut, Blood, Biting, Implied Relationship, Implied Consent, Dominic being slightly possessive? M A R K I N G S, Oral (female receiving), THEY BE GOING AT IT NON-STOP

Genre: Good Ol’ Fashioned Forbidden Love (if there’s a genre like that LMAO)

Description: I wrote this at 3:40 am last night while listening to Dangerous Game from the Broadway Musical, Jeykll and Hyde and my brain immediately went, why not coconut? So have this little brain fart I just got when I’m supposed to be sleeping. Come get y’alls juice Dominic simps. Also, reader is AFAB but I’ll try my hand at a gender-neutral one if ever I get possessed by the spirits of determination, diligence and inspiration. Also included a Bridgerton reference there and maybe an Ang Darling Kong Aswang reference too kasi why the fuck not.

PS. I’ve managed to finish this up sometime around 2:45 am today and yes I did sleep last night/yesterday and no, I didn’t spend my whole weekend writing this fic. Maybe.

He knew this was all sorts of wrong from the start and yet here he was, standing within the bed chambers of the woman he burns for more than anything in this world and a strong and almost otherworldly desire that only could be satiated by being with her. Dominic knew that his kind and his lover’s kind would be at odds due to how their nature was as a creature of the night to prey on humans. Although despite this, he was feeling hopeful that his relationship with his beloved would last. As the Aswang Prince, he was well aware that was happening around the clans he ruled over and he also knew of the union of Elisa who happened to be one of his people and her now husband, Victor. He also knew about the bloodshed that had taken place during that time and how it led to the civil unrest and rebellion within the tribes of his kind that rages on up until this day.

The wind from the open window where he had come from seemed to rage on and about outside as if there was a storm brewing. There before him stood (y/n) clad in her sleepwear with her back facing him, dark eyes wide in disbelief and brows furrowed in uncertainty and the Aswang Prince could tell from the way she stood and presented herself that she was thinking about the same thing as him. Shrugging off his coat, he then took a step forward towards his beloved who seemed to be unmoving before him, strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, his sharp nails gently running down the tense woman’s arms, back before halting to a stop on her neck and stomach with a gentle yet vice-like grip, his face gently nuzzling against her warm skin, breathing in her scent like a drug.

I feel your fingers- Brushing my shoulder- Your tempting touch, As it tingles my spine- Watching your eyes As they invade my soul- Forbidden pleasures I'm afraid to make mine.

“D-Dominic, what are you doing…?” His lover would ask, trying her best to pull herself away from the prince, breath hitched in her throat, soft lips trapped in between her teeth. “Hindi natin tong pwedeng ipagpatuloy….delikado na.” Tilting her head towards him, Dominic responded to her, breath ghosting over her lips, “I know…Pero wala na akong pakilam kung mahuli pa tayong dalawa.” Before he would bestow his lover a searing and passionate kiss hotter than the flames of hell and the santelmo could ever conjure, his hands relinquishing their hold upon her throat as they made their way down past her shoulders, breasts and stomach only to disappear between the valley of her thighs where his fingers would make quick work of her folds, already dripping wet with her arousal, making his lover groan out in pleasure, his hips bucking against her backside.

At the touch of your hand- At the sound of your voice- At the moment your eyes meet mine- I am out of my mind- I am out of control- Full of feelings I can't define!

With Dominic’s left hand still relentlessly working upon his lover’s heat, he could feel (Y/N)’s hands attempt to push him away once more, her chest heaving and skin flushed a deep red, letting out a fragile keen of his name escape her lips before he took a step back once he felt her tug on his jeans, a hint for him to take off what was left of his clothing, the thick plume of desire that once clouded his mind seemed to dissipate when he felt his own arousal escape the confines of his now discarded garments as he let out a moan of his own once he saw (Y/N) drop her night dress to the ground, awakening something primal within him, eyes drinking in every single curve, dip and imperfections that his lover had. To him, (Y/N) was the most beautiful woman he had set his sights on regardless of what she would say and it was pretty ironic to say that an Aswang like him was starting to believe that God was real and that God was definitely a woman that took the form of his lover who was perfect in every way.

It's a sin with no name- Like a tiger to tame And my senses proclaim It's a dangerous game!

With their lips pressed together in a heated kiss that seemed to drive them both wild, the raven haired Prince of the night drew back with a low snarl, his teeth trapping her lips between his enough to draw blood as he pulled away with a smirk, the dark red liquid staining both of their lips as he spoke, voice raspy and deep, “I’ll make sure that you’ll only feel me and only me tonight and leave marks on your skin as a symbol of my love. Sa akin ka lang at ako sayo, naiintindihan mo ba?” his words seemed to send chills down the quivering woman’s spine as he dragged his sharp nails down against her soft flesh, his lips and occasionally his tongue and fangs would trail lower and lower, his face disappearing between her legs, eating her out like a starved beast, his nose brushing against the soft bundle of nerves, hands gripping her thighs and hips tightly with his unnatural strength, his nails dug into her flesh, which left miniscule bleeding marks where Dominic held her, his eyes boring into hers, drinking in the sounds (Y/N) made like fine wine.

It's a sin with no name- Like a tiger to tame And my senses proclaim It's a dangerous game! A darker dream That has no ending Something unreal That you want to be true.

They’ve done this a million of times but Dominic would never get tired of hearing his lover’s needy pleas for him whenever they made love like this, his fingers would tease her entrance relentlessly, watching her squirm and thrash upon her mattress with an almost sadistic delight. He loved how she would beg for him, how her body reacted to his fervent touches and how breathless she would get after he would kiss her. He loved every second of it and it was safe to say that Dominic was proud of himself to be able to make his beloved to become like this and all for his eyes only. After a few more flicks of his devilishly talented tongue, Dominic then pulled away a grin plastered on his face while his partner mewled rather pathetically, almost as if to ask him why he ceased his relentless teasing just as she was this close on reaching her much needed release and was surprised to feel two of his fingers enter her, curling and twisting inside of her clenching walls that made Dominic groan the same time his love had yelped and screamed his name out like a desperate prayer and all at once his fingers came out of her with a satisfying ‘pop’, admiring how her juices coated his fingers and glistened in the dim lighting of her room like ambrosia.

A strange romance Out of a mystery tale The frightened princess Doesn't know what to do!

Does she just run away? Does she risk it and stay? Either way, there's no way to win! All I know is, I'm lost And I'm counting the cost My emotions are in a spin! And though no one's to blame...

“Here, have a taste of yourself.” Dominic stated, pressing his fingers against (Y/N)’s lips, which of course the overstimulated woman took in with such eagerness, sucking on his digits like how she would suck on a lollipop, her gaze hazy and pupils blown, almost turning themselves as dark as the night and that was enough for Dominic to enter her without warning but had enough preparation for him, her moans silenced by the fingers that were still in her mouth, her tongue now swirling around them making him growl against the junction of her shoulder and neck, his fangs piercing the skin there as well before he pulled his fingers away from her mouth, replacing it with his own, not minding the slight metallic taste from the incisions he had left a few moments ago.

It's a crime and a shame! But it's true, all the same It's a dangerous game!

No one speaks- Not one word- All the words are in our eyes Silence speaks Loud and clear- All the words we want to hear! It was an all lips, tongue and teeth type of kiss that seemed to flare both of their senses up into overdrive and making the lovers both drunk and high off of the euphoria they were sharing. Both of their bodies rocking against each other, their hands grasping whatever their fingers could touch, grab and tug at. Dominic could feel (Y/N)’s nails run down from his shoulders and down to his back, edging him to go as fast as he could on her, his hair sticking haphazardly onto his now sweaty skin, hips furiously slamming into her with no breaks at all. Dominic was living for it and this action alone made him hoist (Y/N)’s leg up to rest upon his shoulder while the other one snuck behind her, reeling the woman in closer by her haunches, both of them moaning in delight. At that moment they both couldn’t care less about the sounds they made, the important thing was that they were both here together, regardless of what the consequences that would soon bestow upon them.

What happened next between them was all a blur save for the things they’ve done in one whole night. Dominic took (Y/N) to great heights with him making love to her continuously, he had her pressed against the wall with him taking her from behind, on the floor, on her dresser, on every possible surface and position he could think of down to the point where the two of them did it in front of the mirror where he would watch his length disappear within her and the way her breasts would bounce every single time he would thrust into her, his hand would grip on her throat and would tighten slightly, lips would ghost over her ear whispering a string of curses and words that would give Satan himself a run for his money and his lover would respond to every word he would say with a moan or a mantra of his name and it was a sign that she was close, coming for whatever time that night and he was nearing his climax too from the way he was holding her against him.

I am losing my mind- I am losing control- Full of feelings I can't define! It's a sin with no name Like a tiger to tame and though no one's to blame It's a crime and a shame And the angels proclaim It's a dangerous game!

“D-dom, I-I’m close!!” (Y/N) cried out with tears in her eyes the moment Dominic had thrown her upon her bed, her toes curling and hands balled up into fists, . “Then come with me, my love. I w-want to see you break.” The prince would respond as he pulled her into a tight embrace, still rocking against her like there was no tomorrow and soon enough, they both came together leaving (Y/N) mumbling out his name like a babbling child, her insides coated with his own juices as she shakily held into her, both trembling from the extreme ecstasy they both felt.

Once they both had come down from their respective highs, the Aswang Leader could only pull his face back from its previous position from (Y/N)’s shoulder, his touch soft and light as he brushed away some strands away from her face with a soft smile as the two basked in the afterglow of their passionate love making, the two would merely hold entwine each other’s hands as a silent promise to never let go of each other before Dominic pressed a sweet kiss upon it. “Mahal kita.” He spoke firmly, eyes full of love, warmth and vulnerability that only she was allowed to see as the female responded with a kiss and a soft smile before saying, “Mahal din kita, Dominic.”  And soon the two lovers fell asleep, with their bodies pressed up against each other.

It's a dangerous game! Such a dangerous game...