#❝ The future comes ; the past is gone. I see you straining through my fingertips - you’ve changed. ❞ . [ BLOODBONDCD ]

[knightfeared]

Mutual Tags Drop.

[queenoffishingandcookies]

My back has been a bitch for the last several days, which makes for Noctis angst, I guess.

Long story short for several of my headcanons that I am Too Lazy to write out at the moment, Noctis got starscourge when the Marilith attacked and Sylva, while healing him, essentially burned the scourge away with her powers.

(I have a whole thing about Oracle’s powers being able to heal wounds, while generally non-Oracle Fleuret’ simply bolster the body’s healing, not to mention male Fleuret having magic predisposed to combat and being known as Templars, and a whole things on male Oracles despite canon -)

Thing is, the starscourge sort of merges with magic. We see it in Ardyn, he’s not like others who outright become daemons and he can still use his magic (at least, the Armiger, if not elemancy and healing). Similarly, in DOTF, Lunafreya mentions something about the power of the Oracle holding the effect of the ‘scourge back (which Ravus, as a man, doesn’t have-).

SO.

The starscourge literally merging with his magic, his body trying to adapt and push it back and the strain, on top of injuries he’s already had, is killing him and -

On top of burning out the scourge, Sylva is frying parts of Noctis’ magic. Pruning it away, almost, like dead or moldy branches of rose bush in order to save the whole. And it’s agony in a way that healing of the Oracle isn’t meant to be (at least, not for anyone but the Oracle-)

I once read a really interesting post on the effects of starscourge on Noctis’s magic, and how it compares to how members of the kingsglaive and even Regis use magic (example being you don’t see many people using the flasks seen on Noctis in-game).

But, I was thinking, what if Noctis could use magic as he should normally be capable off, but at a cost.

When you’re a Lucis Caelum, everything comes at a cost.

It’s excruciating, it’s difficult, just like re-learning to warp after he’d been able to do so by years by simply sneezing was. Frustrating, even humiliating (if one paid attention to the private scorn of nobles and others behind closed doors or in corners of rooms -)

He was once able to light his fingertips aflame like candle wicks, building palaces of snow and ice, and craft miniature storms without so much as an idle thought - but doing so after the Marilith, after Tenebrae -

It’s a raw, searing pain that cuts straight through muscle tissue and bone. It feels as though his blood is boiling, bubbling, the ceaseless flow of molten rock scorching everything in it’s path, his back tearing open beneath the sharpened steel of a blade’s edge over and over again.

It’s not the pull of his life force being pulled away to make what is dead more tangible to the living, like swinging the royal arms - imprints of his ancestor’s souls - around. It’s not like the total exhaustion and feverish state that follows summoning an Astral (or an astral using him as a tether to the land in moment’s of peril).

It’s energy, so much of it, a physical weight on his shoulders and under his skin, and there’s still traces of the late Oracle-Queen’s touch and the starscourge’s corruption and it burns.

(As magic does, as it has always done-)

Then there’s the lack of control over his powers following the attack, how much a ‘magic fit’ hurts when he does lose control, how he has to bottle it up and probably still does in the future because of how badly it hurts, and what little control he does regain (i.e weaving Magic and elements and storing it in flasks).

Just. Noctis not being able to utilize his powers to the full extent, like the Kingsglaive, like his father. It’s not because it’s gone, or because he hadn’t recovered from the scourge (as much as recovery was possible-)

It’s agonizing, it’s damn near uncontrollable past what he was able to relearn and grasp. And when he does use it, does lose control- it’s even worse.

His flasks, which detonate on impact with a target, while not controllable once cast - they are predictable. Those with him, once outside the radish of the blast, are safe.

With his magic, if he lets his control slip in the pain, there’s not an estimated radius, a safe space to retreat to - and losing control of it is arguably more dangerous than losing control of a flask. It’s not a blast, but a wave that encroaches on everyone and everything around if allowed to.

And I already have a general post on Lucis Caelum Magic. Noctis is in a shitty situation, basically. Damned if you do (use magic) and damned if you don’t.

TLDR:

Noctis is able to use magic outside of the flasks, outside of the warping and phasing he utilizes on. He is able to use the raw elements and heal like the Kingsglaive, like his father - but it’s excruciatingly painful for him because of lasting Starscourge/Oracle damage, think of scar tissue, and easy to lose control of.

While recovering, before and after Tenebrae, he did lose control on occasion and the additional pain he was in afterwards was…not pretty. Neither was the zone of destruction. So Noctis has to also hold it in, keep tabs on it, and the build-up of magical energy is equally bad for him.

[delimeful]

failed bounties and fresh bonds

commission for @the-panmixxia! thank you so much for your support! :)

warnings: fear/panic, unintentional child endangerment, pretty bad injury, hypothetical gore/death mentions, remus being remus

-

Virgil pressed his palm over his mouth, struggling not to make any noise even as his lungs strained for air. There was someone in his forest, and he was sure they were here to kill him or worse.

He should have left before tonight, gotten as far away as possible, but... He’d lived here for longer than any of the other temporary homes he’d found. It was the safest place he’d found.

The trees in the forest were old and huge, enough that they sheltered him from view. The mountain was even more so, with old dragon caves that he could spend hours exploring. There was a little town to the south, but the forest was big enough that no travelers stumbled across the part where he lived.

He’d only snuck down to the town because he’d wanted to see the lights that had been strung up in the streets. He wasn’t sure what they were for, but they were bright and beautiful.

He hadn’t meant to get so close. He hadn’t meant to be caught.

But between one moment and the next, there had been a tiny gasp, and he’d turned his head to see one of the townsfolk, a young woman, staring up at him in frozen terror. The sight of the human had terrified him just as much, and he’d tipped back onto his butt, his hand knocking into a market stall with a crash of splintering wood.

The spell of silence broken, the woman screamed, the alarm spreading as windows began to light all down the street. Virgil had scrambled back like a crab, before turning and fleeing into the woods, leaving behind the distant noise of opening doors and raised voices.

It had all led to this. He’d been seen, and they’d set a bounty on his head, and now there was a strange human in his forest.

Virgil could hear the stranger humming, his tone nasal and low, occasionally straying painfully off key. He’d been using the sound as a guide, creeping away as quietly as he could whenever it came into range, but no matter how hard he tried to put distance between them, the wind would carry that hum back to him the moment he settled down to hide.

The stranger was a skilled tracker, maybe, or had extraordinarily good luck, or actually had seen Virgil that first time and had been following him from a distance ever since, tiring him out like a wolf stalking a deer. He didn’t sound like a knight, didn’t move with the crash of steel or ride a horse. Virgil hoped he wasn’t a knight, almost more than he wished he’d never gone down to that village at all.

He let himself breathe in, quiet and shaky, and then pushed away from the wall of his cave, listening for the stranger so he could try and sneak away once more.

Between the distant trees and night sky, there was silence.

Virgil leaned towards the cave’s opening, scanning the sharp silhouettes and straining for even the most muffled sound of twigs underfoot.

At the lip of the cave, a human-sized figure swung into view upside down, baring bone-white teeth in an unhinged grin. “Boo!”

Virgil couldn’t help the small scream that tore from him, the noise echoing against the cavern’s walls. His heart racing, he bolted back down those familiar tunnels without another thought, fleeing even as the human’s cackling cut off sharply.

“—Hey, wait, get back here! I didn’t spend all night wandering in the cold-ass woods just to have a monster blueball me out of a fight again!”

Shouted into a deep cave, the stranger’s words bounced and overlapped until they were just meaningless noise around Virgil, only propelling him forward faster. He took the corners sharply, scrambling up near sheer cliffs, barely noticing the way sharp protruding rocks scraped against his shoulders or pierced the soft bits of his feet.

He didn’t realize he was cornering himself until he turned into a dead end, the paths somehow warped and unfamiliar under the force of his panic. Quick, skipping steps were pursuing him in the distance, which meant that the human could still hear his footsteps, and so he shuffled into the furthest corner of the cavern and focused on making himself still and quiet, no matter how hard his body wanted to tremble and shake and sob.

There was no doubt about it; the stranger was a bounty hunter, and Virgil was the bounty.

That nasally voice continued to echo down to Virgil as he rambled on, complaining or singing or making jokes Virgil didn’t get, all while steadily pursuing his quarry.

Bit by bit, the noise drew closer and closer, accompanied by the crackle of a merrily burning torch. He seemed to be utterly undeterred by the twisting, unsettling nature of the mountain, and what little hope Virgil had began to fade. There was no way that the stranger would just happen to pass him by.

It would take a miracle to save him now.

A cavern away, a chunk of old stone gave way under an overconfident foot.

—-

“Oh, fuck—,” Remus shouted, his brain nearly shorting out as he tripped directly into freefall.

His divination provided him with a slurry of unhelpful images, each one matching a tiny movement he made while falling: him landing on his legs and shattering both of them so hard he blacks out, him landing on his head and doing a lot worse than blacking out, ragdolling all the way down the crevice below, twisting so that his foot catches on a crack in the wall and wrenches his ankle— That one!

He howled as his foot caught, and then the bitch that was gravity caught up with him and his back and skull slammed against the wall, knocking the air out of him and causing little white flashes to appear in his vision.

It took a long moment to come back to himself through the pain, but when he did, he found himself still dangling in place by a single ankle. He’d lost his torch somewhere in the process.

He glanced down, and knew immediately that the shadowy drop below was fatal, the cracks of potential future bone breaking settling into his brain.

Glancing up, he knew immediately that his ankle was boned, going by the interesting angle it was making with the rest of his leg.

He contemplated reaching up with his other foot and trying to wedge it in another crack. His brain offered him visions of the whole bit of cliff face snapping into brittle pieces, and then more falling to his death.

He crossed his arms, letting all the blood rush to his head in hopes of that generating a better idea. Instead, he got a headache.

“Well, shit,” he said, succinctly.

Something big shifted, just barely in earshot. Remus didn’t bother looking ahead; it was obvious that the giant he’d been hunting had just figured out how thoroughly the roles had been reversed.

Sure enough, the movements shuffled closer, surprisingly hesitant, and then two huge, glowing eyes peered down at him.

“Come to grind my bones into paste?” Remus asked, genuinely curious. “Or squish all my organs out through my ears?”

Those eyes scrunched up a bit in revulsion, which was hilarious coming from a monster about to kill him. He wiggled his limbs around a bit, ignoring the resulting pain and cracking of brittle rock in favor of hopefully enticing the creature to grab him already. Just hanging around was getting boring.

The breathing above him quickened a bit, and then there was a curved, warm surface under him, lifting slowly until his ankle was no longer carrying all of his weight. Remus considered yanking the injured foot free before the monster could do it for him, but before he could follow through, there was the silhouette of large fingers poking and prying at the rock until it really did crumble away.

The cupped thing he was splayed across had to be a hand too, he realized as he breathed through the sharp jabs of pain from his ankle being released. From the way the townspeople described it, he’d expected something less… human-shaped.

Between his ankle and his head rush, it was no surprise that he blacked out a little.

When he managed to wake back up, they’d returned to a tunnel that led outside, going by the fresh air he could feel against his face. It must have taken the creature a lot more time to make the trip while carrying him.

Whatever it wanted him for, he wasn’t sticking around to find out. He cast around for potential futures-- he rolls out of the grip and smacks his head on stone, he lands on his bad ankle and instantly blacks out again, he waits a little longer and is set on the ground outside by--

“You’re a kid?” he blurted, his vision of a distinctly human, distinctly child-shaped face fading away. The hand under him jolted, and the kid made a startled sniffle.

“You’re alive?” he asked in return, his voice deep and big but also rough with… tears? Jeez, had the kid really been that upset about some asshole bounty hunter biting the dust?

The hand curled in a little tighter around him, one fingertip coming to settle on his chest as though to check that he really was breathing. The motion was gentler than he thought possible for a giant, and he realized fairly abruptly that the ‘terrorized’ people in the town below were full of shit.

He’d hunted this kid for a whole night, and all he’d done in return was avoid him and then save his life. Some ‘monster’.

The kid seemed to remember himself, and flattened his hand back out before shuffling forwards more. There was a subtle shaking running through him, and Remus had the feeling that the kid was going to bolt the minute he set him down.

“Anyone else live up here with you?” he asked, flopping back onto the hand casually. He felt that giant gaze drop onto him and continued casually. “I came up here for a bounty but it turned out the townsfolk are dirty liars. I haven’t seen a single monster.”

There was a little surprised inhale from above him.

“In fact, this place is so nice I might camp here for a while,” he added, waving a hand at the forest ahead lazily. “Make sure to send off any other bounty hunters so they don’t waste their time up here.”

“R-Really?” the kid asked, his tone full of doubt and suspicion.

“Yup! I’ve been told I’m an absolutely detestable neighbor, disturber of the peace, totally unrecommended, zero out of ten,” Remus paused. “But I’m great at getting rid of uninvited guests!”

The kid took that last step out of the tunnel, the early light of dawn spilling over both of them. Remus sat up, waving his fingers in greeting as they both took each other in as more than silhouettes.

Apart from the fact that he was giant, the kid looked like... a kid. An long-limbed, underfed, lonely kid. One with distinct cuff-shaped scars around his wrists and ankles.

Remus shoved down his anger, tore his gaze away from the old wounds, and offered the kid a sharp-toothed grin. The kid tilted his head, wary. That was okay. Remus could handle wary.

“So, what do you say?”

“... Neighbors,” he replied, hesitant and hopeful. Remus cheered obnoxiously.

He was going to have fun making those people regret ever putting a bounty on this kid.

[seriouslysnape]

The End of the Week

__

Cedric Diggory x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Language. Slight sexual implications.

Word Count: 1,856

A/N: Requests are still being written! I’ve just had this idea foreverrrrr. I gotta show my golden boy some love. I don’t even know what to name this.

“Hey! It’s just hot in here.”

__

Cedric was as perfectly content as he could possibly be in this moment. He couldn’t even begin to imagine something better than where he was right now. You were curled up next to him, and the way your head was nuzzled into his neck was spreading extra warmth all over his body with each gentle exhale through your nose onto his skin. The Hufflepuff common room was as still and quiet as could be, considering that everyone else had gone to bed for the evening. 

It had been a hectic week for the both of you. Your schedules had been overcrowded with long Quidditch practices and impossibly difficult exams all while trying to throw in some social time into the balance. You hadn’t seen much of each other that week, only sharing loving glances when you passed in the halls or stealing quick kisses and small conversations between classes. 

The end of the second term was just around the corner, which meant that your workloads would only increase until it was time to leave for summer break. Cedric had made it a priority to spend every free moment that he had with you. He was hoping for you to spend summer vacation with him and his family, but in case his plans fell through, he wanted to be sure to see you as much as possible. 

Friday night had presented a break in the week’s chaos, both of you jumping on the opportunity like a hungry cat on a frightened mouse. Cedric basically snatched you out of your last class of the day when his Quidditch practice was canceled, which opened up his entire evening. The two of you were practically running hand in hand as your feet involuntarily made their way to his prefect room, the serenity and silence of it was calling your names.

Cedric had tossed you onto his bed, attacking you with sweet kisses and doing everything he could to draw laughter out of you. Not being able to be with you or touch you over the course of his stressful week had been killing him. You were his comfort, his single source of solace when life became too much for him. He always felt a little piece of himself missing when he strayed from you for too long.

Cedric had shown no mercy when your waist was between his knees as he tickled and teased at your sides and wherever else he knew you were ticklish. The sound of your happy giggles were music to his ears, which is how he could never bring himself to stop until your lungs were gasping for air and you were desperate with your pleas.

“Ced, stop!” You shrieked through strained laughs.

Cedric’s smile never left his face as he withdrew his hands, chuckling lightly as you wiped the tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’ve just missed you.” He admitted, lowering his head and kissing you again once you had caught your breath.

You smirked under his soft lips, bringing a hand to cup his cheek. His heart fluttered at the feeling of your thumb stroking his slightly flushed skin and the way you pushed him onto his back to deepen your kissing.

“I’ve missed you too. I hate this time of year.” You remarked, resting your chin on his chest.

Cedric’s hand was resting on the back of your thigh, his fingertips fiddling with the hem of your skirt. 

“Oh, come on. You love springtime.” Cedric corrected.

“Yeah, I love seasonal allergies that kick my ass every year,” You grumbled sarcastically; “I mean because we hardly see one another this time of year.”

A knowing sigh fell from Cedric’s mouth, allowing his hand beginning to run lazily across the exposed skin on your leg. 

“I know. But we have summer to look forward to,” He mewled; “You know it gets so hot at home that you have to strip down to next to nothing...” Cedric purred.

With a shocked gasp, your arm swung out to playfully smack his shoulder at what he was insinuating.

“Cedric Diggory!”

He laughed with his usual hearty, light voice, gripping you under your arms and pulling you up next to him from where he was lounged up on his pillows. 

“What? I can’t think about my pretty girlfriend wearing nothing but her knickers?” He teased, kissing softly on your neck.

“Not if we’re going to be staying with your family. You have to keep your hands to yourself when they’re around.” You instructed.

Instinctively, your hand came to the back of his head and your fingers buried in his fluffy hair to direct him to your more sensitive areas on your neck. Cedric hummed happily, securing that you were flush with his body and entwining one of your legs between his. 

“Quick nap before dinner?” Cedric suggested, noting that dinner was in an hour and a half.

You perked up at that, eagerly snuggling up to him ever further and draping the covers over the two of you. You and Cedric were exhausted. You could feel the tiredness creeping its way into your bones, and even Cedric’s muscles were much more tense than usual. A small power nap was definitely in order.

“Yes, please.” 

Cedric wrapped his arms around you, his warmth cascading over you in a heavenly way. You were out like a light, your eyelashes fluttering every few minutes or so. Inky darkness had begun to paint the sky over Hogwarts, making the half-moon much more visible as stars began appearing alongside it. Cedric had to wrestle you out of bed, fighting your begs for five more minutes under his warm sheets, because he knew good and well you’d stay curled up for the rest of the night if he didn’t get you up now.

Once you were dragged away from your slumber sanctuary, he persuaded you to follow him to The Great Hall for dinner, walking with your fingers interlaced and whispering sweet nothings to one another. 

You and Cedric had very well become the power couple of your year. If Cedric was around, then you likely weren’t far away. Adolescence wasn’t an easy stage of life for anybody. Cedric considered himself lucky every single day that he had someone to take the journey with him. You and Cedric had blossomed into incredible young adults together, braving the wizarding world with the other in tow. 

Cedric’s future revolved around you, and there wasn’t a single aspect of his life that he hadn’t made sure you were a part of. He had decided long ago that he wanted to marry you soon after graduation. Later down the line, he wanted to have little Diggory kids running around with your eyes and his hair. His life was yours, and yours was his. 

You had protested going to dinner because staying cuddled up with Cedric sounded much better than choking down chicken for the fifth time in a week. But Cedric told you that he wanted you to get some food in your belly before any more shenanigans, so denying you kisses until you had eaten supper was the only way to put his foot down. 

He swept you away once you had both eaten, carrying you off into the Hufflepuff common room. Cedric usually would hang around the common room after dinner to make sure that no one was out after curfew, or until he was too tired to care anymore. Cedric never put too much energy into keeping an eye on mischievous Hufflepuffs, considering there weren’t many anyways and they were always far sneakier than Cedric could keep up with. 

Hufflepuffs of all ages straggled in and up the separated staircases to their dorm rooms, some of them sauntering past you and Cedric and some stopping to rant about their stressful week. Turns out that you weren’t the only ones who had been through the wringer. 

It was late now, you and Cedric being the only ones still up and energized from your nap a few hours ago. Cedric was soaking up every second of this moment, not wanting to forget this feeling in his heart. If he could end every day like this then he’d be the happiest man on Earth. 

“It’s a Hogsmeade weekend,” You announced, carefully breaking the silence; “You want to go tomorrow and I’ll buy you a Butterbeer?” 

Cedric snorted and looked down at your huddled frame, amusement clear on his face.

“Since when have I ever let you buy me anything? As long as I’m breathing, I pay for meals.” He proclaimed.

“It’s a Butterbeer. I’d hardly consider it a meal,” You said; “I just want to spoil you like you do me.” 

The bubbly laughter that came from the Hufflepuff boy’s chest sent a flash of care through your cells, your heartbeat speeding up at the sound of his joy.

“Oh, but I love spoiling you. I have to take care of my favorite girl.” He confessed.

A hot rush went straight to your cheeks, a shy smile appearing on your face that Cedric couldn’t possibly miss. His lips left a small kiss on your cupid’s bow, his voice lowering in the sweetest way.

“After all these years I still know how to make you blush.” He noted with a grin.

“You are very charming, Ced,” You complimented, fidgeting with the collar of his sweater; “And handsome.”

Now it was his turn to blush, his cheeks flooding red with a bashful smile. He caught your look of entertainment, and he was quick to defend himself.

“Hey! It’s just hot in here.” He half-lied, motioning towards the crackling fire in the fireplace just a few feet in front of you.

“Is it now?” You laughed, crawling over and placing a knee on each side of him. Your hands rested on his shoulders, a shudder going down your spine at the feeling of his grip on your hips. Your lips just barely brushed over his, a new mood taking over the room; “It is getting rather warm in here...”

Cedric let out a groan of temptation when you kissed him and rolled your pelvis into his, creating the most delicious friction. It didn’t take long for Cedric to dominate over you, pushing you into the cushions of the sofa and pinning you underneath him. His lips were hot wherever they sucked or left kisses, his aura and familiar feel was your favorite thing ever. 

“I’ve always wanted to make love to you here.” He mumbled, removing his belt from his pants before pushing your skirt up past your hips.

His hair fell onto his forehead in soft tufts when he lowered himself again to look down at the girl he had fallen so in love with. The only person he’d ever truly love with every ounce of his being.

“I love you.” He murmured passionately as he always did.

“I love you, Ced.” You returned.

His kisses and touches resumed, arousal growing and hearts beating with one another’s. It was a perfect moment.

And an even better way to make up for lost time.

[sailors-diary-for-elise]

Reaching Out

SEE! SOMETHING OTHER THAN SMUT. Also this one is old and a bit dusty, sooooo warnings are gonna be to the best of my ability. ALSO. THIS IS ANGST AND HAS TRIGGERING THEMES. PLEASE SCROLL PAST IF THE WARNINGS ARE DISTRESSING TO YOU. I wrote this during a really difficult day and was just word vomiting tbh. I am also gonna state that this is a work of fiction and I am in no way a therapist or anything, so if something here bothers you I’m sorry this is just something I wrote mostly for myself.

Warnings: god this is painful but here we go. Reader is depressed and has anxiety, mentions of self-inflicted injuries (she punches a mirror...repeatedly-), blood, panic attacks, it takes a few of the members to restrain the reader so if you’re uncomfortable with that please don’t read this, this is honestly just a hard read imo so please read with care. Also, the reader hates herself and just doesn’t really think highly of herself at all sooooo yeah-

It was the fourth time this month. The fourth argument that could’ve and should’ve ended differently.

You’d come out of your room to find San off at practice or on some work related schedule, spend the entire day outside trying to break a horrible cycle in your mind, just to disappear again once he returned home. It was frustrating you both and causing a serious strain in your relationship.

On San’s side, he couldn’t understand why it was that you would fight against him trying to get you to come out of your room when you spent the entire day alone. Then there was his frustration when you would complain about never seeing him and yet would disappear and avoid him when he was available. To San, it didn’t make any sense. All he wanted to do was spend time with you and support you, but it seemed as though you were determined to shut him out. He watches you storm off to your bedroom, running a hand through his hair as he tries to recall the last time he’d come back from a schedule and had a nice quiet evening that didn’t end in you both screaming at each other. When he can’t, San grabs his jacket and walks out of the apartment with his phone and keys, planning on spending the night at the dorms so that you can have some space to cool off. Once he gets in his car, he quickly dials Hongjoong’s number, pulling out of the parking garage of your complex and letting out all of his frustrations and concerns. 

As he drove, San had no way of knowing how much you hated yourself for what was happening between you both.

What San didn’t know was that your depression and anxiety had been spiraling lately due to the pressure that had been placed on your shoulders from not only your work but from being the girlfriend of an idol that had become so famous. He didn’t know that every day you were terrified that, now that his future was so bright and secure, he’d no longer want you. That he’d leave you just like so many before had done, and that he’d realize you were no longer something of use to him. And finally, how you criticize every minute of your life, finding ways that you are failing even when you’ve done nothing but your best. It came to the point that waking up from dreams was physically painful, because you could control a dream and guarantee the people you love never turned their backs on you. San didn’t, or rather, couldn’t know this. Because to know this would mean you would have to tell him. And no one should have to bear this burden but you, and there was always that small part of you that was terrified of having your feelings invalidated. 

Your whole life people have toyed with you, accepting your depression only when it was convenient to them and berating you once the curtains fall. Some even went as far as to weaponize your emotions, tearing you down in an argument with something that was the equivalent to the beating heart in your chest. Yes they would apologize and you would eventually forgive them because people make mistakes. But the thing about words is that once they leave someone’s mouth, the damage is already done and there’s no amount of remorse or forgiveness that can repair it. That’s where you are now.

You slam the door shut, leaving all the lights in your room turned off, your head pounding after the screaming match you and San had just finished (rather, you ran out on and barricaded the door so he wouldn’t see you cry) and your face stained with tears. Not a sound left you as you curled up on the bed, biting your fist as a punishment for your body's betrayal of emotions. All it would take was one minute of silence and the entire apartment would be able to hear how you were feeling. In all honesty, you didn’t want San to see you cry. Because in your mind, you didn’t deserve to cry. You were the one who picked a fight. You're the one who made unfair accusations, using his career and passions as weapons against him. You were the one that hurt him in the same ways that had been done to you, falsely claiming that it was to “beat him to it and strike first.” 

The front door slams shut, and you work quickly. You unbarricade the door and peek out, making sure no one is there. Dashing across the living space, you reach the spare bedroom and lock the door, not seeing the need for such extreme measures as earlier. You then sit with your back to the door, listening for the sign of San’s safe return from the store. Your butt has just about gone numb when this occurs, the front door shutting softly alerting you instantly. You rise from your position, albeit a little slowly due to your cramped muscles, and shuffle to the bed. A knock sounds, and a decision has to be made.

“Y/N? I know you’re awake. Can you come to bed? You and I both know that neither of us can sleep alone anymore.” San mumbles through the door. You hear shuffling, and you hold your breath thinking he might unlock the door. You’re not sure though, whether you’re holding your breath in hope or fear. But all you hear is a thud, indicating San sitting down. “Look, we don’t have to talk. You don’t even need to look at me, it just feels better for both of us if I’m holding you through the night, because at the end of the day, we still love each other, right?” 

San’s cheeks are marked with tear streaks, eyes red and puffy as he waits for any sign of confirmation from you. He loves you more than anything else, so much so that he’d give up everything for you, and needed to hear that you still loved him as well. He holds his breath, hands covering his face while he waits for you to show him a sign that you’re even listening. That you’re even there. 

You tip-toe over to the door, gently crouching down in front of it and rest your fingertips lightly on the wood, near where his shoulder is supposed to be. It’s cold and unyielding, but this is the bravest you’ll ever be. You hear a sigh on the other side, almost as if he can sense your presence.

“You know, you don’t have to keep it all in. From the first moment I saw you, I knew that there was so much going on in your life that it’d take time to get you to trust me. And I still want that. I want to know what’s going on in your life again. I want to hold you as you're crying again. And I want to repay you for all the times you’ve helped me.” San whispers, his voice showing how much of a toll this has taken on him. “I know a lot has changed, I travel a lot, and it’s harder for us to go anywhere without me being recognized. But I promise you that my feelings for you, the amount of love I feel for you, it’s all still there. If anything, I love you even more now than before. I don’t want to lose you Y/N. I want to keep fighting for us and I just need you to reach out to me, show me you want this too. Open the door, even if it’s just a crack, and let me help heal those open wounds. Yes there will be scars and yes it will take time, but I’m willing to wait.”

At this point you have tears streaming down your face as you withdraw your hand. You don’t move though, despite your broken mind willing you to do so, you stay rooted in your spot. Sniffles break through the other side, showing how much San is hurting. You feel as though there’s a war going on inside of you, your heart begging you to open the door and stop this madness, but your mind resolute on keeping this wall up. 

“I. Can’t.” you croak out, bringing your trembling hand to your lips and nibbling your thumbnail as you rise slowly. “They were right, I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

“What? Who told you that?” San questions, confusion swirling in his head as he struggles to better understand where this was coming from. Standing, San presses his hands to the door, trying to open it only to find it locked. “Love, talk to me.”

“All I’ve been doing is hurting you, and I’m sorry. ” You whimper, your mind screaming at you to shut-up and not give away anything while your heart, your very being, is begging to be set free and allow him back in. “I, I love you, San.” And with that you rise, walking towards the bathroom attached to the room. You close the door, locking it and turning to the mirror to see your disheveled state. Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes have bags under them, and your hair is greasy and a mess from the lack of effort on your part to take care of yourself. 

Thoughts swirl and distort your reflection, harsh words clouding your mind. Some of the words surface from your past, some are from deep within you stemming from your lack of forgiveness for yourself. You don’t deserve forgiveness or a second chance. You don’t deserve him caring for you. You’re toxic. You do nothing but hurt him. Toxic. Toxic. 

You start screaming, starting in your gut and ripping out through your mouth, scaring the shit out of San who begins pounding on the door. You hear him calling out to you, but it’s muffled in your head as you continue to sob and scream at your reflection, running your hands through your hair before tugging on it out of frustration. The longer you look at yourself, the worse the feeling in your gut gets as the harsh words continue to tear you apart, worsening with each passing moment. With one last scream you pull your arm back and punch the mirror, desperate to feel something other than the all consuming self-hatred. And it works.

There’s a crack on the mirror with droplets of blood in the center. You bring your trembling hand into view, noticing your knuckles slightly bloodied and cut. The pain replaces all of the noise in your head, if only for a moment, and you become entranced by it. Raising your fist again, you punch the mirror once, twice, three more times before stopping to look at your handy work. The crack has grown and your hand is bleeding steadily, a couple of pieces of glass stuck in your knuckles. You’re ashamed of what and who you’ve become and raise your fist again when the door breaks down.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” San shouts, restraining your flailing and screaming form as tears stream down your face. Four pairs of hands are pulling you out of the bathroom, with San’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he pulls you on the bed. He immediately starts shushing you, whispering into your hair as he wraps his legs around you as well, restricting you so the others can clean you up and call an ambulance if need be. At this point though, he doesn’t need to as you’ve gone completely limp, sobbing into his neck loudly as the emotions you’ve kept hidden flood out in a wave that swallows you whole. “Shh baby, it’s okay. We’re here now and we’re not leaving you. I’ve got you, we’ve got you. It’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice is trembling, absolutely terrified by what he’s just experienced. It’s lucky that Hongjoong, Yunho, and Seonghwa arrived when they did or he might have been too late, having planned on coming to help San piece back together your relationship. It took Yunho and Seonghwa to break down the doors, and all four of them carried you out of the bathroom so you wouldn’t hurt yourself or them.

Soon, you run out of energy and are left whimpering and quivering in San’s hold, slowly coming to your senses as you hear running water, hushed murmurs, and the cabinet mirror (or what’s left of it) being opened in search of something. When the realization sets in that San, Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Yunho have seen you at your worst, your chest tightens and your breathing becomes irregular which are the first signs of a panic attack. Something San was familiar with but hadn’t seen happen in some time.

“No no no no.” San repeats, noticing the changes in your behavior and looking towards the bathroom. “Hongjoong! It’s getting worse!”

Immediately, footsteps can be heard heading in your direction, and a gentle face appears in the corner of your eye. Hongjoong slowly reaches forward, grasping the hand that had begun curling in on itself to the point of almost drawing blood and pulling it away from your chest.

“Sweetie, grab my hand and squeeze that instead. You won’t hurt me, I swear.” Hongjoong whispers, slowly working his nimble fingers between your clenched ones. It comes as a surprise to him when, instead of resisting, your hand flies open into a rigid position. “Shh… it’s okay sweet-heart. How about this. Follow this.”

Your hand is placed on a firm and warm chest, a slight bump hitting your palm and drawing your attention to the pattern. It’s his heartbeat. Hongjoong’s pulse creates a rhythm in your head, distracting you from your fears and disdain towards yourself momentarily while Seonghwa and Yunho both return to the room, one holding medical supplies and the other holding a bowl with warm water and a towel. Crouching in front of you, Seonghwa notices the hand on Hongjoong’s chest is the one that’s injured, glancing at San who is fighting back tears as he strokes your hair.

“Y/n-ah. We have to clean your hand. Put your hand on San’s chest, follow his heartbeat.” Seonghwa says in a firm yet kind tone. At this point, you’ve lost almost all self-awareness, too exhausted to fight anyone as you nod partially, removing your hand from Hongjoong’s chest to place on San’s. “No sweetie. The other hand.” Seonghwa instructs, a heartbroken smile crossing his face at the sight of you behaving like a toddler who skipped their nap. You look confused, bringing your hand to your face to inspect it, finding the streaks of blood and bits of glass as a few tears trickle down your face. 

You’re not sure how long it takes for Seonghwa to properly clean your hands, or when you got changed into one of San’s shirts that fits like a dress, but as you’re lied down on the bed with San, who’s watching you intently to make sure any slight changes on your face are caught immediately, you find yourself in an almost numbed mind-frame. Too exhausted and confused to comprehend anything around you. 

Your eyes slowly close, the occasional tear slipping out only to be swiped gently away by San. San, the last thing you see before you fall into a dreamless sleep. And you are blissfully unaware of what’s to come in the morning.

As you snore softly in San’s grasp, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, Yunho leaves the room to clean up the mess that has been left behind with Seonghwa following closely behind, most likely to comfort the younger boy. Hongjoong reaches forward to brush hair out your eyes and slowly strokes your cheek. Who knew such a small body could take this much pain? he wonders to himself, not even beginning to understand what caused you to struggle so much and break down so devastatingly. And that’s the only way to describe your attack. Devastating.

Like a tsunami, you receded from social outings and even your true love San, and once they realized what was happening and why you’d “changed” the wave had already hit. But his main question was voiced by San.

“Hyung.” San rasps out, looking up at Hongjoong with tears streaming down his face. “Why-or how did this happen? What caused this? What are we-what am I supposed to do?” 

San’s breathing becomes labored, almost as if the weight of the situation has sat fully on his chest. He chokes on a sob, looking at you in your angelic state while pressing a gentle and wet kiss to the top of your head while crying. He clutches you to his chest, rocking slightly and burying his face in your head. Hongjoong panics, thinking he’ll wake you but settles once realizing how exhausted you must be. “Why would she keep this from me?”

“San-ah, I honestly don’t have the answer to that.” Hongjoong mumbles, holding his own tears back with a few deep breaths before looking at the pair of you. He honestly considered Ateez his family, and you became his little sister that he felt he needed to protect from the world. If only he’d realized sooner how much damage the world had already done to you. “But I do know one thing. Now more than ever, she needs us.”

San looks at his hyung and leader, absolutely wrecked from the storm of emotions that flowed between you two. “How?” he croaks out.

“I’m not sure. But what I do know is that the storm hasn’t gone and that this is only the beginning of our journey.” Hongjoong places a hand on your cheek and his other on San’s hand, squeezing slightly in hopes of reassuring the younger boy. “I see how much you need her San. And how much she needs you. She’s scared San. More so than any of us right now. Which is why we have to stay with her no matter what. No matter what she might say or do to scare us off, we have to fight through it all and show her we are here for her. Because if we don’t.” Hongjoong’s voice cracks, revealing his true emotions and the toll this whole ordeal has taken on him. “We might lose her forever.”

San sits quietly, shaking slightly from the silent tears that are being shed and pulling you closer to his chest if that was even possible, crying himself into a slumber much like you did moments prior. Hongjoong rises, tucking both of you in like he would an upset child, and walking into the bathroom. The scene that awaits him is what finally breaks his own dam of tears, collapsing next to Seonghwa and Yunho who are both crouched down. They’ve hunched over, scrubbing the white tiles of your blood and throwing glass shards away in a paper bag. Upon noticing Hongjoong, Yunho drops what’s in his hands, embracing his leader and best friend. His tears fall as well, the sight of someone as strong as Hongjoong breaking down terrifying him. 

Seonghwa wipes the few stray tears before rising, quickly finishing the task of cleaning before ushering the two broken boys out of the room. He sits Hongjoon and Yunho down, pulling out a paper and pen and titling it “Y/n’s Healing.”

“We’ll make a plan, and take this journey one step at a time. Until Y/n’s finally healed.” Seonghwa states, immediately writing steps and plans he’s already come up with in his head. And so the journey begins.

[redwinterroses]

RIIIIIIIIIGHT SO.

I just finished chapter 13 of Dog At The Door and holy hot cross buns batman if you're not reading this fic you NEED to. It's literally one of the best written fics I have ever read in my life and I've been reading fanfiction for over 15 years, lol.

I went back and reread the entire fic to lead up to chapter 13 and I decided to treat it like I used to treat things I had to read in college so I took notes as I went and please I am warning you this post is incredibly long. Almost 3k words. PLEASE do not hit that "read more" button unless you're good with having to scroll past it all and also spoilers ahead. Proceed with caution.

~*~

Rereading Dog at the Door reactions (spoilers, obviously):

· Doc finding Ren’s body to be cold and for a second thinking he’s actually dead—my heart

· “That’s Ren, alive and kicking.” Oh…no, Doc. No it’s not.

· The first “Where is my hand?” hits different the second time through

· Gah the ice and winter imagery ALL over the place—my English degree brain wants to watch and see if that shifts to warmth at any point as we go? Thoughts for future Red to think.

· It’s fascinating to me to see Doc constantly thrust into the prey role. This is a guy who is very much not that person normally, but something about the Red King is beyond anything he’s really encountered before—or at least not since Dinnerbone—and it pushes him into an entirely new role that he clearly chafes in

· “I should get back to work on your new arm soon,” he says, making a mental note to add claws to the fingertips. Honestly Doc why tho. XD

· “It feels like something Ren would want him to do.” </3

· Side note: I just watched Doc’s freaking hour long shulker farm vid, and that’s making it a lot easier to hear his voice in this fic

· I’m more curious about the hand.” New Ren laughs a bit at his own words, as though there’s something funny about that phrasing. I MISSED THIS LINE THE FIRST TIME THROUGH

· The bead curtain being cursed hippie treasure XD

· The fact that Doc just so quickly accepts that Ren is gone—maybe not permanently, but at least for now—is kind of heartbreaking. Because you know he hasn’t really accepted it, he’s just… deciding not to feel anything about it. Just nod and move on and pretend you don’t need to stop and cope with the possible/probable death of your best friend and the fact that Someone Else is wearing his skin. That’s so sad.

· “high-fiving the finished hand with his own metal hand.” Aww… Doccy.

· “He shoos away the images of New Ren holding him up by the throat supervillain-style and turns around.” Hmmmmmmm want that fanart. Scary New Ren/RK is good stuff. (post-chapter-13 Red popping in with a WHAT THE HECK)

· “that makes him seem like a ghost in Ren’s body.” YA KNOW. LIKE HE IS.

· Okay side note time: why is the Red King here? Ya know? Like – in 3rdLife the idea of a possessing spirit of bloodlust makes some sense. But why stick around? Was RK trying to escape the 3L server, or was this not deliberate? At what point did he take over from Ren—at Black Heart Altar? In which case, was the whole idea Ren’s to begin with, or was he influenced? Maybe it happened the first time Ren died? The Red King took over then—or at least started to? Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…

· Wait more theories—what if RK is connected to the ????? entity that spoke to Martyn when he died? In which case, cMartyn said he was considering making that canonically a Watcher (he ended up not doing it, but he also didn’t do anything that contradicted it either). I’m not saying RK is a Watcher… but boy he sure does stare a lot, don’t he.

· Holding the screwdriver like a dagger—mmmm

· Okay funny thought: all this frost, RK’s gonna need to be real careful about rust lol. And straining the metal, tbh, all that freezing and thawing is going to have an effect but the rust idea is making me laugh

· Until I realized it would look like blood and it’s not funny anymore

· “Renbob is in the beanbag stuffed next to the driver’s seat” right so is this where Renbob sleeps because I have been wondering—

· “something about having two people look like Ren when neither of them are makes Doc stop to take a shaky breath” *sob*

· “Renbob clears his throat, looking up at Doc with a smile that is so obviously fake that it hurts.” Ugh the LOT of you stop repressing everything you’ll give yourselves a collective hernia

· “he’ll probably have to break the news to the other hermits, too, Iskall and False and all the others.” All these painful lines I somehow missed the first time through

· Awww warm air comes in when Renbob opens the door—with the flowers and everything, Renbob is so easily associated with spring, I love this contrast.

· Aaand there it is, yup, RK is shocked to see his face on Renbob, and Renbob is shocked to see that this is so clearly Not Ren.

· They both recover pretty quickly, though. Survivors, both of them.

· RK calls Renbob their “ferryman” and I’m not sure if I was supposed to get “crossing the river Styx” vibes from that But I Did. (does RK think he’s dead? That they’re all dead?) (post-chapter-13 Red here with a little bit of wordless screaming.) (and also a bit of pride that I picked up on this.)

· “And what a help you’ve been! Fixing me up, replacing my hand.” Hi yes, 911? there’s a dagger stabbed into my feels.

· “he’d rather remember rage than see another person’s heart break.” Dang that’s such a raw line. Oof.

· ”the Red King says, his voice hoarse with tears.” Really interesting that this blood deity can feel such emotions—like, anger or even fear, I can get. But to see this entity upset to the point of tears is fascinating.

· “There is a crown on Doc’s workbench.” Right, yeah so like—is RK unwillingly manifesting these artifacts? Because that’s wild, man. …how long before he manifests an “enchanter”?

· “I’ve never seen it [the crown] clean before.” Okay that definitely implies that maybe RK didn’t come around until after Black Heart Altar?

· “The Red King has the crown in his lap when Doc turns back around, claws gently tracing over the engravings, leaving frost patterns behind.” I really wish I had art skills because there’s this image in my head of a drawing of the crown held in RK’s hands, with his face (one eye glowing, one in shadow) reflected in the surface, and frost patterns following behind a claw that’s daintily tracing the surface. But I can’t draw so—

· RK asks for a change of clothes. What was he wearing when they rescued him, I wonder? The Red King outfit with the fur capelet? Or Ren’s Stargazer outfit? Which begs the question: where does Stargazer fit into all this? Was Ren’s return to Hermitcraft RK free, but when he came so close to dying to Sith, RK found that as a gateway to take over? (Post-13 Red here, Looking Intently at this note.)

· Awww… the image of a one-legged RK clutching new clothes to his chest and hopping down to change in the bathroom… That’s weirdly endearing. He’s less menacing when he stands up somehow. Less lurking, maybe.

· Oooohhhhh he messed up his back sleeping on the floor. Gotcha.

· Doc keeps telling himself (and RK) that saving him and working on these parts is “the right thing to do” and while he’s not WRONG I just want to see him realize that it’s not only the right thing, it’s realistically the only thing, because if he didn’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that he’s lost his best friend and we can’t have that.

· “I don’t need to eat” ummmmmm no hold on this definitely implies that RK is possessing a dead body and I’m not okay with that where is Ren

· LOLOL “I can’t stand to see [you do] this” is such a raw line to be about watching Doc eat cereal with his hands

· “The voice doesn’t belong to who he thinks it does.” Ugh, Doc. This isn’t the first time he’s lost a close friend to Something Else, something otherworldly.

· “All of them are waiting for him, waiting for him to do something more, something better—” aaand there it is. Doc’s characterization in this fic in a single sentence.

· Doc waking up and thinking he’s seeing Ren and RK’s hesitation and the gentle “I’m not Ren”—OH MY HEART

· RK’s coffee = Renbob’s friendship bracelets

· Randomly can I just say that I love how RK’s dialog is all in italics? It concerned me at first because I thought it was going to keep pulling me out of the narrative, but instead it really just feels right. Also I’m looking forward to the moment when he says something and it’s not in italics because it’s REN and oh my lands please give this to me I beg you (post-13 Red here with a bit more mindless screaming)

· “watch your tongue with me, Atlas, because I’m the one person you can pass the sky to.” Okay okay okay—English studies brain coming out. This suggests that there is a burden RK and Doc can share: something Doc is currently struggling against that only RK can help him with. In the moment, I don’t know if this is really fair of RK to say—after all, Doc does technically have Renbob too, if we’re just talking about Doc’s unhealthy coping mechanisms. In fact, if that’s the context, then Renbob is a much better fellow-Atlas because he and Doc have known each other much longer and they’re both dealing with the loss of Ren. BUT, knowing about the upcoming conversation where Doc and RK both realize that they’ve lost someone (Ren for Doc, Martyn for RK) this line suddenly has a lot more weight. Again, I don’t think that in that moment RK quite has the right to pull this zinger. But in later context, it turns out to be true after all. They are the only two with this particular shared pain.

· Doc upset with himself because he can’t get over his “stupid hang-ups” DOC MY LAD. “I’ve lost my best friend, you’re in his body, and I don’t know how to process any of these emotions” is not a “stupid hang-up” PLEASE stop blaming yourself for everything!?

· “I’m so tired” in the middle of his nightmare—oh my gosh. That hurts so much for some reason.

· I also very much wish I had the ability to draw the image of Doc with tears on his face, staring dead-eyed down at his workbench while RK looms over from behind, pinning his wrists to the table with one metal arm and one frost-bitten one, a look of exasperation and concern on his face. Why can’t I draw the things

· “How do you know Etho” “I watched him die.” OW ow ow ow ow

· Doc takes this as calmly as only someone used to living in a world where death has low consequences can. Oh. Oh—that means… huh. Doc isn’t used to losing people permanently on any basis, especially not death. So no wonder he doesn’t know how to process Ren being gone (I can’t bear to write “dead” there). He literally doesn’t have context for it… and what context he DOES have is like—I mean, Etho and Bdubs came back. Ouch.

· “Twenty-five.” The Red King makes the number sound like a threat. Yet another banger line I missed the first time through. Imagine waking up and thinking you’re in 3rd Life again but instead of 14 players there’s almost twice that many and you think you don’t know any of them.

· I still don’t quite understand the “when was etho added/should have known there was something different” bit or why RK is so emotional about it… but I have trust that it’ll make sense at some point. (post-13 Red: ...is this something about the fact that he thinks he's dead...so he thinks Etho has died before? Like, that 3rd Life wasn't Etho's first hardcore? ...I feel like I'm almost grasping this but I'm missing an element somewhere.)

· And now a sword. RK. My man. You need to stop manifesting things—especially when they scare the ever-living daylights out of you.

· I absolutely adore the in-universe lore that Fire Aspect is a PvP enchantment because it threatens dropped loot, and yeah I very well might steal that. (Along with something I read at one point who-even-knows-where that Knockback is a coward’s enchantment, because I love that too.)

· He really shouldn’t. / Doc picks up the sword by the scabbard and hands it to him, hilt extended. Doc you already trust this guy so much and you don’t even know it—but is it just because you still subconsciously trust the face he wears? Or is it something deeper?

· Ugh, the “I was supposed to kill someone for him” conversation/scene is SO FREAKING GOOD

· “I don’t want it. Not like the crown.” Why, though? Why doesn’t he want it? Because it’s more to do with death than kingship? OH. Oh, I hadn’t even considered that. I’ve been thinking of RK as this like, god of blood and vengeance but maybe he’s not. Maybe he hates the bloodshed (“the blood! It’s drippin’ in me eyes… I’ve been blinded by the violence…”) just as much—more?—than Ren did/would have. Huh. That’s a new facet.

· Oh my heart the “have you ever lost someone and it was your fault” line. Dagger to the feels. Dagger to the feels.

· This like… “I’m on a roll and even though I know I should stop I really don’t want to” mode? Man. That’s relatable. Especially when you’re working to avoid dealing with something else.

· “Not making it for you—it’s for Ren” oh ouch ouch ouch the denial suddenly breaks through it’s okay, Doc I’m with you on this

· The second time reading through it’s far clearer that Doc has a blind panic attack here—when he starts rambling that Ren’s coming back, he’ll be there for season eight and RK goes to…do whatever he was going to do and Doc just blanks out. The manic productivity should have been a warning sign, the poor guy is crumbling.

· “Doctor” and “he’s not sure he deserves that title right now” UGH Doc needs a hug someone please hug him and tell him it’s all going to be okay. Someone please hug me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.

· “his hand on his throat” over the scar from the Red Winter axe? </3

· “I did do that. I have done that.” RK admitting to it actually having been him in Doc’s nightmares?

· Okay sorry the conversation about beating Dinnerbone will never not be funny to me

· RK mentions that people used to call him m’lord or Ren, and then mere minutes later you have “Ren. You couldn’t save him because of me, could you?” He knows exactly what’s going on here. Not maliciously, but he’s no dense-head, he’s put the pieces together. (post-13 Red: MOST of the pieces. Most of them.)

· Watching Doc slowly stop fighting his nightmares—like, the first time, he fights. The second time, he accepts it but still struggles. And this time… this time he gives up before it even starts. That hurts, man.

· Good grief the whole “get my head chopped off” / “you really don’t want that” bit. O.O I’m not sure what emotion I’m feeling but I’m Feeling An Emotion.

· “Snow’s new. Dream’s not.” </3

· …Doc’s not gonna be a fan of snowier-snow after this trip…

· "Dr. M77" Actually he’s Doc Monster, RK, but we’ll let it go. XD

· OKAY BUT THIS EXCHANGE? The “how are you feeling” / “better” / “you’re a bad liar” / “I said better not great” that’s such a good exchange and I don’t know why every other time I’ve ever seen it used they stop at the lying accusation? Doc with the snappy comebacks, man.

· Aaah, Doc and RK, two establishment bros bonding over a shared disdain for hippies.

· The bit about the fella who wore an iron helmet and called it a powdered wig—fear is in my heart. *shoves Scar into an obsidian box and blocks it closed*

· “Who was Ren to you?” </3

· Doc is more than willing to spread the flames, to sear his loss into RK’s bones. / The king’s face stops him. Ren’s face stops him. Holy CRAP is that a good set of lines. So much going on there, and ALL of it good.

· Again. I wish I could draw. I would draw RK sitting on the edge of the bed, gently hugging a collapsed-in-on-himself Doc. </3

· “And I hate the devil that forced us apart, that mixed my blood with his.” *adds another layer to Scar’s obsidian fort*

· OKAY STARTING CHAPTER THIRTEEN I made the mistake of logging into Tumblr earlier and saw people screaming so I’m sure I’m not ready for this but here we go

· Oh no RK has been hippie-ified

· “You started a paramilitary organization because you have hay fever?” *dies laughing*

· Ugh I need to go back and watch s6 I’ve only seen the tail end of Mumbo’s side of things and there’s so much I don’t know.

· HAHAHAHAH I do know the trident bit though—

· Wait he said Scar

· PANIC

· “Kingslayer. bloodthirsty. Time King. The coward. And the mastermind behind it all, the loyal soldier to the very end, the whole damn reason either of us are in this mess.”

· HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP HOLY—

· “Is this the afterlife I deserve? After everything, this is the hell I’m going to endure?” I AM SCREAMING

· Doc pinned to the wall with ice, struggling to breathe—I CAN’T WHAT IS HAPPENING

· ((You know I’d get through this a lot faster if I stopped pausing to write reactions—))

· “A break in the ice. A whisper of spring.” Symbolism. Symbolism.

· “Ren was dead when I found him again,” NO I REFUSE TO READ THIS

· “don’t use the hand I built you to hurt yourself” DOC. SIR. MY HEART.

· RK don't run, RK get back here—what are you—

·

·

· I

· JUST

· ACTUALLY

· SCREAMED

· AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

· *several long moments of just breathing*

·

·

·

· *rereads*

· Holy crap on a garbage cracker with an extra serving of what-the-heck sauce

· REN

· REN

· Okay lol okay hahaha calming down

· I literally threw myself back in my chair away from the computer reading that last paragraph. I don't usually... physically react to things I read. LOL. Heh. I’m. Ah. I’m not emotionally invested in this or anything.

· Holy crap.

· Okay. Okay. Okay.

· Um.

· Great chapter, guys. Awesome stuff. Really good. I’m absolutely okay right now and it’s all totally fine.

· …please enjoy your break and get lots of rest and I very much look forward to the return of this fic you have no idea.

· I need to go breathe for a little bit.

EDIT: no, you know what--I'm not going to be a nice polite fangirl over here and quietly hope y'all see this I'm straight up tagging you, @fluffy-papaya and @betweenlands. THANK YOU but also how dare.

[teaspoon-full-of-sugar]

edge

pairing: harry styles x reader (au)

warnings: smut, dom/sub, exhibitionism, degradation, spit play, choking, face fucking, spanking, ring kink (if that’s even a thing ..?), orgasm denial, unprotected sex, subspace, aftercare, very fluffy and cheesy ending (like seriously so cheesy and cliche pls don’t bully me i didn’t know how to end it)

word count: 4.7k

synopsis: harry and y/n are a cam couple

author’s note: i hope you enjoy! xx all the love 

masterlist

—

It started by accident, really, with a simple, offhand comment one night.

Already two-and-a-half bottles of wine deep, Y/N was close to tears with one glance at their pitiful bank account, and Harry was trying his best to comfort her and assure her that everything would end up fine, but he had absolutely no way to promise her that. Their part-time jobs did very little to cover their monthly expenses, and their next loan payment for school was coming up; needless to say, they were feeling overwhelmed.

And what better to do than drink and complain about your problems when you’re feeling overwhelmed?

“Maybe I should go into porn,” she sighed, and he rubbed his hand under her shirt, trying to soothe her. They knew that they were taking a risk moving across the world for uni, with no backup plan and nothing to fall back on, but in the end, it will, hopefully, be worth it. In the end, they would have a brighter future, despite the mountain of debt, but the middle part, the part where they struggle and contemplate giving up, is so difficult to get past.

“I—I’d do it with you,” he hiccuped, resting his head against her shoulder.

“Maybe we should do our own videos,” she said, “I heard that people can make a lot of money doing that.” Not noticing that he had gone quiet, she continued, laughing and raving. “Could you imagine? Oh, what if we did one of you going down on me? Harry, babe,” she moans lightly, “that would be hot.”

He smiled widely, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head at the thought; he felt a rush of blood in his groin. They had talked about recording themselves and posting it online before, so the idea wasn’t something they were unfamiliar with, but it normally only happened when they were tipsy, and they never talked about it in any detail like she was. Now, the thought of her recording him between her legs or vice versa, for them to enjoy over and over, made arousal burn in his belly. He could imagine how the camera would shake as she came on his tongue, her hips bucking wildly, hand pulling at his hair. He holds back a moan.

“That would be so hot,” he said, “we should totally do it.” He downs the rest of his wine and pulls out his laptop.

“No,” she giggled, “no, no…”

“‘M doin’ it,” he said.

“Don’t do it,” she argued weakly, making no actual move to stop him. While she seemed to be on the fence about the idea, she had a slight grin on her face, her heart nearly racing out of her chest.

“We are so doing this,” he said, exploring the page. He gasps suddenly and taps on her leg, making her nearly spill the glass of wine. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N—”

“What? What? What?” She mocked him. With mischievous smirk on his face, he faces her, a slight purple hue to his lips.

“What if we did cam?”

And the rest is history.

Now, they dedicate their Friday nights to do cam videos. It started off as something they did on special occasions, quick little teasers that lasted no longer than ten minutes, but they ended up getting a lot of money for it. It helped pay their school loans and get a head start on their savings, and it gradually turned into a regular occurance.

By the time they are ready to begin their live one evening, it’s nearing ten o’clock. They’re on their bed, pillows and comforter long gone, leaving nothing but faded floral sheets, stretched tautly beneath them. Y/N is nestled into his side while Harry’s on his knees and fiddles with the computer, brows pulled together and lips puckered slightly. She’s tired, her swollen eyelids closing every few seconds. He kisses her forehead, wrapping an arm around her. Their laptop, with the main webcam, is propped up on a stool right behind the footboard, and the secondary camera, a cheap handheld camcorder connected to the computer with flimsy wires, which is used for close up shots, is thrown off to the side. Harry leans back on his heels.

“Ready?” He asks with a teasing smile. Even with such a small gesture, his grin is still infectious, with cute little dimples and laugh lines. She returns the smile. It’s a redundant question at this point, whether or not she’s ready, but Harry asks every time. It never felt like a chore; it was something they both enjoyed, and if they were to grow tired of it, they would stop. They were finally financially stable enough to be able to make the decision.

While initially they decided to start doing cam for the money, it became something that they both enjoyed doing. She always got this little rush of excitement in the seconds before they finally went live. This was the last moment of secrecy they would have for the next hour or so. To many, the thought of some strangers watching her and Harry at their most intimate would make them apprehensive, but she always got this exhilaration from it.

“Always,” she says, stealing one last kiss from him.

It’s a tradition of theirs to hit the “Go Live” button together, cheesy as it is, and tonight is no different. Their faces light up the screen, and they both grin, arousal building with each thrilling second. There is only a moment of calm before dozens of familiar usernames flood the screen.

“See some new ones,” Harry comments under his breath. She rests her cheek against his shoulder, toying with the rings on his fingers. The introduction part is always the most awkward; there is no decorum or set way that they have to be done, and not feeling comfortable using their first names, she and Harry found it difficult to find their rhythm and interact with the viewers. It felt a bit unforthcoming for them to just dive in without saying anything.

“What are we feelin’ tonight, lovie? Soft and vanilla or rough and dirty?” Harry asks, like he normally does.

Comments fill the screen; a lot of them describe what they would do if they were there, but most of them have similar responses: rough and dirty.

The couple very rarely genuinely ask the viewers what they want to see because the most important thing, to them, is that they are enjoying it. What’s the point of doing it if they aren’t enjoying themselves? Sure, they sometimes cater toward the audience (that’s the easiest ways to make any money), but for the most part, they stick to what they both know the other would enjoy. Harry gives her a soft smile, leaning in a little closer. No matter what she wants, it’s all the same to him; as long as he is with her, he likes just about everything.

“Rough and dirty,” she smirks, tongue curling over her teeth teasingly. “I want you to fucking wreck me.” She whispers that part, low enough for only Harry to hear. He hums appreciatively, leaning back.

Ding!

“Be careful what you wish for.”

He kisses her, rough and gnawing, their teeth knocking together with his tongue slipping through, gently prying her lips apart. He bites on her tongue, and she lets out a small whimper, trying to hold off a smirk. Even after all this time being together, since they were just teens, he still knows what makes her tick and ache and melt; he knows exactly where to kiss and bite and lick to make her fall apart. She tucks her arms beneath his own, draping tightly around his waist, her fingertips tracing along the plain of his back, and he shivers.

His hand wraps easily around her throat, another thing he found early on that she enjoyed. He can feel her breathing pick up. She tugs at his bottom lip, suckling at the skin. He digs his fingers deeper into her neck, pressing harshly onto her pulse point. Eyes rolling back, she moans, strained and muffled, breaking slightly, and wraps her hands around his wrist.

“Open,” he beckons, and she does as best as she can, jaw still confined within his strong grasp. Her tongue dips out, ready and willing. “Good girl,” he says, loosening his grip on her throat. A breath of air slips past her swollen lips. Spit dribbles out from his puckered lips onto her greedy tongue. She closes her mouth quickly to keep it all in, his hand tightening around her neck once again. She sighs, head tipping back.

“You know the rules, babylove. Don’t swallow.”

“Mhm,” she nods, voice muffled. Her fingers dip into his boxers, nails tracing over the inked skin. She can trace the outline of his tattoos from memory at this point, every curve, point, and shadow etched in her brain. She pinches the extra skin at his abdomen lightly, and he smiles, pressing a kiss to her swollen lips.

“Wan’ my cock, huh?” He raises a brow. “Should I make you beg?

Ding! Ding!

“No,” she mumbles, pouting slightly. “Wanna make you feel good.” He hums appreciatively, tapping her cheek lightly.

“Taught you well, lovie,” he says. “Down.” He guides her onto her onto her elbows as he adjusts onto his knees, her hands moving back under the elastic band, the tips of her fingers teasing his skin. “Le’ me see,” he coaxes, fingers tugging on her chin. Sure enough, his spit is still in the divot of her tongue. “Good girl, you can swallow now.”

Ding!

Her fingers tease up his thighs and into his boxers, cupping his balls suddenly. He bites his lip, slapping her on the cheek. It’s not enough to do anything more than a slight burn, but it leaves her tingly with her eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t be greedy, slut,” he spits, yanking her head back by her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “Just want you so bad.”

She tugs his boxers down, but only enough for his hard cock to slip out. She normally starts off slow, teasing him until he can't take it anymore and pushes her all the way down, using her as he pleases. That’s not the case tonight. A part of her wants to take control, to suck him until he’s nearly falling apart, his knees weak. She takes nearly all of him in her mouth, and he gasps with surprise, his hands combing through her hair, guiding her. She gags on him, her bottom lip pressed tightly to his balls. He tugs her back.

“Watch the teeth,” he hisses. She gasps for air, lips lingering on the red, nearly purple, tip. His hips buck. He breathes out through gritted teeth, shaky and heavy.

“Sorry, just wanna make you feel good,” she says, pressing a wet kiss to his hip. She runs her tongue over the divot of his hip bone.

“Want me to fuck your mouth, lovie?” He asks, his fingers tracing over her tender lips. She nods, and he can feel her trying to move, but he holds her back by the hair, grip tight. “Beg,” he says, brows cocked.

“Please, H, want you to fuck my mouth, use me,” she moans, mouthing over the head of his cock. He holds himself steady, teasing her, just barely letting her feel but not allowing her to fully take him in her mouth. A pool of spit slides down her lips and into his hand, wetting the skin even more, before it falls onto the mattress. Her hands travel up the back of his thighs and onto his partially clothed bum, giving him a cheeky squeeze.

“M’kay, relax, babylove,” he says, brushing flyaways from her forehead, the skin already sticky with sweat. “Hold still and look at me. You know the rules.” She looks up at him, wide eyes never breaking from his as he guides his cock down the length of her throat, squeezing and stroking. She barely winces as he thrusts his hips, shoving himself deeper with every move. Her tongue runs along the bottom ridge of his cock, tracing every vein.

Ding!

She squeezes the skin of his thighs, guiding him further down her throat. The filthy wet sounds make her clit throb and her arousal seep into the sheets. There’s absolutely nothing better than seeing him above her, lost in pleasure, his chest flushing red, nearly incoherent: all because of her. There’s also something incredibly intimate about it as well; he always insists on keeping eye contact until there are tears in her eyes. With one hand gripping her hair tightly while the other gently caresses her cheek, he guides himself into her warm mouth. He nibbles on his lip.

“Take it, baby,” he moans, stuffing his cock deeper in her mouth. He traces his fingers along her throat, feeling the muscles swell and contract beneath them. Saliva dribbles from her lips, down her chin and the length of his shaft. She chokes and gags, but she doesn’t let up.

She barely reaches the base, her nose only just grazing the curls before he’s yanking her back, a string of saliva trailing from the head to her swollen lips, which breaks under the force of her gasps, and his cock twitches at the sight of her looking properly wrecked, eyes wide, blown with lust, her lips swollen and wet from spit and pre-cum, and chest heaving.

“Bend over,” he says, tapping her cheek. “Made such a mess, baby,” he says after she moves up, running a hand over the wet patch that formed on the sheets. Like a good girl, she turns until she’s facing the headboard, her glistening pussy on display to their hundreds of viewers. She shakes with anticipation.

Harry doesn’t deter from his normal routine, not touching her until she’s nearly in tears. She can feel the heat from his hand hovering over her skin, and she can feel hungry eyes on her; a small part of her wants to shrink away, but with Harry right beside her, it makes her feel like the strongest, sexiest woman in the world. Harry finally runs a finger along her slit after a few tense minutes and roughly presses into her clit. Her hips buck into his hand, and she presses a cheek into the mattress, moaning with relief.

“Such a good little slut,” he hums. “So wet for us, baby.”

Us.

When he says that, her pussy clenches and a rush of arousal threatens to slip down her trembling thighs; she sinks further into the mattress, sliding down until her chest is pressed tightly to the sheets, and her thighs spread even further until the joints of her hips ache with overexertion, but the pain is welcomed.

“Keep 'em on or off?” He asks.

“On,” she answers, the feeling of his cool rings against her heated skin is comforting almost. Her stomach tingles when he slips two fingers inside her pussy, with his thumb massaging at the tender skin between her holes. He easily finds that spot inside her, the spot that makes

Her orgasm comes painfully soon, her clit throbbing and begging for attention as he fucks her so close to oblivion, his rings adding extra friction to her sensitive walls. The scent of her arousal is thick in the air as it slips down his hands, traveling either down to her belly or her thighs. She’s so close, close enough to taste it; she just needs one more push until her high completely swallows her, bathing her in a warmth that only he’s been able to give her, but she is, perhaps, a little too optimistic. With every helpless jut of her hips, the more frequent moans, and the tightening of her walls, Harry knows the signs of her impending orgasm, but he can’t let her have it that easily.

A pained yelp slips past her lips when he suddenly pulls away and smacks her clit with wet fingers, the fervent climax drifting away until a dull ache, of yearning and lust, is all that remains. He spanks her sensitive pussy and lands two more on her bum. She groans, savoring the sting from his rings, cold yet burning.

“Not yet,” he says, running his hand along her prickled skin. He spanks her, harder than before, and she groans with pleasure. He wants to see the raised imprint of his hand on her smooth skin.

She can feel herself slipping. It starts off slow, a slight fog behind her eyes, and then it drifts and settles, spreading to her limbs. It feels like being high, swaddled in a soothing haze, and you can only feel yourself. The external earth doesn’t exist, and in that moment, it’s just her and Harry. Her world muffles, the sporadic chimes coming from the laptop ceasing, and the mattress disappears from beneath her, leaving her floating and vulnerable, with nothing to hold her other than him.

Harry.

He has always been able to make her teeter on the edge of pain and pleasure, and with her senses are in overdrive yet dulled at the same time, she feel that edge slip away into the abyss, with each slap delivered to her ass, they’re dulled just a little bit more. Like an addict, she yearns to feel the first one, the one that made her legs tremble, the one that sent tingles up her spine and a burning to her supple skin.

“More,” she says, inching closer to him.

“More?” She can hear the smile in his voice. She stretches her arms in front of her, back arching further than ever before. He lands another slap to her ass, lower and closer to her dripping pussy. He kisses the welts that raised over her skin from the rings, but she can barely feel them, nothing more than a welcomed prickle.

He spits on her pussy and slips three fingers inside this time, stretching her further than before, and with the extra friction from his rings, she tightens up almost instantly, the burning fire from before coming faster and stronger than before.

“Fuck,” she moans, long and drawn out. His free hand spanks her again, and she hisses, her arms giving out. Pleasure rushes through her veins, threatening to envelop her, and she can feel herself give in once again, sinking into him and accepting anything he has to offer. “Close,” she whines, but he pulls away again, slapping her clit roughly. She cries out, wanting to shy away from him, but her body betrays her, and she backs into him, craving yet another stolen high.

“Move t’ the side, button,” he says, tapping her leg, and she does, turning until they’re parallel to the webcam. He only teases the head of his cock through her folds for a moment before he slams into her with little warning, her warmth swallowing him easily. This is something he could never get tired of: the feeling of her hot, wet walls gripping him and of her arousal slipping down his thighs.

Ding! Ding!

His near brutal pace knocks the wind from her chest, making her drawn out cries of pleasure break and split. As he pounds into her, his hips smacking harshly against her raw skin, the remnants of her ruined climaxes leave her walls overly sensitive to every rough thrust, but she backs into him, meeting his hips, eager to finally come undone. He digs his nails into her tender skin, and she lets out a breath.

There has always been a fine line between pain and pleasure, and Harry knows exactly how to dangle her right at the very edge.

“Takin’ me so well,” he coos, but she can’t even fathom his compliment in her addled mind, let alone respond. He wraps his hands around her throat and pulls her head next to his. He wants to feel her, the heat of her breaths, the salt on her skin, the tremors of her thighs, everything. Her body grinds back against him, whether consciously or unconsciously, he doesn’t know. Her eyes are closed, features pinched, chasing her high.

Y/N can feel everything, every rush of blood flowing in her veins, every stroke of his cock inside her, every bead of sweat that drips from his skin and onto her back. She can feel everything, yet nothing at all; it all blurs together into a blanket of warmth and euphoria, and he’s at the center of it all: holding her and pleasing her and giving her everything she never knew she desired. She can barely speak, nothing more than a few broken whimpers filling the thick air, lost amongst his heaving breaths and the chimes from the laptop, which is at the back of their minds at this point.

She hooks her arm behind her, around his neck, her fingers carding through the sweat-drenched locks. She tugs on them painfully hard when he hits her weak spot, and he groans. Her heart is nearly racing out of her chest when yet another taunting orgasm tightens her stomach.

“Need cummies,” she whines, her words slurring, head falling to the side. He nestles his nose into the crook of her neck, hips grinding his cock deeper inside her.

“No cummies, yet, lovie,” he says. “Wait f’ me.” He can feel her struggling to hold her orgasm back, the walls of her pussy fluttering, milking him; he groans, feeling more blood rush to his cock when she squeezes him even tighter. “Relax,” he coos, scratching his nails along her scalp. He slaps her clit, making her twitch and buck even more, and he spreads his fingers around the swollen skin of her pussy, teasing where they’re connected. He lets go of her neck, and she nearly collapses without his support, leaning heavily on her elbows, back arched.

“Please,” she whimpers, shaking her head, “Can’t hold it.”

She slumps onto the mattress, her quivering knees slipping out from under her. Her hips buck, a long, drawn out moan slipping out as toe-curling orgasm washes over her, bathing her in warmth and relief and pure bliss. He comes soon after, hands gripping her hips tightly. Her shallow breaths are barely audible in the thick air, amongst a cacophony of chimes from the cam and his own heavy breathing. He rubs along her back, pressing sporadic kisses to her spine, following the ridges up to her neck.

“Babylove?”

She doesn’t answer, only a weak whimper and a sigh leaving her as she shifts beneath him, causing his softening cock to slip out, their releases pooling beneath them. He quickly closes the laptop to keep some semblance of privacy, and he tries to ease her onto her back, but she’s unresponsive, head nestled deep into the bed, but her breathing becomes more stable, muscles lax.

“Y/N?” She hums and turns onto her back. He cups her cheeks, trying to look into her eyes. They’re half-lidded, and she can’t seem to focus on much of anything. “Can you get up f’me? Need t’ get ya cleaned up.”

She finally looks at him, her pupils dilated, like she’s faded, lost in an empty mind. She blinks and looks down at his hands on her arms. Her brows furrow, and the tremors return, starting in her hands and spreading to her legs. They’re not pleasant, like before when she felt like she was floating; these ones make her blood run cold. Her high lessens, her head still foggy, but the feeling returns in her limbs, leaving her skin burning and bruised. When she meets his gaze again, there’s a sinking feeling in her stomach, shame and dread.

In her current state of mind, she mistakes the concern in his eyes for anger, and tears fill her eyes. She disappointed him; she was being greedy and dirty and bad. She covers her face with her arms to hide the tears that slip out, knees tucking to her chest.

“‘M sorry,” she cries suddenly. His heart stops for a second. What on earth could he have done to make her want to apologize? He tugs her arms away from her face.

“For wha’?”

“You said no cummies, and I couldn’t hold it—” Her face crumbles. “I was being a bad, bad girl.” She mutters to herself, biting her lip, which quivers pitifully. “Please, please, don’t be mad,” she begs, hands clinging to him. Before, she felt absolute euphoria, a high she didn’t want to come down from, but now, her skin aches, and there’s a pang of guilt and shame in her belly that she can’t seem to soothe. She doesn’t even feel it when her teeth break past the skin of her lips.

“Hey, none of that,” he says, easing her bruised lip from her teeth. He runs a thumb over her knuckles. “‘M not mad, never, lovie,” he reassures her. “C’mere,” he says, tugging her into his arms. “Look a’ me.” He rests his forehead against hers. He’s had to coax her out of a subspace only a handful of times, but she has never crashed this hard. Never has she been this shaken, nor has it ever happened during a cam. He just wishes he noticed sooner; he should have known not to go as rough as he did, especially when she was feeling tired to begin with. When she’s in her subspace, she tends to take it a little too far, thinking she can take more than what she would normally handle.

“Better?” He asks her after a moment, and she nods, but her hands still quiver at her side. “Be right back, yeah?” He lays her back down gently and goes into the washroom to draw a bath. When he comes back, he finds her with her hands over her face, shoulders shaking.

“Can ya walk?”

“Yeah,” she says, scooting up off the bed, but her knees buckle, and they barely make it to the bathroom.

“I gotcha,” he says. “Jus’ gonna getcha cleaned up, feelin’ all better.” Her bum, the skin raised with welts made by his own hand, barely touches the water before she’s wincing. There’s a tinge in his stomach, but he continues to help her in, holding her under the armpits.

“In ya go,” he whispers, nursing her like she’s a toddler. The water is hot and comforting against her aching muscles. The lavender oil he tossed in leaves her skin silky with a tingeful burn on her bum and thighs. She clings to his arm, which has now wrapped tightly around her middle, pressing into her tender breasts.

“Come in with me,” she says. He sinks to his knees and cups her neck, elbow dipping in the water.

“Be right back, button,” he says, kissing her forehead lightly, “Jus’ need t’ change the sheets.”

He returns not a moment later and joins her in the tub, washing her body with a sweetly scented scrub. She comes fully down in the bath, with his arms coiled tightly around her, one over her chest and the other around her middle, their fingers toying together. The water’s run cold, but they don’t make any move to get out any time soon, basking in the warmth of each other.

Despite how many years they have been together, he still finds it difficult to believe that he can be so comfortable with another person.

She puts her heart, body, and soul fully in his hands and trusts him not to break it.

He trusts that she’ll do the same for him.

And when she snuggles into him and presses a tired kiss to his cool skin, after he gets them dried and in their bed once again, he knows that there is no other person in the world he would trust more with his heart than her.

—

[reyescarlos]

26, 65 or 74? hurt/comfort? i love ur style of writing and i wanna see where you take these 🥺🥰

this is just the sweetest. you’ve really been making me so happy with all your kudos and comments in this collection! thank you so much! this one kind of ran away from me and is a bit heavier than my previous fics. it comes with trigger warnings so... overdose tw, drugs tw

#26 “How did you find me?”

TK sits with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs as he looks out across the field. To any passerby this wouldn’t be anything remarkable. It’s nothing more than an expanse of dry grass but this particular vacant spot is arguably one of his favorite places in all of Travis County. This is the field where he allowed himself to dive headfirst into something real with Carlos, the two watching an anomaly in the sky above as something organic bloomed between them.

Austin has been leaving its mark on TK, the new memories and bonds forged here almost enough to eclipse all of the bad he’s left behind.

But there are certain aspects of his past that he can’t quite run from, despite his best efforts to. Life enjoyed playing with him too much to allow good times to last long. TK supposes he may be a touch melodramatic but after the last call he and his team were dispatched to, he can’t shake the idea that the universe likes tossing in harsh reminders of a life he’d rather forget.

The scene they were called to was far too similar to a scenario he had personal experience with. A worried mother stood watch for the crew’s arrival outside the door to her daughter’s apartment, tears in her eyes and she begged and pleaded with them to break down the door and get to her child.

The young woman was unresponsive, passed out on her bathroom floor. Beside her was an empty orange vial and two small clear baggies. It was as if seeing an alternate version of his life. Michelle bustled in, Tim and Nancy flanking her as they worked in tandem to save the woman. Narcan passed from Tim straight to Michelle in the blink of an eye, leaving her to administer the dose in almost no time at all.

TK was vaguely aware of his father’s voice but his ears were ringing too loudly to make out any of the words, let alone any other sound coming from the room. He could see Michelle calling out orders, see her team’s lips moving in response. But the dial was turned down to zero; TK was unable to register any of it. He could recall the touch of his father’s hands on his shoulders and hands, urging him away.

But it was all TK could do to stand there, feet planted like a formidable oak as he watched the young woman’s eyes flutter open, to hold his breath as she emptied out her stomach, her body too weak to even move herself away from the mess she’d made.

“TK,” his father had said a bit more forcefully in his ear, a hand on his elbow to take him away from the threshold.

He stumbled backwards as his father pulled him away, his vision of the apartment blurred as tears filled his eyes. The young woman would be okay but the image of her sprawled out against the tiles, TK knew, would always haunt him, never mind the sheer anguish on her mother’s face.

The ride back to the station was painfully quiet, the team—for his sake, more than anything— not saying a single word. But TK didn’t even feel like he was in the truck at all. His mind was somewhere else entirely, a thousand miles back in New York on his living room floor. It all came rushing back in such stunning clarity.

He’d gone through the motions of showering and dressing once they returned, enduring another quiet ride, this time home with his father.

TK had gone straight to his room though Owen tried getting him to open up and talk about what they’d just seen. His room made him feel like a caged animal as he paced the length of it. Before he could fully register what he was doing, TK was fleeing the house without saying a word to his father, hoping to find someplace where he could be alone and hopefully wind up feeling better.

TK’s top pick would have been Carlos’ condo but the last thing TK wanted to do was burden his boyfriend with this. He’s done his best to shield Carlos from the sordid details of his past, so keen he is these days on maintaining a brighter future.

He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of crickets hidden in blades of grass, feeling the soft evening breeze blow across his skin. This was the perfect place to settle on.

The road his mind wants to travel down is a dangerous one and it takes everything within him to keep on a safer path. The silence of the field helps. He tries to mirror it for himself, an open space and an open mind.

Out here with no one around, the noise in his head dies down long enough for him to steady himself and recalibrate.

His peacefulness is broken about twenty minutes later by the sound of tires approaching. TK scrambles to his feet quickly at the sudden intrusion. The car’s headlights make it hard to see much of anything but as the engine is cut and the lights are as well, TK feels his chest tighten at the sight of Carlos’ Camaro.

He stands frozen in his spot as he waits for Carlos to get out. When he does, his boyfriend’s eyes are locked in on him, his expression unreadable as he comes to a stop in front of him. Carlos doesn’t waste time with a preamble, jumping right into things.

“Your dad told me about the call you guys had today,” Carlos says delicately.

TK looks away, cracking his knuckles. His skin feels stretched too tight around his body. It’s a perfectly cool evening and yet he feels like he’s suffocating, his face and neck suddenly feeling hot.

“He was worried when you left and refused to answer his texts and calls. That’s when he reached out to me, hoping that you were at my place. He was worried sick...as was I.”

“I didn’t mean to make you all worry. I just needed...to breathe.”

Carlos frowns. “I know that call must have been horrible for you but you can’t go AWOL like that, TK,” he says, voice still gentle. “If you needed this time on your own, just say that next time, please. When you disappear, we can’t help but to get scared that you’re hurt or—”

“I didn’t do anything stupid. I didn’t, you know,” he concludes lamely, unable to even bring himself to say the word relapse.

“I didn’t think you would but thank you for telling me. I’m glad you’re hanging in there. I tried calling but it kept going straight to voicemail.”

TK’s brows furrow as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He touches the screen but it remains black. He hadn’t even thought to check on his phone, not that it mattered either way given he was practically in the middle of nowhere. It’s then that Carlos’ appearance really sinks in.

“How did you find me?”

For the first time since he arrived, Carlos smiles faintly.

“There’s a reason I still earn a paycheck every two weeks. You may think you’re a mystery but I know you,” he says, reaching for TK’s hands.

TK lets him hold on, realizing now just how cold his fingertips feel once he’s met with Carlos’ warmth. For as much as he wanted to be alone, TK is glad for Carlos’ presence now. It’s a powerful thing to be seen and loved by someone.

“I figured you’d go somewhere you could be by yourself, that’s nice and remote but also someplace that made you feel comforted as if you weren’t actually alone. That night we spent out here came to mind so I thought I’d check it out first.”

TK huffs out a sound similar to a laugh and shakes his head, looking back out across the field. “Impressive work, officer. But as you can see, I’m doing just fine so you don’t have to worry.”

“I wouldn’t call running away and isolating yourself fine, T. Please, can you talk to me about what you’re feeling right now?”

TK can hear traces of panic in his voice though, to Carlos’ credit, he tries to disguise it. But TK can read the strained look in Carlos’ brown eyes and the set of shoulders. This was precisely what TK was hoping to avoid, making someone he cared for so concerned. But he supposes he brought this on himself. Had he just spoken up when it mattered most, Carlos wouldn’t have had to go tracking him down.

Carlos turns and walks back towards his car, sitting on top of the hood. TK watches him for a moment, the man’s hand outstretched in invitation. This takes him back to that glorious night where there didn’t seem to be any limits to how happy and free he could be.

It feels like such a déjà vu. There may not be northern lights above them now but the stars shine so brightly that it’s captivating all the same. Carlos still looks at him with wonder and care in his eyes, just as he’d done months ago. The car is just the same, the spot beside Carlos empty and waiting for him.

But inside TK feels different. Something has monumentally shifted due to that call. So much of this scenario may feel familiar but he feels a long way off from the guy he was that night.

Something in his expression or body language gives him away; he knows Carlos can see his unease. The man lowers his hand and sits cross legged, just staring at him patiently.

It’s just one of the many things TK appreciates in Carlos. He never forces him to speak if he isn’t ready. He’s simply just there and that counts for so much more than TK can even say. It’s more than he deserves, of that he’s certain. But it’s exactly what he needs so he’s grateful.

After another moment, TK’s legs finally begin moving forward, the soles of his shoes crunching against the dried grass. He slides upwards onto the hood of the car, laying back wordlessly against the windshield. Beside him, Carlos follows his lead, reaching for his hand again. He brings it to his lips to kiss each of TK’s knuckles before resting his hand against his chest.

TK stays quiet for a beat, taking just a moment to relish in Carlos’ touch. A conversation is inevitable but before they get underway, he knows he needs to contact his father and attempt to put the man at ease. He dreads the thought alone but it’s the least he owes his dad now for bailing like he did.

“I should probably borrow your phone and give my dad a call. Let him know that I’m okay.”

“I sent him a text before I got out of the car. He knows you’re with me.”

A ghost of a smile plays at TK’s lips at the implication of that last sentence. Being with Carlos amounts to the same thing as safe.

TK pulls in a breath, trying to collect his thoughts but everything in his head is a wreck. He plucks out one thought and goes from there, just needing to get something off his chest so he could breathe a bit easier.

“Being on that call today, seeing that girl’s mom absolutely lose it....,” he trails off, closing his eyes to the memory but the images still flood him anyway. “It just made me think about my dad finding me when he did. If he’d come over to my place even five or ten minutes later, I likely wouldn’t even be sitting here right now.”

He has to stop short there, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat.

“I’ve put him through so much and I don’t ever want to do that again, cause even a fraction of the fear that woman had. Her daughter looked so helpless and all I could think about was ‘what if this girl doesn’t make it?’ Her mom wouldn’t have been able to survive that. And I thought back to New York, my dad being there, saving me. I’ve been doing well now but this thing is always going to be in me, no matter what and I hate that more than anything. One setback could undo everything. It’s happened to me before and I barely made it through that time.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Sometimes it seems like it’d be safer not to let people in just in case I relapse again. I don’t want to drag anyone else down this road. My dad, you, the family I’ve made here. You all are so important to me and nothing terrifies me more than the thought of losing you guys, one way or another.”

Carlos sits up at this and from his periphery TK can see that his boyfriend is looking at him but TK can’t bear to look back. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on the stars just wishing he could trade places with them now, be light years away from the troubles of this world.

“Hey, no. The people you have in your corner are going to be there for life. We all love you so much and will always stand with you.”

There’s such conviction in his words that leaves no doubt about his sincerity and commitment. TK can’t help the tears that fall from the corners of his eyes and race back to his hairline as he keeps vigilant watch on the sky. He knows that if he looks at Carlos now, the little bit of restraint he’s been clinging to will break. Carlos continues speaking, undeterred, or perhaps motivated, by TK’s silence.

“I’m not in the business of giving up on people. Serve and protect, right? If I can care deeply for perfectly good strangers every day, why on earth wouldn’t I be able to do the same for you, the man I’m so incredibly in love with? You couldn’t push me or anyone else who loves you away. You and I agreed, right on this very spot, months ago that we were a team. I have every intention to hold up my end of that promise.”

TK lowers his gaze, finally letting his eyes land on Carlos. The man’s face is flushed, beautiful brown eyes tinted pink from unshed tears but there’s a fierceness in them despite the sadness.

TK sits up and draws nearer, resting his head against Carlos’ shoulder. TK’s wrapped up in the man’s embrace instantly, those steady hands rubbing soothing circles along his back.

He lets himself be cared for, ignoring how weak he feels now. Carlos, he knows, is strong enough for the both of them at this moment. There’s no judgement or shame to be felt, not with Carlos.

“You’re so much stronger than you even know,” Carlos murmurs against the shell of his ear. “There’s nothing you can’t get through and there’s definitely nothing we can’t do together. You’re so loved, TK. You are so loved and needed. Always.”

[lordoftermites]

OF CLOVER & IRON

Part One

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye

Summary: fluff(ish), angst, obligatory smut (later). fluffish smangst, let's go with that.

My first fic for these two—and all around the first one I've ever written, period. I finally got to a point that I can confidently post parts 1 & 2 without obsessive editing so yeet haw let's fuckin go. Set the day after Ironside Ch. 13. {there's a slight deviation of the wound placements also, because I just really wanted to see Kaye lovingly take care of her Emo Black Knight™. Everything else is canon-compliant. I hope.}

Rating: M for suggestive themes, smut in future chapters

Also I was listening to Beautiful Crime by Tamer and If You Care by Evan Barlow the whole time and if those aren't the most Roiben songs I've ever fucking heard—

*buzzfeed voice* let's get into it

________________

Each step I left behind Each road you know is mine Walking on a line ten stories high Say you'll still be by my side If I could take your hand, oh If you could understand That I can barely breathe, the air is thin I fear the fall and where we'll land

"You realize I have attendants for this, don't you?"

Roiben was reclined, rather awkwardly, against the mountain of plush pillows on his bed. Their down stuffing jutted through the timeworn fabric and pricked along the sensitive skin of his bare back.

While the gash Talathain's sword had wrought the day before had since been cleaned and bandaged, the end of those feathers still managed to find their way through to jab at the still-open wound, eliciting from him a wince, as though he needed reminding of the events that had transpired had, in fact, transpired.

Ruefully, Roiben found that he did not need reminding.

"Mhmm, I know." Kaye replied absently beside him, drawing him back to the present. She was perched on the edge of the bed, inky-black gaze fixed on his hand in her lap; she was gently applying a viscous paste to the scarlet, angry line along his palm—another gift from Silarial's green knight. The mixture had a cooling element to it, not at all unpleasant against the dull burn of the wound. Kaye was careful, dedicated as she worked. Her tender, feather-light touches sent an involuntary shiver down the base of Roiben's spine.

“I admit, I do not mislike having you for a nursemaid instead of an ill-tempered hob." He grinned down at her as she finished, gently wrapping a milky-white cloth around the pad of his hand, tying it off in a small knot at the base of his wrist. He didn’t think anyone in his service would have tended to him with such attentive care; actually, they very well may have relished an opportunity to see him wince. Indeed, he much preferred this.

She glanced up at him through thick lashes and gave him a small smile of her own, but it faltered on her features, wavered there until it faded into something Roiben couldn't name. "I guess,” she began, dropping her gaze back down to his newly-dressed hand in hers. “I just wanted to do… something, for a change." Roiben's brow knitted at the sadness in her voice, the way the guilt, thoroughly misplaced, steeped her words. There was a twinge in his chest that was reminiscent of the arrow she had pulled from it not four months prior. Automatically, his hand reached up to touch the new scar, a rose-tinted indentation in the middle of his sternum. A phantom ache bloomed under his fingers.

She had been only a human girl then, guised as she was, and unfortunate enough to be the one to find him bleeding out, collapsed there against the gnarled tree he would have gladly let become his grave. She had saved his very soul that night in the rain, though neither of them had known it at the time. It was very likely she still didn't.

And here she was again, nursing the consequences of his own obstinate pride and blaming herself for it. Too often, too willingly did she take the weight of his burdens as her own, while he futilely sought to keep her safe from them. Safe from him. She was the most stubbornly kind creature he had ever known; a knight of her own design—a savior he had never had any right to.

Roiben reached out to tuck a loose tendril of viridescent hair behind her ear. The slight movement pulled at the lesion on his back, threatening another wince. He resisted. "Kaye," he started, and when she didn't meet his eyes, he crooked a finger under her chin and canted her head to him.

"There is nothing you have done—not since the moment I met you to now, that was not something." His thumb ran over her emerald jawline, the smooth skin silk in contrast to the roughness of his own. Kaye's eyes fluttered and she leaned into his touch. "I know it is my failure, in not telling you as such, that you mistakenly think yourself so inadequate. For that, I am well and truly sorry."

Through the burning discomfort of his wounds, Roiben drew her down to him and captured her mouth in a kiss. He had never been a master of apologies— or much else for that matter. And for reasons he was unable to name, his way of begging Kaye's pardon seemed to often be sought with his mouth, as if he hoped she could taste it on his tongue— and forgive him with her own.

Her lips, softer than satin and more delectable than any wine he had ever tasted, parted in a soft, lilting sigh. The sound, as it so often did, caused the muscles in his lower abdomen to coil with a rush of warmth. His bandaged fingers moved to tangle in her wild hair as her tongue danced between his teeth, languorous at first, then quickly shifting into something nearer to frenzy. He could feel his pulse quicken, the familiar strain across the front of his trousers when her hand splayed his chest, soft fingertips pressing into his bare skin. His breath hitched.

And then Kaye's lips were gone and she was pushing herself back up, away from him, her breathing ragged. He watched her dazedly, lamenting the abrupt loss of her closeness. She combed a hand through her mess of green hair, and Roiben realized she was trembling. He frowned.

"What is it?" he asked, drawing himself up to a sitting position, jaw clenched against the sharp tug of the bandage stretching from his shoulder to his hip. "Have I done something to displease you?" He glanced down, sliver gaze settling on a fraying thread of gauze on his wrist. "Perhaps my apology wasn't quite the one you were looking for, but I—"

"That's not it." Kaye cut him off, and when he looked back up to meet her eyes, he was disconcerted to find their pitch depths were suddenly glistening. He opened his mouth to speak, but Kaye raised a hand to forestall him. He pressed his lips together, obediently falling mute. "It… it's not you. I mean, it's a little bit you. Okay— maybe it's a lot you. But… I'm just…" She let out a frustrated groan, as though she couldn't quite manage to untangle whatever thought she was trying to get out. The back of her hand swiped angrily across her eyes.

Roiben knew she hated crying, but he was unsure whether it was explicitly crying in front of him, or if it was the act altogether. Whatever the reason, there was a nagging in his gut, a temptation to reach up and wipe away the glittering tear that rolled down the curve of her verdant cheek.

But he stayed patiently, painfully silent beside her, fingers worrying the fabric over his knuckles instead as she worked through unweaving her mind. Roiben found himself suddenly wishing he had the power to read it, if only to help wrench her free of whatever trap that held her there, apart from him. Finally, she sighed—a dispirited sound that reverberated through the otherwise quiet stillness of his chambers.

"Why did you come back? Why did you find me at the diner? Why did you choose me?"

The string of questions— rather, the way she asked them, whispered, bordering on anguish, stung him like the gilded edge of Talathain's blade. Roiben gaped at her, for a moment too stunned to respond. Her expression was contorted slightly, the emotions that coursed through her scrambling over one another to find purchase on her face. Still, she held his gaze with an unwavering severity that bored into his very being and rooted him to the spot.

He knew she would not accept his usual indirect summarizations, those with which he so carefully guarded himself. He was now well beyond the safety of that delicate thread of tightroped truths he danced.

She expected—commanded his unreserved forthrightness, with that look that held the power of his name without it ever needing to cross her lips.

[bytheangell]

Just Enough to Get By

(Read on AO3) @shadowhunterbingo​ Square Filled: Potion Gone Wrong (Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Rated teen, no archive warnings) ------------- Jace knows he shouldn’t be here.

“Do you trust me?” Magnus asks, holding the small glass bottle carefully between his fingertips.

“What is it?” Jace prompts.

Magnus only shakes his head. “Something that will help. Do you trust me?”

Jace hesitates. Trust is not something that Jace does easily, certainly not with people he barely knows, and certainly not with Downworlders.

He knows that Magnus could tell him what the potion does and what it contains if he wants to. But he doesn’t, because this is a test.

Alec isn’t here. More specifically, Alec is unconscious after getting in the way of a particularly nasty bit of magic while apprehending a rogue warlock. As such, the Lightwoods are being overly suspicious of any and all magic, not even allowing the usual warlock healers the Institute keeps on retainer to see Alec. If they knew Jace was here, meeting Magnus Bane of all people in a dingy Brooklyn alleyway, he wouldn’t be allowed in to see Alec, either.

Jace doesn’t know much about Alec and Magnus’ relationship. Alec isn’t really one to kiss and tell, but he knows from the way Alec speaks about Magnus during what little Jace manages to pry from him that Alec cares about Magnus, and he thinks Magnus cares about Alec in return. Their relationship may be a secret to most, but that doesn't make it insignificant - Jace knows the hesitation that got Alec hurt in the first place came from a sudden unwillingness to kill the rogue warlock, and that sort of hesitation isn’t brought out of a Nephilim by a passing fling.  

Do you trust me? Magnus’ question hangs heavy in the space between them.

“Honestly? No,” Jace says finally. “But Alec does. And that’s good enough for me.”

Jace reaches out and takes the bottle from Magnus’ hand, tucking it carefully into an inside pocket of his jacket.

“I’ll give it to him as soon as I get back.”

Jace hopes for all of their sakes that his parabatai’s trust isn’t misplaced.

---

The potion doesn’t work. Worse than that, the potion makes Ale’s condition deteriorate even faster. His temperature spikes drastically between fevers and chills so extreme they send his body into shock and Jace stands by not just helplessly, but full of the guilt that this is now, in part, his fault. He doesn’t leave Alec’s side as he applies Iratze after Iratze, stronger because they’re from him but not strong enough.

Jace blames himself but not as much as he blames Magnus. It’s easier to assume this is a set-up, that he was tricked by the warlock to deliver poison to his parabatai rather than what Magnus claimed would work as a healing potion.

That is, until there’s screaming fit to wake the dead at the entrance of the Institute, and the sounds of pictures falling from walls as bodies are tossed aside, held away by magic as someone forces their way past every Shadowhunter stationed to stop them.

“Take me to Alexander,” Magnus demands the moment he sees Jace approaching him. “And tell your Nephilim to stand down. I don’t want to hurt them, but I will if they try and keep me out a second longer.”

The others look to Jace now, waiting for guidance and orders, and Jace hesitates. Golden cat-eyes come closer as Magnus doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing his approach. It’s a 50/50 chance, Jace figures. Either Magnus is here because he cares and is willing to risk his own life to help Alec, or he’s here because he wants to finish the job no matter what the cost.

Jace figures he has nothing to lose because if he’s wrong about Magnus, Alec dies. But if he’s right, and he keeps Magnus out, Alec may very well die anyway.

“Let him in,” Jace says. “Hurry,” he adds to Magnus, who doesn’t need the encouragement. “We don’t have much time before someone alerts Maryse and Robert.”

“What didn’t you tell me?” Magnus demands.

“What?” Jace asks, confused.

“The potion should’ve worked based on the information about the attack you gave me. So what didn’t you tell me?” Magnus repeats.

“I told you everything I knew,” Jace swears as they walk through the doors of the Infirmary and Jace dismisses the Nephilim waiting within, all of whom eagerly scurry out of the path of the raging warlock, magic already crackling at his fingertips as they approach Alec. Tensing but not making any move to stop Magnus, Jace watches as blue magic starts at Alec’s head and moves down his body.

“Go over it again,” Magnus demands, his eyes never leaving Alec.

“There was a rogue warlock. Alec had a clear kill shot but he hesitated and went to maim instead. He moved at the last second and it barely grazed him, and he attacked Alec. By the time we dealt with the warlock and got to Alec he was already unconscious.”

Magnus frowns. “Details. I want every insignificant moment of that attack down to the color of the goddamn underwear you were wearing.”

Jace tries to remember. “It was night, and we had a witchlight but there weren’t a lot of street lamps nearby. His magic was purple… light purple, like lavender. When he shouted the spell at Alec-”

“Wait. He spoke? Like an incantation?” Magnus’ magic doesn’t stop but his gaze turns to Jace now and Jace nods. “You didn’t say that before. You just said he attacked him.”

“He did,” Jace says, brows furrowed.

“Warlocks don’t need to speak to attack. If he used an incantation…”

Magnus’ magic shifts now, the blue becoming darker. The sound of the door opening behind them and heels clicking on the floor has Jace turning to see Maryse entering.

“If you want Alec to live, keep her away,” Magnus says through gritted teeth before he begins to mutter under his breath in a language Jace doesn’t recognize.

“Jace! I’ll have you tried for crimes against-” Maryse is already threatening.

“He’s healing him,” Jace insists, and against all of his better judgment activates all of his runes without thinking and uses his heightened speed and strength to catch Maryse by the arm and drag her back toward the door, away from Magnus. “You have to let him try, or we’re going to lose him. We’re going to lose Alec.”

Maryse struggles against his grip. “No! The mandate was clear, and you went against a direct order from-”

“THAT ORDER WAS GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF YOUR SON!” Jace snaps. “And my breaking it might be the only thing that saves him.” Jace instinctively puts a hand over the blade on his hip, and Maryse follows his movement with wide eyes. “I can’t lose him. I won’t. I’ll do whatever I have to to keep him alive, Maryse, do not test me.”

Jace prays to the Angel it doesn’t come to that. He and Maryse remain at the far end of the room, their temporary stillness tense and threatening to break at any moment. Jace prepares to do the unthinkable, to actually attack not just another Nephilim, not just the Head of the Institute, but the woman who took him in and raised him as her own.

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that.

There’s a clatter behind him and he turns at Maryse’s startled gasp to see Magnus collapse next to Alec’s bed. Jace and Maryse forget their standoff and both rush over, Maryse and Jace both checking Alec first before Jace kneels to the ground next to Magnus, who is breathing heavy, strained breaths.

“Did it... work?” Magnus manages to ask, eyes closed as if he doesn’t even have the strength to keep them open. Maybe he doesn’t.

Jace stands again just in time to see Alec’s breathing even out and his eyes open slowly against the harsh light of the infirmary.

“...Magnus?” Alec says, his voice strained from a dry throat. “I heard… thought I felt…”

Jace watches Maryse bristle as he helps Magnus up and into the chair next to Alec’s bed.

“I’m here,” Magnus says, but makes no move toward Alec. “Just rest. The warlock who attacked you left a… well, a curse, for lack of a better word. Anything done to heal your body would have the reverse effect.”

Jace stills. The potion Magnus gave him. The Iratzes he faithfully reapplied every hour. Everything he’d done to help Alec had hurt him twice as much.

“There’s no way anyone could’ve known,” Magnus adds quickly, and Jace knows it’s for his benefit. “Well, anyone without magic, that is. Had a warlock been allowed in,” Magnus continues, his words now pointedly aimed at Maryse.

“You still broke into my Institute,” Maryse points out. “You attacked our guards, and-”

“And saved your son’s life,” Magnus cuts her off, sounding ready to fight.

“I brought him here,” Jace says quickly. “I told him to come. If there is any fallout for his presence it’s mine to face. I take full responsibility for anything the High Warlock did at my request.”

Jace ignores the shocked looks from everyone in the room, Magnus included. It’s a lie, but only Magnus knows that, and the Shadowhunters who can attest to him ordering them to stand down in the entryway will only back his claim. Shouldering the blame for breaking Maryse’s mandate is the least he can do after Magnus saved Alec’s life.

“You and I will discuss the consequences for your reckless actions later. Escort Mr. Bane out then wait for me in my office.” Maryse tells him, and Jace knows better than to do anything but keep his mouth shut and nod. “As for you,” she adds to Magnus as he stands. “In the future, you’d do well to remember who has authority here - because it is not Jace Wayland.”

Maryse, seething at the turn of events, stands with her arms crossed and waits expectantly for them to leave. Jace almost misses the quick look that passes between Magnus and Alec, a silent moment of longing, relief, and gratitude, all rolled up into the moment or two they allow themselves before Magnus forces himself to turn away with Jace.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Magnus mutters to him once they’re clear of the Infirmary doors.

“I did,” Jace insists. “I should’ve done more. Sorry I doubted you.”

“You didn’t when it mattered,” Magnus reminds him. “That was enough.”

He’s right. Things are far from perfect, hell, they’re far from good... but Alec is alive, and considering the way things could’ve turned out, that was enough.

[whythinktoomuch]

v. a deadly giveaway

(pt. i)  (pt. ii)  (pt. iii)  (pt. iv)

“No, it’s huge deal,” Kara insists. “Alex hardly ever lets anyone choose their own weapons. Plus, she likes to judge people based on their preference in firearms. Like, for example, Mike with his big ol’ shotgun, which... well, don’t make me say it.” 

“It’s just that either way, I’d have to give it back, no?” 

Kara’s brow crinkles. “No...? Of course not. Why would we make you give it back?” 

“Well, when I leave, I mean.” 

“Oh... right,” Kara says. She hadn’t really considered a possibility in which Lena wouldn’t stay with them indefinitely, but nods as if she had. 

Lena looks over at the marked silence, one corner of her lips quirking up in a wry smile. She leans into Kara, resting her head on her broad shoulder. “So, what does your gun say about you?” 

Kara glances down at her trusty semiautomatic pistol and shrugs. “That I’m a quick shot?”  

"Oh?” Lena laughs, and the delighted sound has Kara’s spirits lifting, just a little. “It’s also a Glock.” 

“Sure.” 

“Which means you have big hands,” Lena continues. She takes one of the hands in question and traces over the callused lifelines with her fingertips. When Lena plants a kiss at the very center of her palm, Kara’s spirits practically skyrocket. 

So, Lena intends to leave one day, and Kara keeps forgetting about it until she’s forced to remember. Whether it be a stray comment or a pointed silence in response to questions about the near future, the reminder never fails to soil Kara’s mood for the rest of the day. 

Naturally, Lena notices. Kara makes no secret of her feelings, after all, though she’s somehow managed to keep certain choice words to herself thus far. But Lena makes a real effort to make it up to her every time: 

holding Kara’s hand, 

tracing lazy shapes around each knuckle with her fingers, 

telling her a silly joke, despite not remembering the punchline,  

pressing lingering kisses to her shoulder, the warmth somehow bleeding through two layers of cotton, 

falling asleep with her head in Kara’s lap, etc. 

But honestly, in the end, it all just makes it that much worse for Kara. 

“You can’t force her to stay,” Alex says with a sigh. 

Kara scowls because she knows that, but still. “Well,” she says, “you made Kelly stay here with you, didn’t you?” 

“Did not. I just made her like me enough to stay.” 

Kara mumbles something into her pillow that Alex has to force her to repeat more clearly, “Lena likes me too.” 

“That she does,” Alex says, rolling her eyes. “You know, she stares at the back of your head whenever she’s behind you. Not at your ass like a normal person, but your head. Like, she’s just waiting for you to turn around and see her.” 

Kara buries both her fists into her belly, trying to stave off the ache that comes with Alex’s words, and just groans and groans. 

“So, why haven’t you tried to kiss me again yet?” Kara asks, the next time she and Lena are killing time in the library together. There’s no one else around and Kara’s frankly got nothing much to lose these days. “Was it really that bad?” 

Lena doesn’t answer, but her forehead goes bright red behind the cover of her latest novel. She starts turning the pages a bit more quickly, at a pace that surely even she couldn’t be reading at. 

“Because if it was... this might be the perfect time to let you know that, well... it had been a while,” Kara says slowly. “And I wasn’t really ready or expecting a beautiful woman to just, you know—”

“Kara!” Lena slaps the book onto the table before her, her entire face blushing furiously. “What are you doing?”

Kara blinks. “Explaining?” 

“Explaining what?” 

“Why I think our next kiss would be so much better.” 

“You... think about that a lot?” 

“About kissing you?” Kara says incredulously. “Yeah, like, all the time!” 

Lena nearly upends the table in her mad scramble to get across, the momentum resulting in Kara’s chair tipping backwards and crashing to the floor, with the two of them toppling along with it. 

“Ow...” Kara wheezes, her back already sore from landing heavily against the back of the chair. “And wow, um... Cool.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Lena says breathlessly, grinding her hips against Kara’s like she’s ready to beg for forgiveness. “Are you okay?” 

Kara shakes her head in amazement. “I’m fine. And you’re perfect.” Then she pulls Lena down for a hungry kiss, and in accordance with her predictions from earlier, it is indeed much better than their first. 

Kara’s panting, then Lena’s panting, which only makes Kara pant even harder. She lets her hands wander—cupping the back of Lena’s neck, cradling her face, tangling in her long dark hair and tugging insistently, sliding down her arching back in reverence—until finally, they rest at the gentle swell of Lena’s hips. 

She pauses with her fingertips skating just past the hem of Lena’s shirt. It’s as far as they got to last time when Lena froze up on her, and now, as somewhat expected, Lena’s freezing up all over again. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Kara says, cutting Lena off before she could try. “Kissing’s the best part anyway. Honest.” 

Lena ducks her head, pressing her forehead against Kara’s thumping chest. “I want to, Kara. I really do want to...” 

“Okay.” Kara strokes Lena’s hair, and she relaxes into the touch with a soft sigh until she’s boneless atop Kara’s blessedly solid frame. “Well, I’m okay either way.” 

“I just...” Lena’s muffling her words into Kara’s shirt now, and it’s harder to hear, but infinitely more distracting. “I just don’t want you to see...” 

Kara blinks a few times up at the ceiling in question, but it holds no answers for her. “See... your boobs?” she asks Lena instead. 

“What? No!” Lena says sharply, as if Kara’s the one who’s being cryptic right now. “Of course not!” 

“I’m not sure what we’re talking about then... but would it help if I went first?” 

“What do you mean?” 

But Kara’s already sitting up, leaning slightly back to give herself more space, then she whips her t-shirt off with a careless flourish. Lena’s hand—braced against Kara’s hip for balance—seizes up and her nails briefly bite into Kara’s skin. 

“... You... can’t be serious...” Lena says, her voice strained. “What the fuck?” 

Kara frowns, definitely not having expected that sort of reaction. “I ran out of clean bras.” 

“No. Just... you look like this?” Lena presses her entire hand flat against Kara’s abs, gasping when they tense up against her touch. “God, you’re such a dick.” 

Kara bursts out laughing, wrapping Lena up in the tightest of hugs, just so, so utterly charmed. They don’t even kiss again for the rest of the night. Instead, Kara just points out all the various scars that cover her body—a scattered, yet tangible timeline of everything she’s endured since the world fell apart. 

Lena brushes her lips against each one upon introduction, attending to these long since healed wounds like Kara was still hurting. 

Later on, when Alex accidentally walks in on them, she very loudly wonders why on earth couldn’t they just be having sex like normal people, goddammit.

Alex reiterates her very pointed question again when she’s getting ready for the next scavenging trip. “Please do it sooner rather than later. Preferably when I’m still out there, safe from catching you guys in the middle of whatever it is that passes for sex for the two of you.” 

“Shut up,” Kara mutters. “You can’t order us to do it.” 

“Sure I can,” Alex says easily, but she adjusts her tone at the pout her sister directs at her. “Look, I’m just saying. When she’s gone, you might end up regretting it. Who knows how long it’ll be before someone else you take liking to comes along?” 

“Never. I’m never going to like anyone ever again.” 

“Jesus.” Alex ruffles Kara’s hair affectionately until she flashes her teeth in a begrudging smile. 

“Oh, hang on,” Alex says, once she gets to the front gate. “I think I left some spare rounds under my bed. Can you go get it?” 

Kara rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just go get it?” 

“Because with my luck, your girlfriend’s probably already there half-naked or something.” 

Kara ignores the flip her stomach gives at the very thought that Lena could be her girlfriend, let alone a half-naked one. “Because I’m faster, huh?” she says all cheeky instead, and Alex swats her over the head for it. 

When Kara shoulders her way into the room, she doesn’t expect to see Lena, but her presence in and of itself isn’t surprising. No, what’s surprising is the fact that Lena’s not wearing her flannel, and she normally wears that thing all day, every day, even with all that wear and tear, even under the scorching sun, even to sleep. 

But right now, the flannel’s off, and Lena’s wearing naught but a snug tank-top and the most terrified expression. 

It takes a beat for Kara to notice—so distracted by the sight of all this newfound skin now at her disposal—but Lena’s holding something in her hand. 

“Kara,” Lena starts, voice trembling. “I can explain.” 

But before Kara could ask for clarification, she sees it. A jagged oval of tiny divots on the outside of Lena’s bicep. It’s an angry red, swollen, and unmistakeable.

Kara feels the floor drop out underneath her, and her stomach plummets right after it. 

“That—that’s a bite. You’ve been bitten,” Kara’s shouting, oh god, when did she start shouting? “You were bitten, Lena! When were you bitten? When did you—god, when were you going to tell me, when—”

Lena quickly sticks herself with the item in hand—a syringe filled with some bright blue fluid—depressing the plunger right into the bite. Within seconds, the redness and swelling die down, but the bite—ugly and prominent even on pale skin—remains. 

Kara’s throat hurts, from the shouting, from the hopelessness lodged in the very center of it all. She’s inexplicably crying already. 

“I was bitten eight months ago,” Lena explains swiftly, quietly, as she throws her wretched flannel back on, disappearing the bite that’s already been branded in the forefront of Kara’s mind. “It’s... manageable. I can keep it at bay. It’s just a monthly injection. I’m fine.” 

“It’s not a cure,” Kara says in a croak. 

“No.” 

“Monthly... injection?” Kara swipes at her eyes with a clenched fist. “How long do you have left?” 

Lena hesitates, her lips pursed. “I’m... running out.” 

“How. Long?” 

“Four months,” Lena says, and Kara feels hitherto unregistered parts of her heart crumple and die. “I have to leave, Kara.” 

Kara wants to protest—it’s still her natural inclination despite everything—but before she can even open her mouth to do what she does best, Alex steps into the room behind her. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” 

[hobidreams]

Husband!Jungkook + 5, 19 😳😳

if you don’t imagine 2019 lotte jungkook while reading this, you’re doing it wrong. warning: roughness & anger ahead.

STRESS RELIEF

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jungkook jerks away from you as if electrocuted, long bangs falling over his forehead. He’d just been buried in your neck, pressing ravenous kisses to the well of soft skin; his fingers had been roaming the warm skin beneath your oversized sleep shirt, groping a bare breast. Now his eyes are blown out with shock at the violence in your tone.

“Kissing my wife?”

“No, you want to have sex.” You hiss the word with venom dripping from your lips. You glare at him as best you can, so close you can feel his breath as he traps you between his taut, muscular arms and the kitchen counter.

Jungkook’s gaze sharpens. “And what’s wrong with that?”

How do you even begin that exhausting list? For starters, you’ve been waking up to an empty bed for weeks, his heat already long gone by the time you rouse. Gone are the thoughtful texts, the stolen moments of lunch break calls. Dates? Don’t even think about it. The most you’ve seen him in all this time is when he comes home close to midnight, stressed and horny, needing you to help him out. Then he falls right asleep, practically becoming comatose in his slumber when his tension is eased. You feel like a glorified sex toy at this point.

So no, you don’t feel like rewarding him right now. No matter how sexy your husband looks with that hunger in his midnight eyes.

“I’m not in the mood.” It’s an utter lie, but it’s the best you’ve got. You know you shouldn’t be snapping at him, should communicate your concerns like a rational adult, but you can’t help it. The frustration built up over the past weeks beg to be released in an explosion, muddling your good sense because it feels sinfully good to just be pissed off.

He responds to your anger with some of his own, uttering “clearly,” under his breath. 

You could just let it go. You could ease out of his grasp and hide in your bedroom but something about the way he said that damn word ticks you off, like you’re expected to let him have you whenever he wants. “I don’t owe you shit, Jungkook. Even if you’ve had a hard day. I haven’t exactly had a fantastic shift either.”

“I didn’t say you had to sleep with me.”

“You implied it.”

Jungkook grunts with irritation as he rakes a hand through his scattered hair. “Fine. It’s whatever. I’ll just go do something else.” He rips his heat away from your body as easily as he peels off his leather jacket, throwing it over the sofa. He turns on the TV, the light and sound filling your apartment.

What the actual fuck? Is he serious right now? Like hell you’re gonna take this bullshit. 

You stalk over and jam your finger into the OFF button on the remote to Jungkook’s cry. “So what, you can’t spend time with me if we’re not having sex?” You block his field of vision, jab a finger in his direction. “Cause that’s what I am, right? Your cock slut? No good for anything else.” 

The controller Jungkook was holding smashes to the floor. He surges to his feet, eyes blazing. “No. I was thinking that I’d let you calm down. Since something obviously crawled up your ass to make you like this.”

You cross your arms, smirk at the frustration radiating off him. A taste of his own medicine. “Jealous?”

“Fuck yes, I am.” He steps closer. You don’t back away. Pissed, but never afraid. “I’m fucking jealous because I know how tight and wet you are wrapped around my dick.”

“That’s not going to work, Kook.” But your mouth has gone dry at the unbridled desire thickly coating his voice. You hate your body for betraying you at a time like this, when you are so determined to deny him what he needs. But what about what you need? 

“What’s not going to work? What am I doing?” Jungkook’s fingers land on his belt, tapping the leather like a beckon.

“You… You know!” Now you’re fucking furious at yourself, at your lack of self control responsible for the arousal pooling between your thighs. It’s almost that time of the month, you realize as the heat flushes through your veins. That time when all your hormones go haywire and usually, you’re the one jumping him for a taste. He seems to stumble upon that explanation too after some mental math with the dates, biting his bottom lip in a way sexier than any man has the right to be.

“No, I won’t know if you don’t tell me!” 

But your stubbornness won’t let you answer. You despise the thought of admitting just how much you crave him right now when you’re trying to make a point.

He grinds your name, low between clenched teeth. “Tell me. What do you want?”

Your face feels hot. He knows you too well for you to successfully hide anything; especially when you get that look in your eyes, when you squeeze your thighs together as if that could provide relief. You don’t move away when he wraps an around you, guides you backwards until you’re pressed against the wall.

“I thought you ‘weren’t in the mood’,” he growls. “You lied to me?” If there’s one thing he hates…

You crash your mouth onto his in lieu of admittance.

Damn him. Damn him for making you want him when you should be angry. Damn it all because this is the only way you can feel close to him even if you end up alone the next morning yet again.

“Just fuck me already.”

Jungkook doesn’t even hesitate. He yanks down your undies, coarsely flings them aside. His shirt, belt, and pants go the same way with loud crashes, his cock already turgid with dark color and first drops of pre-cum slathered across the tip when it’s freed. He spares two seconds: one to hoist your leg up with a strong, well-built arm, the other to dip a fingertip between your folds to make sure you’re wet.

Then he’s sliding into your cunt.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, his sheer girth brings tears to your eyes, the burn immediate but the pleasure just as palpable. He’ll split you open at this rate, every inch of dick so solid and unrelenting, you seek more. He gets even harder when you whimper, rake your nails across his bare back in retaliation for how weak he makes you.

“So fucking good,” he grunts when he bottoms out, when you’re squeezing him for all he’s worth. He doesn’t pause to savor; just rears back for his first, full thrust. Punctuated by the slap of his skin against yours.

God, it knocks the wind out of you. You whine, the cockhead slamming into your cervix making your thighs quiver. “You said all that shit but look at you. Desperate for more.” Jungkook rarely talks to you like this unless he’s truly gone, pushed past the brink. You have only yourself and your caustic mood to blame.

“Speak for yourself,” you spit back but lose the rest of your will when he doubles his pace. You entire body seems to shudder from the force as he ruts into you, assaults you with sensation and pleasure and oh god, he’s rolling his hips. Abuses your sweet spot to have you melting through any ache.

You know you’ll be sore tomorrow from the way his cock forces your drenched walls to mould to him. Tendrils of hair fly in your face as sweat pricks on his brow from the effort. The sole leg you stand on wobbles, your fingers aching with how tightly you cling onto his bicep, the muscle pulled taut with the strain of keeping you upright. 

“Don’t-” a gasp, “need to-” he dares to smirk, “you’re being loud enough for the both of us.” Fucking brat could give you a run for your money as he pins you even harder against the wall. The pressure in your stomach makes you want to combust, just break apart in his arms. Not like he’ll give you a say in the matter.

You dig your hands into his matted hair. Tug coarsely at the roots but that only riles him up. He thrusts like a man possessed, plunging long strokes with every snap of his body in a way he knows rubs against your clit. “Gonna lose?” He asks with a smirk, and you can’t even respond. You’re too busy screaming his name in climax.

His cum spills into you seconds after but you’re too occupied with the pulsing of your cunt to register the heat of his cream painting your core with him. You both can only muster the strength to hold each other, sucking in air like the fucked out combatants you are

“Look at me. Now.”

You obey the breathless voice, expecting to find more lust or fury but instead his eyes are softened. Emotion swims in that intense gaze, so tender it makes your breath catch. “Don’t you ever think I don’t want to spend time with you,” he whispers, brushing away the tears he brought to your eyes with his thumb as if he could take the burden with it.

“I, just… I miss you,” you mumble, leaning into your husband’s solid chest, let him press kisses to your cheek. You know he doesn’t see you as a sex toy. You know very well he does his best every damn day to save up for your future together.

“I miss you too. So much.” He sighs, regret clear in the exhale. “Those nights I came home late, all I wanted to do was have you in my arms and feel connected to you. I never meant to make you feel used.”

You squeeze your eyes together. “I hate feeling so needy.”

Jungkook looks every bit as wounded as you by the words. “I’m so sorry, baby. I promise, I’ll try my best to be better. I can’t say it’ll all be perfect but… I never want to make you feel like this again.” He returns your kisses on your forehead, dragging those soft lips across your feverish skin. “But you can be as needy as you want, babe.” There’s that toothy smile that makes you melt. “You’re my wife, after all.”

“Yeah.” You roll your eyes. “Couldn’t leave you even if I wanted to.”

Jungkook suddenly leans down, scoops you into his arms bridal-style. “There we go.”

“Jungkook!” You yelp, then can’t help but laugh as you cling onto his neck, feel the dampness still lingering on his tanned skin. Damn it, you love him so much it makes your heart feel like it’s bursting.

He brings his forehead to yours, grinning as he walks down the hallway to your bedroom. “What do you say I make it up to you for the rest of the night, Mrs. Jeon?”

a/n: please always communicate with your partner if you’re having any frustrations 🙈 happy early birthday, jungkookie 💓 i hope you have another exciting year of ruining all of us.

(think what you like about what happens in the bedroom, but i like to imagine jungkook rubs y/n’s back for hours until she falls asleep 🤭)

[honouraryweasley12]

Remembrance

At Shell Cottage, Ron and Hermione grieve a fallen hero. In doing so, they must face some truths long-hidden and make a decision about their future.

Also on FF.net

The sunlight streaming through the window provided ample light, but the sprawl of words in front of her were hazy, Hermione's own thoughts preventing her from focusing. It was rare for her to have such difficulty, especially when she was reading for sheer enjoyment. Her recovery had taken a lot out of her, and she'd been pouring her remaining energy into the planning of their next task.

A lull in the strategizing was a welcome change, yet she felt unsettled. Like she should be doing something more meaningful with the precious respite they had been granted. Time seemed to slow at the cottage, her first real breather since August.

The book lay still in her lap as she stared at the window, her eyes misty as she recalled the blur of empty oppressive days and narrow escapes, living in fear and paranoia.

So much had happened, the most recent as terrible as anything she could recall physically, and certainly the worst thing she'd ever personally experienced—the wiping of her parents' memories an extremely close second.

The torture she had suffered was not something easily forgotten, being so close to her own demise shook her to her very core. She found tears would come unbidden, as they were presently, at the most random times. Her hands had started trembling, and any loud noise startled her. Through it all though, she had found her source of comfort and healing.

Ron.

She smiled and wiped the wet trails running down her cheeks. The pretense between them had been shattered. That night had been a wake-up call that anything could happen, and it spurred them both, especially Ron, into action. They were no longer afraid to be openly affectionate and supportive toward one another. She didn't care about being vulnerable in front of him, if it meant an embrace and the soothing warmth of his hand rubbing slow circles on her back.

It was their silver lining.

She sighed, putting aside the book. She wanted to embrace his attentiveness as much she could, until their time ran out. It wouldn't be long now until they had to abandon the safe haven of Shell Cottage and attempt another incredibly dangerous mission.

Their so-called plan was foolish at best, fatal at worst. It was high risk but also high reward, their first real lead on a Horcrux in ages. The chances were grim, but at least there was a sliver of hope. She didn't want to think about that now, especially the myriad of potential outcomes.

The urge to see him seized her. Gingerly, Hermione got out of the bed and shivered, her skin erupting in gooseflesh as a gust of cool sea air blew into the small bedroom. She eyed the jumper he'd thrown over the back of the chair, where he'd been spending time with her at every possible opportunity. Debating for a second, she slipped it on and took a deep breath, his scent a balm for her frazzled nerves.

Slowly making her way down the stairs, she could hear muffled voices from the small living room. Turning to the kitchen, she found Harry, staring hard at the white wood of the quaint table as he turned that lucky shard of glass over and over in his hands, a reminder of what they had suffered through.

She almost couldn't bear to look at her friend in such a state of despair, opting instead to glance around Bill and Fleur's kitchen. Something was missing though—or rather someone. Ron was usually around to keep Harry's spirits up, so it struck her as odd that he was alone.

A sudden panic gripped her, her heart pounding in her chest. Where was he? Had he left? Her hand flew to her chest and she tried to take a calming breath, despite her obvious stress.

No, he wouldn't do that again. He'd promised her, and she believed him. The demons that had been plaguing him months ago had been pushed away with the destruction of that insidious locket, at least for now.

She hated that this was her first reaction, still scarred from his last departure. The bruises on her heart were a sickly yellow, healing but not completely gone.

Stop it, she chastised herself silently. He had more than made up for it since his return. Even now, after she'd been through such a painful ordeal, he was showing such consideration and concern for her. A deft touch that she never would have suspected he possessed. This is how she thanked him? By doubting him, yet again? By dwelling on a mistake she knew would haunt him forever?

She felt disgusted and angry at herself. He'd come through for her  innumerable times, the doubt the last vestiges of lingering hurt. She didn't trust anyone more than she trusted Ron, that much she knew.

Harry, who suddenly looked up from his stupor, raised his brow at the large letter 'R' emblazoned across her torso. He must have noticed her misery and nodded his head towards the door. "He's outside."

"Thank you," she whispered, watching her friend's face as it fell into deep thought once again, the weight on his shoulders crushing him.

Pushing open the door of the cottage, she stepped out, squinting from the bright light. Too many days of darkness had taken its toll, the freedom of simply being outside, in the open, felt foreign. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh rays and began walking toward her source of comfort.

Ron was crouched down, all limbs and fiery red hair, messed from the breeze. He had matured, they all had, far too quickly. His transformation upon his return had shocked her, but her self-erected barricade hadn't allowed her to express it.

She hugged herself as she walked up, the too-long arms of his jumper enveloping her thin frame. It was a poor substitute, having felt his warm embrace more in the past few days than she had over the previous seven years.

He stirred slightly as she approached, stilled by her hand on his shoulder. His weathered plaid shirt was soft under her fingers. She almost laughed at how easily they'd transitioned to something more than they'd ever been. How natural it felt to just give in and touch him without fear of rejection. The years they spent skirting their feelings seemed rather silly now.

She waited, giving him time. She was learning not to rush him. That he would often take a minute to organize his thoughts the way he wanted to, rather than feeling the pressure of replying before he was ready to. It was just the two of them on the bluff, with the churning sea below. Nothing else existed except the memorial in front of them.

The crudely carved stone held a heartbreaking epitaph. Such simple words for someone who had made the ultimate sacrifice.

Ron sniffed, his voice rough. "He was so fucking innocent."

She squeezed his shoulder in agreement, watching from above as he twisted a pair of worn socks in his large hands. After a moment, he gently laid them down at the feet of the plot and placed a stone on them to keep them in place.

He cleared his throat before continuing, his voice wavering. "I wish I could do more, besides giving him Bill's old socks."

Her eyelashes prickled with tears at seeing how deeply Dobby's death was affecting him. Beneath her hand, his body shook for a moment and calmed. After taking a deep breath, his voice broke the silence, quiet but firm.

"I've thought—for a while now—that if the time came, I'd sacrifice myself to help Harry. So many have. Maybe that's all I would be good for. The expendable Weasley. Seemed like I was made just for that purpose. Now..."

She held her tongue, wanting to admonish him for even considering something like that, to extol his virtues, and tell him how truly broken she felt during his time away. How much he meant to her, Harry, and everyone that knew him. Something stopped her; she was curious to hear where he was going with this.

He glanced up at her, his piercing blue eyes filled with an intensity she'd never seen before.

"Now, I... I don't feel as if I could, knowing what I might be leaving behind... what could happen if I dared to think I could make it through this."

That one look told her everything. Everything. His remorse, his fear, his love for her. She was the reason he wouldn't do something foolishly heroic. Even though he already had in rescuing her.

She could see his continuing struggle, his anguish. The waves of tension were palpable, his muscles straining under her fingertips.

"It feels so wrong to want something, to want happiness. Look at Harry—he's given up everything for this war. I bet if he could sacrifice his life to end it, he would in a heartbeat."

Seeing his pain so openly caused her chest to tighten. She wanted to wrap him in a hug and spirit him away. Just the two of them, hidden from the rest of the world.

Her voice was soft in her ears. "It's not selfish to want to live, Ron. To want something more after this war. There's a life beyond this that I dream about, too."

As he watched her, she tried to convey everything he meant to her through her eyes. That the life she imagined included him, could only be with him.

He gave her a slight nod, as if telling her he understood. Slowly, his hand reached up and met hers, their fingers loosely intertwining.

"I'm scared, Hermione. Scared for Harry and my family. Mostly terrified for you, of losing you. Almost did."

He looked away, but Hermione knew what he meant. She shared the same fears, unvoiced but ever present.

Ron sniffled again and let out a quiet cough. "Those were the worst moments of my life, in Malfoy Manor. I felt so bloody helpless. There was nothing I could do."

She didn't mean to say it in the moment, but it slipped out. "We're even now."

His neck twisted up and he stared at her with wide eyes, his expression one of incredulity. "You can't mean..."

She nodded, her eyes wet. "When you left, I was so afraid I'd never see you again. I was utterly heartbroken and there was nothing I could do. Whatever the locket was doing to you was a form of torture, too. It must've been for you to leave. That wasn't the Ron I know."

He protested, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. "You can't compare the two! You didn't choose to be tortured, and you still didn't give in. You weren't the stupid git who left!"

In that moment, she knew in her heart she forgave him, that he had come back and ultimately saved her. She was hit by a sudden realization.

"Don't you see? It doesn't matter anymore! Whatever happens, we'll find each other again. My voice brought you back, and you were there to rescue me!"

She felt his posture slump.

"I didn't though, not really. I couldn't even take your place." Ron's voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost in the breeze. "I couldn't stop them from hurting you."

"It was an impossible situation, but you saved me, Ron. Everything you did that night saved me. Your screams for me, the way you fought them, getting me here safely. Harry told me—"

He shook his head. "I got lucky, so fucking lucky. Dobby was the real hero," Ron said, staring back at the carved stone. "Hermione... he died... so... so you could live. He didn't have to help us save you. If it was Harry he was worried about, he would have just brought us here first and then maybe tried to rescue you. But he didn't. Without him... I would have lost you."

His words rung in her ears, a horrific truth. "He died... so you could live."

She hadn't thought of it that way. In her head, she’d equated the loss of Dobby with another loved one protecting Harry. The impact of it hit her, and she stumbled back a step. Ron was on his feet in an instant, pulling her to him as they cried, together. Mourning the loss of such a selfless, compassionate soul. Releasing the pent-up emotions of almost losing one another. Ron held her tightly and she was reminded of Dumbledore's funeral. This time, however, Ron dropped loving kisses into her hair.

She pressed her face to the flannel of his shirt, her tears soaking into the cloth. She held onto him, anchored to the cliff by his strength.

"Dobby was so incredibly courageous. Gods Hermione, I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't saved us all. If he hadn't sacrificed himself."

"He saved me, Ron. But so did you."

He looked down at her, brushing away her tears with large unsure thumbs. Their eyes met, the gaze between them deep.

"Sod it!" He suddenly declared. "You-You are the most important thing in my life, and if you hadn't survived..."

She pressed a finger to his lips, causing them both to shudder. "I did, and I intend to finish this and have the life I want. With you. But..."

"Not until this is over."

She nodded. "Alright, Ron?"

"Yeah," he agreed, but he couldn't resist pulling her against him once again.

They stood there for a moment longer, silently paying their respects to the one who gave them a chance.

"I swear Hermione, I'll never forget what he did. I'll never be able to thank him or repay him."

"All we can do is honour his memory and keep fighting."

Ron nodded his head in agreement. It was all they could do for the future they both so desperately wanted.

As they turned to head back to the cottage, she thought she heard him whisper a final thanks to Dobby.

They were quiet as the walked down the cliffside, their hands clasped. A new determination had overcome them. They were going to fight. They needed to be as brave as the departed elf.

As they reached the cottage, Ron playfully nudged Hermione, the amusement obvious in his voice. "You know, maybe SPEW wasn't such a bad idea."

"It's S.P.E.W!"

[simplyclockwork]

Hi! I love, love, love your stories! They're really helping me through some hard times. I wonder if you could write a fic where it's near the beginning of the series, and Sherlock is being very sad and distant from John because he hates that John is always dating these women because he loves him. And maybe John confronts him and it all comes out (no pun intended) and it's sweet and happy johnlock after angst. I'm over 18 so smut is fine (as long as it's bottom Sherlock which I prefer). Thanks!

----

Hi, Anon! Thanks for your patience on this fill - I was busy all last month with National Novel Writing Month, and am slowly getting back into prompt fills. I hope you’re well, and that the fill is what you hoped for! 

You can read the fill below the line break, or on Ao3 here.

Please feel free to send me prompts again in the future 🥰

----

The atmosphere in the lab was thick enough to cut with a bread knife and growing thicker with every silent minute that passed. Sherlock sat scowling down at his notes, stubbornly ignoring John’s fretful pacing.

It was a little over a month since they’d become flatmates, and things were not working out the way Sherlock hoped. When they’d met, he’d taken to John at once. But he’d resolved to keep his distance, and when John made a pass at him, Sherlock had been far too out of touch with the dating game to catch on until after he’d brushed aside any chance at pursuing a relationship.

At the time, he’d been too embarrassed to take back his statements. After the case, he’d thought. He would address the miscommunication once things settled down.

But then there was another case, and then another, and then it was too late because John was dating. Not only was he dating, but he brought his dates home. Paraded them past Sherlock in what he imagined wasn’t possibly meant to be retribution for Sherlock’s rejection, but which certainly felt like it.

Penance. It felt like penance.

Halfway to Bart’s, the frustration and burrowing sadness had poured out of Sherlock like water from a burst dam, and he’d spewed a flood of venom like nothing John ever saw from him before.

It left both of them smouldering like smoking craters, with John stunned and confused, and Sherlock horrified by how he’d deduced John within an inch of his life. How he’d shouted at John in the back of a cab about the disappointing sex John seemed to be having, how he’d gained a quarter-stone — which he desperately needed after losing weight following his injury — and how he would never amount to anything greater than a part-time locum doctor.

It was cruel, he’d been cruel, and Sherlock knew it.

But, staring at the notes and figures in front of him, he couldn’t find the words to take it all back. So he feigned distraction in the form of research and let John stomp and pace and mutter under his breath until Molly appeared and kicked them both out so a group of students could use the lab.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” John began the second they were alone in the hallway outside the lab, “but you’re a right bastard today.”

Instead of responding, Sherlock quickened his pace. His legs were longer than John’s, and he was a master at escape, and he did his best to leave behind the angry storm cloud that had replaced his flatmate.

He severely underestimated John’s tenacity.

With a sound not unlike an approaching thunderstorm, John stomped after him. “Oh, don’t you dare!” Sherlock moved to side-step him when John caught up, but they’d reached the lift, and there was nowhere to go.

Rookie mistake. He should have gone for the stairs.

Frustrated, Sherlock stabbed at the down button, praying the lift was close. To his relief, it rose from the first floor at once, and he sighed, knowing he only had to weather the storm of John Watson for a little longer. Then he could jump into a cab and disappear.

“Sherlock.” John’s quiet growl was difficult to ignore. But the lift dinged before he could speak, and the doors slid open, providing the perfect avenue for escape.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock said in a bored voice, sweeping into the lift without so much as looking John’s way.

The storm cloud followed on his heels. John crowded in close, his anger erasing his usual respect for personal space.

“You git,” he huffed, jerking his chin upward to meet Sherlock’s eye. “I don’t know what your bloody problem is today, but you’d better explain what that was right now.”

“John,” Sherlock said in a placating tone. His eyes were on the floor numbers, silently urging the lift downward. He just needed to buy time, talk some nonsense and leave no room for John to butt in.

He opened his mouth to do so when the lift shook, made a sharp grating noise, and ground to a halt. The lights flickered and died before the emergency lighting came on, slowly glowing to life with a low hum.

Oh, god, no, Sherlock thought, panic rising. No, no, no, don’t do this. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. “What happened?”

Next to him, John frowned up at the emergency lights. “Power outage?”

Blowing a frustrated sigh out through his teeth to release some of his building anxiety, Sherlock nodded. “Seems like it.” He prodded at the darkened buttons without much hope, unsurprised when they failed to respond. “We’re stuck here.”

“Good,” John snapped, and Sherlock shot him a scowl.

“How is this good, John?” he demanded, only to back away when John advanced on him again.

“Because there’s nowhere for you to go, which means you’ll have to bloody well talk to me like an adult.”

Sherlock’s expression soured enough to curdle milk. “Oh, is there something we need to discuss?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

It was the wrong move. John’s thunderous face darkened further. The ever-present tremour in his left hand stilled, and Sherlock’s eyes dropped down to his motionless fingers with dawning horror.

Oh, he was in for it now.

“Where the hell do you get off,” John began in a low, dangerous voice, “ripping into me the way you did in the cab?”

His eyes fixed on the unlit control panel, Sherlock pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. Maybe if he ignored John long enough, he’d lose interest and give up.

Again, he was wrong.

“Don’t give me that,” John huffed. He stepped closer, getting right up in Sherlock’s face as much as he could with the height difference between them. “Don’t give me the silent treatment, Sherlock. What you did, those things you said, they were uncalled for.”

Sherlock held his silence, now staring over John’s head, and John’s mouth twisted downward.

“I put up with a lot, you know.” A change in John’s tone, an unexpected softening, made Sherlock glance at him in spite of himself. Seeing that he had Sherlock’s attention, John’s lips twitched to the side in a humourless smile. “Severed heads in the fridge, toes in the crisper — yeah, sometimes I make a fuss, but not as much as someone else would. I make my little fuss, and then I let it go because I know it’s part of who you are. It’s part and parcel of living with you, and while I don’t love finding body parts in the fridge, I live with it.” Eyes narrowing, John paused to make sure Sherlock was listening. “You hear me? I live with it.”

Staring down at him, Sherlock blinked. He kept his lips pressed together and waited.

John seemed to gather his thoughts before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was even softer, almost low enough to make Sherlock lean forward to hear. He resisted, instead straining to catch the words.

“What I don’t plan to live with is… is… whatever that was.” John waved his hand toward the lift doors as if indicating outside. He poked a finger into Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t know what bug crawled up your arse and died this morning, Sherlock, but I know it wasn’t my fault. So don’t take it out on me.”

The words, it wasn’t my fault, struck Sherlock like a physical blow. He stiffened and reared back, pressing into the railing running the length of the lift wall. Eyes wide and unblinking, he stared down at John, drawing up to his full height to better loom over him.

“Not your fault?” he repeated in a low voice. “Not your fault?”

But John refused to be intimidated, and he held his ground, jabbing his finger harder into Sherlock’s chest. “Yeah, that’s what I said, or weren’t you listening?” His voice dropped into a sneer, a passable imitation of Sherlock’s harshest tone.

To hear himself mimicked threw Sherlock for a loop, and he gaped. By the time he came back online, John was off and running, ranting away as he tapped his fingertip against Sherlock’s sternum.

“...and if the body parts aren’t bad enough, there’s the noise and the mess, and that mad thing you do with your violin where you make it sound like a bloody cat is dying in our flat, and—”

“Oh, and you’re the best flatmate ever to exist, I take it?” Sherlock interrupted. His cold voice cut through John’s words like an icy wind through thin fabric.

John went silent and still. Eyes narrowed, he said, “Didn’t say I was perfect, but if you’ve got a problem, you can damn well speak up. I’m not a sodding mindreader, am I?”

Annoyed to be shut down so thoroughly, Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away. “This conversation is over.” He folded his arms over his chest to block John’s jabbing finger.

“It bloody well isn’t,” John growled, trying to pry Sherlock’s arms apart for some unfathomable reason.

Sherlock tried to shift away, but his back pressed harder into the railing. Flustered, he snapped, “What exactly are you trying to do here?”

“I don’t know!” John said, his voice rising as he threw his hands into the air. “God! You really are the most annoying bloke alive, aren’t you?”

Piqued by the insult, Sherlock hissed, “At least I’m not desperate!”

John frowned. “Who is desperate?”

“You!” Sherlock bit out, jabbing a finger toward John’s face. John leaned back, his frown deepening.

“Excuse me? How, exactly, am I desperate?”

“Oh, I don’t know, John, let me think.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe because you’ve lived with me all of one month, and you’ve already managed to drag half of London’s female population through our flat while trying to get off.” He hissed the last, pushing as much disdain as he could summon into the words.

John stared at him. He stared at him so long that Sherlock thought his eyes might burn two twin holes into his face. Just as he began to shift from one foot to the other, John burst.

“This is about me dating?” He sounded confused now, caught on the defensive by Sherlock’s revelation. “What do you have against me dating?”

Pushed to his breaking point, Sherlock snapped, “Everything.”

His confusion only growing, John blinked. He tilted his head to the side. “But why?”

The words poured out without cessation, Sherlock at the mercy of both his frustration and a month of suppressed emotions. “I hate it. I hate every single one of them, every woman that you parade through our flat. It’s never-ending, John! I swear, if you’re doing it just to punish me, then well done! You’ve succeeded — I’m properly sorry for rejecting you. Is that what you’d like to hear? Shall I say it again? Sorry, John, so sorry.” His voice was hard and acerbic, pushing the apology toward mockery instead of anything genuine.

He opened his mouth to go on, but John held up a hand, clapped it over Sherlock’s mouth, and said, “Alright, shut up a bloody second. Let me catch up.”

His lips mashed against John’s palm, Sherlock stared daggers down at him.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” John began slowly, looking at Sherlock from beneath a furrowed brow. “You’re angry because I’ve been dating, and you don’t like that I bring them back to the flat? No, shut up, I’m not finished yet.”

Sherlock scowled. He considered biting John’s hand before dismissing the idea and subsiding.

John’s eyes searched Sherlock’s face as he went on. “So you don’t like that I’m dating, and you’re sorry for rejecting me? Also, you think I’m punishing you?” Frowning, John shook his head. “But when have I ever…” he paused, going deadly still as their eyes locked. “Are you talking about Angelo’s? That first night?”

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe, refusing to validate the guess. But John figured it out on his own.

“Sherlock,” he said slowly, bemusement spreading over his face, “you rejected me. Remember? You said—”

“I know what I said,” Sherlock growled, shoving John’s hand away from his mouth.

John’s confusion only seemed to increase. “Then what are you—”

“Nevermind, John!” Sherlock turned his head away, frustrated that the lift wasn’t moving and he couldn’t escape.

“Oh, no, I’m not gonna do that,” John replied, his hand dropping to Sherlock’s arm. “Not until you explain what’s going on here.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and glared at the wall. He felt John’s gaze on his face, still searching, and his jaw clenched.

“Hold on…” Something flickered in John’s face, the rising glimmer of realization sparking in his eyes. “Sherlock… do you…” He paused and wet his lips in a nervous tick Sherlock caught from the edge of his vision. “Do you have feelings for me?”

“Feelings,” Sherlock repeated in a hiss, pushing a depthless disgust into the singular word. “What sentimental rubbish, John. As if I—”

Before he could spew more ire and venom, John grabbed him by the lapels and tugged him down, cutting off his words. Rocking forward, Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what John was doing, but then John’s lips were on his, and Sherlock’s brain ground to a halt.

He took in the sensory input through a narrowing sense of awareness. Each thought struggled to make its way into his mind. The first thing he thought was soft, and the last was wet, because John opened his mouth and swept his tongue over the seam of Sherlock’s lips, and the rest disappeared beneath a rush of physical reaction.

By the time his brain finally rebooted, John was leaning back and breathing heavily with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth.

“You utter git,” he breathed, the warmth of his exhale hot against Sherlock’s lips. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dazed and still several steps behind, Sherlock blinked. “I,” he tried and had to clear his throat, to John’s visible amusement, “I thought it might be too late.”

“Well, speak up sooner next time, then,” John teased, the sheer 180 degree shift of his mood making Sherlock’s head spin.

Frowning, he said, “I thought you were mad.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” John said, eyes flashing. His fingers wiggled, grip tightening on Sherlock’s lapels. “And I think you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice wavered, nearly wheezing from his lips. “How am I going to do that?”

John’s eyes dropped to his lips again, half-lidded and lingering. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” he murmured.

This time, when he pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, Sherlock was ready.

[shield-agent78]

Moments With You

Title: Moments with You (Part 3 of 5 )

Parring: Scott Summers x mutant! Reader, Anna/mutant! Reader, Bucky/mutant! Reader, Steve/mutant! Reader, Natasha/ mutant! Reader, Scot Summers/Anna

Rated: Mature

Warnings: angst, stress, anxiety, a cuss word  

Summary: Both you and Scott Summers yearn for a beautiful remembrance that cannot be reached. Scott, in the form of Jean Gray, and you in wanting Scott to move on with his life and realize that love can be found again. 

Word Count: 1061

Square Filled: Time Travel for Avengers Bingo @avengersbingo​, K2 It’s not your fault for Bucky Bingo @buckybarnesbingo​, First Time for Star Spangled Bingo @star-spangled-bingo​, Even though that’s dripping with sarcasm and definitely isn’t genuine, I’m going to take it  for Black Window Bingo @blackwidowbingo​

For: Continue work on Annie’s 500 Kitties Writing Challenge /Annie’s1st Writing Challenge, Arrows and Mixtapes Better Than TwilightWC prompt is:  I Don’t know what happened….You love him 

A/N:  Words/inspiration taken from the song Moments by Ayumi Hamasaki are noted in bold.

Catch up here: Part 2

Scott walks away, after watching y/n weave through the crowd of cadets.  As promised, he waited at Joy’s until midnight. Y/N runs into the rustic gaudy bar glancing around. Maurice looks sad from behind the counter. “You’ve just missed him. You’re Y/N right?”   

“Where did he go? I have to talk to him. Please.” Maurice shrugs. 

“I dunno it looked important. He said to give you this if you came, it’s his number.” He hands over a napkin. She takes the napkin running outside in the darkness. Only the dusk to dawn lamp illuminates the almost vacant gravel lot.

 Y/N pulls her cell from her pocket calling Scott immediately. It doesn’t go through. “This number is currently unreachable.” 

“Shit… Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she mutters as she waits. Scott’s voicemail picks up. 

“You’ve reached the inbox of Scott Summers, leave a message.”

“Scott I..ugh..I’m here. I’m here.” The strain of the evening is apparent in her voice as she unlocks Natasha’s car and slides into the driver’s seat hanging up the phone. She stares out into the darkness not sure which way to turn the car. She has no idea which direction he has gone. “Dammit, Summers where are you?” Tears begin to slide down her cheeks as frustration and sadness engulfs her. For the first time, she allows herself to feel the pain of the broken pieces of a dream.  Y/N turns the car into the direction of the compound. Each passing moment leaves her more confused than before. 

The next day as Y/N is hurrying to training, the television in the commons catches her eye halting her steps. She places her hands onto the back of the brown leather sofa and leans forward. Her grip tightens as her fingertips dig into the back of the soft leather. ‘As you can see from the footage the bomb destroyed most of the city block. It is suspected that this mutant attack is a calling card for the notorious Magnito but this is still unknown at the time. However, I can report that the X-Men are on scene.’ 

“Can you tell us which X-men are present Gwen?” 

“As you see behind me.. Logan! Logan, can I talk to you for a moment.” An exhausted Logan comes into view and y/n cranes her neck over the gathering cadets. It is reported that Cyclopes as well are on scene and….” There is silence for a moment as the camera pans to catch the reporter running towards Logan but he invades her.

Her mind races. Y/n doesn’t wait for the rest of the report. She turns on the ball of her foot and runs down the hallway to Steve’s office her heart is pounding as she skids to a stop knocking rapidly upon his door with a flat palm. 

“Y/N?” he asks puzzled? Steve scans  her face noticing the worry in her eyes. ”Sit down what’s wrong?”

“France and the bombing I want to help. What is the latest intel?”  She tightens her ponytail and bounces lightly in the balls of her feet. A nervous habit she formed years ago. 

“You don’t have the clearance. It’s being handled you know.” He sits down leaning forward in his chair watching her movements. 

“ I need to get to France now,” Y/N demands. She crosses her arms over her chest while staring into Steve’s face. 

“That’s impossible.” He states firmly. 

“Steve come on!” Y/N snaps. “My friends are there. Scott is there and dammit I don’t know what happened but I have to go to France now. 

“You love him.” She gives him a look of disbelief. “What? You wouldn’t be fighting with me so strongly if you didn’t.” 

“You don’t have a clue what you are talking about.”   

“There is a first time for everything,” he retorts, glancing at the clock in his wall behind her. “Aren’t you going to be late for class?” She knows this is a battle she can’t win, at least with him. Y/N walks out without another word. 

Y/N skips class for the rest of the day her mind focused on the news reports. 

It’s only every couple of days he texts but each ends in the same way. "You can chose stay with SHIELD or meet me in Joy’s cafe at 11." 

Every day that there is a text she is at Joy’s waiting on him at 11. She never leaves before 12 and each time Y/N sends a text back. “Joys at 11. I’m waiting.” 

Maurice gets to know her by name and her drink order arrives before she can even sit down. 

The tv in the corner plays the ballgame as y/n orders another shot. Bucky and Natasha have decided to come with her this evening, just for support. 

“It’s not your fault, you know. It’s kind of both of your and his fault. Relationships are complicated,” Bucky states plainly taking a sip of his ale. Y/n continues brooding over her tequila, downs her shot and glares at him with narrowed eyes. 

Natasha places her glass of red wine back down onto the napkin. “Y/N, let me ask you a question. If you could be by his side right now would you? Has he let Jean go where you two can be happy? That’s the problem you two have and you both are in love with each other.” 

“Of course I would,” Y/N snaps at her mostly out of pain from being separated from Scott. “If I could time I would offer my wing to help his wounded back but I cant fuckin’ time travel. I...we need to talk. It’s complicated, even more than Bucky.” Bucky chuckles at the tipsy remark. 

“Even though that’s dripping with sarcasm and definitely isn’t genuine, I’m going to take it,” Natasha remarks, picking up her wine again. 

Y/N glances at the time on her phone, pulls the transponder from her bag and sends a text. ‘Where are you? Scott, please tell me.’ Within moments she gets a reply. 

"I'm in France. Why didn't you come?”

She looks at the end of the bar then back to the transponder. “If I find a way I will be there. Be safe. Watch your six.  I’ll meet you at Joy’s 11:00.” 

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[vicecityhq]

██████████████]99% LOADING...SUSPECT INTO THE APD DATABASE...

WITNESS(ES) SAY HE REMINDS THEM OF: autumn, forestpunk, cottagegore, darkest academia . With a slight resemblance to PAKORN THANASRIVANITCHAI of/the ACTOR.

CLICK BELOW TO VIEW ENTIRE FILE.

FULL FILE:

Last Name, First Name: Suwannarat, Briar Alias: Pan (codename for his job), Ari (more of a nickname than an alias) Realm of birth (if earth, nationality): Earth realm, Thailand Age: 29 Date of Birth: November 23rd Gender: Male Preferred Pronouns: He/Him Species: Children of the Twelve - Sagittarius Occupation: Police Detective Sexual Orientation: Homosexual

VISUAL FILE: 

Skin Color: Tanned, burnt orange hue with a smattering of chocolate freckles along his face. He has the same freckles throughout his body, but has bigger white spots along his shoulders, the backs of his ears, and his outer hips. Eye color: Honey Brown Scars: None that have a significant story Piercings: None Tattoos: None Hair color: Dark chocolate brown Abnormalities: Fawn-like ears Horns/ wings/ etc: Small, stumpy antlers that stick just above his hair Transformed form: He does not have a transformation.

PERSONAL FILE:

RELIGIOUS BELIEF: Agnostic, but was raised Buddhist SINS:  greed  /  gluttony  /  sloth  /  lust  /  pride  /  envy  /  wrath VIRTUES: chastity  /  charity  /  diligence  /  humility /  kindness /  patience /  justice KNOWN LANGUAGES: English, Thai, Latin SECRETS: Teen romance can be rough, right? It’s like two colliding whirlwinds of emotions, hormones, and desires. One minute you’re together, the next you’re broken up for no reason. Now when that volatility is coupled with doubts about sexuality, it’s just a disaster waiting to happen. Most people didn’t accidentally melt half of their boyfriend’s face off and cause him to have to undergo grueling, expensive reconstructive surgery that would never quite make things right, though. Briar had told him the gloves had to stay on, but kids were reckless and foolishly believed in their own infallibility so it didn’t take much convincing to risk it all for some skin on skin. Then next thing they knew, Briar was babbling some half brained excuse about a science experiment gone wrong while his boyfriend’s blood curdling screams echoed in his ears. It was believably enough… until a month after - when the swelling from some of his injuries went down - his former lover was able to unintelligibly mutter “Briar did it.” Then suddenly an ‘accident’ turned into a full scale investigation of malicious intent. All Briar could do was tell the truth. He didn’t know which was more difficult - coming clean about his powers or coming out of the closet. But the officer sitting across from him and his distraught mother in the cramped interrogation room didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the confession. His bushy brows only furrowed in disappointment over the entire situation. In the end, Briar was only charged with obstruction of justice for initially lying to police, but the damage to his reputation was irreparable. His mother decided it would be best to relocate, which is how Briar came to finish his last years of high school in Agdoeg.

SAVVIES: hiking, gardening, camping, sightseeing, investigative work, problem solving, riddles and puzzles.

Powers & Abilities: Zodiac Empowerment (Sagittarius: enhanced accuracy, vision, tracking), Zodiac Physiology (see above appearance), Animal (deer) Spirit Summoning, Fthinóporokinesis (Autumn manipulation), Rot Inducement/Decaying Touch, Body Part Erosion, Luck, Evolution Manipulation, Supernatural Bowmanship.

Traits: (positive) Determined, intelligent, neat freak, health conscious, animal lover, usually down to earth, assertive, responsible, (negative) Sarcastic, impatient, untrusting, can have a temper when someone pushes him too far, distant, prioritizes work over everything else.

BACKGROUND CHECK:

Date of Birth: November 23rd

Date of Death: N/A

Crime Record: Most would assume someone has to have a clean slate to enter law enforcement, but that would leave slim pickings in a city like Agdoeg. Briar doesn’t have any outstanding criminal record, but he did have a couple of dings on his juvenile one that were expunged once he became a legal adult and, therefore, they can no longer be found in most databases.

Background/Biography

(tw miscarriage, tw immaculate conception by some strange god XD, tw domestic disputes, tw divorce) 

 Briar’s parents had been struggling to conceive a child for many years, since their prompt marriage right out of secondary school. These sweet hearts had longed to have a cookie cutter life and family, but fate seemed to inhibit that every step of the way. His mother have seven miscarriages due to the condition of an incompetent cervix and was told many times that she may never be able to carry a child to full term. This had been devastating news to the couple, who had no means of affording everything that went into surrogacy and were now facing the reality that they may never be able to have their own children. In spite of these odds, though, they kept trying and praying that whatever Gods that were out there might grant them a miracle.

Their prayers never seemed to be answered, though, and this put an understandable strain on their marriage. It was when his mother was thirty three and beginning to lose hope that she was plagued by a strange dream. She was floating in a vast emptiness, unable to move or even scream. This might have terrified someone else, but she somehow felt safe blanketed in the darkness. It was as if the entire universe lay bare before her, starlight dancing between her outstretched fingertips. Except she didn’t have fingers. She didn’t even have a physical body. There was a sense that she had become a part of something greater or perhaps been broken down into a form akin to what they had all been before the universe collided together in some cosmic firework show to create all that they knew. After what seemed like an eternity if time even passed in that world, the stars began to slowly take shape before her, pulled together by gravity or some other force she would never quite understand. As they converged, the light became so bright that it was nearly blinding, but she was space dust so how could she look away? She remembers trying to rationalize it with that absurd thought as the light shifted around her and the sound of harps and a heavenly chorus interrupted the sacred stillness that she’d been immersed in until then. Heralding the coming of something… or someone. The light came together at the peak of the crescendo, shapeless but she somehow got the sense of a shapely figure wrapped in a gown the longer she stared into it. This motherly figure bent over her and she recalled the warmth as its tendrils of light stroked over her cheek before urging her mouth open. In that moment, she didn’t feel any sense of unease as the being urged her to partake of its light. It traveled past her lips and through every corner of her being, rushing into her fingertips and even the ends of her hair. It was the first time since being in that plane that she had any sense of where she ended and the rest of the world began. The last thing she remembered was that light condensing, forming into its own little star in the lower part of her abdomen and radiating such soothing warmth…

Then she woke up and that was the first time she really had any sense of unease about the strange dream. As someone who had experienced how odd dreams could get during pregnancy, though, she took it as a good sign. Sure enough, when she took a test three weeks later, she was pregnant! Unlike prior, when she’d lost her children around the three month mark, this child was growing strong and without the complications she always worried about. Everything seemed to finally be falling into place. Their marriage and hope in the future was revitalized! And after nine months of perhaps the most physical and emotional pain she had ever been in in her entire life, she was welcoming a beautiful, healthy baby boy into the world and never once thought about the unsettling dream at the start of it all.

Admittedly, Briar was certainly a unique baby. His ears had always been a little odd since birth - bigger than usual - but his parents figured he would just grow into them and found it one of his most endearing traits. However, when he was three years old, that’s when his antlers started coming in. His mother found them one night when she was reading him a bedtime story and running her fingers through his unruly mop of wavy hair. Understandably, she freaked out and brought him to the doctor the next day, who took a biopsy and found the strange growths to primarily be made of calcium. It was unusual, but they decided to simply keep an eye on it since it seemed harmless enough. They only became more noticeable as the years went by, poking through his hair, and Briar recalls the Chinese Buddhists of his neighborhood always telling his mother it was a sign of good fortune. At the time, Briar had always thought it was annoying how they’d always want to lay their hands on him, but he realized as he’d gotten older that they believed the cow was Guanyin’s reincarnated father and the stubby little nubs atop his head made them think he was blessed. But horns and antlers are two different things - one being keratinous and, the other, bone - but he supposed it was easy to confuse them at first glance. Going into adolescence, those things grew like crazy. As if puberty and having velvety twigs growing on your head wasn’t stressful enough, that was when Briar first noticed his parents beginning to drift apart. One night, when coming home late from a friend’s house, he overheard a heated argument between them in the kitchen and his father’s accusations would forever be etched into his mind... “You thought you could trick me forever? I don’t know who knocked you up, but I can’t pretend that thing is my son!” The words drove through him like a knife. Yet after the initial shock subsided, Briar felt for the first time that all the little confusing pieces he’d chosen to overlook his entire life began to make sense. At first his parents had simply assumed he’d taken on more features of his mother, but his father had begun to grow distant as his otherworldly features and powers emerged. The reality was that two humans couldn’t possibly have made a half-deer-whatever-he-was and the only logical explanation was that he wasn’t his father’s at all. He only wished he’d come to that conclusion sooner instead of deluding himself and becoming foolishly attached to the man… The divorce was relatively swift. The judge didn’t even demand a paternity test when his father rebuked having to pay child support. All he had to do was look across the courtroom and he could tell that the speckled, big eared, horned child standing there wasn’t his. It was a dirty, unjust move that besmirched his mother as a disloyal wife and watching her go through that emotional rollercoaster was perhaps the toughest thing of the whole ordeal. Thirteen year old Briar comforted her through the fits of tears and had a strong upper lip when she insisted that she’d never betrayed his father… What bothered him the most was that he couldn’t believe her, but he also couldn’t be angry or blame her either. He had always been closer with his mother and he promised her in those moments of weakness that he would always take care of her. Of course, a single mother with a bad reputation was not an easy gig when trying to support a family. They were forced to move from their smaller town into the teeming metropolis of Bangkok for her to find work and Briar was honestly quite happy with leaving the past behind him. He thrived in the city with its far more diverse population. No one looked at him like he was a freak when he rode the bus or went to buy groceries. It was the first time he felt like he could truly be himself. He had his fair share of rough patches, just like any hormonal teenager, but having otherworldly powers and no one to teach you how to use them certainly caused a few catastrophic, social life obliterating faux pas. His mother thankfully was able to transfer within her company to the Agdoeg branch. It meant not only relocating in the middle of high school for Briar, but moving to an entirely new country. The level of diversity and integration of the supernatural community within Agdoeg was even better than what he’d experienced before. They were in government, owned small businesses… But not all of them were reputable or honest. Briar quickly learned that there were parts of the city that he shouldn’t venture to if he knew what was good for him. However, in spite of the seedier things going on in the underbelly, he was able to find a youth center which helped him to get a better handle on his powers and met his role model who would eventually lead him into his career as a police officer.

INTERVIEW QUESTION (para sample): “Just run us through what happened that night”. - Officer

Briar squeezed his eyes shut tight in an attempt to chase away the spots dancing across his vision from the overbearing fluorescent bulbs that bore down on the table in the center of the interrogation room. It was so intense that he could hear the hum of the electricity going to it and, somehow, he mentally processed that before the weight of the officer’s words. Words he’d uttered himself many times when the roles were flipped. Normally, this was the point a smart suspect would clam up and demand to talk to a lawyer, but clearly this was some kind of joke and he’d just missed the punchline. “Ha. Ha! Very funny.” He gruffed, devoid of amusement as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose to ward off the pounding headache settling in like someone was playing the bass drum behind his eyeballs.

The precinct had all been out drinking the night before, celebrating closing a case that had been busting their proverbial balls for the last six months, and there was a point after countless shots of tequila that Briar didn’t even know what was up and what was down, let alone why they were even there anymore. Now, he didn’t doubt that many profoundly stupid things had fallen from his lips and been done, but he hardly would have thought it would be anything illegal. Officers protected their own and someone less inebriated surely would have stopped him before he did anything he’d regret. Trying to wrack his brain, Briar bent to press his forehead to the cool metal of the table with a pitious groan. He remembered waking up in one of the cells to the sound of the door noisily being opened and before he could even get his bearings, two uniformed men were hauling him up and dragging him down the hallway toward the room he sat in now. None of it made a lick of sense.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a joke, Officer Suwannarat. Something very serious happened tonight and we need you to tell us why.”

The brutally stern voice sobered Briar up really quick and he lifted his head up from the table to narrow his eyes on the man that sat across from him, his fawn-like ears flicking in annoyance. He’d worked on the force for many years now and he wasn’t about to be hassled by some nameless rookie who was probably forced in here by his supervising officer, like a lamb being pushed into a cage with a bear. “Listen- no. What is going on?” He demanded with surprising eloquence for someone who’s tongue felt like a dried up sponge in his mouth. Drunk drought be damned. “Am I under arrest? ‘Cause if I am, you better tell me the charges or else I’m walking right out that door and finding your commanding off-”

What was likely going to be a memorable tirade was cut short as the door to the interrogation room swung open and a handful of officers poured into the small space like salmon all fighting to spawn upstream. All Briar could do was stare wide eyed where he was glued to his seat and watch with no small amount of mortification while a cake was set in front of him with messy lettering iced on top that read ‘Congrats on your Promotion! Now you’re their problem.’ Feeling the mixture of rage and bewilderment quickly begin to ebb away, the corners of Briar’s lips twitched into a crooked smile and he shook his head in exasperation. “You’re fucking kidding me. Who’s terrible idea was this?” He demanded with a mirthless laugh as he deflated back into the hard metal chair and glanced around at the familiar faces of the men and women he’d worked with for the past ten years. God, how had he survived their crazy antics and made it this far?

“What do you mean? We had to give you a memorable send-off.” His partner mounted his defense and slunk out from the crowd to give Briar an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “Besides, do you know how hard it was to carry your heavy ass into the cell to pull this off? The least you could do was say thank you. Geez. Too good for us already, Detective?”

Briar should thank him. That much he’d already mentally concluded. But shoving his partner’s smug face into the cake was also a tempting option. Instead, he reached up to gently pat the other’s hand with his gloved one. “Never.” He assured him gently before a chorus of obnoxious coos from the peanut gallery made sure to not only kill the moment but beat it once it was down. Pushing himself up from the chair, Briar swayed unsteadily and shamelessly grappled a couple of his friends for balance on his route to the door. “Ugh. Alright, get me out of this room before I literally end someone and get stuck here forever. That cake better be chocolate, I swear-”