#❀; cracked porcelain (ic)

[millesimum]

tag dump pt. 2 (you will never see part 1, sorry)

[shotmrmiller]

living in some dingy apartment building because it is all you can afford on your income unless you want to eat danimals yogurt and saltine crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. the stern landlady lives on the first floor, and some neighbors blast music on weekday nights (even if they didn't, the walls are paper-thin. you know more about the cambrian period than you'd like to, thanks to room 105) but it's a modest roof over your head and while the darkened grout lines in the bathroom are permanent, at least there's hot water.

until there isn't. and the landlady has mysteriously gone on vacation for the next two months.

what used to be a cathartic cleansing has now become your torment. every other day is hair wash day which means you're bent over the cold, porcelain edge of your tub, back screaming in protest and pain shooting up your bruised knees even though you've sacrificed one of your very nice pillows to avoid exactly that.

and showering is torture. the icy cold water feels like a thousand tiny claws scraping over your tender scalp, sinking into your trembling shoulders. you don't wait for your body to acclimate, just hastily scrub yourself as clean as you can and hop out, your chattering teeth and shaky breaths echoing through the tiny bathroom.

it's like this for a week and a half, a whole 10 days of suffering with showers so cold it feels like shards of ice biting into your goosepimpled skin when it stops. warmth bleeds into the stream of frostbitten water. finally, it soothes instead of stings. your coiled, tense muscles gradually slacken with relief, with unadulterated bliss. steam rises, the tips of your fingers and toes tingle as if thawing. gratitude wells in the corner of your eyes.

if you had any money you could afford to give, you would to your savior, but every dollar you own is earmarked for the bare essentials. so, with your thick, warm bathrobe cinched around your waist, you pen down a little heartfelt note to stick to the bulletin board downstairs before heading out for work.

thank you, whoever you are, for fixing the boiler. i could kiss you <3

when morning comes, you use one of the dull, golden tacks that previously held a lost pet flyer (sorry, bilbo the hamster, but it's been a year) and pin your note up.

only to come home and find it gone, a torn corner all that remains. maybe it's karma for your callousness towards someone's pet. (justice for bilbo.) you shrug it off, giddily skipping up the steps to wash off the day's stress with hot water.

but before you even hang your keys on the wall, there's a pounding on your door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame. and the masked man you see through the peephole isn't familiar. against your better judgment, you clear your throat before cracking open the door. "yes?"

the piece of paper he's holding in his dinner plate-sized hands seems incredibly small— and it's your note.

"i fixed the water." oh. "'m 'ere for wha' 'm owed." owed?

"i'm not— um. the kiss. it's just a figure of speech." the thick muscle of his bicep coils as he crosses his arms over his barrel chest. he's a very large man, as broad as your door.

if you slammed it closed on him, he'd probably leave it hanging by its hinges. that's not worth a measly kiss.

"okay. but on the cheek since i never specified where so it's dealer's choice."

he huffs out an amused breath but complies, hooking his thumb under the edge to pull up his balaclava just enough to expose his stubbled cheek. he's got a couple of scars; thin, slightly raised. run along the sharp edge of his jaw and disappear beneath the fabric.

he leans close, enough to hear his steady, slow exhales. he smells of dirt. salt. something smoky, tangy-- like on new years, minutes after the clock strikes 12.

your hands cradle his face as you rise to your tippy-toes, wetting your lips and crane your neck-- but he snaps his head to the side,

and takes the kiss he was owed.

(he takes a screwdriver to the ac unit next. wire cutters to the fuse box. nails to your tires. anything that'll inevitably lead you back to him. you tried paying him with dinner but the only thing he was interested in eating was your cunt.)

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

op imitates the kaipian开片 of chinese porcelain craftsmanship by making ice-crack patterns on teacup

the real kaipian looks like this and it's one of many kaipian patterns

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 4) part 1, part 2, part 3

-

You remember the lock turning on the door of another room.

Ice flooding your veins. Heart suddenly tripling in speed, flush against your breastbone, close to snapping your ribs and pumping right out. A man standing in front of the locked door, barring your only way out. Petrified, but not confused; it’d always been an inevitability, something you’d long been waiting to happen, but hoping beyond hope that maybe you’d skirt by it unscathed. 

You’re in a bedroom, but you’re also in a study hundreds of miles away, cabinets along the walls filled with jade carvings and porcelain trinkets, bookcases filled with untouched first editions with the spines still stiff, a leather chair tucked into wide mahogany desk, and a grandfather clock ticking ominously in the corner. And you’re watching a man come into the room and lock the door, shutting you both inside. 

There is a bust of the same man in the corner of the room. When you sink into the memory, your eyes drag there and hold.

“Honey? Honey, are you alright?”

You come back to yourself at the sound of another man’s voice. When you blink, the memory leeches out of the corners of your eyes and you find Price looking down at you with some concern, a slight furrow between his brows. You shudder out the memory until it’s wrung out, until you’re dry of it. Sweat cools on the back of your neck. There’s a tremble in your hand that you notice when you go to rub your forehead, a shake that even Price notices, taking your wrist and pulling it to his chest.

There is no bust in the corner of the room here. The man that locked the door holds your wrist tenderly to his chest and waits for you to answer, his lips still sloped down. The black spots fade from your vision one by one, panic retreating back into your bones. It leaves a too big hole inside of you. 

You know it’s still within you. It slumbers in the marrow of your bones; it cowers in there, sometimes close enough to kiss or close enough to cradle your head and crack it against the nearest ledge. 

“Honey?” he asks again. The deep tenor of his voice moves something back to life inside of you, as much as it pains you to admit. Even to yourself. 

You blink up at him, only realizing how dry your mouth is when you croak out, “I’m—I’m alright. Apologies.”

He doesn’t seem much convinced. Perhaps he has a right to doubt your words. You can’t see the tormented thing staring back at him. 

“I’ve given you a few too many frights today,” Price sighs, head dropping towards you, like drawing a curtain around the two of you. “Thought maybe you needed a bit of a push, but you’re not quite there, darling, are you?”

“Not where?” you ask, lost. “Where am I not?”

For once, he doesn’t answer, doesn’t try to force his vision into your head. It shocks you when he dips his head to press his lips against your forehead, lingering there for several moments. Breathing you in. You let him linger there, half-curious yourself, a softness suffusing into you like breath. 

“Are you hungry enough to eat? Or straight to bed?”

His words give you a nervous thrill, but when you catch his eye, there’s nothing to read there. Absent of double meaning. He’s asking you if you’re hungry and if you’re wanting to eat. 

“No.” You shake your head. “I’m still…well, I’ve had a bit of a cramp all afternoon. I don’t think I’m up to eating.”

“Not even tea or cake?”

The thought intrigues you, but not enough for your stomach to untwist. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

He hums against your forehead, then presses another kiss there, then a third on your temple, breathing out a puff of air that blows across your face and tickles your nose. “Not hungry for anything then,” he surmises, and you hear it there, the silvery flipside of an innuendo. You scrunch up your nose and flinch when he chuckles. “How about just a bath then? And then we’ll tuck in for the night.” 

“That sounds nice. Do you, um…I could help if you want?"

“Already fetched the water earlier today. Wash tub’s downstairs. You can stay here or come down and wait until the water’s warm.”

Finally, he pulls back and puts some space between the two of you. Something buried deep in your chest clicks when he unlocks the door and steps out. You try not to look at it too hard. 

You follow him downstairs, more out of habit than anything. With the water already fetched from the well and Price starting a fire to heat it up enough for a warm bath, there’s not much for you to do besides wait, but you join him downstairs anyway, taking the time to look around. 

“Toothpowder, brushes, and mint are in the drawer under the sink if you need any,” Price tells you. You don’t bother with the mint, but you use the rest to clean your teeth in the bathroom sink, a bowl of water already waiting for you to help rinse your mouth. You rethink the mint afterwards, chewing on a couple of leaves to rid your mouth of the chalky aftertaste. 

It takes awhile to heat up enough water for a bath, giving you time to peruse the rest of the house. After spending the bulk of your day locked up in his room, it’s nice to stretch your legs and move about. The rest of the house is fairly typical, barebones; Price heats up the water in a stone fireplace in the main room and at the other end of the house, you find the kitchen.

The crickets in the bushes out front are louder than you’ve ever heard them. For a moment, you stand alone by the front door, fingers twitching by your sides. It wouldn’t do you any good to run, but your feet feel quick now, light after hours of rest. You could bolt like an Appaloosas if you wanted to. 

Then Price calls your name and you drift back to the other room.

Steam billows off the water in the metal tub. It’s only halfway filled, which makes you frown; you have no right to be picky after the days you’ve spent cleaning yourself with a damp washcloth over a porcelain bowl, but you can’t help thinking that it’ll hardly come up to your waist. Still, staring at the warm water makes your skin itch; you could practically kiss the bar of soap sitting on the floor next to the tub. If there wasn’t a man in the room, your dress would already be on the floor. 

“Are you still waiting on more to heat up?” you ask, casting a glance at the fireplace where a small flame still burns. There isn’t a bucket of water hovering over it though, just a poker stowed back in its place. 

“Any more and I’ll be mopping up water for the rest of the night,” he huffs. “That’s more than enough for us.”

“Us?” you repeat. 

It only makes sense when you turn around and stare wide-eyed at Price as he untucks his shirt and starts at the buttons, each one slipped through the hole exposing a new inch of chest covered in dark hair. You make a noise at the back of your throat, half-aghast. The other half, indeterminate. If your feet weren’t glued to the floor, you’d stop him or grab his hands. Instead, you watch mutely as he pulls off his shirt and unbuttons his pants, mouth drying at each new slab of muscle revealed.

You swallow reflexively when his pants pool around his ankles on the floor. You catch a glimpse of thick thighs covered in dark hair and something heavy dangling between his legs before you avert your eyes, staring straight up at the ceiling. Sure to give yourself a kink in your neck, but perhaps forgivable this time. 

“Us?” It comes out squeaky this time, high and tight in your throat. Price laughs.

When he moves towards you, you can hardly so much as lift a finger to keep him at bay. Your body feels tethered in place, sluggish and inert. The world moves around you instead, doubly so when Price fits his hands at your waist and twists you to face away from him. 

Big hands ruck up the fabric of your dress, slowly pulling it over your head. You lift your arms for him on command, the whole time baffled by how little struggle you put up. You imagine him telling that deputy of his what an obedient little bride he’s found for himself. 

“Us,” Price confirms, emphasizing the word the same way you did. “We’d be here all night if we took turns. Water’d be ice cold by then too. You’d rather I freeze my nethers off?” You open your mouth to reply but he cuts you off. “Don’t answer that.”

That pulls a real giggle from your chest, shocking you both. Breath sits like a bubble in your chest. You feel his fingers still at the ties of your corset before pulling it through. 

He loosens each lace slowly, giving each a gentle pull. It’s nerve wracking, nail-biting tedium, the corset gradually giving way to his touch and drooping into your waist. You let him undo each of the hooks and unwrap it from your torso before pulling off your chemise underneath, flesh chilling in the open air. Even stationed behind you, you feel his stare like a heavy, weighted thing. His fingertips trace over the naked skin of your back, looping small circles just for the pleasure of touching your skin. 

Gooseflesh runs down the length of your arms, shivering from his touch as much as the cool air. You tell yourself that it means nothing just to put it all away.

“Alright, let’s get you washed up,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “Been awhile since you had a warm bath, I bet.” 

You turn part way around, watching him from the corner of your eye. If only he knew. 

Price gets in the tub first and it’s immediately obvious to you why he hardly filled the tub. His body takes up so much room that you frown when you realize that he expects you to get in next. It’s one of the bigger tubs you’ve ever bathed in and yet he still has to bend his knees. The sigh he lets out after relaxing against the back of the tub makes you shiver. 

When he glances up at you swelteringly, you hear the evocation unspoken. 

“If you’d just give me a minute,” you snap. 

“Darlin’.” 

The note of warning in his voice finally tips you over the edge of hesitancy where you’d been precariously balanced. 

The water is still warm when you dip a foot tentatively in. It’s easier to ignore the indulgent smile on Price’s face than engage with it, sure you’d shout yourself hoarse if you finally let your composure crack. 

You think it vaguely humiliating to have to turn around in front of Price in the tub in order to lower yourself to sit. He doesn’t touch you yet, but there’s no way to avoid the weight of his eyes on your backside. It’s not something you’ve thought about much before. A man’s hands on you, stripped bare for him, lowering yourself into a hot bath with him. 

You peek over your shoulder. “Do you ever stop staring?”

A pointless question. He doesn’t even meet your eye to respond, just stares at the curve of your ass with heavy lidded eyes, the faintest pink hue high on his cheeks. He hums instead. You purse your lips.

The water sloshes up the side of the tub when he pulls you down abruptly, settling your back against his chest. You stiffen in the cradle of his arms and chest, acutely aware of every point of your body pressed into his. When Price sighs now, it reverberates through your back and chest. 

“Why does it feel like you’ve been run against a whetstone?” he asks. The sound drips heavy from his lips because the room is silent apart from him, apart from the gentle lapping of the bath water against the sides of the tub and the water trickling from the washcloth when he lifts it out of the water and gives it a wring. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, frowning. 

“You’re all sharp, all hard edges. If I’m not careful, you might run me through.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you married me,” you huff. 

That gets another laugh out of him, raising your hackles. It’s hard to differentiate between ridicule and endearment. You opt for the former to guard yourself, to keep yourself safe. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

You can’t think of a way to respond to that. It’s loaded in an uncomfortable way. It’s easier to just let it pass into silence. Price doesn’t seem anxious for you to respond anyway, thankfully, instead reaching out of the tub to grab the bar of soap still on the floor. The movement pushes his pelvis into you, the length between his legs pressing against the small of your back. You jolt forward only for him to wrap an arm around your waist and haul you back. More water splashes over the rim.

“Christ, you’re skittish,” he gripes. 

“What do you expect me to do?” You squirm in his hold, which only makes his arm constrict tighter around you, drawing you even closer. 

“Sit there and let me wash you, for one. What’s got you all riled up?”

“You know exactly what,” you say, face hot when you feel it press against you again. 

“My—”

“Yes, that,” you hiss, digging your nails into his forearm. 

“Squirming around isn’t gonna make it go away,” Price teases, squeezing once before finally letting you go. You scoot forward as much as he allows, but it’s for naught; you can feel it press against you still. 

In the brief silence, Price lathers up the cloth until it froths, then puts the bar of soap back down on the floor. You almost stop him to say that you can wash yourself, but he starts on your arms before you’re so much as able to part your lips. 

Your nipples bead when he drags the washcloth over your chest. The material is coarse, almost abrasive, and when you wince, Price murmurs a soft apology into your ear. He’s softer when he pulls your legs one after the other from the water and sets your foot on the rim of the tub, dragging the cloth over your calves and up the inside of your thighs. You shake when his hand disappears under the water, biting your lip until it hurts.

You sit with the silence instead of electing to fill it. It’s better that way anyway; words can unravel so many interiorities that long for stasis. And what has the man at your back done to earn your words anyway, besides lock you up and throw away the key?

You’ll figure your way out eventually. It’s only a matter of time. 

His own washup is perfunctory, performed only to get it over with. None of the affection reserved for washing you. He barely makes you lean forward before dragging the cloth haphazardly across his chest, getting a few good scrubs in before calling it a day. 

“I can’t imagine why you’d spend so much time filling a bath just to wash up in five minutes,” you say, peering over your shoulder at him. Expressly not focusing on the pillowy muscles of his chest or the dark, wet hair now flush with his skin. 

“Haven’t used the tub in months,” he grunts, dunking the cloth in the bath water until it comes out clean. He wrings it dry before hanging it over the rim. “There’s a creek out back, ‘bout a ten minute walk from here.”

You frown. “You usually bathe in a creek?” 

“What’s the point in spending time heating up enough water for a bath when there’s a perfectly good creek nearby? Water’s water.”

“You did it for me.”

“That’s different.”

You roll your eyes. “It shouldn’t be.”

“You like to fuss over nothing, huh?” Price remarks. Again, it’s said so earnestly that it makes your skin prickle. 

When you stand, the water rushes off you in a wave, leaving you slick and cooling rapidly in the air. Your teeth clatter until he steps out of the tub to fetch you a towel, wrapping you up in it and patting you dry. You get a bit dizzy when he kneels before you to dry your legs, swaying on your feet. Under your breath, you mumble something like, you don’t have to. 

He ignores you. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you let it go. 

Your bare feet pick up stray dust and debris on your way back up the stairs alone. You wipe them off on the mat at the door before changing into your shift while Price empties the tub downstairs. The oil lamp on the bedside table illuminates most of the room when you light the wick and delicately put the chimney back in place, apart from the elongated shadows that hang from the corners like spiderwebs. 

The bed looks different when you know you’re meant to share it. You try not to tense up too much when you hear Price come up the stairs, eyeing him nervously from the other side of the room. 

“You’ve got that look again, darling,” he says, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t lock it this time. The knot in your shoulder aches when they untense. 

“What look?” you ask, averting your gaze when he drops the towel to change into his nightwear.

“Like a doe.”

You snort, distinctly unladylike. “Like a deer before it’s shot?”

“The very same. Didn’t I tell you it’d be straight to bed?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. In the back of your mind, you must have assumed he was placating you, saying words just to soothe. It’s rare that men speak plainly and mean it. Over the years, you’ve learned to read into second meanings and real intentions couched in soft words. Men like to think themselves simple, but you know a vast underground world. 

Some part of you grows anxious with your own inability to play the part of his simpering wife. He must have thought he’d be taking to bed something nurturing and with wings. It’d be easier if you just acquiesced; you can’t imagine he’d worry so much about his doting wife fleeing in the middle of the night. Not the wife happy to spread her legs for him.

“Why are you so patient?” you ask him outright instead. 

He takes a moment to answer, studying you. His face by lamplight is inscrutable. “Nothing good comes plucked too soon.”

“You don’t think that God gave you the right to—” You can’t say the words, but he understands. 

“The methods of God take pickaxes and shovels to uncover,” Price says, so simply, so plainly. You hardly understand what he means. “It’s not a man’s place to rush to understand His intentions.”

You think it’s almost unfair for a man to say those words to you when you plan on running away from him. It makes you dig your nails into the palms of your hands. 

You’re still nervous when you crawl into bed, eyeing him when he settles on his side and turns the lamp off, cupping his palm around the glass and blowing out the flame. There’s little to worry about though. Price doesn’t so much as shift from his side of the bed. 

The world outside is beyond gold and red now, when you stare out the window from where you lie on your side. When you think of the past, it comes with a searing pain. Then, it is no more.

[7s3ven]

POPULAR. luke (pjo)

( master list )

IN WHICH… Y/N is tired of being bullied her whole life so she makes a deal with Luke. As long as she does his bidding, he’ll make her popular.

“Beggin' on her knees to be popular. That's her dream, to be popular. Kill anyone to be popular, sell her soul to be popular.”

Warnings : toxic! luke + y/n (but they’re lowkey iconic together), gore, death, manipulation if you squint, dark themes, y/n + luke are both pretty messed up, pretty gruesome near the end, not proof read

A/N : Me when I wanna write toxic one shots to express my feelings but I've been in toxic relationships and writing fluff is how I comfort myself :c

—

Years ago, the young Y/N would’ve scoffed in her face. Maybe even spat at her if she was feeling bratty enough. Why make a deal with Luke? It was like selling your soul to the devil.

Camp Half-Blood loved Luke, adored him even. But under all that courage and glory was a monster. Y/N had seen it first hand when he turned his head for a split second during a duel, his eyes going dark and his lips curling into a cruel sneer.

Nobody except Y/N ever noticed that hidden darkness behind his soft kindness. It wasn’t her fault she made that wretched deal. He approached her first, staring so longingly into her eyes and speaking with a voice so charming that she hung off every word.

The first time he talked to her was when she was eating breakfast, isolated from the rest of her chattering siblings. Ares was her father, which explained all her retrained anger towards the world. She was the lowest of the bunch, never socialising with anyone and avoiding all group activities to the best of her ability.

She was skilled with a spear but did anybody notice? No one did. Except Luke. In a way, he was her saviour in this eat or be eaten world. Y/N was a tough cookie to crack but getting her head shoved into toilets every day could wear down anybody.

Luke wasn’t usually one to take an interest in girls. He had plenty fawning over him for his attention but none of them could catch his eye like Y/N. There was something about her precise aim with the blade of her spear and the way she gulped down her ice cold water without a second thought. Call it creepy, but Luke found solitude in secretly watching Y/N train.

“Y/N.” Was the first thing Luke had ever said to her. She looked up in surprise and Clarisse’s face turned sour at the sight of the Hermes boy. Her beady eyes narrowed as his hand brushed against Y/N’s shoulder.

“You’re pretty good with a spear.” He quietly whispered in Y/N’s ear so none of the other Ares kids could hear him. “If you ever need a sparring partner, I’m right here.”

Y/N lips parted in shock as she watched him slink off towards his own table. Her siblings stared at her in curiosity before turning back do their food, scoffing at her.

Every minute, Y/N would steal small glances at Luke. And every time, he caught her and gave her a knowing smirk. She looked down at her plate after being caught for the fifth time, her cheeks flushing red and turning hot. She no longer felt hungry.

Y/N stood up, scraping the rest of her food into the fire. She felt a presence behind her but she paid no mind to it until they spoke it.

“So, did you think about my offer?” Of course it was Luke. Y/N flinched, almost dropping the porcelain plate into the fire to join her discarded meal.

“Why me?” She asked, her voice nothing but a quiet whisper that barely reached Luke’s ears.

“Why not you?” He replied, cheekily tilting his head.

Y/N could come up with many reasons to that question. She always took Luke as someone who carefully picked who he interacted with, especially when it came to girls.

“May’s prettier.” She said, nodding over to the bright brown-haired girl tucked in the middle of the Aphrodite table.

“Yeah, she’s pretty but you’re prettier.”

“Vivian’s smarter.”

Luke glanced at the Athena girl with not much interest, shrugging. “Not my type.” Vivian’s was everybody type with her sharp-witted mouth and perfectly cut bob.

“Why are you talking to me, Luke?” After a while, Y/N cut straight to the chase. She furrowed her brows in confusion, a little uneasy with how close Luke was and how girls were glancing over at her.

“I’ve seen you fight.” Luke continued to avoid her questions, much to her annoyance. “Like I said, I’d be happy to be your sparring partner. Today, five pm. Does that work for you?”

Y/N stared at him, hesitating for a moment before she slowly nodded. “Yeah… I’ll see you then.” She briefly smiled before rushing off, dumping her plate somewhere else.

Luke wasn’t expecting much when he showed up at the arena, holding his newly sharpened sword. He figured that if Y/N didn’t end up coming then he could at least get some solo practice in.

But no, she was sitting on a bench inside the arena, fiddling with her spear. She lifted her head, her eyes locking with Luke’s.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you’d actually show up.” He dropped his sword in front of her, grinning.

Y/N shrugged. “It… seemed rude not to.” She muttered, looking down at the ground around.

“I’ll be honest, Y/N. I didn’t just want to spar with you. I’ve come to make you a deal. I’ve noticed that a particular someone keeps shoving your head into a toilet.” Luke smirked when he saw Y/N stiffen. He crouched down in front of her, “What if I told you… that I could make it all go away? Just like that.”

He snapped his fingers.

“I can make you popular, Y/N. So popular that no one, not even Clarisse, will mess with you again.”

Y/N gave Luke that same narrowed glare that Clarisse often sent his way. “What’s the catch?” She asked, causing Luke to chuckle.

“Smart. The catch isn’t that big. All you have to do is whatever I tell you to.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raised slightly as she finally made eye contact with Luke again. He charmingly smiled at her. She thickly gulped, weighing out all her options in her head. She could reject his offer and be the victim of relentless bullying… or she could accept and never get hit by Clarisse again.

Luke frowned at her hesitation. “The choice is your’s.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered to look at everything but him. She slowly nodded. “Okay.” She whispered. “Okay. I’ll do it. Deal.”

It started off small. Steal someone from Clarisse, easy enough. Y/N was almost as cunning as Hermes himself, which slightly impressed Luke. He gave her a nod of approval after she dropped Clarisse’s beloved spear in front of him. As promised, he stopped the bullying, but in a way Y/N never expected.

After yet another failed game of capture the flag, Y/N was walking towards the large crowd of demigods when Luke abruptly picked her up and kissed her. Dating or even being around Luke Castellan was guaranteed to make you popular and Y/N had somehow been roped into it without her knowledge.

Her tasks weren’t too difficult until Luke told her to do the unthinkable. To pick a target and violently murder them as a warning to the camp that bad things were coming.

“Luke… you know I can’t.” She muttered as she hid behind the Hermes cabin with him. She was clutching onto his arm, begging him to give her another task. Luke stared down at her in annoyance.

He rolled his eyes, slightly sneering. “Come on. It’s easy. I’ll even show you.” Y/N peered at him through her lashes, looking like a deer in headlights. But she couldn’t say no. She could never say no to Luke when he had his lips pressed so firmly against her’s and when his fingers traced delicate circles around her waist as he lifted her shirt.

After that short conversation, Y/N’s nights consisted of sneaking out to meet Luke. He taught her how to wield an ax, how to knock someone out, and even explained how to dismember a body. Clearly, he had studied these dark topics.

Y/N lay on the forest floor, staring up at the stars. Luke was nearby, his arm lazily slung around her waist and pulling her closer towards him.

“We have to be careful.” He whispered in her ear, tucking a strand of her hair away. Y/N knew that if Luke went down, she’d be forced with him and vice versa. He pressed a light kiss to her neck, inhaling the smell of her floral perfume.

Luke had a twisted obsession with the idea of murder. It thrilled him. The vivid image in his mind of blood splattered across the floor and limbs bent at awkward angles made his stomach churn but... it was exciting.

"Luke... what are we doing with our lives?" Y/N muttered, turning to face him. When had everything gone downhill? When did they suddenly turn into borderline murders and sadists? Perhaps Luke was always like this and he infected Y/N with his disease. But if she was willing to do anything to become popular, even drive a knife through someone's heart, then it just showed Luke that she might be as abnormal as him. “Princess,” Luke’s voice was barely a whisper as he handed her a cigarette. He often kept them hidden under his mattress, only taking them out when he needed to destress. He lit the tip for her and watched as she slowly took a drag, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

The pair stared down at the body in front of them. They weren’t dead, merely knocked out. Outside, the wind was relentless. It smashed against the wooden walls of the abandoned cabin, as if warning Y/N and Luke to stop whatever madness they were about to commit.

BORN IN GRIEF,

“Do you ever think it could have been different if the gods gave a fuck about us?” Y/N asked, tilting her head to the side. She took another drawl from the cigarette before passing it over to Luke. “Would we be less… messed up if they actually cared?”

Luke shrugged. “Maybe. But this is who we are, we can’t change that.”

RAISED IN HATE,

Y/N would never admit it out loud but she and Luke were sick. Sick for even thinking of doing this and suddenly, Y/N’s stomach lurched. A tiny morsel of her personal morals held her back from approaching the body but she was also curious. How long would it take until the demigod before them realised their doom?

HELPLESS TO DEFY THEIR FATE.

They stirred but their eyes never fluttered open. Luke and Y/N exchanged a look before he gestured her forward. She held the wooden handle of the ax tightly, dragging it along the floor as she stepped towards the unconscious body.

Y/N was unusually calm when she lifted the ax, the sharp blade glinting in the moonlight. Suddenly, the demigod awoke with a desperate gasp. They scrambled back at the sight of Y/N.

LET THEM RUN,

“Please, don’t… what have I ever done to you? Don’t kill me! I haven’t even completed a quest or been claimed yet!” The demigod clasped their hands together, begging for sweet mercy. Y/N merely gazed at them, wide-eyed and unmoving.

“I’m afraid she won’t listen to you.” Luke made his presence known. The demigod’s eyes flickered over to him and they let out another gasp. They couldn’t beloved that Luke, the son of Hermes, the heartthrob of Camp Half-Blood was sitting idly on the sidelines while his companion was staring at them like they were an experiment. Simply a hypothesis that needed to be tested.

“She works for me. She’d kill her best friend if I told her to.” Luke gestured for Y/N to continue. The ax was raised above her head, ready to pierce the heart. Y/N swiftly swung the blade down. It buried itself in the demigod’s chest and a drowned-out scream slipped past their lips.

LET THEM LIVE,

Y/N’s eyes shook as she stared at the body in what could only be described as desperation. Desperation to land another sick blow.

Y/N lost count of how many times she raised the ax up and swung it down. All she could think about was the euphoria and giddiness rushing to her head. Blood stained her skin but she didn’t stop until the demigod was nothing but a mangled corpse, unable to be identified just by looking at their gruesome face.

Thunder crashed and lightning flickered. Rain poured down, the gods’ way of expressing their grave disappointment.

BUT DO NOT FORGET WHAT WE CANNOT FORGIVE.

Luke blew out another cloud of smoke, gazing at Y/N with his own twisted version of love. “Red looks good on you.” He uttered, spinning her around like she was in a beautiful ball gown and he was her date to prom.

Y/N laughed, the thrill of killing taking over. Luke’s lips curved into a smile. He had never heard the sound of her laugher before. And he was already intoxicated. Her lips tasted like smoke and tangy metal and he pulled her closer.

THEY ARE NOT ONE OF US, NOT OUR KIND.

PJO TAG LIST : @lostinhisworld @julielightwood @outerbanks-stuff @jennapancake @csifandom @evrybodydies1 @kkrenae @s0ulsniper @annispamz @justanotherkpopstanlol @soraya-09 @simpforeveyone @papichulo120627 @corpsebridenightamare @lilacspider @prettylilsimp @urmomsbananabread @ur-lacol-dsylexic @hottiewifeyyyy @kamiliora @be-bap @finnickodaddy @th0tblckgrl @shoyofroyoyoyo @uniquely-her @imafrkinsimp @syraxesrevenge @ahh-chickens @dracoslovergirl @midnightstar-90 @8812-342 @liv1104 @krkiiz @arialikestea @ch16rles @lizziesliz @maryclx01 @lukecastellandefender @yuminako @coryoskywalker @julielightwood @crybabysbakery @jsbaby @liviessun @p3pperm1nttea @angie-esc @purplerose291 @prettylilsimp @10ava01 @froggiesstalks @happy-jj @czennieszn @gisellesprettylies @loveyava @csifandom @luvvfromme @mashiromochi @kamiliora @yorksyree @mqg125 @jamesmackreideswife @niktwazny303

[muffinsin]

I just had a thought 🔥🔥(should have been a ice emoji considering the request..) can you do a reader whos kind of serious most of the time but thats because they are a cryokinesis user an can manipulate ice an make things freeze so they are really careful to not use their powers near the daughters especially

That sounds hella cool, hon!🙌 For funsies, imagine they themselves had that ability. Rip, little flies! Thankfully that’s not the case, though it’s an awesome idea for reader! :)

Let’s get into it

Masterlists

Bela

Ever since you started working at the castle, you heard rumors, here and there

Bits by bits, whispered theories of what to do and not to do to avoid punishment

Among being tidy and quiet, polite and friendly, there has always been one obvious task:

Be mindful around the windows

You’re not permitted to open one without permission in winter, and all those who do or accidentally break one are dragged to the basement

The residents of the castle, especially the three murderous sisters, screech in anger every time the window cracks open just a bit already

And each time it’s followed by punishment and the disappearance of yet another staff member

You, of course, notice all these

It doesn’t take you long to figure out their secret

It’s not entirely well hidden, after all

As such, it becomes your task to use your powers as little as possible

You know, even a little bit of ice would send you right to the basements

And, all in all, it goes very well

Sure, some tasks take painfully long and are awfully boring

You feel a little stressed, sometimes being startled and having to make sure your powers are never used

You try very hard to stay in the background, and only once nearly had a slip up

Then, you were startled and accidentally froze Lady Bela’s fork, who immediately dropped it

For the next couple of weeks the castle was locked tight, the staff and ladies trying to find whatever could have caused this

Thankfully, with summer around the corner the incident was quickly forgotten

You have little contact with the women as is, and have little problem containing your abilities at the few times you are around them

Then, this changes, when you get close to one of them

Bela Dimitrescu, the eldest of the three sisters, the heiress of their mother, the countess of castle Dimitrescu

Being close to her is something you want, badly

She’s smart, even cocky sometimes

As you get to know the cold, coolheaded woman, you find she can even be quite playful

You enjoy your time with her immensely

You enjoy getting to know her immensely

She’s quickly becoming more and more important to you

You confide in her when maidens bother you

In turn, she sometimes confides in you, whispers spoken between the two of you as she tells you of her burdens

And, you’re always there to comfort her

Only are you anxious

Now you must not only focus to hide your powers and stop yourself from freezing objects, but are fearing you may outright freeze her

Especially when she eventually feels more comfortable around you, and pretty much only you

Being selected to be a part of her private personal, Bela is pretty much your job

Her needs, her tasks, her desires

Due to the friendship and closeness the two of you have developed, these tasks shift a little

Such as when, after a particularly hard and long day, she asks you for a massage

Your breath hitched then

You knew you couldn’t- and didn’t want to- refuse

And still, your hands shook a little and you concentrated hard as your hands came in contact with her thin dress and the smooth, porcelain skin underneath

For long, you are scared to touch her

At the same time, you can’t tell her why. You have no way of gauging what her reaction will be

You’re more than capable of killing her, especially should you catch her off guard

Would she still be with you?

Or would she lock you away? Warn her sisters and wait until her mother disposes of you?

You decide not to risk it

As such, you’re on edge each time you massage her

At the same time, you offer her one more and more often, disliking to see her so tense and in pain

And in time, you become a little more comfortable

You never hurt her, thankfully

And you vow to yourself: you never will

Cassandra

Meeting Cassandra first in the village, she takes an interest in you almost immediately

After all, the other villagers seem somewhat wary of you

They respect you, but she senses fear and suspicion, too

She immediately wants to know why that is

Why are you so special?

Alas, your secret is well kept, and it frustrates her to no end

But, even as she visits the village often during summer, you gain a break from obsessively hiding your powers in winter

You think, you can hide your abilities from her

Only does she soon pick up on the fact you hunt for a living

And, as a predator and huntress herself, she soon realises you have no tools with you at all

Sadly, this only intrigues her more

You’re constantly stalked by her, curiosity getting the best of her

You know, Cassandra Dimitrescu is fully aware that you’re hiding something

And she’s very intent on finding out what it is

Even before you get close to her, before you find out about her weakness, you know to hide your abilities

The villagers are already wary of you

You’re sure if Cassandra was to find out, you’d soon be in row to be one of Mother Miranda’s infamous test subjects

At last, you’re granted to hunt normally in winter

But, even with your abilities allowing you to craft tools to hunt and sell your loot for good coin, money soon runs out

There’s less and less lei in the village, so that even should you return after a successful hunt, there’s hardly anyone to still sell your loot to

Even the Duke isn’t in constant need of meat and fur

And, of course, you aren’t oblivious to who does still have enough money…the lords

As such, the lack of money to keep yourself alive leads you to working at the castle, employed by Alcina Dimitrescu

It’s no surprise Cassandra is immediately on you again

And despite the head maiden’s advice not to make yourself known or pull any attention your way, you’re immediately spotted by the sadist

She bothers you as you work constantly, is always looking over your shoulder

You wear gloves as much as you can, praying they might just prevent you from accidentally freezing something

She brings you to the basements, as though it’s a fun trip, and shows you her favorite tools

In time, when this keeps happening and she shows you a new weapon each time she obtains one, it all clicks into place and you realise;

She likes you

She never threatens you, even down in the basement

Instead, she seems enthusiastic to show you the weapons

Not to intimidate you, not to scare you. To share something she’s passionate about

Maybe it’s because you don’t judge her. Maybe it’s because you’re different too, even if she can’t yet figure out why

But she likes you

And seeing her in this new light, you find: you like her too

You like her, and you like her confidence

You like how she shares her interests with you, all the things she’s so passionate about

In time, you come to care for her, too

You defend her against stupid maids bickering about her behind your back, knowing she could snap them in half herself

In turn, you quickly rise in the hierarchy of the castle, unofficially made Cassandra’s second in command, even

You’re hers, indirectly, under her protection

You’re even allowed outside, granted to hunt like you always have

Only is she still often hot on your trail, waiting for you to slip up and reveal your secret

Once, you’re close to revealing it

She’s still outside, even as temperatures drop dangerously

You know of her weakness, remember how she’d get cranky in winter and flinch when your unusually cold hands accidentally made contact with her fingertips upon handing her something

Without overthinking it, you rush out into the woods to find her

You’re hardly worried about the Lycans out, capable of defending yourself perfectly well

And unlike Cassandra, the cold has nothing on you

Soon you find her and, supporting her weight by letting her lean on you, begin to guide her back to the castle

She doesn’t seem surprised about your lack of surprise to her reaction to the cold. As if she knew you were aware of her secret

Or, maybe she’s just too cold to panic

Either way, you make good progress, yet tense when loud wind turns to an aggressive storm

She howls in pain as the wind hits her harshly, specks of snow hitting her in the face and bruising the beautiful skin

Immediately, you consider rising a giant wall of ice to stop the storm from reaching her

And just as fast, you stop yourself. You can’t risk revealing yourself, can’t risk her finding out and telling the cult’s leader. You can’t risk what this would mean

You can’t risk losing Cassandra

You wrap your clothing around her instead, yet you don’t get far before her eyes slip shut, her body dangerously fragile with the assault of the cold wind

Her closed eyes are all you need to rise a wall immediately, your hands working fast until you’re surrounded by thick walls of ice

While cold on the inside of these walls, Cassandra seems fragile, but stable

And when she awakens wrapped in your clothing and surrounded by ice, you act as clueless as her, claiming you found it and used the structure for shelter

She doesn’t fully believe you, but can’t explain it either, allowing you to get away with it

Briefly, you wonder what life would be if you told her then

Daniela

Working at the castle, you know not to arouse suspicion

You know not to pull any attention to yourself, even if you were an ordinary staff member

After all, there are plenty dragged to the basement for simply making mistakes

You have no doubt you would await and even worse fate if you revealed your abilities

After all, most are dragged to the cellars for the simple mistake of leaving a window open or so and allowing the cold to intrude

You don’t doubt you would be dragged down the cellar if even a small burst of ice came from your fingertips

As such, you generally try to lay low

You wear gloves whenever possible, try to work in private as much as you can

You keep away from others, paranoid, but sure, that if one of the maids was to find you use your abilities, this would be reported to the mistresses of the castle immediately

Keeping to yourself works for a little bit, too

Until you eventually have one of the women’s eyes set on you

The golden eyes of the youngest sister, Daniela Dimitrescu, ever set on you

She’s friendly with you in no time

And still, you freeze when she holds your ungloved hand in hers for the first time

Cold as ice, she immediately drops it again, flinching back as if in pain

You feel bad immediately, pulling your hand and hiding it against your chest

Only does she reach for it again, and you realize her soft, porcelain-like skin crack ever so slightly in your hand

You wish you could be a little warmer for her

And still, if she suspects anything unusual at play to influence your body temperature, she doesn’t voice it

She finds you to be quite serious, nearly at all times

You’re tense, hardly playful

But, in time, the sadistic, sweet, rather deranged woman does break through the walls you so carefully put up

You find yourself caring for her

You find yourself enjoying her company

You find yourself liking her

You find yourself waiting for her to bug you when you work

You find you no longer mind when she’s around you, even enjoy it

And of course, Daniela picks up on this

While you’re still so very serious for some reason, you shoot her smiles occasionally

And, to your surprise, she doesn’t stop touching you despite the pain it causes her

It seems, she’s by far more touch starved than you assumed she was, going great lengths to feel one’s touch even if it causes her discomfort

You’re determined to give her comfort, though

As such, you keep a pair of thick gloves with you to slip on whenever she wants to hold onto your hand

It helps you feel more at ease too

You figure the gloves will prevent you from freezing her petite fingers off, if not her entire hand

And as such, you grow more and more comfortable around her

She doesn’t push, despite knowing you have a secret. Instead, she only enjoys your company

She tells you of her day, of her sisters and mother

In return, you share stories with her

She joins you as you work, usually sitting at a counter and reading out loud from her newest book

You find- you appreciate the company

Sometimes, you share your thoughts with her or tell her your theories on what will happen in the next few chapters

This excites her. No one ever indulges her the way you do!

At other times, you only hum along, working quietly but letting you know that you’re listening to her

You soon begin to care immensely for her

As such, when you realise how stressed and tense, sad and worried she is during winter, you decide to help her out

You help her keep warm by retrieving numerous blankets, bring her snacks and flowers you find in the gardens

But, most of all, you help her in the way only you can

Often, you’re asked to stay the night with her, especially when she doesn’t want to stay alone and can’t sleep

In such nights you use your abilities, manipulating the storm and ice to retreat from her windows

As such, her room and the fire has no difficulty keeping her warm all night long

She calls you her guardian angel soon, realizing that somehow, the storm and the cold is never as bad when you’re there

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[theholypeanut]

HIORI YO X GRUMPY AND SUNSHINE

Peanut's Wheel of Fortune Event

Plot: Hiori, The Ice Prince, and you, the school Sunshine: you couldn't be more different - and yet, it works, your friendship. Or should we call it what it is: two dum dums in love.

CW: 2k words, Hiori tsundereeee (fight me), clueless!reader not getting any signs,two idiots in love, friends to lovers, stupid x even more stupid, teasing, flirting, reader loves gacha, fluff, gn!reader, Hiori has game at the end, pulling uno reverse on reader

Event Masterlist

On the first day of high school, you sat next to Hiori. When you saw him for the first time, your immediate thought was how extremely gorgeous his face was: he looked like a precious porcelain doll. He was so beautiful, that, to be honest, for the first month you wondered if he was just a tomboy who refused to wear a girl's uniform. He never talked to anyone, just sat on his Nintendo Switch or looked through the window his headphones on. You barely exchanged a word during the first semester.

But after a certain incident just before the summer holidays, your approach changed. It was a hot day, you could almost feel your uniform melting into your skin, and you just wanted to die. You already had a reputation at school for being the "sunshine" of the class, always cheerful and loud, cracking jokes and sometimes talking back to the teacher in a way that made the whole class burst out laughing. Even though you sat next to Hiori most of the time, he was probably the person you talked to the least - not by choice, he just seemed to ignore you on purpose. At first the girls in the class tried to get close to him, obviously smitten by his beautiful face and promising football career, but when he barely noticed them and rudely ignored their attempts, they let it go and it fuelled his reputation as the „Ice Prince”. But you didn't mind. To be fair, apart from being a quiet person, Hiori was never really mean to anyone. He was not a bad person. You chose not to bother him, not to push him out of his comfort zone, and he ignored you. 

But this time, as you lay down on your desk during your break, as you always do, you couldn't help but take a long look at your classmate. He was playing a game on a console, with headphones on. His eyelashes were ridiculously long, and his features were so delicate that he looked like a flower, like a...

"You're not very subtle, are you?" You heard his voice as you noticed Hiori taking off his headphones. He looked at you with a visible frown. You made eye contact, feeling like a summer heat was already scrambling your brain, getting rid of any possible embarrassment. „Have anyone told you you look like a periwinkle?” He blinked. „Like… what?”

„A flower. You look like this pretty blue flowers you can sometimes see in botanical gardens.”

He sat there, stunned, his expression hard to read. Without an answer from him, still with your face on the desk, you didn't look away. 

„Honestly I didn’t know people as pretty as you are even real” you said without thinking, seeing that his face getting visibly red. He looked away, which made your heart beat a little faster. Was he...?

"Did the sun fry your brain?" He mumbled, trying his best to stay out of your sight. But you knew what you saw. Hiori Yo, an Ice Prince, was blushing. And that was the moment, you made an unconscious decision, to start actively bother him for the rest of your high school career: if it meant seeing that expression again.

And that was also a beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

In your second year of high school, you ended up in the same class again, seemingly thrown together by fate. Everyone at school speculated that you two had been dating for months, The Sunshine and The Ice Prince: isn’t it the cutest combination? Hiori never bothered to explain that you were not dating, and at best you were "very close friends". This was because of two things: firstly, you were his close friend, but every now and then he doubted that he was yours. You were always so bright and smiling, so nice to everyone, with so many friends wherever you went. Sometimes he wondered if something happened to you, or if you were in trouble, would he be the first person you'd call? He wanted that to be the case, but he couldn't be sure, which made him... jealous. And that was the second reason: Hiori Yo, the Ice Prince, would never, ever admit that he never denied having a relationship with you, because he simply wished it to be true. Was he stupid? Naive? Maybe. But to be honest with himself, he couldn't imagine not falling in love with you. 

What was even more annoying, though, was that you couldn't have been more dense. Hiori was never the type to show his affection in a straightforward way, but he had his moments: he helped you when you were struggling with heavy things, he helped you with quests in a game (you started to get into it just to have more topics to talk about), he bought wired headphones just so he could listen to music with you: nothing. You just smile and comment on what a softie he is, which makes him blush, and you can't take a damn hint. You were hopeless. Sometimes he felt you liked him back, just by the teasing words you said or the casual touch of his hair (the day you tucked his hair behind his ear without warning is still fresh in his mind and makes his heart skip a beat before he falls asleep). The worst part was when he was embarrassed, all Hiori could come up with was some mean or sarcastic comment. But you read so many romance mangas, how could you not understand that? The day Hiori saw a random guy from the basketball team confessing to you was the day he decided he had to do something. You politely rejected that clown, but that didn't let the blue-haired prince relax for long. The idea of confessing scared him, but the thought of you seeing someone else made his heart sink. However, he knew far more about you than any other boy ever could: and he planned to use that to his advantage. If he was too embarrassed to confess, perhaps he could charm you into falling for him and confessing first? The plan wasn't that simple, but it was worth a try.

When you got back to class, having answered all the embarrassing questions about your confession, you sat next to Hiori with a sigh of relief. On days like that, you were grateful for how cold Hiori was. He wouldn't even look at you, let alone ask for all the details about the poor basketball boy. But to your surprise, in the middle of the lesson, you felt a small piece of paper slip close to your hand.  "Are you free after school today?" It was written in familiar handwriting. You smiled.  "I'm always available for you" you drew a tiny heart at the end. Since last year, of course, you enjoyed teasing Hiori with flirtatious lines whenever you got the chance. At this point you couldn't even stop yourself if you tried, it was like breathing.  "There's a new gacha machine in the arcade. Want to go?" He wrote back, not even blushing at your message. A bit disappointing, but Hiori rarely invited you first, if you ever hung out it was at your initiative, so you were still excited. Not to mention that you really enjoyed gachas. "It's a date" you wrote back without thinking any further.  You couldn’t hide your excitement for the rest of the day.

When you came out of the school gate, you looked at your friend. 

"It's something new that you don't have football training today" he just looked away when he heard your words.  "Practice was cancelled" he mumbled in a tone that clearly showed the conversation was over. You walked in silence for a longer second before he started: "So... the basketball guy, huh?" He changed the subject, which only made you sigh. 

"Please, don't even start. I'm not even sure what that guy's name is. I don't think we've spoken more than once. It's embarrassing."

Hiori looked at you carefully. 

"Yes, but have you ever thought that maybe that's enough?"

You looked at him in surprise.

"Enough for what?" You raised your eyebrow.

"To fall in love with you" he said without looking away. No matter how you looked at it, Hiori was a different person today. Saying something like that in such a serious tone and not looking away in embarrassment did not seem like him. He never really wanted to talk about romance or love. Just games and football. He left you speechless until you saw the entrance to the familiar arcade. 

It was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday evening, and at certain points you had to squeeze in between sweaty boys of all ages. You felt someone grab your hand. Before you could scream 'pervert', you realised it was only the blue-haired boy. 

"Don't get lost" he said in a neutral tone and pulled you out of the crowd. The gacha area was still mostly occupied, but the target audience had changed drastically: now you were surrounded by teenage girls. Hiori pointed to one of the machines further back. As you followed in that direction, you gasped in surprise. 

"No way!" You said as you approached the machine. It was one of your favourite series of all time, one of those niche things that were not popular enough to deserve a proper merch. Still holding your hand, Hiori, finally a little embarrassed, handed you a coin. For a second, you seriously considered that maybe you had forgotten your own birthday, because everything felt too perfect. 

"Are you going to get one too?" You asked, spinning the wheel to get your beloved little trinket. 

"What?" He asked, distracted. 

"We should get matching ones" you said with a smile, taking the ball out. „I’ve always wanted to have matching keychains”

He smiled softly and took another coin out of his pocket. "You better not cry later that mine's cuter" he teased. 

It felt so wholesome and cosy, just perfect. The bickering, the teasing, the little gestures he made to you always made you feel warm inside. And here you are, laughing and comparing the keychains you got, so close you could smell the detergent on his uniform. You were much more aware of his presence because you couldn't help but feel shy, Hiori still holding your hand all the time. You tried to remember the last time you did it, but your mind just went blank: it was the first time you had held hands since you became friends. And even more surprisingly, on his own initiative. But you couldn't complain. Considering his constant training, you expected his hands to be more calloused, but they were soft and large, and you just realised that you really wished this moment wouldn't end. „Do you want to get out of here?” His voice brought you back down to earth. You raised an eyebrow.

"Where do you want to go?" You asked, moving towards the exit. To your surprise, he grinned. 

"Where would you like to go? It's your date as much as mine" he said calmly.  "Good question, would you like to get something to eat? There's this…" you stopped, processing his words. You turned to face him, only to notice that he was looking away awkwardly. "You…" you started, not knowing where to go with the sentence. You felt your face grow hot.

"If you don't want this to be a date, maybe you should let go of my hand, you know" he said, still avoiding your eyes. You two must look so ridiculous: two people, holding hands, avoiding each other's eyes, all blushing. After you didn't answer, the blue-haired boy started to gently pull his hand away from yours, which only made you grip it tighter. 

"Stop it" you said, unable to control how red your face was. You cleared your throat. "Let's get some ramen, shall we?" 

Hiori finally looked at you, with the softest eyes. Too bad you were still too embarrassed to look back and notice. 

"Sounds perfect to me."

[sapphic-gardn]

i will

ellie williams x f!reader

summary: grief is complex and painful, ellie comforts you.

warnings: mentions of grief, nudity, ellie and reader take a bath together, mentions of boogers (yk when u have a runny nose from crying? yeah), no specific descriptions of reader other than having boobies and flesh, i dont think there is anything else but let me know!

word count: 1.3k

a/n: hi! i’ve returned from my hundred year long hiatus to torment you all. i started writing this comfort piece while i was experiencing life at Rock Bottom. i also found a lot of inspiration from the song i will by mitski <3 also thank you to @hier--soir for helping me with this one 💓 your writing inspires me, truly—i appreciate you tons & tons.

You find yourself curled up on the floor, the crisp breeze sweeping in from the crack under your front door. Chills dance over your skin, seeping into your body, coating your organs in a thin layer of ice. Your tears shed with a blue hue, painting your lips in a sheer lapis tint. Teeth chatter, bone against bone, reminders of the skeleton that is burrowed beneath layers of adipose tissue. Each exhale is accompanied by a dull ache.

Nights bring you here, disentangling your limbs from the warm confines of cotton sheets, calculated movements so as to not wake your girlfriend from slumber. The numbness creeps in through obscured dreams, visions of faces, now ghosts that haunt every distant memory. You emerge from the darkness, featherlight footsteps over creaky floors, loitering around the house amidst bewitching hours. You converse with the night sky, a one-sided interaction that mostly consists of your pleas—tell me why. Grief consumes you like tidal waves swallowing the shoreline. A mere particle of sand engulfed in foam, getting propelled further, further away from dry land.

The vibrations of Ellie’s bare feet padding on the wooden floor rumble through you. Her rasp breaks the silence. Baby—the only word that leaves her chapped lips, a pitiful tone leaking from her honeyed voice. Her hand caresses your tear stained cheek. Upon contact, a shrill sob rips through your larynx. You choke on anguish that rises like bile, it burns your esophagus as it creeps up.

Gentle hands guide your tenuous form to your feet, securing themselves at your sides. Subtle squeezes to the meat of your hips, wordlessly speaking—I’m here.

In your hazy state, you’re waltzed to the bathroom. One of Ellie’s hands fumbles with the light switch while she delicately maneuvers your entirety to sit upon the closed toilet seat. Cold porcelain hits the backs of your thighs, you hiss at the contact, a wince paints your expression. Ellie coos your name, a hushed thing that warms you from the inside. You study her features, a line forms between her furrowed brows, her green eyes searching for your own. Her gaze brings a settling feeling, something like a merciful wake up call. Ellie’s earthy scent mingles with the air. You inhale, the musky essence settles in your lungs, growing limbs and reaching for your heart; wrapping itself around the muscle in a tight embrace.

A tear slips past your waterline, her calloused thumb swiftly catches it as it trails down your cheek. A smile tugs at Ellie’s lips, “You’ve got boogers,” she gestures to your mucin coated upper lip with her pointer finger. An involuntary chortle escapes your mouth, alighting your saddened expression, “There she is, my pretty girl.”

Her focus shifts to the tub beside you, leaving the spot in front of you to turn the faucet on. Ellie peers over her shoulder to look back at you, “Let’s get you warmed up, yeah?”

Her digits fiddle with the running water as it warms, you examine the way her tendons tug at her knuckles, the freckled skin pulled taut with each swipe under the stream of water. Your eyes land on her side profile, you trace the shape of her nose and the protrusion of her pout like an etch a sketch to your brain. You count the freckles on her face, connecting them like constellations. Admiration blooms in your chest, you clutch your shirt where your heart beats faster.

Once the tub fills halfway, Ellie is undressing you—delicately tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt, pulling the thin material over the peaks and valleys of your body. Her touch is silken, it tickles your nerve endings, chills awaken beneath her fingertips. With each sliver of skin revealed, she whispers, beautiful, you’re so beautiful. And in these moments, you believe her, she utters the words with such conviction. You breathe with ease, allowing yourself to surrender to the woman disarming you.

She guides you towards the tub. Soft hands on your arm, your waist. That low, rasping voice in your ear, one foot, now the other… easy now, until you’re over the lip of the tub and being lowered into warm water. You let yourself sink a little lower, feel the water lap over your neck, your hair. You tilt your head back until everything is submerged except your face. Your eyes close, listening. You let the pressure of the water beat against your eardrums. Oceanic sounds bounce around inside your skull. For a split moment you are the sand and the sea, a shell burrowed in the earth.

When your eyes open, you meet the longing gaze of your partner. She admires the halo-shape your hair forms as it floats, the curve of your breasts breaking the surface, the way your tummy moves in waves with each steady inhale and exhale.

Your eyes wander to where Ellie is stepping out of her boxers, peeling her worn tank top over her auburn bed head, discarding the article in the tile. Her focus never falters from you. She looks so beautiful like this, the soft white light casting an illuminating glow to her supple skin. You sit up, folding your legs in, scooting forward—silent invitations. With two long strides, Ellie’s lanky limbs are climbing into the tub behind you. Your bodies mingle, arms and legs tangle and untangle, an uncoordinated tango.

Ellie surrounds you, she is everywhere. The warmth radiating from her coats every inch of your flesh like a blanket. Her thighs are pressed up against the sides of your own, caging you in, the physical security plucking away at your guardedness. Slippery arms snake around your middle, a vice grip pressing you against her front. You feel her heartbeat thump against your ribcage, feel her chest rise and fall with each breath. A connection so primal, so powerful, tethering you to her. Her lips graze the crook of your neck, a sigh escapes you, releasing the tension held in your abdomen. Taught muscles unfurl; a calmness washes over your senses.

Ellie begins to hum, short breaths tickling the shell of your ear. You recognize the song, familiar but just out of reach.

“What are you singing, baby?”

Ellie hushes you, “Shh, shh, just listen to me.”

Her gravelly tone recites the lyrics, “When all my hair turns grey, enter our twilight years,” you listen intently, the song bubbling at the forefront of your mind. A memory plays, placing a fragile disc in your record player, the needle spinning in its grooves, Ellie excitedly rehashing how she found it on patrol.

Both of you sat on the couch that night and tuned in, entwined and entranced. During the fourth song, Ellie stood, offering a hand—dance with me. And so, your bodies swayed around the living room as one entity. “And our friendships slip away, finding it hard to hear.”

Ellie memorized the lyrics, serenading you for weeks, “No I’ll never be afraid, as long as I still have you,” confessing her feelings through the Alessi Brothers.

And now, she croons the same song, “Together in an ocean of life / Just yours and mine / Motionless time / Love is the answer to eternal life.” Easing your mind, caroling the words that never come easy to her in conversation. Reminders of the fire you alight within her, the tenderness you pull out of her.

She is the breeze, the fierce wind that wrestles with the water. She reels you in from the deep end, a lifeline cast before you take your final breath. Her presence is a sanctuary, your vulnerability takes refuge in her arms—your safe haven.

[end]

a/n: hiii!! if you read this all the way through, thank you! it’s my first time posting an ellie fic so i’m a liiiitle nervous eeee! also im a little rusty on my writing so forgive me if this sucks 🧍🏽‍♀️ and i gave up on editing my last read through bc i need to get this fic out or i will never post it

i have an ellie series and a one shot planned out so hopefully it won’t take me a lifetime to post those!!! okieee byeeee 💓

tagging moots: @ilovepedro @gracieheartspedro @undrthelights @daydreamingmiller @chaotic-mystery @cavillscurls @amanitacowboy (idk who else to tag i dont have an official taglist lol why is this so embarrassing)

[moochalove]

Last Nights Mistakes and New Beginnings (Pt. 2)

(yandere!kazuha x pregnant!reader x scaramouche)

Another part finished!!! This kinda scratches my brain but i need more…. so expect a part 3….

i got into some darker themes and I intend to keep them around so please be warned.

word count: idk but it’s pretty long 🗣️

not proofread 😋

TW: panic attacks, yandere themes, implied noncon but nothing detailed

Rolling over to stretch you notice the sun seeping through your curtains. Ah, that’s right, he’s still here. Well you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to drop him off wherever he needed to be, then come back and sleep some more. With one last stretch you stumble out of bed, heading to the living room you notice Scara curled up with the blankets surrounding him. He even sleeps weirdly….. You stop and think for a moment, should you wake him up? Or should you just let him sleep longer…

“It’s not nice to stare, Y/n.”

Cutoff from your thoughts you take a few steps back, eyes settling back down onto his now awake figure. “S-sorry, I was just trying to figure out whether to wake you or not- I…” Rubbing his eyes he throws the blankets off of himself. “Yeah yeah, save it.”

And you thought you were cranky when woken up early, huh.

“I’ll give you some time to get ready.” Turning on your heel you walk back to your personal bathroom wanting to wash up quickly, “By the way, hope you slept well.” You weren’t sure why you were inclined to say that. Shrugging it off you leave him to gather his stuff. Scara, on the other hand was taken aback by the comment. Was he a flustered? Maybe. Surprised? Definitely. Was he gonna reciprocate the act somehow? Hell no, it’s not like he owes you anything! Nope, nothing at all! Huffing he folds up the blanket before placing it back in the basket.

While reaching down he notices a funny looking book, “How to prepare for motherhood!” Did your sister leave it here? He was curious to ask you more questions but it definitely wasn’t his place. Shrugging he ignores it and tosses the somewhat neatly folded blanket onto the book.

Coming out of the bathroom your face was freshly clean, teeth: brushed, hair: combed, contacts in if needed. You were dressed casually, but still wearing a baggy shirt so no one would notice your baby bump. Grabbing your keys you jangle them around before teasing, “let’s go drop the baby off~!” “Ugh, as if!” his face is slightly red and churned. He combs his hand through his hair- you are reminded of a certain someone by this singular action.

Staring at him your mind floods back positively bad feelings. The way he treated you oh so gently, like a porcelain doll that would crack under too much pressure. And the way he pleased you like a lover should. As if he’d been a starving man and you, his first meal- but it seems you were just a side dish- an appetizer before the real meal he could ravish any other day.

Scaramouche stared back at you a little distraught, “Oh my g- What is it now? You look like a deer in headlights.” He’s already poking your face and shaking you slightly.

Your mind is retelling you the events of that night at a pace you can’t even comprehend. The tight feeling in the head that hurts so much yet feels hollow and empty is telling you something’s wrong but you haven’t been caught up to speed yet-

“Hey, this isn’t funny! What’s wrong?” he sounds genuinely concerned.

Once your mind starts running at a pace you can’t imagine, it starts linking certain events of your life together like it’s some tragic movie. A horrible one at that.

Scara is shaking you now he’s practically begging you to snap out of it. Oh, how you would laugh at the way he’s begging, the way he’s actually concerned. You wouldn’t think someone like him had it in him.

By the time you regain consciousness you’re lying on the couch with an ice pack on your head with a straw attached to a bottle of water. Trying to move and get up at the sudden reminder that you were supposed to drop Scara off you shoot up only for your head to pound in return, “Ow… what the f-“ this action causes you to lay back down.

Scara is practically inches away from you, eyes wide with relief and a small smile plastered on his dumb looking face. “You’re awake! I was sooooo- um..” he quickly backs off with a sigh, “I was just getting tired of being here, was just about to call someone to come pick me up. But it seems sleeping beauty has finally woken up!”

“What the hell happened?” you reach to hold your head, slowly recounting the events that led up to a blank space in your mind. Your face scrunches up, realizing you had a panic attack in front of Scaramouche…. You contemplated on telling him the truth of making up some random bullshit. Both of you look like you’re about to say something, “So-“ “I’m-“, with a small chuckle of you both wait to see who will speak first.

“I just wanted to say that i’m.. I’m sorry for whatever that was earlier. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I didn’t get enough sleep.” Your words trail off and your ears start to feel a little warm. “It’s okay, Y/n, I-I was worried about you, you know?” Scaramouche trailed his last words, looking off at some painting you have hanging up on your wall, “Anyways… I’m not too sure what happened with you but it’s none of my business so don’t try n explain yourself because I really don’t care ,” you could only feel a little guilty and embarrassed but you nodded along, “Let’s go grab some dinner.” Huh? Why did he wanna get dinner? Perhaps he felt bad about what he said? Oh well, it’s free food! Surely you would need to replenish all your engere after this whole ordeal. Plus, you needed to stay healthy so the growing life within you can stay alive and healthy.

You’re hit with a sudden realization that you’re not wearing an oversized shirt or sweater of some sort. Had he removed it in attempt to see if there was something physically wrong? Like a wound of some sort? Okay- maybe if you get up slow enough he surely won’t notice? right? RIGHT? Just act natural- slow and steady does it! Or do you just look awkward slowly rising? Hit with a sudden way of embarrassment you shoot up before turning to run to your room to change, “O-oh no…. I forgot my phone… in my room… haha… i’ll be back….!” slamming the door behind you you’re sliding the oversized hoodie on and grabbing your phone then putting some casual slip-ons. When you walk out you notice the previous hoodie folded up to where you were laid.

“O-okay! let’s go!” He can tell you’re still frazzled just by the way you’re so inconsistent with your actions and moods. Maybe it was just “that time of the month” for you. Scara knows how scary women can become during that time. It’s best if he just ignores it and goes along like nothings wrong, lest you end up berating him like his sister did that one time.

The car ride was silent, only asking where he wanted to eat and some small talk.

When your food comes out, piping hot and steaming, you’re fighting the urge to cool it the best you can before shoving it in your mouth, very well knowing that choice would result in a burnt tongue, and the roof of your mouth scorched. Scaramouche on the other hand- he’s taking his time cutting the food up into nice bite-sized pieces, although you see he’s also fighting the urge to scarf down uncut meat that’s laid on his plate. You both hadn’t eaten all day after all so of course you’re making an excessive amount of noise with exaggerated huffs and puffs, blowing your food cold. The way you’re both chugging your drinks down. I’m sure you would both regret ordering the amount of drinks you did when the bill is shown.

Both of you stare at each other while the bill sits in the middle of the pile of plates that would soon be taken away.

“Well, I take this is your treat? Of course for making me stay longer than I wanted to-“ before he can finish you’re cutting him off with a overdramatic voice, “Oh thank you! I’m so relieved knowing that you are paying tonight!” He can only scoff, he’s using an unopened straw and pushing towards you. Your face churns as you can practically feel your hairs popping out but you still put on a cocky smile, “I’m sure you’re well aware of what you just did? Whoever comes in contact with the bill must pay-“ “IT WASNT DIRECT CONTACT!” With another overdramatized action you’re pulling out your wallet with a slight ‘sigh’. All the while Scara is watching joyfully.

On the way back to the car you get a phone call.

Maybe it was a work related issue? Not wanting to risk it being an important call you answered it.

What happened next you could’ve never anticipated would happen.

All you really remember was that the call consisted of Kazuha, who was clearly drunk, and busying himself with a woman as you could hear giggles, moans and whimpers coming from himself and the other participant. He claimed you left with Scaramouche and he was still with you. Claiming how he must’ve left with you, since he went missing after you both got kicked out, and how he never came back to their shared apartment. The way he kept reiterating that he “wasn’t upset, just disappointed” I mean, he wasn’t wrong- you did leave with him but it’s not like you guys did anything? It scared you a bit how controlling he was trying to be even though you weren’t even in a relationship with him. The last thing he said before he hung up was that he would be over soon and that he didn’t want to hear any excuses. It scared you even more how he kept his calm and collected demeanor up. If it weren’t for the context you’re sure you’d be excited to see him.

Scaramouche is already waiting in the car, growing impatient by the second. Once you sit down your mind starts to slowly pick up the pace. What do you do? He said he would be there soon? How soon? Was he just planning to talk it out? Was he worried about his friend? Should you be honest? What if- A hand placed on your shoulder snaps you from thoughts. “Knock it off. You’re doing that thing again.” Hah, it was obvious that you were freaking out. Taking a deep breath you start to explain the situation. By the time you get halfway through explaining Scara is urging you to drop him off at his house and for you to get home and lock up, or go to a friends house.

The car ride was… something to say the least…. Speeding when nobody was around then acting like normal law-abiding citizens the next second.

Tires screech loudly from when you slammed on the brakes. Scara practically went flying and hit the window. He’s unbuckling the once neglected seatbelt, before he you exchange numbers in case anything happens, like if he needs to contact the authorities if you can’t. Stumbling to the backyard to sneak in. You, on the other hand, you’re speeding back home on the back roads. You had planned on parking inside the garage and locking up. From what Scara had told you, every now and then Kazuha will get absolutely wasted and make the worst decisions possible.

Also mentioning that ever since his friend’s death he’s been a lot more controlling of certain people. Like apparently one time he was so invested in the woman he was practically bat-shit-crazy over her, tracking her every move, monitoring who she spoke with, what she wore, and even some of her actions. Once she had enough and wanted a break from him he let her go, surprisingly he let her go, but soon after she was allegedly admitted to a mental hospital. Surely these are just rumors, right? There’s no way that someone like sweet and caring Kazuha would actually be like this? Right?

Once you’re parked you’re heading inside and locking everything up. One thing you should’ve did was let a friend know of the situation but it totally slipped your mind.

You decide to wait it out in your room. Laying on your back and gently rubbing your stomach, “It’s okay. Mommy is gonna be okay. So please, don’t worry..” Your skin is stretching every day, it’s an uncomfortable process but a needed change. It’s not like anyone was gonna see your body again after this. Nope, the one time you drop the “strong independent young woman destined to be the next ceo act” you end up pregnant, and the father also happens to be a sleazy alcoholic who was also crazy.

You could feel the sorrow in your heart. Eventually, you would have to tell your child that he shouldn’t be the kind of man his father was. Well, that can be something you worry about in the far distant future, for now you just gotta keep him alive and well.

There’s a gentle knock at the door.

You just have to wait it out.

It turns louder, more impatient.

It’s now a loud pounding. You can hear your name being called gently despite the knock being the opposite.

•

•

•

It stopped. Maybe he’s finally regained his composure and is willing to give up. Huh? Is the door know rattling? Really? Is he really trying to do what you think he’s doing? Crap. You don’t have enough time to hide.

Once the door swings open you’re locking your bedroom door and reach for your phone. Hell. you need help. Oh god. He’s already at the door, rattling the door handle and banging on the door. You’ve barely opened the keypad. You’re frantically tapping the screen.

Once the call goes through you feel as if you’ve been saved! Surely they’ll come help!

A hand is placed over your mouth firmly, “Ah, i’m so sorry, it seems my girlfriend’s sister dialed this number! Yes. I assure you everything is alright! No, no need to send someone over. I understand, we’ll give her a thorough talking. Thank you.”

Once you hear the call end your blood runs cold. You want to scream and make a break for the door but you’re not sure if you can make it.

Kazuha lets out a huff before combing through his hair, “I wish you would just talk to me, Y/n. I wish you would just listen.” He tosses the phone off into some corner before he’s pushing you down on the mattress.

You try protesting to his attempts to undress you, yelling at him saying he’s drunk and that he’s being delusional. It seems to go through one ear out the other, he’s not listening. But his calm and lover-like demeanor is present all the while. He’s kissing you gently and whispering sweet nothings in your ear, he’s feeling up and down your body, squeezing whatever his hands can grab. You hate how he’s acting like he didn’t do anything wrong. You want to scream and disappear from the face of the earth, hoping to never see his face again.

Kissing your neck seems to draw you from your thoughts, “My sweet little princess, be honest with me. What did you do with him?” you gulp nervously (or is it from fear?) you reply, “After we got kicked out, I dropped him off at his moms place. I swear baby- we didn’t do anything. It’s not him I love, it’s you!” oh how you wished to rip your tongue out and scrub it clean. With a ‘tsk’ Kazuha is starting to fiddle with his pants, “I already told you to not make excuses. Please, sweetheart, just tell me what you did and i’ll forgive you.” Covering your face, hiding your eyes, threatening to spill unwanted tears you try refuting but he seems to stuck on the idea you “cheated” even though you did nothing wrong.

The rest of the night is another blurry one, but not from the alcohol, from unwanted memories. From that day on you tell yourself you’re gonna take a break from work and fly home to spend the rest of your pregnancy with your family. Sure it seemed irresponsible and you didn’t exactly have the funds for it but you’re sure once you tell your parents your situation they’ll understand and lend a helping hand.

•

•

•

Scaramouche on the other hand, he’s sitting in his younger self’s bedroom, everything is outdated to his likings now but some things remain to what he still enjoys. A cracked phone lays before him, wondering if he should call to see if you’re alright, perhaps the situation has changed? Biting the skin of his inner cheek he decided against it, ultimately deciding to call in a few days.

Fiddling with the cheap metal rings on his fingers his mind keeps wandering back to the idea of you. Had you really caught his interest? You? Of all people? Pfft, as if some lowly scum such as yourself could dare to invade his mind! Yet, here you are. The way you laugh, your smile, your everything. It truly captivated him.

He thinks back to how you both practically agreed to take care of your new baby, Meowmeow. Hopefully you would be able to feed her tonight. He needs to consult his mother about his new cat so he can get all the finical support he needs. Although he’s sure she’ll just flash him a dumb smile saying, “Oh, such a silly thing to want to invest in. Well, it’s not like you ask for much so i’ll be a good mom and help my son!” or at least something along those lines.

His mind also plagued him with not so happy thoughts, like the idea of you truly disliking him and pushing him away. Maybe revoking his rights to care for your stray animal and shutting him out forever. No use in worrying about it now, it’d be best to do something else for now. Even when his mind would slip in images of you here and there. Oh well, it’s not like he didn’t mind.

[hcdragonwrites]

Too Close ( A @jttw-monkeybusiness Fanfic)

So this started as one thing and then It grew its own will and became another. I hope you enjoy!

TW: Blood and Gore- Violence as well. If these make you squeamish or can trigger you please read my other works instead!

It was supposed to just be a meal- a simple outing to the market square to buy up some noodles at a shop stand Pigsy had seen on the way through. It was supposed to be simple, easy day.

The market stall exploded in a shower of wood and porcelain as the monstrous thing rose from the stand. Sophie rolled, dodging the flying debris as best she could. A sliver of wood cut across her cheek but she felt nothing. Her mind only had one thing in it.

Oh shit that’s a massive snake.

But it wasn’t a snake. The head that toward from the market as the rest of the villagers fled, resembled a snake. It’s slitted eyes blinked and forked tongue tasted the air. Heat rippled outward from its body. The grasses dried in the damn soil. The earth that had moments ago been anointed with summer rain, cracked and snapped brittle in the sudden heat. Sophie felt her lips dry and her face chap in the change of temperature.

A grunt from nearby. Sophie turned to see Sandy rise from a cast off wall, a huddle Tripitaka in his arms. The snake head swayed, tongue tasting. It snapped its focus to Sandy and coiled its head back. A maw of pink and long silver teeth flew forward. The disciple threw up the discarded wall just in time for the things great teeth to be buried into wood instead of Flesh. Trip was no fool and at Sandy’s nod, escaped beneath his arm.

Sophie could hear Pigsy howling curses nearby from somewhere. The dust was still settling, the dried earth kicked upward as more of the things body was revealed. Fuck it had wings. Four black leathery wings grew from its back at disjointed angles. They beat unevenly. Their wind threw dirt and rocks into the air. The feel of it stung Sophie’s cheek. The Monk reached her then- hand outstretched. She caught it and he hauled her up off the dirt.

Run. Her heart seemed to thrash in her chest. Sophie saw more of the beast being revealed from the ruins of the market. An impossibly long coiled body- legs- more clawed legs. Six of them?- juxtaposed throughout its flesh at odd angles. She felt like she was moving too slow. Moving as if her blood was full of ice.

Those eyes blinked and the pupil widened. Sandy held the things face in his hands, the wooden wall king destroyed. The River demon strained as the thing bore down on him, all saliva and flashing fangs.

It could swallow him whole. Sophie felt a cold shiver run down her back as Trip and her fled. There was nothing either of them could do. They were mortals. This thing was beyond their ken. Beyond their ability. And it could swallow us whole.

Of course fleeing targets attract more attention then prey standing still. The great demonic beast of droughts shook off the irritable ant holding its fangs and dipped its head. The scent had been with the little thing before it but … it had moved. It smelled delectable. The tongue whipped out again, seeking. There- among the fleeing mortals this monster had disdainfully had been serving for the past years in hopes of devouring in return- was the taste. It was a man- a man hand in hand with a women. Two for the price of one. There was an irritable pain at its side but the Drought Bringer simply flicked one of its long claws and flapped its wings higher.

Into the air it rose- away from the sting of the weapons. The town with its simple huts and mud wall fell away. The demon rose up and angled itself. Heat radiated off, burring away the cloud cover and killing trees and greens all around it.

The monk would not get too far.

It coiled.

And struck out.

Sophie and Tripitaka were almost beyond the wall and into the rice fields. The heat had dried those up, killing crops and scattering the water into vapour. Villagers- merchants and Mothers, field workers and Fathers- all streamed to the exits.

They were almost out.

Sophie felt a prickle of fear, a new wave of apprehension swell in her mind. For what- for why- she didn’t know. What made Sophie turn her head then, to look back, she would never know. But she was glad for whatever spirit, god, or instinct made her look back.

A maw full of silvered fangs, of needle tips curved back and outward. An avalanche of heat and horror. She reacted and threw herself sideways. Tripataka, still holding her hand, was dragged with her.

The serpent struck the earth, sending an earthquake outward. Buildings shivered and collapsed. Children screamed and mothers called out. Sophie pulled the monk up beside her, trying to get him to rise. They didn’t have much time. She had bought them but a moment, but a second. They had to move had to get the fuck out of there.

“Trip get up-“ Sophie begged. The monk was trying- it looked like he had twisted something in his leg at the sudden fall. Up up up up up up get up please.

A angry hiss as the earth cracked more. The demon raised its head. It’s mouth was full of stone and dirt. And a few dangling limbs. The creature dropped these and angled it’s head again. It’s body coiled, it’s clawed and displaced legs curling.

Their second was up.

Sophie couldn’t look away- she wanted to- but it was the same feeling a rabbit, over exhausted and run down, experiences when cornered by a fox. The sense of frozen dread. She could no more look away then the rabbit could overcome its fear.

Of course the human mind is a strange thing for the only thing that Sophie could think on was, We didn’t even get to eat the damn noodles we paid for.

Something flashed, a glitter a bit above the serpents head. Like the flash of a moth wing in moonlight.

Wha—

A pillar of black and gold materialized where the flash had been. Such a small insignificant staff.

Sophie knew that staff.

The staff elongated over the monsters head. It slammed straight into the back of the snakes skull. The sound of iron against bone rang in the sky like a thunderclap. The demon cried in confusion and pain- an unholy scream that sent the air to shaking. The staff drove the things face down into the soil, just feet away from Sophie and Tripataka. Bones snapped, the sound of scale cracking beneath the iron rod as it drove down, down, down, down. The earth cracked with the impact.

The pressure was too great. The hide split as the earth could not give anymore and blood came in a spray of red.

The demon, the great Drought Bringer, rolled a bloodshot eye upward. A iron rod ? Was that what fell it ? Something so insignificant. A shadow loomed from the sunlight. Feet pressed on the demons head.

The demon knew this creature - this mild looking and bored Monkey- and felt the contents of its stomach turn to water. Those eyes slashed downward, making the serpent flinch.

The burning heat in this demons gaze—

Sun Wukong knelt on the dying beasts skull the iron staff of Ruyi Jingu Bang resting across one shoulder. Those yellow eyes went from flaming to disinterested as the demonic monkey looked at the mortals.

“I told you the market was a bad idea.”

The blond haired women who had avoided the great Drought Bringers strike, shot up on her legs from the rubble.

“ARE you SERIOUS?!”

“I am. I told you all it was a bad idea.”

“You couldn’t have said that there was a demonic flying snake?!?”

“Do you think the bastard pig would have listened to me if I had ?” Wukong huffed. He swung a foot languidly off the side of the serpents skull. Wukong tapped the golden circlet on his brow. “I would have gotten another headache by this dumb band.”

“WUKONG A WHOLE TOWN WAS DESTROYED!”

“Bah.” He waved his hand at that. “It was gonna be destroyed. This beast wouldn’t have waited any longer to eat again.”

The foot pressed into the gore in the back of the demons spine and a half gasp, half cough, of pain exhaled from between broken jaws. The serpent didn’t remove its eye from the Demon king above it.

It had heard stories. Legends of five hundred years ago when it had been but a hatchling, of a monkey of stone waging war against Heaven. Of almost succeeding in bending that great power into a kowtow.

“WUKONG WE ALMOST GOT SWALLOWED WHOLE BY A FUCKING BIG ASS SNAKE.” Sophie retorted.

“Naw. I had it all under control.” Wukong tapped the edge of his staff now onto the creatures head.

“Though it is taking awhile to die…”

The serpent felt the monkey lean forward. The burning gaze was back now that the simian wasn’t staring at the women.

“Tougher than I thought you were.” His voice had become softer. “Survive a blow - even to just bleed out like a bloody hog- is no easy feat with my staff.”

The pressure from his clawed feet pricked the broken scales long the serpents skin. Those claws were drawing blood. The monkey leaned down to whisper almost sweetly.

“You never were going to get your fangs into them you disgusting worm. Wanna know why? Because I’m Sun Wukong. I am the Great Sage. And your Tale-” the weight of the monkey felt oppressive, his claws digging harder into the tender broken scales. “-your insignificant little blip in history is at an end.”

The monkey foot was the last thing the serpent, the Feiwei, saw before the staff was driven down again into its eye. The blindness as the pupil exploded under the contact and the sharp pain as the staff drove through the eye socket and into the recesses of the skull were the serpents last feelings.

Demonic minds were not like mortals. They did not flit between two threads of disconjointed emotions. The Feiwei knew it’s end and bitterly died.

The demon gave a final strangled gasp as it twitched once, twice and then was no more. The remaining demons eye rolled in its head. Crimson blood wept from the exposed eye socket and the broken skull. It mixed with the dirt to make a black patch in the soil. At the serpents death the air stopped its dry repression and eased in its intense heat.

Wukong stepped off lightly from the dead serpents head. His feet crossed through the bloody wake and up to Sophie who still stood, a bit dumbfounded, over Tripataka.

That was brutal. Sophie thought.

Then her body remembered itself and her stomach seized at the scent of demon blood. Bile burned up the back of her throat.

Please please please don’t throw up. That was the last thing she needed. Sophie pulled Tripataka up.

The monk hissed and winced as his weight tried to take his foot. And crumpled.

“Is it broken?” Sophie worried. She didn’t see any tears in the skin- any blood. Blood.

Again she fought a wave of nausea. The back of the demons neck had been cut wide open- almost as if obliterated- by a single strike. The trauma of the loss of so much bodily mass to a central location, the skull, had been enough to kill it but it had lived on. Just long enough for Wukong to stab it in the eye.

“Not … not broken. Just sprained.” Trip smiled, sweat building on his brow. “Sophie .. thank —“

Tripatakas words died on his throat as he disciple came into full view. And he blanched.

“Stupid beast.” Wukong picked his claws, flicking some of the blood free from their tips. The stone monkey was absolutely painted in crimson, having delivered the blow and standing behind the beast as it fell. Dark ichor dripped from the side of his face, matting the fur in places that the blood was thickest in.

“See Master ?” Wukong grinned- not helping the two mortals as they both struggled with their aversions: Tripataka for violence and Sophie for blood.

“I almost died ….” Trip muttered, the shock coming over him then.

“There there Trip.” Sophie soothed - but she sounded wooden as she also felt her stomach heave. Gods and spirits the blood stank.

“Why does everything bad happen to me?”

“It’s ok Trip.”

“Why is it always devouring they try and accomplish?! Buddha it’s breath stank of rot.”

“Most human eating demons don’t have pretty breath.”

Wukong, oblivious or willfully blind to the mortal dilemmas unfolding before him, swaggered closer.

“Well! That’s another monstrosity down. Solved with violence.” Wukong barred his teeth. His mood was improved from when they had first arrived and none had taken his warning seriously. Not even Sophie. That was an insult. She was lulled in by Pigsy who kept regaling all with the tales of this unique little village.

Utter drivel. Wukong had seen real food wonders- Hell he came from the most fruitful mountain in the world! What could some boiled water and limp noodles compare to the tastes of flower fruit mountain?

Wukong turned, leaning against his staff as he rested it against the ground. “Sophie did ya see that ?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight as she watched the blood drip off Wukong.

“You didn’t throw up?” He inquired with a flash of teeth.

“… no I didn’t.” Her stomach kept trying to make her mouth open up but Sophie was stronger then that.

“HA! Soft women don’t lie! You look just as pale as when that thing was diving at you!” Wukong laughed, his tail twitching in humor. “How would either of you get by without me?”

“Wukong maybe nows not the time—“ Sophie tried but was brushed over as Wukong puffed his chest up and grinned all the wider.

“I, the great Sun Wukong have saved my master again. Did I not do a great job dispatching the beast for you master ?” It was half mock, half fishing for compliments. He did just slay a demonic multi limbed serpent out of the sky.

“Wukong…”

“Not even praise ?!” Well that was dreadfully disappointing. He expected some sort of good job from the monk.

Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. Can’t he read the room?

“Wukong you did a fantastic job!” Sophie would try and smooth things over. While also not suffering from her flipping stomach. “Amazing. It’s just the — the blood— it stinks. Worse then normal. —“

“I know you are thankful because you have decent sense but I want to hear it from him!”

At this moment Tripataka stood straight suddenly. He calmly limped to one of the bushes. And promptly vomited.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Wukong huffed, irritable even in the hot springs warmth. He had a bucket in one hand and a washboard in the other, and had scrubbed the blood free of his clothes. Pants, shirt, tiger skin- it all had to be washed. Of course Wukong had pilfered some soap awhile back from the Market square the Pilgrims had passed through. He had set to work, scrubbing and pulling and worrying over the clothing until it was clean. He knew he had to clean it. He took pride in his looks and decorum. Wukong would have gone to the spring naturally on his own in time.

Wukong twitched the edge of his tail annoyed.

He was aware he was a bit unkempt after saving Sophie and Tripataka from the Feiwei. He had just batted the thing out of the air into the earth. There was bound to be blood and gore after a swing like that. Sophie had given him a brief berating of getting himself cleaned up- and when he had asked and demanded for what was rightly his - praise, thanks, AT LEAST A YOUR WELCOME- Sophie had promised him that she would lavish him in praise if he would just get clean.

Fine. If his Master wouldn’t spoil him in praise and was currently giving his attention to Sandy then the Monkey would wheedle it out of Reader.

Wukong sunk lower into the water, thinking. He hadn’t let the group go into the town without him. Though he had threatened and grumbled and said “fuck that” Wukong had set a double to follow from above, watching. Of course the Pig would follow his nose to the demons lair. Of course he would assure the others that there was no way this could be a demon.

Wukong swore the Pig was out to get them killed half the time.

Well the rest was predictable. As soon as that wiggling worm had taken one sniff of the monk, he had grown all greedy and hungry and hadn’t been able to keep its human disguise.

Wukong had the whole situation under control though- it had just - taken him a moment to wake up from his dozing. The snake had gotten a bit close. Maybe the invisible double had shoved the two mortals just a bit too hard. That twisted ankle of the Monks would take some time to heal. Luckily the village headman had given the group his home- a little but set back into a bit of shaded pine and with its own hot spring - to rest und for as long as needed. And while Wukong had endured the grating reprimand of Pigsy at being late, the monkey had felt a bit smug. His deeds had scored them nice lodgings.

Wukong wouldn’t care about where they slept. The Monkey King could simply find a nice patch anywhere and curl up. The boon I’m his cap though was the absolute excited light sweep into Sophie’s eyes at the mention of beds and pillows and a roof over their head.

Wukong pulled himself out of the water, the steam rising off of his body in the twilight air. It had been enough time since him washing his clothes to his longs soak that, in the summer sun, had dried enough. Maybe not the shirt but his trousers had. The rest would have to wait till morning. Wukong had a Reader to annoy now.

Sophie was in heaven. After the hellish day of demonic snakes and almost getting devoured, Sophie was comfortable and cozy and all too happy to rush to the futon that had been dragged into the center of her little room.

A bed. Clean clothes. A full belly. The horror of the day was an echo but it was still there. If she closed her eyes she could still hear it- still smell the hot breath blasting across their faces.

A knock on her door had her start from the memory.

Who’s that ?

It wouldn’t be Pigsy. The man had passed out hours ago after the steamed buns and broth the village headman had left for them. Maybe it was Sandy? That didn’t seem likely since he was currently nursing Tripitakas twisted ankle. It would be better after the swelling went down.

Did Wukong really take me up on my offer of praise?

“READER OPEN THE DOOR.”

Yep. There was only one stone monkey that sounded that annoyed yet still knocked with the politeness. Sophie stepped to the door and opened it.

And stared just a little.

She had been expecting to see a fully clothed Sun Wukong leaning against her door. What she hadn’t been expecting was a half dressed Wukong with his arms crossed over his chest. And emphasizing that he most certainly did not have a shirt on.

“Where’s your shirt?” Brilliant Sophie. Blurt the first thing that comes to mind. Wukong pushed off the doorframe and past her into the room, giving her a clear view of his pecs, his shoulders, his back.

Pull it together girl and get your mind out of the gutter.

“I had to clean it since you and the monk threw a sick fest at a little bit of blood.” The monkey sat down, crossing his legs beneath him. At least he knows how to make himself comfortable.

“Right…” Sophie watched as Wukong began to slide his fingers through the wet fur along his back, beside his face and over his arms. Grumbling as his nails seemed to catch and pull in the longer bits of his fur. Wukong flexed his arms to reach a spot. The ripple of muscle along his back was unexpected.

Sophie felt her face flame up. I’m glad he’s so wrapped into himself because if he saw what I looked like right now—

“Well I’m clean now but my fur is all snarled.” He snapped. The monkey was currently struggling with a knot of fire at the base of his neck.

“I have a brush you can borrow.” Anything to get my head out of that space and back in line with normal thinking. She crossed the mats and grabbed her bag. Sophie plucked her brush free from its place, walking back to Wukong. She was a bit startled he was watching her, his eyes half closed in thought.

“You know what… this wouldn’t have happened if you had just followed my warning women.”

“What?”

“A mess is what you and Pigsy and Trip caused.” Wukong leaned his head back and let the water still clinging to his fur, drip downward. “All because you didn’t listen to the warning I gave.”

What was she supposed to do? Sophie had been hungry, had been just as trusting of Pigsys judgment of what was mortal and what was maligned hungry demonic pretending to be mortal. She tried to pass the brush to Wukong, hoping that if she gave him what he wanted he would leave off his snippy comments.

The monkey raised an eyebrow at the brush.

“You can take it ya know- it’s as good as any comb you have.” Sophie lifted the brush and ran it through her hair in demonstration. Hers was a simple hairbrush with short bristles and a worn handle from use.

“Back on the mountain many female members of my kingdom would kowtow and beg for a chance I’m about to give you.” Wukong said.

Chance ?

The monkey king closed her hands over the handle. He turned, setting his hands on his knees as his back faced her now. “Not everyone gets the chance I am giving you- so be grateful.”

“You want me to… brush you?”

“Brush my fur.” It was more command then question.

“Alright.”

Sophie began at the tops of his shoulders. The short bristled brush caught in the hair and slide free, leaving it untangled. Wukongs fur was thick enough to be like her own hair and the brush carefully and methodically by Sophie’s hand, worked through the thickest patches of fur. At places she would have to switch to a comb, one Wukong slid soundlessly from his pocket and passed back to her. This was strangely nice… if not a bit intimate. The constant motion of the brush, of the task, was helping her still jittery mind calm and work through the events that had led up to them being here in a house. With her grooming Wukong.

“When did you know about the demon?” It came tumbling from her mouth before she could stop it.

“As soon as we came upon the village.” Wukong answered. He had his eyes closed, tail swaying against the wooden floor. “The townspeople stank of demon. Seems that beast has been feeding them up to try and cultivate some souls.”

“Sounds like how some insects raise other bugs” Like how ants raise aphids.

“Or like how mortals raise cattle.” Wukong commented.

“Mmm” Sophie felt her mind run through the memories again. The serpent lashing out- and her ability to drag Trip out of the way of that strike. Of the great snake lifting it’s head from the broken earth. Of it lunging a second time. We both could have been dead so fast. No one would have known. Wukong had been left behind, Pigsy had been thrown off somewhere. Only Sandy knew what may have happened to them. Sophie’s brushing slowed.

A snap of fingers made her blink out of the memories.

“Speak.”

“Speak?”

“Don’t parrot me.” Wukong opened his eye just a fraction to shoot her a glare. “ Something on your mind, you stupid women. Spit it out.”

“I thought… I thought we were dead..”

“You would have been if I hadn’t come!” Wukong reached back and took her hand in his. The Monkey king moved the brush up to his head where the fur was in a most disheveled state. Sophie started to gently untangle it, careful of how hard or how fast she worked. He may be able to burst from fires and come away without any lacerations but he may not take kindly to a mortal carelessly tugging at his fur. The wet strands moved slowly through the bristles as he talked. “Makes you want to take heed of a Kings words hmm?”

For all his boasting and puffing up, for all his prideful japes and comments… he almost had been too late. If she hadn’t yanked Trip. If they hadn’t run … “You almost weren’t there though…”

“Sophie.”

“Yea?”

He was turned about, facing her dead on before she could blink. Wukongs yellow eyes looked over her then. Little scrapes here and their. No major cuts. Except for the still red and puffy slice along her cheek. Wukong reached forward and ran a thumb over the slice. I should have sent more then one invisible douple.

“You wouldn’t have been eaten.” He would lessen her worry, and reaffirm his abilities. Had she forgotten? He was Sun Wukong- no demon could stop him. “I wouldn’t have let it happen. I would have torn the bastard apart before it got even a flick of spit on you. You or the monk.”

And next time I’ll make sure I leave them with two invisible doubles instead of one.

Sophie had frozen when he brushed his hand across her face. He was being kind, sensing her turmoil over it all. She was about to say something in kind, something to match that kindness.

“It’s my duty to protect the weak mortals on this quest. It would reflect badly on me as King of Flower Fruit Mountain if I let those under my care get devoured by some slimy worm.” Of course he couldn’t resist the opportunity to flaunt his importance.

“That almost sounds like reassurance.” Sophie sighed. She raised the brush up again in silent question.

“It is reassurance.” He affirmed. Wukong nodded once at the brush, spinning back around. “No harm comes to those that are in my care.”

“Well. Then if it only takes brushing your fur for that… I would be happy to do it every night.”

Wukongs tail gave a little flick. They spent the rest of the night talking, trading quips and jokes. As the of cicadas from beyond the doors blended with the soft swish of the brush, a feeling of contentment and camaraderie fell between the two. And something … more grew.

[vagabond-umlaut]

Mercury x Sulfur

Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader; Arranged Marriage; Childhood Friendship To Complicated Feelings™️; Fluff, Angst, Explicit Smut [Oral Fem!Receiving; P-In-V; Loss Of Virginity; Praises]; Angst With A Happy Ending; Porn With Plot & Feelings™️; Contains Manga & Anime Spoilers. This is 18+ Content -> Minors & Ageless Blogs Please DNI!!!

Oneshot From Series: One Day, Three Autumns [Can Be Treated As A Stand-Alone]

THE WEDDING NIGHT FIC NO ONE ASKED FOR YET I WROTE FT. PATHETIC GOJO & PATHETIC READER & THEIR BLURRY PATHETIC FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER... [I'VE NEVER WRITTEN SMUT BEFORE, SO PLEASE BE KIND TO ME 🥹🥹]

Gojo Satoru is much too similar to fire, you suppose— so vivid always, so warm always, so protective always– yet not without the promise of destruction simmering within the sweet blue blaze of his eyes — Very much the reflection yet the contrast to how you resemble the air— so empty, so hollow, so fucking void.

Nice thoughts to think of yourself on your wedding night, aren't they?

Certainly not, you scoff inwardly, toying with the band of sapphire on your left hand. Yet... you cannot, or rather, do not do anything to stop them from sneaking past the defenses you've guarded yourself with– into that twisted, sick, pathetic mess of neurons and darkness you're ashamed to call your mind nowadays.

The noise of the shower tumbles into a sudden hush. An equally quiet sigh escapes you, fingers moving from your jewellery to trace the tiny floral design on the off-white gown– your brain somewhat registering the bathroom door being opened then shut.

"Y'know, mint ice cream might've be— whoa, is that my wife crying?"

Less than one nanosecond elapses before you find your perch on the edge of the bed being crowded by six-feet-three-inches of white hair, chiselled face, toned abs and worry— Oh My Fucking God, the worry swirling in those damned eyes of his— Mustering chuckles and grins, you move to scoot away from him, ready to brush your husband away with some half-baked something, when you feel him draw you closer and place two warm palms on the apples of your cheeks– both gentle and firm in the fashion they cradle your face— they cradle your entire being in this moment.

Cheer trickling away from your countenance, you hear him whisper in an unbelievably contrite tone, "You're mad because you did not get to eat the last piece of cake– because I stole it away, isn't it so? Y'know... we can always visit the bakery we ordered the cake from and I'll order the same flavour we chose for our wedding cake, and you can steal as many bites as you want from my plate— guess, that will make us kind of equals, huh?"

Equals, huh? Equals, huh? Equals. Huh?

"No," you snap, betraying the smile you've been struggling to keep on your lips, "We'll never be equals, Satoru. I mean, yeah— in dumb stuff like these, we might be equals or whatever you believe in. But, in life– do you really think we're going to be equals, huh? Do you think there'll ever be a reality, ever be a world where we might be equals, huh?"

Thumbs stilling over the tear tracks they were oh-so-very insistent on wiping away, he blinks at you. Once. Twice. Thrice— You groan, trying to remove yourself from the man whose mere presence is fermenting your inside. Searing your skin. Twisting and turning your mind into an even greater mess than it's ever been– One you know you cannot find yourself from, if once lost to.

Large fingers curling round your left ankle stop you in your attempts.

"I think so," Satoru offers softly, the unblemished smooth porcelain of his skin streaked with gravitas, you've seldom seen in the many years you've known him yet know becomes him too perfectly– You chuckle, shaking your head.

"This isn't only you and me. This is the world I'm talking about. This is our world I'm talking about. Do you really think they'll ever let a lady— married, that too— stand beside her husband, and not behind him?"

The grasp on your ankle loosens for a beat.

Something cracks and splinters and shatters within yourself.

Something you never knew existed before now— something you wish to ignore, so fucking desperately, now that you know it exists.

Shaky whoosh of pain leaving, you kick your foot free of the hold on it and scoot backwards on the mattress, screwing your eyes shut – as if them being closed will make you blind to the response your query has gathered by not gathering any at all— every iota in your body loathing the way your emotions well over and down your dusted cheeks— way too much, way too quick for your liking—

Large fingers curl round your left knee this time, preventing you from your retreat by pulling you towards their owner yet again — Little that does to dampen your efforts, though.

Or, the scald in that tender part in that tender mess of muscles and blood– pulses and impulses– you've never liked lots, for that matter.

"Let me go," you growl, legs shifting and flexing and extending to free themselves. The soft covers on the bed crinkle and crumple from the fight you put up against the forces reeling you in. "Let me go, Satoru," you snarl one more time, trying your best to keep your desperation in the cloth you've wrapped it in, not letting its pus leak into your words, "Let go of me, now. Satoru. Or, I swear— Gojo!!"

"Sweetness."

Some other reality and you think you might find this enticing. Loving, even, if you're being particularly, delusionally sappy then.

Yet, in this reality, in this moment, as you find yourself on the edge of the bed, legs hanging off it whilst your husband traps the rest of your body beneath him, one good foot between him and your supine form — and he calls you that horrid nickname with that horrid smile– as if you're sweet like those kikufuku mochis he loves eating– and not the most sour, the most salty, the most bitter person he has ever met—

You let the fight seep from yourself into the horrible rose-scented air of the room, wretched wails clawing out instead of growls and snarls.

"I can't do this anymore, Satoru," you sob, chest heaving beneath the bodice of your gown, the pearl necklace snug on your skin stifling, "It is just so difficult— This world. This life. Everything is so fucking very difficult. And confusing. And demanding. And difficult— I cannot do- I cannot live this way with the entire world's eyes trained on me," you cry out; the stinging in your eyes, in your throat, in your soul growing worse with every other word you utter, "I simply cannot live with my–"

"And what if only my eyes are trained on you?" Satoru interrupts you, mouth set into thin lines; though the concern and affection sparkling in his gaze is unmistakeable, you note, peering up through your thick curtain of tears and emotions— being close friends since you were a pair of kids learning to read and write, does have its perks after all —

"Tell me, sweetness," A finger hooks under your chin to lift it up; your suffocating pearl necklace comes off within the next instant– "What if I told you, proved to you: you don't need to worry yourself with any person; anyone, anywhere, anytime in your life; not when they aren't a part of your world—" A sturdy arm hooks under your back this time, lifting you with ease off the bed, until you're in your husband's strong grip: loose to not give you any degree of discomfort yet tight enough for you to be assured he won't be dropping you—

You wrap your arms gingerly round his neck. He asks, dropping his voice to the lowest, to the gravest you've ever heard him, "What if I showed you, your world can consist only of us— only you and me— will you..."

He trails off suddenly, gaze darting to the side before it returns to you again— it's burning. Burning, burning, burning – Stoking a fire in your nerves, in your veins, in the pit of your lower belly, perhaps in the area nether to it too— Your husband's lips curve in the gentlest shape ever seen on him, quite betraying or, maybe, complimenting the hints and clues of that something, evident from the way his fingers flex on your back for the tiniest moment or the way the shadows of the night shift and morph in the brilliance of his gaze—

"You wanna prove to me w-whatever you said right now," you state in what Satoru calls your 'weather-reporter' voice. A brow rises before it returns to its place again– the man addressed nods. Solemn. Certain.

The muscles in your shoulders relax, opposing the muscles tautening elsewhere in your body– not from fear, no. Perhaps from anticipation, you reckon. Or, maybe it is from fear– except it isn't a fear of the man in front of you— The Strongest Sorcerer, capable of turning anything and everything, anyone and everyone, into dust if he so wishes to—

Except he doesn't. Never has. Not without a solid good reason— Oh, this sweet, sweet man— For once in your life, you decide not to stay dwelling on your thoughts, on your twisted, sick, pathetic mind— all for the sake of your husband, him looking at you as if you really are a delectable mochi he wants to devour.

Oh, what a sweet fool your husband is, isn't he?

Moving your hands from where they were resting on his nape to your front, wedging into the little space between Satoru's and your bodies, you inquire, choosing your words soft yet solemn, "And... are you sure you wanna do this tonight? That you won't be regretting—"

"I can do this tonight and every other night," Satoru replies, without letting you complete your query. Then grins, loads like that shy boy, you remember, attempting to befriend you with a pebble– blue and white and blue, years back when you still pronounced 'star' as 'tar'.

You let your palms face away from your chest to rest on his— still, so warm and uncovered from the shower he took— still so, so open and vulnerable to you, in spite of the slashes and gashes dear friends like you, like that damn boy, have only ever given him— He asks, "Do you wanna let me do this?"

A slow yet sure nod is the only thing you manage to offer him in reply.

That slow yet sure nod's also the only thing remaining crystal-clear in your mind— besides, obviously—

Those kisses, so shaky yet so fiery, pressed onto your lips, your chin, the hollow of your neck, the valley between your breasts, down down down, until they reached your thighs— And they grew less of adoring and more of wanting– with muffled moans and withheld whimpers— your lips constantly forming the syllables of your husband's name, as the man himself suckled purple splotches of his desire onto the flesh out there— Besides, obviously—

The sharp gasp of breath your husband made when he tasted you for the first time and you felt shame flood every nook and cranny of your naked body — how the gown or the lingerie were removed from your torso, you've no clue...—before the shame swelled into something far different, far pleasurable, with every lick, every nibble, every hum and every groan muffled into your sensitive tissue and bundle of nerves— steady in the beginning but rapidly growing in intensity, frequency or must you say ferocity, with every moment he spends with his head in between your legs—

And you came. Embarrassed. Ecstatic. Experiencing everything lying on the spectrum between them. Onto his waiting tongue, over his—

"Ah! S-Satoru–"

You're ripped back to the present by the feel of him entering you.

The stretch hurts— as much as you've read in books, as much as you have been told in extremely discreet terms by the older women in the clan— but never once has this feeling been described to you to be- so fucking perfect, so fucking right— as the one flooding your senses in this very instant—

Two blue eyes lift from where they were squeezed close against your forehead, slick with the sheen of sweat, blinking down at you with so much care, you think you may burst from how much of it you note in them hues— the dams holding your tears back sure do, increasing in the degree they allow your emotions gush out, courtesy of the palms mapping your flushed cheeks, caressing your flushed cheeks, almost as if you're some porcelain doll.

"Hey, hey, hey," Satoru croons, pausing himself entirely– despite the toll it takes on him, visible from the way his face scrunches for a tiny moment before wrinkling into lines of worry and apology again– "It's hurting, isn't it?" he asks, then lowers his voice to a whisper, directed more at himself than at you if its rambling quality is anything. "Fuck," he curses, removing his palms from your face, and curling them into tight fists on either side of your face, "This was my first time. And I— I, I know I should have been more careful, still I went and fucked up–"

"Satoru," you say, blinking your tears away, splaying your fingers onto the smooth planes of his cheeks, hoping he'll quieten on noticing the small smile on your lips.

"– caused you pain, oh fucking hell–"

When is he going to shut up?

"Satoru," you try again, tone growing more insistent than the previous time, fingers moving up to scratch the backside of his ears — to trace the shell of his ears.

"– I was so fucking ignorant, selfish–"

Is he ever going to shut up?

"'Toru!" you exclaim with a mild tug on his hair. That seems to be your trick in shutting him up— though you don't miss the way the muscles in his arms flex nor the way his fists grow tighter at your action. Smile widening on your lips, watching him train every bit of his attention on you, and only you; you pull him down for a small kiss— a desperation you've been trying to ignore for a while now– blooming in the motion of your mouth against his, with his—

Perhaps, from the way you hate him blaming himself for doing totally nothing wrong. Perhaps, from the way you detest the lack of friction, his irrational rambling has created down there where you want it, you need it the most— Perhaps, from a mix of both these reasons.

Removing yourself a touch from him, you whine into the plushness of his lips, breathless, dizzy, needy, "Move, Satoru. I think I can take it— Oh, that's it, Satoru," your words taper off into a breathy sigh, "F-fuck—"

In retrospect, you reckon you'll be mortified, probably to death, when you'll let your mind drift back to tonight's events in the future– to how messy you sound with your moans, how messy you possibly look with your makeup smudged from tears and sweat— yet, now— in this very second, you deem you're having the best time of your life.

With Satoru's constant grunts and moans of "Fuck, you're taking me so well, sweetness" and incessant chants of "This– you, you're mine– only mine, as I'm yours"— With him drowning your skin in long, lavish kisses and suckles— With him toying with your hardened nipples and giving your breasts a deliciously painful squeeze—

But, mostly, with the way your husband fits you– so snug, so tight, so warm– every drag of his hip against yours sending a jolt of electricity through your nerves, making your heels dig deeper into his back, and your hold tighter round him, nails raking across his undercut, eliciting a pleased groan from him– though, they're no match for those noises you make when he hits that spot inside, again and again and again, a rapidly growing precision in every next thrust—

"'T-Toru– I'm close- sooo close," you whimper, nuzzling your nose into his neck, breathing in his scent— musky, sweaty, sultry— "Just a little more, sweetness," Satoru begs, keeping an arm beneath your back to pull you even closer to himself— as if that is possible anymore— "You are squeezing me so well— oh fuck."

Your walls clench round him particularly tightly, signalling to you that you're indeed very, very close— despite the haze of pleasure steadily building over your gaze, you wear a fond smile at the half-lidded look he pins on you, his mouth hanging open, whilst his palm presses into your lower back. Subtly trembling, yet so anchoring.

You decide this is your new favourite look of The Six Eyes, the former being the staggered look he gives your smug grin whenever you best him in a fight.

He really is sweet, isn't he?

Another moan permeates into the air, into your thoughts, punctuated by your husband brushing his lips with yours. They are soft— as does every other facet of him feel to you. Movements growing sloppier yet faster, he heaves a husky sigh into your ear, teeth grazing its shell.

"You're really perfect, y'know," he all but whines with a rather dragged out snap of his hips with yours— Eyes fluttering close from the action tightening the coil in your lower belly, you force out a weak chuckle. "I know that I'm per— Oh Sato— mmph!"

Your climax hits you.

Hard, harsh and unforgiving— the wave of euphoria it wreaks through your body is, streaking your vision with nonsensical streaks of colours and cloaking your ears with a deafening ringing— your only tether the soft pair of lips gently coaxing you to dance with it to a melody you've never heard— but hope can hear and learn in the years left in your life— until you're back in the large bed of your hotel room, body sore and and tingling, but in a pretty satisfied and happy way— at least, till you notice your husband scooting away from you to the edge of the bed.

Wha–How–When did he get from being inside you to there—

"Hey, no!" you protest, dragging him down to lie on top of you. Satoru looks at you, shock evident in the way he slowly blinks— You plaster a mighty frown on yourself, asking him, worried, "Where are you going? You haven't fini—"

"But I have finished," your husband answers your incomplete ask with a frown to match yours— before a confused moment passes and you find his frown slowly melt away into a million-watt beam, him asking, "Didn't you feel me come too then, sweetness? Or, did I give you that good an orgasm that you were numb to everything else then, huh?"

Embarrassment flushes through your body at your husband's teasing remark. Ignoring it, you clear your throat to hum back with a smile, "I guess that was the case, yeah. You were really nice tonight— thanks." Then add, watching him open his mouth, the familiar gloom of regret threatening to dim his happiness, "And don't worry about then— I too— This was my first time too, and, um," you wish you could look away for a beat to regain your composure but the sparkles gleaming in the blue eyes gazing at you, are so magnetic— you continue with a laugh, sheepish, staring back at him, "I might have overreacted to the pain."

Whatever chuckle you were expecting never comes; rather, a tender kiss arrives on each of your eyelids, and on the tip of your nose. Your lips part in a content smile, widening on hearing the query sent your way.

"And was I just as great at proving to you what I promised to, huh?"

Your mind races back to then— the dark hollow plaguing you before he arrived. You pull it back to now— the radiance of your husband in every minute portion of your soul, filling it with a cosiness you know only he can impart to you.

"You so were," you're quick to hum back your agreement, paired with a peck to his lips, as he positions himself to lie comfortably atop you. He's quite a bit heavy, what with being so buff and tall– but you think you don't really mind it— not when he's incomparably better than the weighted blankets you've always liked sleeping with.

A hand rises to card through your tangled hairstyle, separating every strand from the other, carefully and gently— you wonder if he knows he does the same to your tangled thoughts too, unknotting them via few select words and few select gestures—

"You've the 'philosopher' face on," your husband's entertained remark interrupts your cloud of thoughts– you drag your eyes from that scar in his throat– one which never fails to throttle whatever sense of safe you might've developed– to the hues before, far more gleaming than the sapphires sitting on your fourth finger can ever be—

Satoru smiles. That annoying, understanding, endearing smile of his, which only serves to show just how much he has been forced by life to be matured. And murmurs.

"We're really equals in this partnership, y'know? You can always share with me whatev—"

"Is it wrong of me to compare you to fire and me to air?"

Your simple question catches The Strongest Sorcerer off-guard- you gather from the way his eyes widen and his heartbeat stutters a little over the bare flushed skin of your chest— you wonder if you must be happy at this silly victory or be worried, you have such a hold on him—

Something tells you, he won't mind either one of them — taking each into stride with a pitiful pout or a cheerful chuckle — the exact same way letting your inquiry settle into him, he responds with a grin in too short a span of time.

"Nope! Not at all!" Satoru exclaims, grin growing and digging dimples into his cheeks. "Obviously I'm fire! Have you seen me? I'm so fucking sizzling hot!" Despite the fondness swelling in your heart, you make a big show of rolling your eyes and moving to scoff — except that scoff remains lodged in your throat and gets swallowed by a gasp of shock as you find yourself being flipped over, so that it's you who is lying on the top now.

Grin growing freer and truer, your husband pulls you impossibly close to himself – so much so that the bounderies separating you from him begin to blur in your eyes; and resumes—

"And you, sweetness, of course, are air– without whose 21% oxygen, the fire cannot even be ignited in the first place."

I do not own the characters or the image used. Divider is by @cafekitsune. Please do not plagiarize or translate or repost this. Hope you enjoyed reading this! 😊

Please interact with This Post to be added to the series taglist! ❤️

Masterlist

SINCE THIS IS AN EXPLICIT FIC, I'M NOT TAGGING MY USUAL TAGLIST. INSTEAD, I WANNA MENTION FEW PPL [TAKING A LEAF OUT OF UR BOOK, SEL]— WHO HV SHOWN AN INTEREST IN THIS FIC WHILE IT WAS BEING WRITTEN, & HAVE ALSO ENCOURAGED AND MOTIVATED ME LOADS!! TYYY SM U AWESOME PPL!!!! 🥰🥰 [AND ALSO TO U, DEAR READER, FOR REACHING THE FOOTNOTES OF THE FIC!!]

TAGLIST: @moniheartz, @shotorus, @sukunassuka, @ancient-vivarium, @saenora, @avatarofstars!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ [THERE ARE MANY OTHERS TOO, WHO HV LIKED MY RAMBLING POSTS– I PROMISE I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN Y'ALL. ILYSM 😭😭😭]

[honey-minded-hivemind]

💿Reboot AU, Post One, Patient is the Night:

• The breeze is colder than you expected it to be today. It nips at your skin, at your nose, at your cheeks, at your eyes. It stings, as though someone tossed ice on you. But you keep going, taking the old cracked sidewalk to get to your destination.

• It's an old building, with many windows showing off antique tea sets and plates, Christmas trees and baubles, old lamps and costume jewelry, and different paintings and old furniture and knick knacks. The place has been there for as long as you can remember, with its dark green, chipped doors, it's slanted entrance, and it's lack of heating and air conditioning. The old place, the Bay Antique and Flea Market, has three floors: the ground floor, the basement, and the top floor. And inside are booths upon booths, with almost anything imaginable. It also happens happens be where you work.

• Entering the old building causes the bell above the door to ring, and you're greeted by a tired co-worker, who waves you off, letting you go to your section of the antique store. You pass many items, mostly old and vintage, only a few new things sticking out here and there in bright, mismatched colors. There's the large glass display case featuring silver spoons, different large and jeweled rings, mannequin parts displaying necklaces and bracelets on their black velvet shapes, and thimbles and cups and rare toys in protective casing. As you pass that, you slip by the clothing section, full of expensive old fur shawls and coats, old prom dresses as far back as the 60s, feathered and ostentatious hats, pointed heels, and old bows and ribbons and brooches. You turn sharply to the left, wea ing between large oak drawers and stained glass lamps, past the old porcelain cups and mugs and glass goblete and retro kitchen items, further past the fake fruits and oil paintings and old rocking horse, and then you reach the old metal stairs.

• You descend, gripping the middle railing as you go down, reaching the next set of stairs, taking the right set, and then you're in the basement area. Where the ground floor smelled of coffee and leather and old metal, down here smells like mothballs, dust, and old book pages. In the farthest room is a whole book section, with children's books from different decades, science and history and algebra books for homeschooling, ABC and Spanish and hymnals, even old Bibles and trashy romance novels. Next to that section are old costumes and skirts and dresses, donated by older teachers and grandparents and old theaters. You loop through the section, moving quickly past the football team mascot merch and old soda bottles and creepy dolls, and into a section you quite enjoy, amd where you usually stay: the Marvel section.

• You pop your back, then get to work. You start unpacking old comics, each in protective plastic, and categorize them into their appropriate sections. After that you're putting up random T-shirts, with different phrases or characters or motifs on them, from Disney to Deadpool to even chibi Avengers. Once that's over with, you sit down, taking a small break.

• That's when you notice the box

• It's on the display case/desk, worn and dented, with no address or writing, besides being addressed to someone that sounds like some odd hero or villain name. You feel a little put off by it, but with careful hands, you peel back the flaps...

• Huh. There are a few DVD cases, depicting different teenage and adult characters, with some title that includes X-Men. You feel puzzled looking it over, checking the cases and DVDs for damage, but oddly find none, not even a scratch on any of the discs or chipped plastic on the cases. You take a closer look at the title...

• X-Men: Evolution... except when you peer closer, it says by it "the Rebooted Series". Hmmm... You go through your thoughts, trying to think of what you know about any X-Men or Marvek media, but come up short. Huh. So. This could be an old series, one that became lost media. Or could be a fake version. Or it might even just be a prank by some dumb teenager. Well... You're curious, and you could use a good thing, so with that decided, you set up the old TV in your section.

• It takes a few tries, but you figure out the remote, soon turning on the old screen and setting it to AV. You open the case labeled as the first season, and take out the first disc... You shiver, feeling a purckling sensation along your back... but you shake it off, inserting the disc, then press the play button... The screen flickers, a small pop of static, then it sends you to the main menu... You hum lightly, pressing the play all option, and soon it winks out... And then it opens to the first episode, and you breathe out a sigh.

• You watch the first few episodes, enjoying the designs of each character, puzzling over undertones that there are secrets being kept, watching the teams form and dynamics be made, and you grin, a tired, warm tilt of your lips and a settled look in your eyes. It's a comfort, somehow, seeing the adult X-Men and Brotherhood members acting like odd mentors and parents, seeing the teens become friends and teammates, seeing the difference abilities and powers that bring them together... You find yourself feeling calmer somehow, and you soend the next few hours finishing the first season...

• You added a bit of commentary as you watched, and you tilted your head when the characters seemed to pause from time to time, or mentioned they were missing someone, or asked seemingly no one if they were watching, if they heard them, if they could remember what had happened... you feel a deep sadness at that, wondering who they're trying to reach, and what could possibly be wrong...

• Your dream is fuzzy around the edges, dark, as though blurred, but by what you don't know... something is speaking to you, or whoever you're supposed to be... they aren't kind, but your head can't remember what they're saying, it can't focus on what's happening... you feel pain, filling your veins then filling your heart and then filling your mind, drowning you under deep agony... there's a bright light, there's a sharp jolt through your chest, and then everything go numbs, voices settling, darkness swallowing everything whole...

• You jump, waking up. There's no one there... Your head feels weird, thick and groggy, as you struggle back to wakefulness. You can hear the muted voices from the TV, and let out a small breath. You're okay... You're fine... It's just a nightmare, it's just a dream, it can't hurt you...

• You look back at the screen, noting how the characters seemed to stare back for a moment... before resuming their conversation, a few sounding concerned while you started waking up.

• "-not okay, how do we know it's safe-" "-if we don't try now, we won't get another chance-!" "-settle down, please-" "-shhhhh, you woke them up!" "-remind them-" "-miss them-" "-it vill be okay, guys, it has to be-"

• You groan slightly, pulling yourself up to your full height. Your shoulders roll back, firm and strong, amd your legs carry you over to a small mini fridge. You squat down, yawning a little, and pick out a cold coffee. You pop back up, heading back to your seat, and take a minute to down your drink. Your sweater is soft, in a warm shade of brown, and your jeans are a dark gray. Your boots, short bit sporting heels, click together lightly as you bounce your leg a little to help you wake up. You finger your left ear a little, noting your three earrings are still there: a trio of dangling moonstones; a thin silver hoop; and a dark black stud, twinkling like a star. You rub at your eyes, then you're back to being awake.

• You look back at the screen, noting the characters are all getting ready for bed now, and you yawn. They have the right idea... You watch as the episode is finished, and soon the first season is done. You stretch as you get up, then stride over to the TV, popping out the disc, then setting it back in its case. You wander over to the worn box they came in, and sift through the remaining cases...

• There's at least... five, if not six, seasons... And while you really would like to start the second season right away... you think maybe taking a nap would be a good idea...

• "Night, guys... See ya in the morning..."

• As you lay your head back down, pillowing it on your arms, you think you almost hear something... but you're soon winking out, too tired to stay awake a second longer...

• "Night, Reader... we miss you..."

• The screen flickers once, twice... and then it fades out, a quick flash of eyes watching the sleeping teen, before it disappears...

@sugar-soda @vivid-bun @danni1323 @weebwholovesuchihasasuke @thewickedweiner @opossumdaydreamz @ainsellshadewalker @c0ld0utside (Welcome to 💿Reboot AU...)

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Darkness Declares Glory | Chapter 21 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - after another bad dream and an altercation with Luke, Spencer shuts down completely and his rehabilitation gets put on hold. You receive a phone call and before you know it you’re pulled right into the thick of it.

A/N - I did some research on catatonic states and some people have reported they were completely aware of what was going on around them and understood what was happening but couldn’t get themselves to move/speak.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - dark angst | smut | eventual happy ending.

Warnings - mentions of reader x Luke in a dream, vague mentions of penetrative sex and handjobs, gun violence, swearing, Spencer’s paranoia, incontinence, catatonic states, medication, mentions of major depressive disorder.

WC - 5k

Chapter 21 - Leave it All Behind

When he opened his eyes he was standing outside a very familiar door. He blinked a few times trying to ascertain how he’d found his way here. But before he gave himself time to think it through, he was reaching for the handle and letting himself inside. 

His apartment was in a state of disarray, the way he remembered leaving it. A destructive trail of torn books, broken porcelain and clothes led from the front door to the bullet ridden couch. His gun was sitting on the coffee table. 

He approached it, popped open the chamber and discovered one bullet nestled inside. He flicked it closed and went to holster it in the back of his slacks but suddenly a sound entered his ears. 

His eyes shot towards the noise, coming from the partially open bedroom door. A soft light emanated from the room, but it was the sounds that were particularly disconcerting. 

He gripped the firearm, pointing it in front of him as he took a few cautious steps towards the room. The closer he got, the more he was able to discern what the noises were. 

Heavy pants and soft moans carried between the crack in the door. Spencer’s stomach coiled into thick knots and his grip tightened on the gun. He crept up to the door and pushed it open with a shaky hand. 

There you were on the bed, his bed. Your naked body was on top, head back and mouth open as another pleasurable moan left your lips. Strong hands gripped your hips to steady you as you moved on top of the other body you were obscuring. 

Gun still poised, Spencer moved around the bed to get a better view of the person beneath you and his blood turned to ice in his veins at the sight of the dark hair against his pillow and strong frame laying on his mattress. 

Luke Alvez had his eyes closed, moaning and panting as you rode him. His fingers were digging into your sides, firm chest heaving with his breaths. Your breasts bounced in that magnificent way he remembered so well. But not for Luke, this wasn’t right. 

“Aye, cariño that feels so good.” He moaned, his grip tightening on you. 

“Oh god, Luke!” You practically screamed. 

Spencer’s hand trembled as he raised the gun, pointing the barrel towards Luke’s face which was contorted in pleasure. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Spencer growled, forcing Luke’s eyes to open and your gaze to land on him.

“Oh, hey Spence.” You smiled, continuing to move up and down on Luke. 

“Just give a sec, Reid. We’re almost done. Are you close, angel?” Luke panted, neither of you seemingly noticing he was holding a weapon.

“So close.” 

“You don’t get to call her that!” Spencer spat, proffering the gun closer to Luke before turning to you and grabbing your shoulder. “Get off of him.” 

Spencer yanked you forcibly until you fell to the bed next to Luke. You glared at him with a frown while Luke shook his head. 

“What are you doing?” You grumbled in frustration. 

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” Spencer turned the gun on you but again you didn’t seem to notice.

“I was kinda doing Luke. I thought that was obvious.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Come here, angel. Ignore him.” Luke moved you back by your shoulders and quickly attached his lips to yours. 

You rolled back on top of him as you kissed him, hands running through Luke’s messy hair. 

“Don’t call her that!” Spencer yelled. “And get off of her!” 

He grabbed you by the shoulder again, pulling you off of Luke once more and you looked at him in impatience and annoyance.

“I don’t belong to you, Spencer.” You spat. “Luke is a good guy. He’s not a junkie like you. We’re going to be together whether you like it or not.”

“Get over it, Reid. You had your chance.” Luke scoffed. 

“I swear to god if you touch her again I will kill you.” He held the gun closer to Luke but Luke simply chuckled. 

“Or you could do us all a favour and turn that on yourself.” Luke smirked.

“Nobody cares about you Spencer. We’d all be better off if you were dead.” You clucked in agreement.

Spencer softened, his poised hand faltering and his arm holding the gun dropped to his side.

“What? Don’t say that.” He croaked, looking at you sadly. 

“It’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” You shrugged, Luke’s arm snaking around your waist. 

“Of course it isn’t.” His lip quivered. 

“Spencer, man, listen.” Luke pulled an unamused face. “You’re seriously cock blocking me right now, so can we do this another time?” 

“Yeah, I’d really like to finish what we started here.” You giggled and Spencer noticed one of your hands dipping beneath the bed sheet. 

Luke’s eyes soon rolled shut and he moaned as your hand started moving up and down beneath the sheet. 

“Fuck that feels good, Y/N. Don’t stop.” He pulled you closer and kissed you again.

“Not gonna stop, not gonna stop until you come, Luke.” You mumbled against his lips. 

Spencer clenched his jaw, raising his arm again as he moved closer to the bed. He pressed the muzzle of the gun to Luke’s temple but the older man didn’t seem to feel it. 

“Stop this right now or I will shoot your fucking brains out.” He growled, finger coiling around the trigger.

“Angel, I’m so fucking close.” Luke muttered to you, as if not hearing Spencer. 

“Come for me, Luke.” You replied and Spencer noticed your movement beneath the sheet growing more rigorous. 

Pushing the muzzle firmly against the side of Luke’s face, his finger tightened around the trigger until he pulled it all the way back. The gun clicked but no bullet fired. 

He frowned, pulling the trigger five more times in quick succession but still nothing happened. There were six chambers, one bullet. Something should have happened. Lost in his confusion, he didn’t notice Luke now looking at him and soon it was too late as he found the weapon being plucked from his grasp. Luke sat up and turned the weapon on him. 

“You asked for this.” He cocked the gun, a menacing smile on his lips. “Goodbye, Spencer.” 

“Enjoy eternal nothingness.” You laughed.

Then Luke pulled the trigger and Spencer registered a loud bang and a flash of light before he was sent flying by a bullet entering in the centre of his forehead. 

And he swore as he took his final breath he heard you both laughing. 

***

Despite his revelation of wanting to get help for the sake of his friends, in the morning light, Spencer felt very different about the situation. Maybe it was the extremely vivid dream he’d had that had left him in a particularly argumentative mood, or maybe it was because he’d do just about anything for a hit right now. Either way, he felt especially belligerent this morning. 

The last person he wanted to see was Luke, so when the door to his hospital room opened and the older man walked in, Spencer rolled his eyes and looked away from him. 

“Look,” Luke spoke as soon as the door was closed behind him. “I’m not going to apologise for the things I said yesterday. I am sorry for how I said them, but I stand by what I said. They were things you needed to hear.” 

“Whatever.” Spencer huffed like a child and folded his arms across his chest, staring at the wall. 

“The doctor is going to assess you today and with any luck we’ll be able to drive you up to Virginia this afternoon.” Luke continued despite Spencer’s lack of attention. 

Suddenly his eyes tore off the wall and landed on him and Luke could feel the rage spilling out of them, directed solely at him. 

“Are you sleeping with her?” He barked angrily. 

“With who?” Luke frowned in confusion. 

“Y/N.” Spencer spat like it was obvious, causing Luke to start laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re making a joke, right?” Luke chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I most certainly am not.” Spencer huffed again. 

Luke curbed his laughter and frowned again at Spencer’s accusation. 

“You think I’m…I went to visit her twice. I’m just being friendly.” Luke sounded incredulous. 

“How friendly exactly?” 

“Jesus Christ.” Luke groaned. “I am not sleeping with Y/N. I can’t even believe you’d think that.” 

“It’s why you want to have me committed right? To get me out of the way so you can have her all to yourself.” 

“Spencer,” Luke softened. “You’re being paranoid.” 

“Am not.” He pouted. 

“Yes man, you are. Y/N needs a friend, I thought I was doing you both a favour. But it’s going to piss you off, I won’t see her again.” Luke wasn’t sure that was strictly true. He could easily see you without telling Spencer. But he wanted to placate the younger man. 

“Do what you want.” Spencer grumbled. “I don’t give a shit.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Luke replied sarcastically. “So on a scale of one to ten, how difficult are you gonna make this assessment?” 

Spencer swallowed, glancing out of the window. It was at that moment he realised all of his fight had left his body. He didn’t feel belligerent or defiant anymore, he didn’t even care if Luke was sleeping with you. 

At that precise moment, Spencer was simply done. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore, whether he stayed in this bed for the rest of his life, whether he was allowed to go home and get high or whether he was committed to a padded room; he truly felt indifferent. 

Still looking out the window he shuffled down the pillows and pulled the sheet up to his neck, wrapping his arms tightly around his body. When he spoke, he sounded so unlike himself it actually scared Luke. 

“I’m not fighting anymore.” He grumbled, voice barely above a whisper. “Do what you want with me. Leave me here to die, send me to Virginia, I don’t care anymore.” 

“You don’t care?” Luke frowned. 

“No.” Spencer shook his head limply. “I’d like to sleep now, please see yourself out.” 

Luke wanted to argue with him because this seemed so out of character for Spencer as of late. The Spencer he’d come to know would fight anyone on anything. And it scared him more than anything. 

But he decided against it, thinking it was best to just leave him alone for the time being. He’d come back later and hopefully Spencer would at least discuss this with him. 

But what Luke didn’t realise was that they were the last words he would hear Spencer speak for a long time. 

***

“Spencer? Spencer, can you hear me?” 

Spencer blinked a couple of times, eyes glazed over as he looked over their shoulder. 

“Spencer? Spencer!” She waved her hand in front of his face and he blinked a few more times. 

“He’s been like it since the morning.” Luke’s voice met his ears. “He won’t speak, hasn’t even moved.” 

“What happened? He was fine yesterday.” She tore her eyes off Spencer and looked over at Luke.

“I spoke to him this morning. The last thing he said was that he wasn’t fighting it anymore and that he didn’t care what we did with him. And then he told me to leave, so I did.” Luke shrugged at her. 

“It’s like he’s in a trance.” She looked back at him, he was still staring at the same spot on the wall. 

“I think it’s more serious than that.” Luke swallowed. “You smell that?” 

JJ narrowed her eyes and honed into her sense of smell. It took a few seconds of serious concentration before the unmistakable stench reached her nose and she grimaced. 

“Is that…?”

“Urine.” Luke nodded. “I think he’s fallen into a catatonic state, JJ.” 

“No.” She shook her head, turning back to Spencer. “Spence, it’s me, JJ. Please look at me.” 

She placed her hand on his shoulder and tried to stand in his line of sight but even when she did it felt like Spencer was looking through her. He didn’t move aside from the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

“This can’t be happening.” JJ shook her head. “After everything he’s already been through, this cannot be happening to him.” 

“We should get the doctor.” Luke sighed. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Spence, talk to me please? Please, Spence, I need to hear your voice.” She shook him by the shoulder a little but he showed no signs of even noticing she was doing so. 

Luke sighed again and slipped from the room, meeting the faces of the rest of his team members in the corridor. 

“Way to monopolise boy wonder’s time, Newbie.” Garcia rolled her eyes as he stepped out of the room. 

She got to her feet and went to head inside to join JJ, he was only permitted two visitors at any one time. Luke raised his arm and stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He croaked, causing everyone to look at him in confusion.

“Why not?” She huffed indignantly. 

“He’s not himself.” Luke swallowed. “He’s not talking, won’t move or even look at anyone. And I’m fairly certain he’s, uh, soiled himself.” 

“What?” Rossi frowned deeply. “That sounds like…”

“Catatonia.” Tara finished for him. 

“That’s what I thought.” Luke nodded. “I was gonna go find his doctor.” 

“Jeez, it’s never ending.” Emily sighed. 

“People wake up from catatonic states all the time.” Matt tried to encourage. 

“People also don’t wake up from them a lot.” Luke looked at the floor. 

“Luke, go find his doctor.” Emily went into unit chief mode. “Garcia, talk to him.”

“Aye aye boss.” Garcia replied without her usual bounce to her voice. 

Luke and Garcia went their separate ways while the rest of them exchanged concerned looks and quietly wondered what this would mean for their friend. 

***

“Spence?” Tara sat on the edge of his bed stroking his messy hair back from his face a few hours later. “Spence, the doctor said you should be able to hear us so just know that we’re here ok? All of us are here.” 

“You’re in a catatonic state, kid.” Rossi added. “The doctor is going to monitor you and if you don’t snap out of it he’s got some medication to try.” 

“If you can hear us, please give us a sign.” Tara tried again. 

The whole time Spencer stayed frozen still, staring at the wall. He’d been like this with each member of the BAU, no signs of any light behind his eyes or any kind of consciousness. The doctor had examined him and determined him to be suffering from catatonia but hoped that given a day he might be able to rouse himself from it. 

If by tomorrow he was still like this, he would administer a dose of lorazepam, a sedative which would slow the brain and body and relax his muscles. Lorazepam had a good success rate for breaking patients out of such states. There were more drastic measures that could be taken if it didn’t work, but he didn’t want to worry Spencer’s friends with that for now. 

“If this is just an elaborate way to get out of rehab, I’m almost impressed.” Rossi tried to joke but yet again Spencer didn’t move. 

***

Please, please someone do something. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard. Please, help me.

“Doctor Reid, I’m going to administer the lorazepam now, ok?” His doctor hovered at one side and on the other he was mildly aware someone else was standing. 

Yes, please. Please do something. Anything. Please. 

Spencer Reid felt like a prisoner inside his own body. When he tried to move his limbs they felt like they were made of rubber. When he tried to speak no words would come out. 

He’d been aware of everything happening around him for the past two days, his old team members visiting, trying to talk to him, his doctor running tests and trying to wake him from this nightmare. 

He felt the pinch of the needle in his arm but didn’t register the pain. He laid there frozen like he had for two days, unable to do anything except scream inside his own mind. 

What is happening to me? Why is this happening? Goddamn drugs have fried my brain. What have I done?

Am I dying? Is this really how it’s going to end? Would anyone even notice if I did die? I’m barely alive as it is. 

The doctor injected the medication and stood back up, looking across Spencer’s bed. Spencer wanted to look and see who it was standing there but he couldn’t get his head to cooperate with him. 

“How long will it take to kick in?” 

Luke! Luke, can you hear me? Luke?

“Minutes, hours maybe. If he’s still like this tomorrow we’ll try another shot. But if that doesn’t work we’ll have to rethink the course of action.”

“Thanks.” Luke sighed. 

Spencer heard footsteps getting further away and then the door opened and closed. Seconds later it opened again. 

“Now we wait?” Another voice entered his ears. 

Matt? Matt is that you? 

He felt something on his bare arm, something warm and calloused. A hand? Luke’s hand? He couldn’t tell.

“Pretty much.” Luke sounded exhausted. 

“It’s gonna work. It got to work.” Matt spoke again but Spencer couldn’t see him. 

“I’m not going to hold my breath.” Luke’s hand moved down Spencer’s arm until his fingers were circling his wrist. 

Spencer felt his arm being lifted from the bed and then suddenly Luke’s hand vanished and Spencer’s arm flopped back to the mattress.

What was that for? 

“Nothing.” Luke sighed again. 

Oh my gosh is this my life now? Am I going to die like this? Or worse, am I going to continue living like this? No, no snap out of it Spencer, say something or move your damn arm. Move anything! Am I blinking? My eyes are sore, fuck I’m not even blinking. 

He could feel his heart start to pound as the fear set in. What if he never woke up from this? What if he spent the rest of his life in this paralysis while the world continued to move around him? 

“You see that?” Matt’s voice entered his ears again.

See what? 

“Yeah.” Luke agreed.

What? What is it? 

“His heart is racing.” Matt swallowed. “Spencer, can you hear me?” 

Yes! Yes, I can hear you! Please, do something Matt? There has to be something you can do. 

“I know the doctor said he could but I don’t think he can.” Luke shook his head.

I can! Luke, I can hear you! Fuck, need to move, need to speak. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Catatonia is heavily associated with schizophrenia. I’m too old to have my first break, aren’t I? No can’t be that. Just can’t be. Think Spencer, think. Just fucking think. 

“I overheard him talking to Emily,” Matt spoke up again. “He thinks it could be a symptom of his MDD?” 

Yes Matt, that’s it! I have major depressive disorder. Catatonia is often related to that. 

“It could be. Or excessive drug use. Or both.” Luke sighed yet again. “How can he even be comfortable?” 

What? Why, what am I doing? Why wouldn’t I be comfortable? Tell me, Luke, I don’t understand. 

“Garcia said it’s a symptom of catatonia. Holding weird positions.” 

Weird positions? What am I doing? Someone tell me! 

Spencer couldn’t feel his extremities and as such couldn’t tell that he had his left leg pulled up to his chest while his right dangled off of the edge of the bed. His left arm was slung above his head on the pillow, he looked almost like he was practising a dance. 

Someone please do something, I can’t live like this. 

A knock sounded at the door and Spencer tried to force his eyes in the direction of it but they wouldn’t budge. 

“Can we see him?” A whispered female voice entered the room. 

“Sure.” Luke responded.

Who is it? What’s going on?” 

A few sets of footsteps and some shuffling followed before he felt another hand on his knee that was pulled up to his chest.

“I’m going to try and move him.” 

Jennifer? JJ is that you? 

“Ok.” 

Garcia? Garcia please!

He didn’t feel JJ pulling his leg down and straightening it out on the mattress. He also didn’t feel her tuck his other leg back under the sheet. He also didn’t register Garcia gently moving his arm from its position on the pillow down to his side. 

Did you do it? Did I move? What the hell is happening to me? 

“His face.” JJ gasped suddenly, moving into Spencer’s field of vision but he couldn’t quite focus on her. 

What is my face doing? Someone tell me. 

“He’s…is he grimacing?” Garcia moved closer too but he couldn’t see her. 

“Spence, are you in pain? Are you ok?” JJ asked, speaking slowly as if he were an idiot. 

I’m not stupid, Jennifer. Just can’t move. No pain. I don’t think I’m in pain. I’m just so fucking scared. This isn’t how I want to die. Death was supposed to be fast, painless, not like this. Not trapped inside my own body. 

“I’m scared, Jayje.” Penelope mumbled. 

Me too, Garcia. Me too. 

***

Spencer spent all night trying to force his uncooperative limbs to move, while his old team reluctantly went to their homes. 

Just focus. One thing at a time. Just move a goddamn finger or a toe. Do something. 

He focused all of his energy onto one finger, desperate to get it to move, even just a small twitch would be enough to start with. 

Come on, you can do this, don’t fail me now brain, just move. Come on, come on! It’s not that hard! Fucking do something, for the love of god I cannot be confined to this goddamn useless shell for the rest of my life. 

At some point morning must have rolled around but Spencer had still not managed to move a single digit. He was getting so angry he felt like he could burst. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs but no one would hear him. 

I’m going to die like this. Can’t eat. Can’t drink. Can’t even use the fucking bathroom. This is humiliating. 

A kind looking nurse helped him out of his wet, stained sheets and into a wheelchair. She manoeuvred his limbs into a sitting position for him as he couldn’t do it himself. 

Jesus Christ I reek. This is mortifying. What the fuck is wrong with me? 

He stared off into the distance, unable to focus on the nurse but he could just about ascertain that she was changing his sheets. She hummed as she did so, periodically chatting away to him as if he could answer her. 

After a while he felt himself moving and could just about comprehend he’d left the confines of his room. He was wheeled down through an extremely bright hallway and the sights and sounds overwhelmed him. 

I am covered in my own piss and shit. This is so demeaning. Everyone is looking at me. Everyone can smell me. Say something, Reid. Tell her to take you back to your room. 

Internally he was screaming, screaming for this nurse to pay him attention but he didn’t even make so much as a squeak. She continued to wheel him to another room where he could only assume he was going to be bathed.

“Doctor Reid, I’m going to clean you up, ok?”

No, no! Leave me alone! Don’t touch me, please? Please don’t take my gown off. For the love of god, please! I can’t be undressed, please don’t do this to me. This is degrading enough, please don’t make it worse. 

But it was no use, he wasn’t making a sound. And all he could do was sit there in turmoil as the nurse stripped him of his hospital gown and helped him into the shower. 

Please god just let me die. Please end this fucking misery. 

He didn’t feel the water falling around him and at some point the sounds of the shower and the nurses humming faded from his ears. Slowly but surely he stopped being conscious of what was going on around him and everything went dark. 

Thank fuck, was the last thought he was aware of. I must finally be dead. 

***

A week went by without another visit from Luke and you were a little downtrodden but you understood that he had his hands full. It was still disappointing to not see him and you worried it was because something had happened to Spencer. 

You spent all your time alone playing with his chip in your hand, as if you might unlock some kind of secret from the thing, like it might hold some sort of hidden key about Spencer’s well being. 

You wanted to use again, you’d told your therapist as much. It was probably the most you’d wanted to relapse since your initial detox. You hated not knowing what was happening to Spencer. What if something really bad had happened and you would never know because Luke didn’t tell you? 

You thought that maybe if something happened to Spencer you’d be able to feel it, you’d know if he was gone, you were sure of it. But you still felt tethered to him in some way, like you could still sense his presence somewhere out there. You tried to cling to that. But you also really wanted to get high. 

When you were informed you had a phone call, you were more or less just as surprised as you had been the first time you received a visitor. You shouldn’t really have been surprised about who was on the other end. 

“Hello?” You cradled the phone, leaning up against the wall in the corridor. 

“Hey Y/N, it’s Luke.” He sounded exhausted. 

“Is everything ok?” You were quick to ask him. 

“Uh, not really.” He sighed. “How would you feel about a day release?” 

It really hadn’t taken a lot for Luke to talk to you into it if truth be told. As soon as he’d explained Spencer’s condition and how the doctor had told them that familiar sounds and smells might help him out of his state you agreed before thinking it through. 

Luke had cleared it with your doctor and he came to collect you the following morning. It was one thing having him visit you but another entirely to be the close quarters of his car, out in the real world after close to five months in the institute. It felt alien to be doing something so normal. It put you on edge.

On the drive Luke went into more detail regarding Spencer’s catatonia. He explained to you that you probably wouldn’t like what you saw, it was a disturbing sight to see him so lifeless but he hoped that your presence would help. You didn’t speak much in response, still feeling incredibly weird about the whole situation. 

They had tried two doses of lorazepam and would try another tomorrow. If that didn’t work to snap him out of his catatonia then the next step would be electroconvulsive therapy. Luke had explained to you that involved the brain being stimulated by electric pulses while Spencer was under general anaesthetic. This would be repeated three times a week until he responded to treatment. You didn’t want to ask what happened if he didn't respond. 

When you reached the hospital you were met by an array of faces who introduced themselves as Spencer’s old team but honestly, you were too overwhelmed to remember all of their names. Penelope stuck in your mind due to her brightly coloured clothes and sunny disposition even given the circumstances. Rossi also stayed with you and the way he’d held you slightly tighter than the others had, whispering his thanks again and again in your ear as he did so. 

It was clear immediately how much Spencer meant to them. All seven of them looked utterly exhausted, a blanket of sadness seemingly wrapping them all up in its clutches. They were trained to keep their emotions at bay but this situation had obviously gotten the better of even the toughest of profilers. It worried you what exactly you would be walking in to. 

“Ready?” Luke turned to you, placing a firm hand on your lower back. 

You had your arms wrapped around yourself, you had done since you’d exited the car. It was a method of coping you’d developed in your time at PIW, simple yet effective. You found the action of holding yourself this way helped to protect you, like an invisible barrier. It helped keep you grounded, tethered to the real world without letting yourself too close to it.

You exhaled through your nose, looking at only Luke and not his team members and you stiffly nodded. Truth be told you would probably never be ready for what awaited you on the other side of that door but you needed to do this; if not for you then for Spencer. You felt like in some kind of weird way that you owed him although you weren’t really sure why. You did know though, that if the tables were turned, he would do the same for you in a heartbeat. 

Luke motioned you towards the door and you took a few steps closer before you realised he wasn’t moving. You turned to him with a few.

“You aren’t coming?” You felt yourself start to panic, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. 

“I think you need to do this on your own.” He offered you a sad half-smile. 

You rolled your lip between your teeth, feeling tears already gathering behind your eyes but you would be damned if you let them fall yet. You took a few deep breaths and nodded with as much confidence as you could muster.

And then you turned to the door and gripped the handle. 

@tiredmilky @thatsonezesty13 @1mechanicalalligator @elle-28 @academiareid

[theloveinc]

SHINSOU MAN, like really makes me feral thinkin like.. mans is SO nervous around you, you've been dating for a little while but hes still scared to breathe too hard around you. You both go to a mutual friends birthday and you're getting a drink for you and your mans, only to come back and he's literally in the middle of a fistfight, the other guy gets him in the jaw and he practically EATS it like its nothing, its only when you grab his white shirt with blood all over it and pull him off the other guy that you find out the guy said something SLIGHTLY disrespectful about you in your dress. And you have to try not to fuck him right there and help him clean the blood off his chin.

Under the awfully-yellow sting of the bathroom's florescent lights, it's the third time in a row you've tried to dab at Shinso's lip with an alcohol soaked cotton ball, trying (but mostly failing) to staunch the flow of blood which continues to pool and crack at the left corner of his mouth.

The split is only one of the two real injuries he came away from the fight with (aside from the potential concussion he might have no matter how fast he recovered from being punched between the eyes), but every time you try to press into the wound and wipe up the mess that was left behind, Shinso leans away as if to weaken the effect of your touch.

"Shinso, let me try. Please,” you beg. "You’ve gotta stop acting like this."

"This?" he finally responds, surprisingly egregious in tone for someone of his usually-very-cool temperament, eyebrows going halfway up his actively-bruising forehead as he snaps his head to face you. The sudden movement causes your hand to go skidding across his cheek, leaving a long red stain straight up to the swollen temple he's currently holding a bag of melting ice against. "The guy said he’d—”

"I know what he said," you cut him off, throwing down the now-soggy puff onto the porcelain countertop as you step back and glare. "I'm talking about the fact you're barely letting me help clean you up."

Shinso rolls his eyes. "You think I asked for help dealing with this?”

“It’s not fair for you to hurt yourself if I’m just meant to sit there and watch. We’re supposed to be dating. Are we?”

"What,” you can tell he’s trying not to raise his voice, especially as you reach out to trace your fingers down his arms, “do you think?"

"Hitoshi," he finally looks at you straight when you say that name, his body instantly going still. “I am being dead serious. Either you were standing up for me, or you just wanted to pick a fight. Which is it?"

If possible, the man's frown deepens even further, though you can feel the way his muscles begins to relax as he tries to calm himself under your touch.

He pauses a minutes to swallow. And to stare. And then, “you,” he finally says, unblinking. "I was doing it for you."

You lean back in finally, tenderly, pulling him into a soft kiss where his lips fit perfectly against yours and the taste of blood the last thing on your mind.

"Good," you pull back, only slightly, near breathless. "So let me help you. At least before I thank you.”

-

(someone get this man some ginseng… sorry i went insane anon!! shinso just makes me a lil wet. I hope this was okay)

[logan-lieutenant]

If you could do 9 and 17 from the dialogue game for loscar it would be amazing (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

I read your another one with sargebon and it's dknfkskdnsjks *explodes from emotions*, please write more🙏🙏🙏

i swear i didn’t mean to write 4.7k, but what did i wake up to this morning? no beta we die like williams public image

here you go loscar nation 💙🧡

“You can’t keep it bottled up forever.”/“Feel better now?”

Pain is temporary.

Pain is irrelevant.

Pain is invalid.

He shouldn’t have been gritting his teeth. The ache in his jaw throngs all the way down his neck, and at some point he’d bitten the side of his tongue. Oscar doesn’t remember that; he just remembers driving, the scream of the engines crowding into one meaningless cacophony, staring down the beam wing in front of him and willing the pain to end.

It didn’t. It hasn’t.

He’d known the first race was going to be bad, but he’d been confident in the adrenaline, the 5.8 kilometers of pure endorphins to keep him above it lap after lap. And it had… sort of.

The pain had spread, though. As the race went on Oscar could imagine the single fracture widening like unraveled thread, jagged edges deepening and shooting outwards until his whole body was cracked porcelain. The pain was sharp, hot, razor-wire wrapped around his chest. It was almost a reprieve to be overtaken, because then the frustration and determination to make up the place would block out everything else for just a moment.

He didn’t finish on the podium, but that was alright. It was Lewis’s moment, and anyway he could barely lift himself out of the car, let alone a crown-shaped trophy.

It was easy to smile and nod his way through the debrief, easy to let Lando do the talking. Lando didn’t know about the break. A lot of the team didn’t know, because it was supposed to be minor, it was supposed to be temporary irrelevant invalid just a little setback. And it would be. He just had to have a little breather first, ice it, give it some time.

It’s almost sunset when he leaves for the car park. He’d spent too long in his driver’s room, slumped against the wall with his shirt off, eyes firmly closed because looking at the bruising made him nauseas. He’d told Kim a little about the situation, told him he’d call if it got worse, and asked to please not let anyone disturb him. Nobody had.

He’s fumbling one-handed with his keys when a voice says, “Leaving so soon?”

Oscar nearly jumps out of his skin, his keys clatter to the ground. “Jesus christ, Logan, don’t fucking do that.”

Logan puts up his hands innocently, but the gesture is incompatible with the smirk on his face. “Not my fault you don’t look up,” he says. “I was trying to get your attention.” He’s leaning back against a telephone pole, dark blue hoodie blending in with the evening shadows. Still, Oscar can’t help but feel snuck up on.

Oscar shakes his head. “You walk too quiet.”

“That’s a weird insult.”

“You’re weird.” Oscar starts to bend over to pick up his keys, but a stabbing pain shoots all the way through to his shoulder blades and he bites back a sudden shout. He has to abandon the motion midway.

Logan walks around the car and picks up the keys. He’s pulled his sleeves up over his palms, fingertips barely visible. Oscar doesn’t really feel the cold, but there’s already a slight flush over Logan’s cheeks and nose. His lips look redder than normal.

Logan’s voice softens. “It was really bad today, huh?”

Oscar looks away, breathing around the aftershocks. His first instinct is to lie, to offer a curt and stoic denial. To snatch back his keys.

But Logan would see through any of that in an instant.

“Not great,” he admits. He can hear the grimace in his own voice. “I just need to give it some time…”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m driving.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “I just drove a Formula 1 car, I think I can handle a little traffic.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.” Logan’s smiling again, but it’s a gentle smile, knowing and fond. His eyes are bright, crinkled at the corners. He doesn’t give back the keys. “I’m saying you don’t have to. You’re staying at the Platt Hotel, right?”

”Yeah,” Oscar answers. He has half a mind to just make a grab for his keys, but the other half is thinking about left turns, how he has to move his arms so much more with a normal steering wheel. How long the drive gets at night.

“Cool, me too.” Logan looks down at the keys and unlocks the car, then steps forward and pulls open the driver’s side door. He has to get right into Oscar’s space to do it, arm practically reaching around his waist. There’s a rush of warmth as he moves closer, a fluid and unhurried step as if they’re not just millimeters apart.

Logan starts to turn back to him, and Oscar realizes that if he doesn’t step back their faces are going to get closer– a lot closer. The wind ruffles Logan’s hair, and they’re close enough that Oscar catches the scent– something fresh and summery, seawater and citrus…

He steps back in a hurry, uncharacteristically clumsy as he’s set off balance by a fresh cascade of memories. What being this close in the dark would’ve meant years ago. How they don’t touch anymore but his body recognizes the warmth, the chest-to-chest contact like a second skin. How the urge to stay in place, to reach his hands up isn’t conscious but muscle memory.

He nearly falls over at the suddenness of it all, the nostalgia that’s hit him like a truck within a single moment. Logan puts a hand on his shoulder, no more than a pat, but it’s stabilizing. “Sit in the back,” he says. “That way you can put the seatbelt on your right.”

Oscar lets Logan drive his car, and it shouldn’t remind him of anything.

Logan’s never even driven his car, this or any others. The city is unfamiliar and indifferent. They’re going to the same place, but not because it’s anybody’s home.

And then Logan connects his phone to the bluetooth, and Oscar remembers the playlist.

Seasons change and our love went cold…

From the backseat, Oscar says, “Remember the time you had to drive me back from that club?”

Logan laughs over the music. “How could I forget,” he answers, smiling at Oscar in the mirror. “You’re the worst lightweight I’ve ever seen.”

Oscar laughs even though it hurts. “It– it wasn’t that bad, I…”

“You had one drink, dude. One. And then I had to carry you off the charaoke stage.”

Oscar groans. “I was only 18. I shouldn’t have started with tequila.”

“You think?” Logan turns up the music. “Wow. What a throwback.”

I dare you to do something, I’m waiting on you again…

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Oscar points out.

“Guess not.” Logan tries to shrug and turn the wheel at the same time and ends up with something like an interpretive dance. “I just haven’t thought about it in forever.”

“Really?”

Oscar doesn’t know why his voice comes out so small, so hurt. He doesn’t know why he is hurt.

Maybe because of how the night ended.

How Logan had driven them both back to his own flat because he didn’t want to leave Oscar alone. How he’d tucked his arm around Oscar’s waist and lowered them both onto the bed because Oscar’s didn’t have the coordination. How they’d fallen asleep, and woken up, wrapped around each other.

And I still hear the echoes, the echoes…

“Just feels like a while ago,” Logan says nonchalantly, and Oscar decides to let it go. He has to let it go.

They arrive at the hotel sooner than Oscar expects.

They’d talked the whole drive home, not about anything important. Airport stories, golf, which one of them has the weirder teammate (every time Oscar thinks there’s no one wilder than Lando, Logan tells him Alex’s latest hot take in blatant defiance of all human logic, and Oscar has to concede). Even with the music, it felt somehow quiet in the car, and Oscar realized he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had spoken alone.

They take the same lift, and Logan leans against the opposite wall. Leaning against every vertical surface in sight doesn’t come naturally to Oscar, but it suddenly looks like a good idea; his whole body aches. Sitting down in the car, his arm propped against the door, had been a reprieve. Now he’s all too aware of his own weight, his hand heavy and limp at his side like a stone. The pain in his chest is different now, less sharp and more pressure. Like the deformed seat is still around him, constrictive and unyielding. His body has been overcompensating without him even noticing, but he’s paying the price in his spine, the back of his neck.

He closes his eyes and the weight increases, a white-noise waterfall filling his head. The voice trying to catch his attention comes out muffled, incomprehensible.

“Oscar.”

Oscar flinches back into the present, which is a bad idea. He grimaces and tries to cover it up by talking too fast. “Um, sorry, what was that?”

Logan furrows his brow at him, his eyes darkening with concern. “I said ‘What floor.’”

Oscar looks at the unlit panel of buttons and realizing he’s been standing in an unmoving lift for almost a minute. “Eleven,” he says, after taking a moment to think about it.

Logan steps forward and presses the single button.

“What floor are you on?” Oscar asks, trying to sound casual.

Logan looks him up and down slowly, chewing his lower lip. He puts his hands back in his pockets and some sort of decision happens behind his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells Oscar.

On the eleventh floor, they step out together.

Oscar doesn’t even think about it. The only thing on his mind is his hotel bed, and how much he can’t wait to get in it.

It takes Logan following him into his room and closing the door behind him for his alertness to return. “Wait, why– why are you in my room?”

“What will you do after I leave?” Logan asks.

The question sounds loaded, almost like a trap. Oscar looks back at Logan, trying to search his face for any sort of answer, but his steely eyes are unreadable.

“Probably just… go to bed?” he says warily.

Logan reaches out and touches his lips.

It’s so shocking, so unexpected and jarring that Oscar completely freezes. Logan’s touch is feather-light, fingertips warm and gentle on his lower lip, drifting to the corner of his mouth.

And now the memories are back for real. How Logan’s fingers had once felt dragging through his hair, splayed over his shoulder blades, laced between his own. How his bitten-down nails had still managed to leave scratches, long red streaks, on his back. The pressure on his lips when he tucked his face into the side of Logan’s neck, pressed a kiss to the top of his head on long and empty nights, accidentally bit Logan’s lip behind the fence of a karting track because he was sixteen and stupid and had never kissed a boy before.

Logan’s voice is low, solemn, and Oscar tries to listen over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“You have dried blood on your mouth,” Logan tells him. “You’re dehydrated. You haven’t eaten in hours. Your hair is tangled. You’re still wearing your watch. You haven’t taken your meds. You can’t keep this bottled up forever, Oss. You’re in pain.”

Oscar tries to form words, opening and closing his mouth around air before he can stutter out a sentence. Logan’s eyes are near burning with intensity. How much he sees is burning.

“I… I was gonna take care of all that.”

Logan shakes his head. “No, you weren’t,” he says.

Oscar shouldn’t let this happen.

He shouldn’t let this happen because they’d said it was over. They’d promised. It was a consensus, a mutual understanding. They both knew everything they had to lose. They’d ended it nearly three years ago and it had stayed ended.

He shouldn’t let this happen because they can’t mean anything to each other. They can’t be anything other than friends.

But that’s not what this is feeling like.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan runs a flannel under the sink and dabs the blood off Oscar’s lips, warm and wet pressure a relief against the teeth marks. When dips his fingers in the water and pushes Oscar’s hair away from his forehead, easing apart the tangles and sending tingles down his spine that are too familiar.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan takes his shirt off for him. When he lifts the fabric with careful hands, slow, steady. When Oscar whimpers as he has to lift his arm and Logan stops to let him catch his breath, free hand firm on his lower back. “Ssshhhh,” he whispers.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan sits next to him on the bed talks him into taking the painkillers, gentle and persistent. “You’ll sleep better if you take them, and you need the water.” Oscar mumbles his protests even as Logan twists the cap off a water bottle and puts it in Oscar’s hand. “It’s not weak to need help. I’m not here because you’re depending on me, I’m here because I care.”

Oscar swallows the meds and looks over at Logan. He can feel the wide-eyed, dumb shock on his own expression, because he’s not quite sure he heard right. Maybe in his exhaustion his mind was just telling him what he wanted to hear.

But Logan’s eye contact is steady, unwavering. His jaw is set. The silence that stretches between them is taught, electric.

Oscar leans closer.

”Careful,” Logan whispers, but he doesn’t pull away.

Oscar takes Logan’s face in one hand and kisses him, and it’s like they’ve never been apart.

Their lips move together and it’s like they’re eighteen, tasting alcohol on each others’ mouths and not caring, needing the contact anyway.

Oscar’s eyes slide shut and it’s like they’re seventeen, too-long phone calls over too much distance, whispering about the things they would do if they were together.

Logan cradles his jaw and it’s like they’re sixteen, but also not like that. Because then they were clumsy and unsure and heavy-handed with desire. But now Logan holds him like he knows where Oscar will break, and where he can push back.

They kiss and it’s like they never ended.

Logan pulls away too soon and Oscar chases his mouth, embarrassing and needy and not caring about it. Logan puts a hand in his hair and tugs his head back, not painfully but keeping the distance. “Breathe,” he commands.

Oscar does, not realizing how long he’d gone breathing in only Logan and abandoning oxygen. He pants, breath hot and ragged, lips wet. It hurts, but not as much.

”Feel better?” Logan whispers.

Oscar nods and closes the distance once again.

“You can’t keep it bottled up forever.”/“Feel better now?”

Pain is temporary.

Pain is irrelevant.

Pain is invalid.

He shouldn’t have been gritting his teeth. The ache in his jaw throngs all the way down his neck, and at some point he’d bitten the side of his tongue. Oscar doesn’t remember that; he just remembers driving, the scream of the engines crowding into one meaningless cacophony, staring down the beam wing in front of him and willing the pain to end.

It didn’t. It hasn’t.

He’d known the first race was going to be bad, but he’d been confident in the adrenaline, the 5.8 kilometers of pure endorphins to keep him above it lap after lap. And it had… sort of.

The pain had spread, though. As the race went on Oscar could imagine the single fracture widening like unraveled thread, jagged edges deepening and shooting outwards until his whole body was cracked porcelain. The pain was sharp, hot, razor-wire wrapped around his chest. It was almost a reprieve to be overtaken, because then the frustration and determination to make up the place would block out everything else for just a moment.

He didn’t finish on the podium, but that was alright. It was Lewis’s moment, and anyway he could barely lift himself out of the car, let alone a crown-shaped trophy.

It was easy to smile and nod his way through the debrief, easy to let Lando do the talking. Lando didn’t know about the break. A lot of the team didn’t know, because it was supposed to be minor, it was supposed to be temporary irrelevant invalid just a little setback. And it would be. He just had to have a little breather first, ice it, give it some time.

It’s almost sunset when he leaves for the car park. He’d spent too long in his driver’s room, slumped against the wall with his shirt off, eyes firmly closed because looking at the bruising made him nauseas. He’d told Kim a little about the situation, told him he’d call if it got worse, and asked to please not let anyone disturb him. Nobody had.

He’s fumbling one-handed with his keys when a voice says, “Leaving so soon?”

Oscar nearly jumps out of his skin, his keys clatter to the ground. “Jesus christ, Logan, don’t fucking do that.”

Logan puts up his hands innocently, but the gesture is incompatible with the smirk on his face. “Not my fault you don’t look up,” he says. “I was trying to get your attention.” He’s leaning back against a telephone pole, dark blue hoodie blending in with the evening shadows. Still, Oscar can’t help but feel snuck up on.

Oscar shakes his head. “You walk too quiet.”

“That’s a weird insult.”

“You’re weird.” Oscar starts to bend over to pick up his keys, but a stabbing pain shoots all the way through to his shoulder blades and he bites back a sudden shout. He has to abandon the motion midway.

Logan walks around the car and picks up the keys. He’s pulled his sleeves up over his palms, fingertips barely visible. Oscar doesn’t really feel the cold, but there’s already a slight flush over Logan’s cheeks and nose. His lips look redder than normal.

Logan’s voice softens. “It was really bad today, huh?”

Oscar looks away, breathing around the aftershocks. His first instinct is to lie, to offer a curt and stoic denial. To snatch back his keys.

But Logan would see through any of that in an instant.

“Not great,” he admits. He can hear the grimace in his own voice. “I just need to give it some time…”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m driving.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “I just drove a Formula 1 car, I think I can handle a little traffic.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.” Logan’s smiling again, but it’s a gentle smile, knowing and fond. His eyes are bright, crinkled at the corners. He doesn’t give back the keys. “I’m saying you don’t have to. You’re staying at the Platt Hotel, right?”

”Yeah,” Oscar answers. He has half a mind to just make a grab for his keys, but the other half is thinking about left turns, how he has to move his arms so much more with a normal steering wheel. How long the drive gets at night.

“Cool, me too.” Logan looks down at the keys and unlocks the car, then steps forward and pulls open the driver’s side door. He has to get right into Oscar’s space to do it, arm practically reaching around his waist. There’s a rush of warmth as he moves closer, a fluid and unhurried step as if they’re not just millimeters apart.

Logan starts to turn back to him, and Oscar realizes that if he doesn’t step back their faces are going to get closer– a lot closer. The wind ruffles Logan’s hair, and they’re close enough that Oscar catches the scent– something fresh and summery, seawater and citrus…

He steps back in a hurry, uncharacteristically clumsy as he’s set off balance by a fresh cascade of memories. What being this close in the dark would’ve meant years ago. How they don’t touch anymore but his body recognizes the warmth, the chest-to-chest contact like a second skin. How the urge to stay in place, to reach his hands up isn’t conscious but muscle memory.

He nearly falls over at the suddenness of it all, the nostalgia that’s hit him like a truck within a single moment. Logan puts a hand on his shoulder, no more than a pat, but it’s stabilizing. “Sit in the back,” he says. “That way you can put the seatbelt on your right.”

Oscar lets Logan drive his car, and it shouldn’t remind him of anything.

Logan’s never even driven his car, this or any others. The city is unfamiliar and indifferent. They’re going to the same place, but not because it’s anybody’s home.

And then Logan connects his phone to the bluetooth, and Oscar remembers the playlist.

Seasons change and our love went cold…

From the backseat, Oscar says, “Remember the time you had to drive me back from that club?”

Logan laughs over the music. “How could I forget,” he answers, smiling at Oscar in the mirror. “You’re the worst lightweight I’ve ever seen.”

Oscar laughs even though it hurts. “It– it wasn’t that bad, I…”

“You had one drink, dude. One. And then I had to carry you off the charaoke stage.”

Oscar groans. “I was only 18. I shouldn’t have started with tequila.”

“You think?” Logan turns up the music. “Wow. What a throwback.”

I dare you to do something, I’m waiting on you again…

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Oscar points out.

“Guess not.” Logan tries to shrug and turn the wheel at the same time and ends up with something like an interpretive dance. “I just haven’t thought about it in forever.”

“Really?”

Oscar doesn’t know why his voice comes out so small, so hurt. He doesn’t know why he is hurt.

Maybe because of how the night ended.

How Logan had driven them both back to his own flat because he didn’t want to leave Oscar alone. How he’d tucked his arm around Oscar’s waist and lowered them both onto the bed because Oscar’s didn’t have the coordination. How they’d fallen asleep, and woken up, wrapped around each other.

And I still hear the echoes, the echoes…

“Just feels like a while ago,” Logan says nonchalantly, and Oscar decides to let it go. He has to let it go.

They arrive at the hotel sooner than Oscar expects.

They’d talked the whole drive home, not about anything important. Airport stories, golf, which one of them has the weirder teammate (every time Oscar thinks there’s no one wilder than Lando, Logan tells him Alex’s latest hot take in blatant defiance of all human logic, and Oscar has to concede). Even with the music, it felt somehow quiet in the car, and Oscar realized he couldn’t remember the last time the two of them had spoken alone.

They take the same lift, and Logan leans against the opposite wall. Leaning against every vertical surface in sight doesn’t come naturally to Oscar, but it suddenly looks like a good idea; his whole body aches. Sitting down in the car, his arm propped against the door, had been a reprieve. Now he’s all too aware of his own weight, his hand heavy and limp at his side like a stone. The pain in his chest is different now, less sharp and more pressure. Like the deformed seat is still around him, constrictive and unyielding. His body has been overcompensating without him even noticing, but he’s paying the price in his spine, the back of his neck.

He closes his eyes and the weight increases, a white-noise waterfall filling his head. The voice trying to catch his attention comes out muffled, incomprehensible.

“Oscar.”

Oscar flinches back into the present, which is a bad idea. He grimaces and tries to cover it up by talking too fast. “Um, sorry, what was that?”

Logan furrows his brow at him, his eyes darkening with concern. “I said ‘What floor.’”

Oscar looks at the unlit panel of buttons and realizing he’s been standing in an unmoving lift for almost a minute. “Eleven,” he says, after taking a moment to think about it.

Logan steps forward and presses the single button.

“What floor are you on?” Oscar asks, trying to sound casual.

Logan looks him up and down slowly, chewing his lower lip. He puts his hands back in his pockets and some sort of decision happens behind his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells Oscar.

On the eleventh floor, they step out together.

Oscar doesn’t even think about it. The only thing on his mind is his hotel bed, and how much he can’t wait to get in it.

It takes Logan following him into his room and closing the door behind him for his alertness to return. “Wait, why– why are you in my room?”

“What will you do after I leave?” Logan asks.

The question sounds loaded, almost like a trap. Oscar looks back at Logan, trying to search his face for any sort of answer, but his steely eyes are unreadable.

“Probably just… go to bed?” he says warily.

Logan reaches out and touches his lips.

It’s so shocking, so unexpected and jarring that Oscar completely freezes. Logan’s touch is feather-light, fingertips warm and gentle on his lower lip, drifting to the corner of his mouth.

And now the memories are back for real. How Logan’s fingers had once felt dragging through his hair, splayed over his shoulder blades, laced between his own. How his bitten-down nails had still managed to leave scratches, long red streaks, on his back. The pressure on his lips when he tucked his face into the side of Logan’s neck, pressed a kiss to the top of his head on long and empty nights, accidentally bit Logan’s lip behind the fence of a karting track because he was sixteen and stupid and had never kissed a boy before.

Logan’s voice is low, solemn, and Oscar tries to listen over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“You have dried blood on your mouth,” Logan tells him. “You’re dehydrated. You haven’t eaten in hours. Your hair is tangled. You’re still wearing your watch. You haven’t taken your meds. You can’t keep this bottled up forever, Oss. You’re in pain.”

Oscar tries to form words, opening and closing his mouth around air before he can stutter out a sentence. Logan’s eyes are near burning with intensity. How much he sees is burning.

“I… I was gonna take care of all that.”

Logan shakes his head. “No, you weren’t,” he says.

Oscar shouldn’t let this happen.

He shouldn’t let this happen because they’d said it was over. They’d promised. It was a consensus, a mutual understanding. They both knew everything they had to lose. They’d ended it nearly three years ago and it had stayed ended.

He shouldn’t let this happen because they can’t mean anything to each other. They can’t be anything other than friends.

But that’s not what this is feeling like.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan runs a flannel under the sink and dabs the blood off Oscar’s lips, warm and wet pressure a relief against the teeth marks. When dips his fingers in the water and pushes Oscar’s hair away from his forehead, easing apart the tangles and sending tingles down his spine that are too familiar.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan takes his shirt off for him. When he lifts the fabric with careful hands, slow, steady. When Oscar whimpers as he has to lift his arm and Logan stops to let him catch his breath, free hand firm on his lower back. “Ssshhhh,” he whispers.

It doesn’t feel like friends when Logan sits next to him on the bed talks him into taking the painkillers, gentle and persistent. “You’ll sleep better if you take them, and you need the water.” Oscar mumbles his protests even as Logan twists the cap off a water bottle and puts it in Oscar’s hand. “It’s not weak to need help. I’m not here because you’re depending on me, I’m here because I care.”

Oscar swallows the meds and looks over at Logan. He can feel the wide-eyed, dumb shock on his own expression, because he’s not quite sure he heard right. Maybe in his exhaustion his mind was just telling him what he wanted to hear.

But Logan’s eye contact is steady, unwavering. His jaw is set. The silence that stretches between them is taught, electric.

Oscar leans closer.

”Careful,” Logan whispers, but he doesn’t pull away.

Oscar takes Logan’s face in one hand and kisses him, and it’s like they’ve never been apart.

Their lips move together and it’s like they’re eighteen, tasting alcohol on each others’ mouths and not caring, needing the contact anyway.

Oscar’s eyes slide shut and it’s like they’re seventeen, too-long phone calls over too much distance, whispering about the things they would do if they were together.

Logan cradles his jaw and it’s like they’re sixteen, but also not like that. Because then they were clumsy and unsure and heavy-handed with desire. But now Logan holds him like he knows where Oscar will break, and where he can push back.

They kiss and it’s like they never ended.

Logan pulls away too soon and Oscar chases his mouth, embarrassing and needy and not caring about it. Logan puts a hand in his hair and tugs his head back, not painfully but keeping the distance. “Breathe,” he commands.

Oscar does, not realizing how long he’d gone breathing in only Logan and abandoning oxygen. He pants, breath hot and ragged, lips wet. It hurts, but not as much.

”Feel better?” Logan whispers.

Oscar nods and closes the distance once again.