#Dust Motes in Sun Beams

[ohhmydyosfics]

(Johnhyuck) Dust Motes in Sun Beams

“Hey, kiss me.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000804

[mononijikayu]

stuff we did — geto suguru.

“Hey!” you called out, a mix of excitement and nervousness in your voice. “What are you doing?” Suguru looked up, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and curiosity. “I’m trying to figure out what’s inside. This place looks like it’s been abandoned forever.” You stepped closer, your own curiosity piqued. “Do you think it’s haunted?” Suguru grinned, his imagination clearly running wild. “Maybe! Or maybe it’s just full of old, forgotten things. Either way, I bet there are some really cool secrets in there.” You looked at the house, its weathered appearance now seeming a bit more inviting. “Do you want to explore it together?”

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Modern AU;

WARNING/s: Angst, Fluff, Romance, Hurt/ Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Husband and Wife, Friendship, Husband! Suguru, Reader! Wife, Fluff, Comfort, Falling In Love, Pining, Slice of Life, Humor, Domesticity, Miscarriage, Infertility, Character Death, Depiction of Infertility, Depiction of Hospital Visit, Depiction of Illness, Depiction of Old Age, Mention of Miscarriage, Mention of Infertility, Mention of Character Death, This Is One Of My Favorites In A Long Whille, My Writing Vault Is Just Angst;

WORDS: 8.9k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this was written a while while back and i just finished proof reading it to suit what i wanted to see. this was inspired by both queen of tears and the film up, which was just the most beautiful movie ive seen over and over. i hope you enjoy this a lot and that you'll be just as moved as me. i promise i'll be back with fluff soon enough!!! i genuinely cried at the end. anyway, i hope you love it. i love you guys!!! thank you for reading <3

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A WHOLE LIFETIME WAS WAITING FOR HIM. At ten years old, Suguru Geto was a dreamer with a spark in his eyes that hinted at a life full of exploration and wonder.

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It was an ordinary afternoon, the sun casting long shadows as you wandered through the neighborhood, when you stumbled upon the abandoned house. Its once-grand façade was now a patchwork of peeling paint and overgrown vines, and the wooden fence sagged in places, as if it were barely holding on to its secrets.

You had been intrigued by the house for weeks, often imagining what mysteries lay behind its dust-covered windows. That day, you decided to finally investigate, only to find someone already there. Suguru was crouched by the front gate, peering through the rusty bars with a look of intense concentration.

“Hey!” you called out, a mix of excitement and nervousness in your voice. “What are you doing?”

Suguru looked up, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and curiosity. “I’m trying to figure out what’s inside. This place looks like it’s been abandoned forever.”

You stepped closer, your own curiosity piqued. “Do you think it’s haunted?”

Suguru grinned, his imagination clearly running wild. “Maybe! Or maybe it’s just full of old, forgotten things. Either way, I bet there are some really cool secrets in there.”

You looked at the house, its weathered appearance now seeming a bit more inviting. “Do you want to explore it together?”

Suguru’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “Absolutely! Let’s make it our clubhouse. We can turn it into our secret base where we plan all our adventures.”

The two of you both pushed open the creaky gate and made your way up the overgrown path to the front door. Inside, dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight filtering through the broken windows. The air was musty, but the promise of discovery filled you with a sense of excitement.

“This place is amazing!” Suguru exclaimed, running his hand along an old wooden beam. “Imagine all the things we could do here, don’t you think? We could have treasure hunts, build secret compartments, and even create maps of our adventures!”

You smiled, already swept up in the excitement. “And we could scrapbook all of our adventures. I’ve got a ton of stickers and colored pens at home. We could make it like a journal of our explorations!”

Suguru’s eyes lit up with delight. “That sounds perfect. We’ll make this place the coolest clubhouse ever!”

With the possibilities swirling in both your minds, you turned to Suguru, realizing you hadn't properly introduced yourselves yet. “Oh, by the way, I’m…….”

Suguru grinned, his enthusiasm still bubbling over. “Suguru Geto. Looks like we’re gonna be partners in adventure!”

The two of you spent hours exploring every nook and cranny of the house. Suguru’s enthusiasm was contagious, pulling you deeper into the magic of the place. Every corner held a new discovery, a forgotten relic of time that sparked your imaginations. You both laughed as you uncovered old, dusty furniture, imagining all the stories it could tell.

Suguru, always the dreamer, crouched by an ancient-looking wardrobe and peered inside. “What if this belonged to a pirate?” he mused, brushing away cobwebs. “Maybe they stashed their maps and treasures in here before sailing off for another adventure.”

You chuckled, running your fingers over the faded carvings on a wooden chair. “Or maybe it was a writer, sitting here every night by candlelight, crafting tales of far-off lands.”

Suguru stood up, eyes gleaming. “We could be the next storytellers! We can make up stories about this place—maybe even start our own treasure hunt for future explorers.”

“I love that idea!” you grinned, already envisioning the elaborate maps and clues you could create together. “This whole house could be our playground.”

As you explored further, you found hidden doorways and forgotten passageways, each discovery filling you both with a sense of wonder. There was an old attic with creaky floorboards that groaned under your weight, and a cellar that held shelves of ancient, dusty jars—relics of a time long past. Suguru’s energy never faltered, and neither did yours. It was as if the house had become an extension of your shared imagination, every forgotten room a new world to explore.

At one point, Suguru turned to you, breathless from excitement. “Can you believe how much potential this place has? We could make it anything we want! A fortress, a secret hideout, a museum for all the stuff we find!”

You nodded eagerly, already planning how you’d decorate each room with artifacts from your adventures. “We’ll turn it into our own world.”

Suguru’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “We’ve gotta make sure no one else finds it, though. This is our secret spot.”

“Deal!” you said, sealing the pact with a grin.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden glow over the house, Suguru turned to you with a thoughtful expression. “You know, one day we’re going to see the whole world. Just like those great explorers. This clubhouse will be our starting point.”

You smiled, feeling a sense of deep connection with Suguru. “I’d like that. I think we’ll have the best adventures together.”

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YOU THINK THAT ADVENTURE WAS THE WAY TO GETO SUGURU’S HEART. When you started to get to know him, you couldn’t help but notice the way Suguru’s eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement whenever the topic of exploration came up.

It was as though each conversation opened a window into his boundless curiosity, and you found yourself drawn to the light in his gaze, the way it brightened with every new idea or story he shared. 

Geto Suguru’s fascination with the world wasn’t just a passing interest—it was a deep passion, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He could turn even the smallest details into an adventure, transforming mundane objects or places into portals to other worlds. You can tell that he was a born story–teller. Born to know the wonders of the wider world.

Whenever he spoke of famous explorers, his voice would rise with enthusiasm, as if their courage and daring lived within him. Marco Polo’s travels along the Silk Road, Amelia Earhart’s fearless flight into the unknown—Suguru recounted their tales with such vivid detail, it felt as though you were right there alongside them, venturing into uncharted lands.

“He didn’t just travel, you know what I mean?” Suguru once said of Marco Polo, eyes alight with admiration. “That guy managed to help open some doors to a whole new world. Can you imagine that? Being the first to set foot somewhere no one even knew existed?”

You nodded, already swept up in the vision he painted as you kicked your feet. “It’s like the whole world was waiting to be found.”

Suguru smiled, and there was a quiet thrill in his voice. “Exactly! That’s the magic of it—everything’s an adventure if you look at it the right way.”

It didn’t take long before his excitement became infectious. These days, you just feel like that when you are around Suguru. Just as quickly, you could only find yourself equally captivated by the idea of exploring far-off places and uncovering their mysteries. Geto Suguru had a way of making even the ordinary seem extraordinary. 

He would point out things that others might pass by without a second glance—a strange rock, an oddly shaped tree, or even the patterns in the clouds—and turn them into puzzles waiting to be solved. His mind was always buzzing with “what-ifs” and “maybes” sparking conversations that seemed to stretch on for hours as you both imagined worlds within worlds, hidden just beneath the surface of reality.

“I wonder what it would be like to be Amelia Earhart too!” he mused once, as you both sat on a hill, gazing at the horizon. “To fly into the unknown, chasing the horizon, not knowing what’s on the other side but going anyway.”

“Scary, but exciting, don’t you think?” you replied, feeling a twinge of that same wanderlust Suguru seemed to carry with him at all times. “It’s like you’re both lost and free at the same time.”

Suguru nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. The unknown is terrifying, but that’s what makes it so… beautiful. There’s always something more to discover. And I…I just can’t wait to find out all of it!”

It was moments like these that deepened your bond. His wonderment was contagious, and soon you began to see the world through his eyes, where even the smallest things held the promise of adventure. Whether it was the forgotten corners of an old house or the distant lands of long-gone explorers, with Suguru, everything became part of an ongoing quest. 

You realized that it wasn’t just about the places you would explore, but the way he looked at the world—with a wide-eyed excitement that made you feel like every day held a new mystery, waiting to be uncovered. And you wanted to be there with him. Just beside him. Because to be with him, you like to think that you would find nothing but a wonder if you were there.

He had a knack for finding the magic in the mundane, and it opened your own bright eyes to the wonders around you. What once seemed ordinary now felt like it held endless possibilities, all thanks to Suguru’s infectious spirit. 

He showed you that adventure wasn’t just something that happened in faraway places—it could be anywhere, even in the most unexpected moments. You didn’t have to cross oceans to find excitement; sometimes, it was right in front of you, if only you knew where to look. And with Suguru, you were learning how to see it.

This weekend afternoon, as you and Suguru sat cross-legged on the floor of your clubhouse, surrounded by colorful supplies and old maps, Suguru began sharing his latest dream with you. The sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting a warm, golden light on the room.

“You know…..” Suguru said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. “I read about this amazing place called the Himalayas. It’s full of towering mountains, and some of them are so high that they touch the sky. Can you imagine climbing one of those?”

You looked up from your sketchbook, eyes wide with wonder. “That sounds incredible! What would it be like to stand on top of one of those mountains?”

Suguru’s face broke into a smile as he imagined the scene. You like to think that he had the most beautiful smile in the world. “It would be breathtaking. You’d feel like you’re on top of the world. And there’s this special mountain called Everest—people say it’s like touching the edge of the heavens!”

With a gleeful chuckle, Suguru grabbed a pencil and began sketching a mountain range in your scrapbook. “We should definitely put this in our adventure book. We’ll draw mountains and imagine ourselves climbing them.”

You nodded eagerly, already picturing the pages of your scrapbook filled with sketches and notes. “Absolutely. And we can write about all the things we’d see and do. Maybe we’ll even draw ourselves in climbing gear, standing triumphantly at the summit!”

As the weeks went by, the scrapbook became a canvas for your shared dreams. Each page was a tribute to the places Suguru talked about with such passion. There were intricate drawings of ocean vistas, with waves crashing against rocky shores, and sprawling cityscapes with towering skyscrapers and bustling streets.

Geto Suguru’s descriptions were so vivid that you could almost hear the sounds and smell the scents of these distant lands. He just knew how to give you the wide world to you in the vibrant brighteness no one could.

As you worked on the scrapbook together, Suguru’s excitement reached a new peak. “I’ve been reading about this incredible city called Istanbul. It’s where East meets West, and there are markets full of colorful spices and beautiful mosaics everywhere. I think it would be amazing to see it in person.”

You looked at the sketch Suguru had just added, depicting a bustling market scene with vibrant colors and intricate patterns. “It looks so lively and full of culture. I’d love to experience it with you. Maybe we could even learn a few phrases in Turkish before we go.”

Suguru nodded, clearly thrilled by the idea. “Yes! And we can try all the different foods and maybe even buy some souvenirs to bring back to our clubhouse.”

As the scrapbook filled up, it became a treasure trove of aspirations and memories. The house, once an abandoned relic, was now a haven for your dreams, where the world beyond your doorstep felt just a little bit smaller and a whole lot more reachable.

As you look at him, you couldn’t help but smile. Your scrapbook would be an adventure as long as you had him.

IT WAS EASY TO SEE THAT YOU LIKED HIM. As the years passed, as you both grew older—the bond between you and Suguru deepened in ways that neither of you had anticipated. Nothing has changed and yet it has.

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You couldn’t even understand how you could describe it. What had begun as a playful friendship, sparked by shared adventures and dreams, evolved into a profound connection that anchored both of your lives moving forward.

The seasons changed, and so did the nature of your relationship. As the crisp air of autumn gave way to the first frost of winter, something subtle yet profound shifted between you two.

Your weekends, once filled with the solitary pursuit of sketching mountains far off in the distance or wistfully dreaming of cities you had yet to explore, began to take on a new rhythm. These quiet moments of creativity were now shared, woven into times of meaningful conversations that deepened your connection.

The clubhouse, once a refuge for your art and ideas, had evolved alongside you both. It was no longer just a place to retreat but had grown into a cozy home filled with warmth and a sense of belonging. The walls, once bare and practical, were now alive with a collage of your memories—scrapbook pages pinned up like trophies of the adventures you’d had together. 

Here, in the dim light of your clubhouse-turned-home, time seemed to slow. Conversations stretched long into the evening, filled with laughter, confessions, and sometimes a comfortable silence that spoke more than words ever could.

You realized that it wasn't just about the places you wanted to visit or the mountains you hoped to climb. It was about these moments—right here, right now—that had been shaping the most important journey of all: the one you were taking together.

You and Suguru sat on the porch of your clubhouse. The place had become a sanctuary for the two of you, and tonight, it felt even more so. Wrapped in thick, warm blankets, you watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of soft gold, pink, and lavender. The fading light bathed the world in a warm, almost magical glow, a contrast to the growing chill in the air.

But something else lingered in the quiet of that evening—an unspoken tension. Suguru, always steady and thoughtful, had been unusually silent. You could sense that something weighed heavily on his mind. His usual animated presence, the one that balanced your own, seemed subdued. 

He stared out at the trees, their leaves a patchwork of fiery reds and oranges, but his thoughts were clearly somewhere else. The contemplative look on his face was deeper than the usual moments of introspection he had.

You knew him well enough to understand that silence was part of who he was—he often found comfort in it—but this was different. This wasn’t just quiet; it was an absence of something.

The air, cool against your skin, seemed to press in, amplifying the stillness between you. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to be said. You didn’t push him; you knew better than that.

With Suguru, patience was key. He always opened up in his own time, and when he did, it was always worth the wait. You could tell he was wrestling with something important—something that couldn’t be rushed.

You glanced over at him, his face softened by the golden light of the setting sun. His expression was unreadable, yet you could sense the conflict beneath the surface.

It was as though the quiet had become a shield for him, a way to protect himself from whatever thoughts he was trying to sort out. You wondered if he even knew how to begin talking about it, or if he was still trying to make sense of it for himself.

The porch creaked as you shifted slightly in your seat, the only sound breaking the stillness. The leaves continued to fall, gently drifting to the ground, but the world around you felt frozen in that moment, waiting for Suguru to speak. Whatever was on his mind, you knew it was important, and you were ready to listen when he was ready to share.

You glanced at him, sensing that something was on his mind. “Hey, Suguru.” you said gently, “is everything okay? You seem a bit… distant.”

Suguru turned to you, his eyes reflecting the fading sunlight. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he began slowly, “about us, and about everything we’ve shared.”

You felt a flutter of nerves in your chest but kept your voice steady. “What about us?”

Suguru took a deep breath, his fingers intertwined with yours. “You know how we’ve always dreamed about exploring the world together? Well, lately, I’ve been thinking that the greatest adventure of all is the one we’re already on. The one where we’re building a life together.”

You looked at him, your heart racing as you realized what he was about to say. Suguru’s face softened into a gentle smile, and he continued, “I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. You’ve been my partner in every adventure, and I can’t imagine my life without you.”

The world seemed to pause as you processed his words. Your feelings for Suguru had grown from admiration and friendship into a deep, abiding love. You had felt it for some time but hadn’t fully acknowledged it until this moment.

“I love you too, Suguru.” you replied, your voice trembling with emotion. “You’re my best friend, my confidant, and the person I want to share my life with.”

Suguru’s bright purple eyes sparkled with happiness, and he reached out to hold you close. The warmth of his embrace was comforting, and you felt a profound sense of belonging. From that evening onward, your relationship transformed. 

You both began to plan not just for the next adventure but for a future together. You talked about dreams of traveling the world, but also about building a home, starting a family, and creating a life rich with shared experiences. 

The future you envisioned was no longer just about distant places or grand plans; it was about the everyday moments and the life you would build side by side. You found joy in the small things—quiet dinners, laughter over shared memories, and the simple pleasure of being together. And for each of those moments, you would both be together. For every last one.

And from that moment, everything felt like a flash, a blur of time passing with both rapidity and grace. Years slipped through your fingers like sand, but each one seemed to deepen the bond you and Suguru shared. 

You both arrived at the house, this time not as wide-eyed dreamers, but as people ready to take action. You were equipped with the resources, knowledge, and expertise that had been hard-earned over the years. What once seemed impossible now felt within reach.

The house had transformed, much like the relationship you shared. The wild, overgrown vines that had once snaked across its facade had been cut away, revealing the clean lines of the structure underneath.

The sagging fence, which had leaned precariously for years, had been replaced by a sturdy, welcoming one. Even the gate—the one that had creaked and stuck when you were kids—now swung open smoothly, inviting you in with a sense of ease and possibility. 

Standing there together, gazing at the house, the nostalgia hit you both in waves. You could still remember the first time you stumbled upon it, back when the future felt like a distant, far-off dream. But now, it wasn’t distant anymore. It was here, within your grasp.

The silence between you was comfortable, filled with anticipation and a shared understanding. You both knew this wasn’t just about restoring an old house. It was about building something together—something that was uniquely yours.

This house, with all its history and imperfections, was about to become the home you had always envisioned. It wasn’t just a physical space. It was a reflection of everything you had been through, everything you had grown into, and everything you had yet to become.

As you exchanged a glance with Suguru, you didn’t need words to know what he was thinking. The years had brought change, but they had also brought clarity. Together, you had always been building something—first with your dreams, then with your actions. And now, you were ready to take that final step, to make this place your home.

“Look at it, baby!” Suguru exclaimed, his voice filled with awe as he gazed at the house. His eyes sparkled with the kind of excitement and pride you hadn't seen in a while. “It’s incredible to see how far we’ve come. I remember the first time we explored this place, imagining what it could become.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with emotion as you took in the sight before you. “It’s amazing. It feels like we’re finally turning our dreams into reality.”

The house had been a vision for so long—an idea you had held onto through thick and thin. Now, as you stood in front of the freshly painted exterior, with the sun glinting off the windows and the scent of fresh grass in the air, it was hard to believe that this place had once been nothing more than an abandoned shell. But it was no longer just an idea or a distant goal. It was real, solid, and yours.

Suguru picked up a paint roller, dipped it into the bucket of soft, pastel blue paint you had both agreed on, and turned toward the wall with a grin. “This is the fun part, don’t you think?” he said, rolling a stripe of color onto the previously bare wood. “It’s like coloring outside the lines, but now we get to make the lines too.”

You laughed and grabbed your own roller, eager to join in. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, mister. This is a team effort.”

Soon, the two of you were painting side by side, your laughter filling the crisp air as you carefully applied the vibrant colors to your home. The soft hum of birds chirping in the distance and the gentle rustling of leaves set the perfect backdrop for your playful banter. Every brushstroke felt like a step closer to bringing your shared vision to life.

At one point, Suguru turned toward you, his roller dripping with paint, and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You know what’s missing here?” he asked, his voice playful.

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be suspicious. “What?”

“An artist's touch!” Before you could react, Suguru flicked his roller in your direction, sending a spray of pastel blue paint across your shirt.

Your eyes widened in mock horror as you looked down at the splatters of paint now decorating your clothes. “Suguru!” you exclaimed, half-laughing, half-gasping. “You’re in so much trouble!”

Without hesitation, you dipped your roller into the paint and aimed it squarely at him, sending a cascade of blue across his chest. Suguru's bright purple eyes went wide in surprise, then he broke into a wide grin.

“Oh, it’s on now,” he said, stepping toward you with his paintbrush raised like a sword. What started as an innocent painting session quickly turned into a playful paint war, the walls momentarily forgotten as you splattered each other with streaks of pastel blue. 

You squealed as he rushed off with a dash and followed you. His laughter was just as much the best part of the progress you think. It was like the music that was missing in your life. And it never stopped that afternoon and you were content.

The soft spring breeze carried your laughter, and for a few moments, the rest of the world faded away. It was just you and Suguru, in the moment, covered in paint and joy.

At some point, you collapsed onto the grass together, breathless from laughter and covered in splashes of color. The house loomed behind you, its newly painted walls gleaming in the sunlight, but all you could focus on was the way Suguru looked at you, his face smeared with paint, his eyes filled with warmth and happiness.

He reached over and gently wiped a smudge of blue from your cheek, his touch tender. “Look at us, baby.” he said softly, his voice a mix of awe and affection. “We’re a mess, but this—everything we’ve built together—it’s beautiful.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Yeah babe.” you agreed, your heart full. “It really is.”

Just like that, this once old abandoned soul was starting to come back to life before your eyes. It reminded you of all those dreams you had shared with Suguru for so many years. And in that moment, as you sat in the grass with your husband—covered in paint, laughter, and love—you realized that this, right here, was the real dream coming true.

That cool summer night as you both sat together on the porch of your newly renovated home, watching the sunset paint the sky with shades of pink and orange, Suguru turned to you with a contented smile. You had never seen him this happy in your entire lives together. And it suited him. More than you think he’d understand. 

“I never imagined this day would come, but here we are. Our adventures didn’t just remain on paper anymore, baby. They became a reality now.”

You leaned against him, feeling a deep sense of fulfillment. “It’s incredible. We’ve seen so much of the world, and now we have this beautiful home that’s a reflection of our journey.”

With your home now complete, you and Suguru embarked on a new chapter of your life.

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LIFE EVEN IN ITS MOST MUNDANE WAS EVERYTHING. As the years went by, your and Suguru’s paths continued to align in the most fulfilling ways. Suguru, inspired by his love for learning and his experiences, decided to become a teacher, just like you.

Both of you found immense satisfaction in shaping young minds and sharing your passion for knowledge. Your combined efforts in education became a cornerstone of your lives, and it was a field where your love for exploration and discovery seamlessly translated into inspiring others.

Your old friends, who had once joined you in those early childhood adventures, also found their way into the field of education. Together, you formed a tight-knit community of educators, all driven by a shared passion for helping students explore their potential. The clubhouse, once the backdrop for your childhood dreams, had become a symbol of your commitment to fostering curiosity and creativity in the next generation.

Even your nights you spent in your home were often filled with lively discussions about teaching methods, innovative ideas for the classroom, and the exciting possibilities of new educational tools.

Your love of exploration, once confined to distant lands, now found a new outlet in the classroom. You and Suguru worked together on projects that encouraged students to think critically and explore the world around them, just as you had done as children.

Suguru, with a nostalgic smile, traced his fingers over a particularly cherished page. “Remember this, baby?” he said, pointing to a sketch of the Himalayas. “We were so excited about climbing those mountains. And now, look at us—living our dreams and sharing them with others.”

You leaned against him, feeling a deep sense of contentment. “I do remember. And I’m so grateful for everything we’ve experienced together. This scrapbook is a reminder of how far we’ve come and all the dreams we’ve made real.”

As you both looked through the pages, you realized that the scrapbook was more than just a record of your adventures—it was a reflection of your journey as a couple. It symbolized not only the places you had been and the things you had done but also the love and partnership that had grown alongside them. Everything was perfect. Nothing could be better.

Your careers were flourishing, and life with Geto Suguru was a tapestry of shared happiness. The bond between you had only deepened over time, each day bringing a new layer of intimacy and understanding. 

It was as though your relationship had found a perfect equilibrium, a serene joy that seemed like it could stretch on indefinitely. Your home was filled with the warmth of laughter, the comfort of companionship, and the contentment of having achieved many of your dreams. But still, you felt like something was missing. And your husband knew it too.

Suguru, with his usual thoughtful demeanor, was the first to broach the topic. “You know, baby….” he began, his voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of contemplation. “We've built something incredible together. Our careers, our lovely home… Everything feels right. But have you ever thought about what might come next?”

You turned to face him, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?” you asked, sensing that there was something more beneath his words.

Suguru hesitated for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Well, we’ve talked about our future in many ways, but lately, I’ve been thinking about children. About…..about what it might be like to have a family of our own.”

Your husband’s tender words hung in the air, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. The idea had surfaced in fleeting thoughts and half-formed conversations, but hearing it out loud made it feel more real, more tangible.

You considered his words carefully. The thought of children had always been a distant possibility, a dream tucked away among other aspirations. But now, in the warmth of the evening and the comfort of your home, it feels different. It was no longer just an abstract idea; it was something you were both ready to explore.

“I’ve thought about it too, babe.” you admitted, your voice soft but filled with emotion. “It’s strange how this feeling crept up on us. I suppose we always knew that our life together would be about more than just us, that there would be something else to share our love and our world with.”

Suguru reached out and took your hand, his touch reassuring and full of promise. “I think it could be a beautiful next step for us, you know? I know it won’t be easy, and there will be challenges, but I can’t help but feel that it’s the right time.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling a sense of warmth and excitement building within you. “I agree. It feels like we’re ready to open up to this new chapter. I can’t imagine doing it with anyone else but you.”

And that settled your desires to begin unfolding. You both wanted it — to have a family together, to raise a child that would be a reflection of your love. The excitement was palpable, filling the days with a hopeful kind of anticipation. You tried, again and again, but it wasn’t long before the first signs appeared, subtle at first. A growing worry gnawed at you, but you pushed it aside, willing everything to be okay.

Then came the miscarriage.

The room was heavy with silence, the kind that feels suffocating and oppressive. Your eyes were red from the tears you had shed, each one a testament to the depth of your loss. The sterile whiteness of the doctor's office seemed to mock the vibrant dreams you had once held.

The doctor’s words were like a sharp blade cutting through the haze of hope you had been clinging to. “You won’t be able to have children, Mrs. Geto. I am so sorry.” he said softly, his voice compassionate but firm. 

The words hung in the air, each syllable a painful puncture to the fragile balloon of hope that had floated between you and Suguru. At that moment, the world seemed to fall apart.

The colors of the room blurred together, the sounds of the doctor’s voice faded into a distant hum, and the only thing that remained was the crushing weight of the news. It was as if the very foundation of your dreams had shattered, leaving behind a void that seemed too vast to fill.

The future you had imagined—of shared late-night feedings, tiny feet pattering around the house, the joy of watching a child grow—was now nothing more than a distant, unreachable fantasy. The dream you and Suguru had so carefully built together crumbled, leaving behind an aching emptiness that felt like a gaping hole in your heart.

You looked at Suguru, and in his eyes, you saw the same devastation mirrored back at you. The strength and support that had always been a cornerstone of your relationship now felt fragile, as if the very fabric of your shared hopes had been torn apart. His hand reached for yours, trembling slightly, and you could feel the shared grief pulsing between you.

As you and Suguru drove home, the silence in the car was almost unbearable. The world outside seemed muted, as if the colors and sounds had been drained away. The roads stretched out in front of you, but they felt meaningless, like they led nowhere important. The weight of the news settled heavily on your shoulders, and neither of you knew how to break the quiet.

For days, you were unapproachable, lost in a fog of devastation. The loss felt like a gaping chasm that nothing could fill. Conversations became infrequent and strained, and even the comfort of routine seemed distant and hollow. Suguru was there, his presence a constant but silent support, and though he tried to offer solace, the words and gestures seemed inadequate against the depth of your shared grief.

The stillness in the house felt almost oppressive. You found yourself sitting alone in the backyard, the garden now a quiet reflection of your internal turmoil. The familiar sight of your favorite flowers and the gentle rustling of leaves seemed to offer no solace. You sat there, wrapped in a blanket of melancholy, trying to make sense of the void that had settled in your life.

Suguru came out and joined you, quietly taking a seat beside you on the patio. He took a deep breath, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of the world. For a moment, he just sat there, gathering his thoughts, his presence a steady anchor amidst the storm of emotions.

“You know, baby…..” he began softly, his voice breaking the heavy silence, “it’s okay to feel like this. It’s okay to not have all the answers or to be okay right away.”

His words were simple but carried a depth of understanding that only someone who truly cared could offer. You turned to look at him, seeing the pain and determination in his eyes.

“I don’t know how to move past this.” you admitted, your voice cracking with emotion.

“I know.” He whispers to you with tenderness. Tenderness you will never truly deserve. “But you know, baby…..We’ll always be together.”

“I know that.” you retorted, your voice tight and strained as you tried to contain the wave of emotion threatening to break free. “But I just… I wish I could have given you a child, you know?  A child that’s a mix of you and me. I just…”

Your words trailed off, leaving a raw vulnerability exposed. The weight of your regrets hung heavily in the air, mingling with the sorrow that had become a constant companion. Suguru’s eyes, usually so full of life and energy, now reflected a deep, pained empathy. 

His purple orbs roamed over your face, taking in the sight of you so broken and anguished. The sight of you in such distress was almost too much for him to bear. His own heart ached at the realization that there was little he could do to ease your pain.

“Does our lifetime of love need to leave evidence?” Suguru asked softly, his voice tender yet resolute. “Does…..does it need more than what there is?”

His question wasn’t just a consolation; it was a reflection of his deep belief in the essence of your relationship. You turned to him, the tears welling in your eyes now spilling over, blurring your vision. The raw honesty in his words cut through the fog of your grief, reaching the core of your heart.

“We have each other now, baby.” Suguru continued, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “And we love each other. That’s all that matters.”

His words were simple but powerful, a balm to the wound that had seemed insurmountable. His words broke something inside of you, not in a painful way, but in a way that let all the pent-up sorrow flow out. 

You sobbed, burying your face in your hands, and Suguru wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you cried. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to. In his embrace, in the warmth of his presence, you found the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

You cried for the loss, for the future you had dreamed of, but you also cried for the love you still had. Suguru was right. You had each other, and in that love, you found strength. That’s all that truly mattered.

Geto Suguru held you close as your tears flowed, his hands gently rubbing your back, whispering words of comfort that barely reached your ears. But his presence, steady and unwavering, spoke louder than any words could. 

In his arms, you found a fragile sense of peace, a reminder that even in this moment of heartbreak, you weren’t alone. His touch was familiar, grounding, and you turned to look at him. There was a tenderness in his eyes, a deep understanding that made your heart ache in the best way. He smiled at you.

“I know this isn’t what we imagined.” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But I’ve been thinking… Maybe it’s okay if our love doesn’t leave a legacy in the way we thought. Maybe our love can just be… us.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of his words settling into your heart. Suguru had always been your anchor, the person who knew how to pull you back when the world felt too overwhelming. In that moment, you realized that maybe he was right. 

Maybe your love didn’t need to be measured by the future you had imagined, by the children you thought you would have. Maybe it was enough to have each other, to share this life together, and to hold onto the love that had always been there. Maybe this was all there has to be. Maybe….this was enough.

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they weren’t filled with sorrow. You squeezed Suguru’s hand, leaning into his warmth. “I love you.” you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. “I love you so much.”

He pulled you into his arms once more, his lips brushing against your temple. “I love you too. Always.”

In that quiet moment, you realized that while the future you had once dreamed of was no longer possible, there was still a future waiting for you. A future where it was just the two of you, building a life together, creating memories that were uniquely yours. And as long as you had Suguru by your side, that was enough.

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YOU LIKE TO THINK THAT YOUR HUSBAND’S DREAMS WERE BEAUTIFUL. Even after everything, your husband Suguru had always been a dreamer. He never gave up even after the rollercoaster life had dealt you. Everything you both went through—the heartache, the healing—he found a new dream. It was no longer about building a family or leaving a legacy. 

His new dream was much simpler, yet so much more meaningful: seeing the world with you. He wanted to explore every corner of the earth by your side, to share in the beauty of new experiences together, and to make memories that would last a lifetime.

There was one place, in particular, that you had always talked about—Grindelwald. The snow-covered mountains, the crisp winter air, the breathtaking views from atop the peaks.

It was a dream you had held close for as long as Suguru could remember, and now, it had become his dream too. He wanted nothing more than to take you there, to hike those snow-dusted trails and see the world unfold beneath you, together.

The two of you started saving for the trip, setting aside small amounts whenever you could. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the dream alive. But life, as it often does, had other plans.

Each time you neared your goal, something else would come up—unexpected expenses, repairs, emergencies. And each time, you had to dip into your savings, pushing the dream further and further away.

The years passed, and the dream remained just that—a dream. Life after all was always busy, life had always had other plans. But you were just happy, being with him. Being together was more than enough.

Yet, Geto Suguru never gave up. He never forgot the way your eyes lit up whenever you talked about seeing pictures of Grindelwald, and he was determined to make it happen one day, no matter how long it took.

Then, one quiet evening, many years later, your husband Suguru sat across from you, his once dark hair now streaked with bright vibrant silver. His hands were still steady, but time had softened their strength. He looked at you with the same love he always had, and there was something different in his eyes—something hopeful, something excited.

“I have a surprise for you, baby.” he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two plane tickets, holding them out for you to see.

Your heart skipped a beat as you read the destination: Switzerland.

“We’re going, finally!” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re finally going to see Grindelwald.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, a cascade of emotions threatening to spill over, but before you could voice a response, an unfamiliar, sharp ache deep within your body made you pause. It was a discomfort that had been gnawing at you for some time, a persistent shadow that you had tried to ignore. 

At first, you dismissed it as stress or perhaps a lingering side effect of the emotional turmoil you had been through. But as the days turned into weeks, the ache intensified, becoming an unwelcome companion in your life.

You tried to push through it, attributing it to the residual strain of the recent loss and the emotional weight you were carrying. Yet, the pain was relentless, and it wasn’t long before you knew you could no longer ignore it. After several visits to various doctors, numerous tests, and consultations that felt endless, the diagnosis finally came: cancer.

The words hit you like a physical blow, the gravity of the diagnosis sinking into your bones. Cancer. It was a term that seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implications and uncertainty. The doctors’ explanations, though thorough and compassionate, felt distant and detached, as if they were speaking a language you couldn’t quite grasp.

The news was like a seismic shift in your world. It felt as though everything you had been trying to hold together was unraveling. The tears that had been welling up before were now flowing freely, mingling with the shock and fear that gripped you. You tried to process it all, but the weight of the diagnosis was overwhelming. It was as if the universe had decided to compound your grief with a new and daunting challenge.

You found yourself grappling with the implications of the diagnosis, trying to come to terms with the reality of what lay ahead. The future that had once seemed so full of potential and hope was now clouded by uncertainty. The plans and dreams you had cherished were overshadowed by the looming shadow of illness.

Suguru was there, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His own emotions were a mix of concern and determination, but he tried to remain strong for you. In the quiet moments, as you both grappled with the weight of the diagnosis, he held you close, offering a solace that words couldn’t fully convey.

Everything about it was a crushing blow. But Suguru held firm and so did you. You wanted to fight it. After all that time, your dreams together were about to come true. You didn’t want to give up just yet. You wanted to live on. You wanted to go. You wanted to have more time. With him. 

But life wasn’t always as one wants it to be. You were admitted to the hospital soon after, the trip to Switzerland slipping away, replaced by sterile rooms and treatment plans. Geto Suguru was devastated. He had waited so long, saved so carefully, and now, just when it seemed possible, this had happened.

But as you lay in the hospital bed, weakened but still filled with love for the man sitting beside you, you knew there was something more important than the trip, more important than the dream that never came to be.

You called him over, and with trembling hands, you handed him the scrapbook you had kept over the years—the one filled with all the adventures you’d already shared, the places you had seen together, the memories you had created.

“You’ve always been my greatest adventure, you know?” you said softly, your voice a little hoarse. “We may never get to see Grindelwald together, but that doesn’t mean the dream has to end.”

Your husband Suguru looked at you, his eyes filled with tears, unable to speak. 

“I want you to keep making memories, Suguru. I want you to keep having adventures. Take the tickets, go see the world… live for both of us. Because as long as you’re alive, as long as you’re making memories, there will always be evidence that I live on too.”

Suguru’s hand tightened around yours, his tears finally falling. He shook his head, unable to imagine a world without you, without your shared dream. But you smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek.

“You’ve always been the dreamer, Suguru.” you whispered. “Don’t let that part of you die. Keep dreaming, keep living for me, for us. Our love… it’s more than just a place or a moment. It’s a lifetime of memories. And as long as you’re out there, making new ones, I’ll be with you.”

Suguru nodded, his heart breaking but understanding what you meant. You had always been his greatest love, and now, even in this painful moment, you were still giving him the strength to carry on.

As he sat by your side, holding your hand tightly, Suguru made a silent promise—to keep your love alive, to honor the life you had shared, and to one day, perhaps, stand atop those snow-covered mountains of Grindelwald, knowing that you were with him in every step, in every breath, in every memory he made.

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HE WASN’T GETTING ANY YOUNGER. But he still had a promise to fulfill to you. Geto Suguru stood at the base of the trail, staring up at the towering Alps, their snow-covered peaks gleaming under the summer sun.

The path before him was steep, challenging, but it was the journey he had promised to make—for you, for both of you. He reached up to touch the small locket that hung around his neck, a picture of you carefully tucked inside. Your smile was his anchor, even now, long after you were gone.

The climb was grueling, especially for someone his age. His knees ached, his breath came in short, shallow gasps, but he pressed on. The crisp mountain air filled his lungs, reminding him of the dream you had shared for so many years—to see Grindelwald together, to hike these mountains and stand at the top of the world.

As he ascended, memories of you filled his mind. He could still hear your laughter, feel the warmth of your hand in his, see the way your eyes lit up whenever you talked about this place.

It had been your dream, but over time, it had become his as well. Even after all those years of saving, when life had repeatedly forced you to spend the money on more pressing needs, the dream had never faded.

Now, finally, he was here. But he was alone.

Each step was harder than the last. The trail wound higher and higher, becoming more treacherous, but Suguru refused to stop. He clutched the locket, his fingers brushing over the metal as if your presence was embedded within it.

“I promised you,” he whispered to the open air, as though you were walking beside him. “I promised we’d see this together.”

It took hours, his body protesting with every movement, but at last, Suguru reached the summit. The world spread out before him, vast and beautiful, with the jagged peaks of the Alps stretching into the distance. The view was breathtaking—just as you had always said it would be.

He stood there, chest heaving, staring out at the endless sky. Tears welled in his eyes, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of the moment. He opened the locket and gazed at your face, your smiling eyes staring back at him. You should have been here with him. You should have seen this with your own eyes.

“This is for you, baby.” he murmured, his voice cracking as tears spilled down his cheeks. “We made it, love. We’re finally here.”

Suguru stood there for what felt like an eternity, just holding the locket and letting the wind carry his words. The silence of the mountains felt sacred, and for a moment, he could almost feel your presence beside him, hear your voice on the breeze.

After a long while, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, framed photograph—the two of you, from years ago, standing side by side, laughing as the sun set behind you. It was a moment of joy, of love, captured forever. He knelt down carefully and placed the frame on a small, flat rock at the very peak of the mountain. The picture stood there, delicate but steadfast, a testament to the love you had shared.

Suguru stood back, his gaze soft as he looked at the photo. He ran a trembling hand through his silvered hair, then placed his hands together, pressing the locket to his chest. “We don’t need evidence for our love, you know that, baby?” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want… I want everyone to know that there was love somewhere.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and a bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“And it will be here. Always.”

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves and the grass around him, as if the earth itself acknowledged his words. Suguru stood there, the weight of his age and grief heavy on his shoulders, but in his heart, there was a quiet peace. This was your place now, your memory, your love, etched into the mountains for all time.

As the sun began to dip lower on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Alps, geto Suguru turned and began his descent. With each step, he carried the knowledge that your love was eternal, not bound by the constraints of time or place. It lived on—in the memories, in the moments, and now, on the very peak of the world.

[frannyzooey]

Short Days, Long Nights: 8

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit, grief

Series Masterlist

a/n: Thank you endlessly to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @write-and-buried for their advice and reassurance on this one. ❤

--

The first time it happened, it was by accident. 

Loath to leave your warmth; one hand fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, the other one curled around your hip to guide your movements in your straddle on his lap. The afternoon sun spilled in through the windows, dust motes floating through the shafts of light as you rode him and when you came, you tipped your head back with a strained, breathless moan. 

His eyes fixated on the image of your angelically erotic pose, he emptied himself inside you, filling you up until there was nothing left to give. 

The next time was an accident too. 

Finally ready to harvest some of the vegetables you’d been nurturing for months, you grasped the first stalk and pulled, brushing off the dirt delicately when it came free from the ground. You handed it to him, unadulterated pride shown clear on his face and his smile beamed so big you caught a glimpse of his rarely seen dimple. 

Tears had already begun to water your vision, slipping free when you saw his smile and he stood to pull you up so he could wrap his arms around you in a tight, unrelenting hug. His thumbs and his mouth brushed away the hot trails on your cheeks and you feasted that night, both on your new found riches and each other.

Bellies full of fresh produce and celebrating your hard earned success, he fucked you on the living room floor, with your mouth open and pleading for him as your tailbone rubbed against the carpet with every thrust. His need more intense than usual, his groan was hoarse when he came faster than he could pull out; his eyesight fading black around the edges with a spill as endless as the praise he panted into your ear. 

When he was done he stayed put, a comforting, solid weight on top of you and his lips peppered kisses along your hairline, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth - everywhere he could reach. 

The third time however, wasn’t.

The days too hot to do anything but swim, you hung onto his shoulders and pressed your soft lips against his own until he all but dragged you up to the bank of the river, covering you with his chilled, damp body. You begged him for it then, begged him to fill you up as you sobbed with fullness, your knees hitched high along his ribs. Your hands grasped the swell of his ass to push him in deeper, his own knees streaked in dirt after he gave you what you wanted and his spend was slick and hot where it leaked out, smearing on his stomach when you wound your legs around him to pull him down for a kiss. 

You each knew the consequences of what you were doing. Neither of you acknowledged it though - you kept going because it felt good and right and with so little in the world that felt like that, you took what you could. 

Summer months slipped by as you slowly explored the woods around you, checking the other cabins one by one. Untouched for years, they held caches of canned food and clothes, outdated sunscreen and furniture thick with dust. Moth bitten beach towels, an indoor herb garden turned greenhouse that had consumed half a kitchen. Rotted curtains, limp baseball hats, forgotten gardening gloves. A deflated inner tube that you brought back and filled up manually just to spend the day floating on the water. 

One held a stash of wine that was so vast it took three trips to haul all of the bottles back to your own cabin, and though you knew absolutely nothing about wine, you couldn’t stop the excited yelp that escaped from your mouth when you found it. 

Scavengers, you ignored the pictures on the walls as you raided room by room, taking whatever you liked. Making it through seven cabins in total, you covered miles of woods; your book collection doubled, every shed picked apart for useful tools and supplies. 

Careful not to uncover the cabins more than you needed lest the structures be seen by anyone else, so far, you hadn’t had to worry about that. Joel still kept the traps up and running, still checked them every single day and locked up every night, but the immediate threat of another human being was starting to feel like a distant memory. As if time had paused when you found this cabin, the outside world disappearing when you first stepped off the path. 

The weeks went by quickly in a hot, humid daze and every night ended the same: with you curled up next to him, your bodies sweating on top of the sheets. 

–

You’d kill for a fan. 

Not even asking for air conditioning because to be honest, you were never really a fan of artificially cooled air (too cold), you want a fan desperately. Just something to move the stagnant air around, to relieve the thick, damp press of humidity that coats your skin. It envelopes you, your shirt stuck to the small of your back and you pick at it, giving it a quick shake in an attempt to dry it out. 

Joel is just as sweaty – his cotton shirt clinging to his back, dark with sweat along his spine and under his arms and you watch as the fabric molds and shifts over his muscles as he strong-arms the cabin door open. Stepping through into the shadows, his hand is bathed in light as it reaches back for you and pulls you into the dark depths, your flashlight ready. 

“At least it’s a little less hot in here, I guess.” You kick a stack of faded, dust coated magazines on the floor and he sighs, setting his pack down. 

“Yea,” he agrees, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe his brow. “I’m gonna live in the water when we get back. Sleep outside, half submerged.”

“Ooh, can I join you?” you ask, wiggling your eyebrows and he huffs a quiet laugh behind you as you make your way into the kitchen. 

The first place you check in every cabin, you pick apart the cabinets looking for food while he combs through the bathroom looking for first aid supplies and medicine. All finds to be stacked on the floor in the living room, the two of you make quick work of it, too hot to linger. 

Rummaging through the dresser in the main bedroom, you check the sizes of socks and underwear – something you’re always in short supply of – and when you find a silky scrap of fabric buried beneath them, you pause. A more delicate piece of clothing than you’ve seen in a long time, your roughened hands caress the slippery negligee when you lift it from the drawer. The fabric catches on the pads of your fingers, the sensation making you frown and hesitating just for a moment while looking in the direction of the door, you fold it gently and put it directly in your bag, tucking it away.

He calls out to you when he’s done, and after dividing up the pile, your packs are substantially heavier when you start your walk back. 

Leaning forward slightly under the weight, you feel sweat glide down the line of your neck and you wipe it away, grimacing. 

“Do you ever think about what people would find if they raided your house?” you ask. 

Every single time you enter a cabin, you think about it. You can’t remember what state you even left your place in: not your original one, nor your apartment in the QZ. You assume they have given the latter away to another person who needs it; the thought not bothering you at all. 

He huffs, shaking his head. “A messy house, I guess.” 

“Same,” you reply. 

The moss below your feet muffling your steps, you each sit in your own head for a moment before you continue. 

“Have you ever thought about going back? You know, to like, get stuff? Or to just…see it?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I mean, it would be nice to have some pictures I guess, but other than that…I don’t think I would want to.”

“So you’ve never tried it?” you ask, looking over at him.

“No,” he replies, his eyebrows raising. “Have you?”

You shake your head. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t really have anything there.” Your thumbs hook in the straps of your backpack, your eyes staying down. “I feel like it would be too sad, you know? Like, in my mind, I feel like I would want to stay, thinking of it as my home and a place I would be safe, but I know that’s not true anymore. It would be…depressing.”

He nods, understanding. 

“Besides, I used to want to go back a lot more, but now I kinda…think of this as my new home. Everything I want is here.”

The confession slips out, the heat of the late afternoon muddling your thoughts and making you too tired to stop the words before you say them and as soon as you realize, you try to hide the vulnerability showing clear on your face by gesturing to the woods. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you sneak a look over at him to find him looking back at you. Sunlight plays across his features, catching on the ends of his dark curls lifted in the humidity and the corner of his mouth tilts up.

“Yea,” he agrees. “Me too.”

Reaching for your hand to squeeze it, your palm sticks to his, tacky with sweat, but he still holds tight when you lace your fingers together. 

–

“Do you ever think about what people would find if they raided your house?”

His answer sounded indifferent at the time, but the thought bothered him more than he let on. It’s not so much the idea of his stuff being taken or rifled through because to be honest, he can’t even really remember what all was there. 

It’s the space being invaded by a stranger. Sarah’s room, in particular.

Someone rifling through her drawers, or sitting down on her bed. Someone taking the things he gave her - the idea of it constricts his chest, and he frowns, methodically checking the traps one at a time, wanting to get it over with before going for a swim. 

His dark curls stick to his forehead, his fingers pushing wearily through them with a scratch as he walks the perimeter of the cabin and her bedroom floats into his mind: the purple bedspread, the butterflies on the walls. The faded image is hazy around the edges and he’s not even sure he has it right, but the ache he feels is reminiscent of the one he felt briefly when you walked into the cabin the other day excited to show him something you pulled from the garden. 

Your smile and enthusiasm reminds him so much of her sometimes it hurts. 

The longer he stays here with you, the more it eats at him that he hasn’t told you about her yet. Never anything he wanted to share with anyone, he finds there is little that he doesn’t want to share with you now – save for this. 

Of this, he hasn’t spoken about in ten years. 

Of this, he still feels the weight of failure etched into his very bones. 

Of this, it still threatens to drown him some days in grief, if not for the way he’s buried it all down deep. 

Allowing himself to feel with you and slowly uncovering the pieces of himself that he had long since given up on, the burden of her memory weighs heavier on him every day that he’s here. It feels wrong that he hasn’t told you about her, as both a betrayal of her memory, but also of your trust. 

He tugs on a trap, making sure the ropes are snug in place and still thinking about you, his long buried grief and anger at someone rifling through Sarah’s room transfers to you and your things. The bookshelf next to your bed crammed with dog eared books, the plants along the windowsill in the kitchen, the stack of ten year old gossip magazines that you keep next to the couch for when you want to laugh at the trivial matters people used to care so much about. 

Your worn, cotton bedsheets decorated with delicate rosebuds. 

He wonders if your home looked anything like the spaces you’ve set up in the cabin. A cozy warmth radiating from your scattered belongings, some people might be bothered by them but he likes it. Similar to his own house once upon a time, it makes the space feel lived in; warm, inviting. 

The idea of someone finding this place and entering it, going through your things to take what they want – he knows it’s hypocritical to be upset about it, but a wave of rage pierces through his thoughts and he kneels, ignoring the call of the water to double check the trap in front of him. 

He clenches his jaw; Sarah’s bedspread and your plants lingering in his mind. 

–

“You okay?” you ask later that night, after glancing at his far away expression for the hundredth time. He’s been quiet since he got back, near silent during dinner and you can see the churning waters of his mind under the surface of his eyes. 

“Yea, I’m fine.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and leaves it at that. 

He still seems distracted when he comes to bed, grabbing his book from the nightstand to sit propped against the headboard to read, and when you put your own book down and roll onto your side to close your eyes, he reaches to turn out the light and follows suit. He’s still for a while and then scoots closer, the warmth of his body felt from behind you as the bed dips slightly. His touch trails along the curve of your shoulder, following the length of your arm. There is no intention to it, nothing he’s initiating. A soothing, yet restless drag of his fingers along your skin and he’s wide awake, you can tell from the thrum of energy between your bodies in the dark. 

You open your eyes, rolling to face him and reaching to touch the curve of his cheek. 

“You okay?”

He takes in your face for a moment, his dark eyes drifting over your features. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me earlier. About going back to see my old place.”

You shift, bending your arm to tuck it under your pillow. “You change your mind? You want to?”

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to go back because…” he stalls, letting out a breath. His jaw shifts subtly, and you wait, watching his face. 

“I had a daughter.”

The statement hangs suspended between the two of you, and not wanting to speak until you know for sure that he’s done, you stay silent.

“Her name was Sarah.” He frowns slightly when he says it out loud, like he’s in pain and his hand slips off your arm and down to rest in front of him on the bed. You follow it, placing your hand over his. “That’s who I would want a picture of.” 

“You don’t have any?”

He shakes his head slowly, his gaze unfocused. He smiles ruefully in the dark. “There was this one she kept in her room - I can still see it. The two of us, my hand over her eyes just jokin’ around and the smile on her face is –' His voice falters for a moment, and he stops, clearing his throat. The sheen of his wet eyes glimmers in the darkness. “She had a killer smile. You would’ve loved it.”

“I bet I would have,” you reply softly. 

His expression darkens, and your thumb sweeps across his skin. “I don’t think I could handle seeing her room, ya know?” 

His eyes meet yours, open and honest. “That thing you were saying earlier, about people going through your house? I know they’ve probably done it to mine and I don’t – I don’t think I could take seeing her stuff like that. Scattered, or destroyed. Rotted.”

A tear slips free, sliding through the creases lining the outside of his eye. “I wanna preserve the memory of her in that room. Sitting on her bed, listening to music or doing her homework…I don’t wanna see it empty.”

The sight of him crying makes your own vision blur, and you squeeze your hand in reassurance. 

“Of course,” you whisper. “God, of course you wouldn’t want to see that. I am so sorry I brought that up, Joel. I had no idea.”

“I don’t talk about her, so you wouldn’t know.” 

His words are quiet, yet definitive and ridden with guilt and he clears his throat, letting out a deep, shaky breath. You stroke his temple with your thumb, and he lets his eyes close, focusing on your touch. 

“How old was she, when she…” you don’t say the word, and he takes another breath, answering you.

“Fourteen.”

“How —,” you start, and then you stop yourself, giving him time to answer if he wants. He seems like he wants to, seems still agitated like there is something held inside that needs to come out and you wait, giving him time. 

“She died…the day of the outbreak. I tried to get her from the house when everything went to shit and she — she got hurt. I was carryin’ her, because she couldn’t walk and then…the soldiers that were going around in all the cities? I begged ‘em not to do it, but they shot anyway and I couldn’t –”

Another tear slips free, darkening his pillow case and he closes his eyes for a moment with a frown before opening them again. “I couldn’t do anything. Nothin’ but hold her and beg my brother to help me.” 

Realization hits you, your chest flooding with sorrow. “That’s the dream, isn’t it? When you call for Tommy.”

He nods, and you immediately reach for him, gathering him in your arms. 

He comes willingly, seeking out your embrace and the collar of your sleep shirt dampens against your skin as you stroke the crown of his hair. He’s a near silent crier, deep breaths taken in the crook of your neck as his wet eyelashes brush over your skin and he lets everything run out; his hands clutching you tightly. His arms tightening around you, you lay there and soothe him, saying nothing while your mind processes what he told you. 

You can’t imagine that type of pain. 

Not only to not only lose a child, but in that way. No wonder he was so closed off. 

The thing he loved the most - a kind of love you can’t even comprehend - violently taken from him the day the world ended and the path of the Joel Miller that came after sharpens, growing clearer in your mind. A brutal shell of a person, hardened by everything that’s happened. 

You’re still thinking about it when he lifts his head, apologizing for getting your shirt wet. 

“Hey,” you softly reprimand him, “don’t. You don’t — “ you start, and then his own words come to you. “You don’t gotta be tough here with me. I got you.”

He lifts the corner of his mouth at your impersonation of him, and you give him your own matching, small smile. 

“I mean it.” Your face slips into something more solemn, and you cup his whiskered cheek in your hand. He chases the warmth of it, leaning into your touch. “Listen to me. You didn’t do nothing, okay?”

He meets your gaze with an intensity of his own, and you keep going. 

“You said you didn’t do anything, and that’s not true, Joel. It’s not true.” He waits, and you continue in a hush. “You held her.”

His face softens, and another tear glides down his cheek. 

“You carried her and held her and even though you were scared — I can’t imagine how scared you were — you tried to protect her and then you held her. You couldn’t stop what happened and it’s not your fault, Joel. You did the best you could do.”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

Your own tears well up and slide free, your hand making sure his attention is on you. 

“It was, baby. It was.”

The endearment slips from your lips and he doesn’t question it, instead just looking at you for a moment before pushing forward to seek out your mouth with his own. You help him, pulling him in for a kiss as his plush, soft lips fit with yours, his mouth damp from his tears yet hungry for your taste and comfort.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tilting your mouth to deepen the kiss. “Tell me how to help.” Another kiss, another. “You want this? Want me?”

He nods, his nose brushing against yours and kisses you again, shifting to lay the weight of his body on top of yours. You make room for him between your thighs, your hands running down his back and the smooth, strong lines of it flex under your touch, a groan rumbling through his chest when you drag your nails lightly over his skin. 

“You’re so sweet. You taste so good,” he breathes into you between kisses, his hand reaching down to tug at the waist of your sleep shorts and you help him, pushing them down and off. Reaching between your bodies and slipping your hand under the band of his briefs, you find the hardening, warm heft of him and give him a firm couple of strokes. His hips chase your fist as he thickens in your palm and he rocks himself against you a couple times before lifting his own hips to shove them down. 

Unburdened, he gets hungrier, his hands helping yours as you tug at his shirt and then your own, the threadbare material of both tossed onto the floor. You want to feel every inch of him, pulling him down to you until he’s fit himself to your body, his skin feverishly flush against yours. His stiff cock fits along your slick seam, sliding through your folds when he rolls his hips against yours again, and again. 

“I want you,” you tell him, guiding his mouth to your own. “Let me make you feel good. I want to make you feel better.”

“You do, honey. You do.” Moving his lips to the edge of your mouth and then over the curve of your jaw, he licks along the hollow just under your ear before pressing a kiss there. “You always make me feel good. You make everything feel good.”

Your touch becomes almost frantic at his admission, the need to carve out a space for him inside your chest or merge your bodies into one or take his face into your hands and tell him until he understands just how much you would do anything for him. How much he means to you, how much you owe him. How much you want to protect him just as much as he protects you. 

He meets your urgency, his hands bracing themselves on the bed around your shoulders before he reaches down to line himself up, and you whine into his mouth when he notches himself against the dip of your entrance and slides in, filling you full. 

He breaks the kiss, his hips already starting a weighted rock. “Fuck, honey. Fuck.”

“Oh my God.” He usually gives you more time than this to get ready for him, usually uses his fingers and his tongue, and a tight fit, your jaw clenches as he makes room for himself, burying deep. “Joel.”

His mouth covers yours with a groan, drinking down the whimpers you let out with every push of his hips forward and you swallow every one of his, every grunt, every push of hot, humid air onto your tongue. His bicep strains under your knee when he hooks his arm under your leg to pull it up, first one and then the other, and he’s got you spread so wide underneath him between his deep thrusts and his solid body that you cry out for him, digging your nails into his hips for purchase. 

“You’re gonna make me come quick, honey. So quick –” he pants, his hips pounding into the cradle of your thighs. “And I don’t even care because you feel so fuckin’ good. So good.”

“Do it,” you encourage him, the words sliding into a moan. “I want it. I want you to come inside.”

“Yea?” he asks, his hand wrapping around your calve to tug your leg higher, resting it over his thick shoulder. Turning his head to the side, he presses a lingering kiss there, his breath washing over your skin and your mouth drops open at how deep he is. “You want it inside?”

“Please. Please,” you chant, helping him guide your other leg to rest on his shoulder and when he lets the weight of his body push you deeper into the mattress, you’re near bent in half, taking everything he needs to give. It’s a lot – too much, you’re going to feel it tomorrow – but you don’t care. 

“I’m gonna – I gotta do it harder, honey, because I’m –” he spits out the words, groaning midway through when he feels you start to clamp down around him. “Christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight. So tight for me.”

“I’m gonna come, Joel,” you whine, the heat building between your hips flooding through your limbs and up through your breasts, where they press against his chest. Sweat glides between your bodies, and he moans louder at your admission, almost a growl of victory. “Make me come, I’m so close.”

The two of you move with single minded intensity; one of his hands fitting between your tailbone and the mattress to hit the angle just right, and your hips pushing up to meet his every punishing, weighted stroke down. 

He’s so thick, and filling, and heavy, your cunt so slick as he pushes in again, and again, and again, his mouth open in a pant above you with your knees almost at your shoulders and when you come with a sob, he buries himself deeper than he ever has with a weighted grind and does the same. 

The soft give of his belly jumps against yours, his throat stretched taut as he works in every last drop and when he finally relaxes over you, he’s gentle in his movements. His hands help your legs down – first one, then the other - and his mouth finds yours, giving you a kiss. Your legs find a home in a wind around his waist, your hold guiding him to lay on your chest and even though you could have killed for a fan earlier and still could, you keep him there. 

You nose along his sweat damp hairline, pressing a kiss on his slick temple and content, the two of you lay in silence; the only sound your shared, heavy breathing. 

His body melts on top of you, all taut agitation in his limbs gone as he pushes his arms underneath your back to hold you tight and you know he’s slipping into sleep by the way his breathing evens and slows under your palms. 

He’s still snug inside you, but you make no effort to move him. 

“Thank you for telling me about her,” you whisper to him, your fingers carding through his dark, unruly curls shot through with gray but you’re met with silence. 

Unburdened, he’s already fast asleep.

[dawn-moths]

"Birthday Wishes"

Undertaker x Female Reader

word count: 3,700+

(@fanfictionsworld requested: spending your birthday with Undertaker from my Cause to Start a Vendetta AU.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! fluff with some smut at the end, oral sex (reader receiving), use of the word “Daddy”, reader is called “princess, baby, sweetheart”.

*ao3 mirror*

***

You’d been counting down the days for weeks now, your birthday circled on the calendar with a big pink glitter gel pen heart several times over, every day crossed off that crawled closer to the day— your day— making you more and more excited.

Because, as you’d quickly grown accustomed to being spoiled by Undertaker— special occasion or otherwise— your birthday was no exception to being showered with all the love and luxury he had at his disposal.

“Morning, princess…” he cooed, gently smoothing down some of your sleep-tousled hair with a big, cool palm, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you blinked open beary eyes, wrapped in his arms and the many layers of blankets that twisted and tangled about your bodies sprawled across the bed.

“Morning, Daddy…” you replied, voice soft and delicate as the lingering dredges of slumber clung to your tone, an angelic little grin curving up on your sweet lips as you nuzzled closer into Undertaker’s chest, seeking out his elusive warmth.

For a moment, nearly forgetting what today was as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your figure filling with the heavy weight of sleep once more, your eyelids fluttered closed and your breathing began to turn slow and shallow. Undertaker rubbed a hand up and down your back, stirring you back to the waking world and smiling to himself as you let out a big yawn, nose scrunching adorably with the expression.

“If you want to go back to sleep,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your nose and causing a fragile giggle to bubble up in your chest, “I won’t stop you. But that would certainly be a shame when we have so many fun things on our to-do list today.”

That was enough to entice you, your mind suddenly much more alert than before, and you snaked your arms up to gently rest over his shoulders. “Just a few more minutes…” you said, pressing yourself even closer to him, wishing you could bask in the safety of his touch forever. “Then I promise I’ll get up.”

A smooth, sonorous chuckle vibrated through his bones, the sound warming you from the inside out like hot milk and honey. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, allowing himself to melt back to a more relaxed state as well. “Just a few more minutes…”

As the sun crept further through the cracks of the curtains, bright beams painting the ornate master bedroom with thin strokes of gold, stirring up the wispy clouds of dust motes swirling through the air, Undertaker coaxed you into finally rising, draping one of his big, fluffy black robes over your shoulders when you became burdened with a chill, the mansion’s usual temperature kept low upon his preference.

Once your feet were dressed in your favorite pair of fluffy socks and even fluffier slippers, you took Undertaker’s hand and let him guide you down the wide halls to the curving staircase, heading towards the kitchen where you could already smell your special birthday breakfast.

The long dining table was decorated to the nines with all kinds of balloon bouquets and bundles of black and white roses overflowing from crystal vases. Spelled out in gold glitter confetti at one end of the display was HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PRINCESS punctuated by a big heart. At the other was a full selection of all your breakfast favorites— souffle pancakes piled high with bananas and melty chocolate chips, strawberry french toasts drizzled with sticky maple syrup and sprinkled with a frosty snowfall of powdered sugar, fluffy scrambled eggs and yogurt parfaits and fruit arranged by color.

You sucked in a gasp of delight, hands clasped before your chest as you eagerly surveyed the scene, looking up at your Daddy like he’d outdone himself.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, extending a hand towards the chair at the head of the table— his usual chair, the master’s chair, the dining room’s throne— and pulling it out for you to sit in, taking the seat adjacent to it to join you in the morning’s sugary culinary experience.

Over the meal— you choosing a bit of everything to pile onto your plate in an orderly array, because why should you have to choose just one when today you could have whatever your little heart desired— you and Undertaker began to discuss the day’s itinerary.

There was a packed schedule planned indeed— a shopping outing at all your most beloved designer stores, afternoon tea at the Ritz, exploring some of the artsy nooks and crannies of the city and dropping into your favorite bookstore all before hopping on the Aurora Society’s private jet and taking the hour and a half flight to your favorite five star restaurant in Paris, sure to end the evening by enjoying your usual penthouse suit of the expensive hotel that gave the best view among any of the establishments around.

“Oh, and there’s one more thing,” Undertaker slyly prompted just as you were about to head upstairs to get changed and ready for the events ahead, thoughts already spinning trying to decide what you wanted to wear. You stopped and considered him with an adorably cute expression for a moment until he pulled a big gift bag from under the table where he’d hidden it from you, the glossy black packaging stuffed with glittering silver tissue paper and two perfect satin ribbons serving as the handles. “You know,” he shrugged as he slid it towards you on the table, drinking in your awe, never growing tired of how easily you seemed to be innocently surprised sometimes, “just in case you felt like going out in something new.”

Carefully, as if the wrapping itself was just as valuable as the gift, you plucked the sparkling tissue paper away to uncover the pristinely wrapped box beneath, a marbling of glossy and matte black swirling over the decorative paper like ink dropped into water. The moment the first half of your favorite clothing brand’s name was visible to you, you shot him a glance, as if to say, “you shouldn’t have” despite believing down to your very core that you deserved every expensive, extravagant thing that Undertaker placed in your cute little lap.

Once you lifted the garment from where it had been perfectly folded within its box, holding it up to your body as if to sample how it would look before trying it on, you heard Undertaker sigh, a dreamy, lilting hum tailing off the end of it. “Exquisite…” he remarked, and you now held the dress out from your body, studying the intricate craftsmanship that had been hand stitched into the garment as you smiled to yourself, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It really is.”

But then Undertaker was by your side, having moved soundlessly, his even stride gliding across the short distance to meet you. “I wasn’t talking about the dress,” he murmured, big hands settling on your hips. “Now, why don’t you head upstairs and start getting ready.”

You turned your face up to his, met his lips when he was close enough for a kiss, and muttered out a sweet little, “Thank you, Daddy,” before following his instruction and heading for the staircase.

He watched you go, saw the skip in your step as you ventured off, only returning to clearing the table once you disappeared down the long second story hallway and out of his view. He was going to look forward to taking that dress off of you later, unwrapping you like his own special gift by the time night draped itself over the sky.

***

The afternoon had been like a dream, you and your lover floating from one location to the next to try on extravagant clothing and sample imported teas, the two of you practically waltzing through the downtown streets where you longed to see what new installments the local London artists put up around the city before you’d lost track of time perusing your favorite bookstore, a good two hours going by without you even noticing as you strategically searched for the next story to get yourself hooked on.

But as the sky began to fade from blue to gold, it signaled that dinner was soon approaching, which meant you two had a plane to catch if you wanted to arrive to your reservation on time.

The hostess greeted you two with a friendly smile, addressing you both by name, the entire restaurant staff made familiar with London’s most notorious boss and the beautiful girl who was always on his arm, Undertaker making short, lighthearted conversation with the manager in French while they crossed paths on the walk to your usual table, the man chuckling at something your Daddy had said, forever able to charm anyone if he set his mind to it, it seemed.

As you both enjoyed the delicacies of the six course meal, you continued to talk and laugh, never running out of topics to converse about, though tonight you were most excited to tell him all about the book you’d recently finished and your expectations for the new one you’d chosen on your earlier excursion, having heard nothing but praise for the acclaimed tale.

Once the horizon had lost its lilac blush and sunk deep into the velvet navy of nightfall though, you knew you were just about to enter into yet another phase of your luxurious birthday festivities.

***

You could smell the roses from down the hall before the doors to your hotel suite in Paris even opened. The entirety of the three connected rooms were decked from floor to ceiling in at least one hundred thousand dollars worth of florals, vibrant reds and sultry blacks, flawless creams and even a dash of lovely soft pinks.

You could’ve cried at how gorgeous it all was, blinking the mist from your eyes as you spun in slow circles about the place, taking it all in. Undertaker’s hands found your shoulders to steady you, stopping your awestruck turns to face the beautiful birthday cake on the hotel room’s center table, the special dessert shaped like a heart and iced in a rainbow of your favorite colors, several candles placed strategically on the top and already lit, small flames glowing and beckoning you over to make a wish.

But what could you possibly wish for when you already had everything you’d ever want or need— a gorgeous man who loved you, showering you in every stunning thing life had to offer, as simple as the snap of his fingers or a wave of his hand— besides to continue living this blessed life that had found its way to you, through trial and tribulation?

Taking a few steps forward towards the cake, you choked out through a shaky breath, “Oh my god…” unable to hold back your tears any longer, a few sparkling drops running down your cheeks, glittering like gold as they caught the amber of the flickering firelight. You looked back at Undertaker, who was not far behind you, and wondered if you’d ever be able to convey how much this all meant to you. It almost seemed unfair. He’d always be able to do more for you than you would for him, though he never seemed to mind.

For him, just having you— his sweet, precious baby girl to dote on and adore as much as he pleased— was far more than enough. All you had to do was exist. All you had to do was be his.

“Well, go on,” he lightly urged, a calm smile playing at the corner of his lips as he gestured towards the center table. “The candles won’t blow themselves out, now will they?”

You smiled, big and bright, and let out a sound that could only be described as pure joy. Undertaker was addicted to that sound, the way it rang out like the delicate jingle of bells, the way it warmed him like the sun’s rays after so much rain. It made everything he’d ever done, good, bad, or somewhere in between, all worth it. Just to see you smile at him like that, just to hear you laugh. Just to know it was him who’d been the orchestrator of such emotions.

And as you let out a strong gust of a breath, turning each melting birthday candle from flame to smoke, you realized you did have one wish you wanted to make afterall.

Let things be like this forever, you thought to yourself, like a silent prayer. Let us stay as in love for the rest of our lives as we are right now, in this moment.

Undertaker cut the cake, a piece for you and a piece for him, and then the two of you sat by the counter outlooking the spotless floor to ceiling windows that gave way to the sprawling view of the City of Light, the night sky clear and sparkling with little bursts of silver stars overhead.

You talked and joked and laughed while you both enjoyed your dessert, your chair pressed right next to his, close enough that you could lean your head over to rest against the side of his shoulder while his arm slung across your back, hugging you closer to him, his most cherished treasure.

“You know…” you began, gazing dreamily out the window at the romantic scene the city offered. Then, casting him a glance from where you were nestled into his side, you said, “I think this might really be the best birthday ever.”

Something in his eyes softened a shade then, and in response Undertaker lightly took your chin between his lithe fingers, tilting your mouth just ever so slightly upwards so he could lean down to meet it. You hadn’t expected the kiss, languid and savoring at first as you parted your lips to let him in, both of you tasting like your favorite flavor of cake, soon turning more hungry, having you straddling his lap and blinded by the blissful haze that was slowly filling you from the inside out.

When he finally broke away, leaned back just far enough to look you in the eyes, gently wiping the cool pad of his thumb across the plush of your bottom lip, glossy from your mingled saliva, a weak attempt to clean you up a bit, he said, “I guess that means I’ll have to go above and beyond next year,” and you laughed and nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent as you felt yourself relax over him.

“No, but really…” you murmured. “Thank you, Daddy. For everything. Always.”

All you got as a warning for what happened next was a low, lilting chuckle humming in his chest before he was hoisting you up, big hands splayed against the backs of your thighs as he began to carry you elsewhere in the suite.

“Where are we going?” you playfully asked, though you already had a pretty good idea.

“There’s still a few hours until midnight,” he remarked, a new kind of vigor in his voice and stride. He set you down on the edge of the king-sized bed, beginning to shrug off his jacket and tug his belt buckle free of its loops as he added, “Which means your birthday’s not over yet, princess.”

The smirk that spread across his face then made that fluttering creature resting in your lower belly roll over inside of you, beginning to wake, soon asking to be satisfied like a dog scratching at the door begging for treats, relentless until it was given its desired reward. It wasn’t long before Undertaker was hooking his grip under your thighs again, pulling you further down the bed where he then knelt at the foot of it.

You gave him an uncertain and slightly suspicious look as he flicked his emerald gaze up to meet yours. Usually, he liked to undress you, strip you down piece by piece before ridding himself of his own clothing, admiring every inch of your bare body like it was the most masterful work of art. Then he’d pin you down, his prized butterfly, and get to work at soaking both your bodies with pleasure before wringing them dry, squeezing you for every last lustful drop he could.

But tonight— on your night— he figured he’d do things a little differently. Give you one last birthday surprise before the clock struck twelve.

“Just relax, sweetheart…” he cooed, carefully bunching your new dress up around your waist, exposing the expensive lace clinging to the most delicate parts of you and drinking in the sight like it rivaled even that of the one just beyond the windows. “Let Daddy make you feel good…”

Undertaker pressed gentle kisses to the soft raise of your lower belly, and you felt your tight little hole futter and your sensitive bud pulse as he slowly removed your panties, your already damp core causing them to cling to you a moment before the cool air sighed against your damp slit.

Undertaker ran a long finger through your dewy folds, making your next breath catch as he slipped it inside of you to gather more of your slick before rubbing it against your puffy clit, already swollen with arousal, pulling one of those adorable whines from your throat as you lay one arm over your eyes, the other sprawled out across the bed, little fingers twisting into the sheets, trying to grab hold of anything while you still had the chance.

“That’s it, baby…” he praised, helping to spread you wider for him, a leg thrown over one of his broad shoulders as he continued to tease you. His next words sent a puff of his warm breath against your cunt, and you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation, exhaling a shuddering sigh. He whispered, “I’m gonna take good care of you, baby,” and when he licked a flat-tongued stripe up your pussy, you let out a soft, broken whine, back already beginning to arch a little at the sinfully sweet feel of him.

Undertaker was skilled at a lot of things— running a business, making money, getting away with murder— but the thing you thought he was best at, above all else, was pleasuring you.

It was effortless, the way he knew exactly what to do that made you body bend to his command, melting your mind until all you knew was the press of his hips or the wet warmth of his mouth, the indents of his teeth, his fingerprints, all of it branded into you so no matter where you looked on your own body there would be a reminder of him, like a promise, a gift.

You were clenching the silky sheets in your trembling fist as he speared his tongue into you, his sharp nose nudging against your clit every time and forcing moan after delicious, high-pitched moan out of you like that was the only sound you’d ever known how to make. If he thought your laugh was syrupy sweet, then your moans were something else entirely, something far more addicting or satisfying than sticky, sickly sweet sugar. More like a drug to him, making him addicted in a way that, once he got a taste, he couldn’t stop. Not until you had nothing left to give, his pursuit at seeing just how far or how long he could make you go merciless time and time again.

“P-please—” you sobbed, the new veil of tears that had welled in your eyes causing your lashes to clump and spike together with every fluttering roll of your eyes back into your head. His pace was voracious, wanting to devour you down to your very core. You could barely get half a broken plea out before it was interrupted by a surrendering mewl or a soundless gasp, mouth hung open in ecstasy before he prepared to shatter you. “Please— I’m gonna—”

But before you could even speak the last word of your sentence, let alone remember it, Undertaker had you coming undone, unraveling you like a frayed thread on a silk scarf, pulling you apart until there was nothing left but a tangle of string he could then rearrange into any shape he pleased.

Your chest rose and fell with short, shallow, panting breaths, rigid form relaxing back into the mattress, body gone all pliable and boneless once the remaining tension melted away. Meanwhile, Undertaker pressed gentle kisses to the sensitive insides of your stained thighs, palms gently petting you as you drifted down from the high and back into the garden of Eden he’d planted, nurtured, and grown just for you.

Normally, he’d barely give you enough time to recover before commencing round two, but, as he seemed to be a little more patient with you on this most special of days, he allowed your heart to slow to a steady rhythm and your breathing to smooth out into even inhales and exhales before shifting over you, darting out his tongue to lick at his own lips to catch one last obscene taste of you before wiping away your glistening arousal from the bottom half of his pale face with the back of his hand.

As he stared down at you through half-lidded eyes, the vibrant green of them almost glowing through the dim dark of the bedroom, he said, as if only to himself, “Just look at you… So gorgeous… My beautiful girl…” as he helped free you the rest of the way from your pretty birthday dress, mindfully folding it and placing it on the nearest bedside drawer so it didn’t get ruined.

Because he did intend to ruin you.

He intended to ruin you in all the right ways.

As he shed his own clothing like a black-skinned snake, all those silvery scars wrapped around alabaster flesh now on full display, you reached out for him, wanting, craving, needing to feel the press of his body back on yours before the ebbing pleasure made you drift off to dreamland. Though, with Undertaker, reality could often feel like a dream, so perfect your conscious mind almost struggled to comprehend it was real at times.

But, as he began to lean back over you, your fingers interlocked as he pressed your hands down into the comforter on either side of your head, both your legs thrown over his shoulders to have you splayed wide and vulnerable for him, just the way he liked you, one thing was for certain. Undertaker had been ahead of himself when he’d said he’d have to find a way to outdo your birthday next year. After tonight, you had no idea how things could get any better than this.

***

(Hello and thank you so much to @fanfictionsworld for your request! I hope I did it justice and thank you for being so patient with me while you waited for it. I know you’ve been following me for quite some time and I always recognize you when I see you pop up in my notifs, so it was truly a pleasure getting to write for you <3

Also want to give a big thank you to everyone else for reading as well! I hope you enjoyed and I hope you have a wonderful day!)

[hcdragonwrites]

Missing Flowers ( @semisolidmind Fanfic)

I wrote this because I was inspired by another bit of work. This one is sweet ans short and Mac centric. Inspired by this ask! Twice as Bad Au make brain go brrrr

Tw for some violence mentions and some allusions to intimate behaviour (it is not detailed at all - in fact you may miss it entirely - but it is alluded to thats why I mention this)

As the sweet scents of spring created on the wind, carrying blossoms and the soft buzzing bodies of bumblebees, Peaches felt a deep pang of loss. Outside in the spring air, walking along the edge of the mountains with the small attendants she was given, she looked out beyond the sparkling sea. Beyond the mountains and the sky and all that lay between. She imagined she was looking homeward. To her village.

She missed her village, missed her people who she knew as family and as friends. She missed the smell of the earth, the taste of the rain on her tongue and how the sun angled itself through her shuttered windows to cast the dust motes in startling detail as they passed through the beams. It had been over a decade now since her marriage of ‘demonic fashion’ to the rulers of Flower Fruit Mountain. The ache never would go away- it would linger like a hole in her smile, a tooth lost and never replaced.

However it wasn’t her village today that was making her homesick.

Peaches had a little patch of earth, maybe an acre large that she had dedicated to the propagation of flowers and fruits, vegetables and all manner of growing things. It had taken years of careful selection, of collecting seeds from far and wide, of dedicated research and late nights in the snow and the ice and the building of her greenhouse to gather the collection she had had.

Peaches had turned the soil, mixing it with her grass clippings, ash from the fire place, and the compost to enrich it. It had been years of careful and quiet work to build her collection of plants. The glass bits for her greenhouse had costed her years and years of hard work. She had been unable to have it as large as she wanted but it was enough. Within the wooden little wall sat her favorite flowers, the precious few she had bargained and hunted for, the seeds and clippings, were all here safe within the wooden walls.

All her work over the past few years gone in a flash of fire and a slash of violence. What had happened to her little home? Was the house standing? Rotting in its neglect of the years. Did someone take over her home if it was still standing?

The stairs would need replacing. The second one had been creaking before her kidnapping. The wood had been softening and she had her eyes on a tree just beyond her garden. She had planned to cut it free and carve a new replacement. What of her animals? She had had a small herd of goats, little bleating creatures of brown and white.

The goats had been her source of fresh milk, meat and weed control. Each had been given a name. Each had been loved.

Had they been able to get away?

Had they been burned in the fire?

Peaches knew that the flowers and fruits she had were gone. Those couldn’t have escaped the fire - or the human retribution that would follow from any survivors.

Would Wukong have left survivors ? The Sage had come home many a times from such violence. He had woken her with cold hands grasping and seeking her out. He buried them in her hair or twined them in her fingers. Wukong would pull her to him and away from her own makeshift nest within their bed. In those early days he had not learned that the smell of fire and blood would upset her.

Those nights his blood had been on fire from conquest and he wanted only to enjoy the comfort of one of his dearest prizes. Her. Wukong would touch and whisper love into her ears as he fell asleep, a peace only she could bring in the aftermath of those bloodbaths. Sometimes she would wake in the morning to find blood smeared along her cheeks and in her hair.

It had been one of the times Macaque had found her hyperventilating after such a morning covered in blood that wasn’t hers, confused to where it could be from, and the memories of the night when the drunk had invaded her home.

And her world had changed. She had been pulled to his arms, her own chest pressing to his. Instructed to follow his breathing, to listen to the air whoosh from his body. To hold. Then to fill again like the bellows of a blacksmiths forge. And then to deflate.

When her breathing did not sound like the frantic flapping of a broken birds wing, thats when Macaque had asked her what happened. What had triggered her memories. Peaches asked how he knew- and her second husband rubbed a thumb beneath her eyes and caught a tear.

“You were screaming. Telling me to stop burning the village.” The words sounded sad. Not remorseful. Never remorseful for the actions that led here here. That brought her to residency in the mountain. The sadness was instead about the scars left behind, the invisible wounds that their actions had created.

After that, Wukong never came to bed smelling of blood or fresh from a conquest.

Wukong would never leave survivors of the village. Not after what he thought was a slight to her, to his perception of what was his. An extension of his own self importance. No. That seemed wrong even as Peaches thought it. Maybe she was an extension of his grandeur. But she wasn’t just a prize to be turned and looked at. Somehow, in some way, he had fallen in love with her.

Love for Wukong- for Macaque- was not like human love. Just as two peach trees could produce different fruits. Peaches knew that love between people was more of a communication, a build up to a relationship. At least in the best situations. Demons however … it was more draconic in a sense. To claim and catch, to conquer before another could take the prize between its claws and keep for themselves. Like dogs fighting over scraps, love was something to catch and hoard and keep.

Maybe it wasn’t so different from humans. Stories and mythologies had been woven of love like this. Men had gone to war and killed thousands of others in the name of one paramour, one love.

Wukong had done that. He had taken a conceived obstacle and removed it. He had snatched her as a wolf would steal a lamb in the cold of winter, taking her back to the mountain. Devouring her freedom to secure his happiness. When his brother came to see, to wonder at why their paramour was here. It hadn’t taken much convincing. It was as natural as breathing to take in their world.

Peaches attendants, those young ladies, waited patiently. Peaches stared out across the world and wished she had the eyes of eagles to stare and devour the miles so she could see for herself.

Was her garden truly gone? Had anything wild had been left behind ?

Had the apple trees gone wild? Were green granny smiths now growing wild among the pink ladys and dorsett goldens? Were the nectarines falling from the trees to rot beautifully in a horrid flash of sweet sick decay? Did the bees still pollinate whatever roses and hydrangeas survived ?

Had the fire consumed everything?

She missed her garden. Her plants. She missed her home.

She had been so lost in thought that she didn’t notice how her Ladies in waiting called out- she didn’t notice the shadow length beneath her feet. Until suddenly the ground was not ground at all but a gaping black hole- and she fell screaming.

Right into a warm embrace and soft fur that smelled like orange blossoms and plum wine. Laughter bubbled out of Macaque bare chest. “I would think the Queen would be more aware of her surroundings by now.”

Peaches pulled away enough to hook her husband with a scowl. It was half hearted as the demonic monkey dipped downward and pressed his lips to the side of her face in soft peppered kisses. Peaches laughed at the affection, able to ease into the comfort that the six eared macaque had grown between them. The chestnut trees above them rattled like ladies whispering as casting the sunlight like dice over a game.

“Some brutes don’t walk - some slink in shadows.” Peaches teased back. She lifted a hand up and along Macaques face. Her fingers touched his ears- all six on display today instead of being glamoured and hidden. The large clawed hand tightened beneath her as she brushed her hands over them. Macaque leaned into her touch, pressing his face, and her hand, into hers.

“Slink?” The monkey teased. They were beneath a cluster of chestnut and beech trees. A whole new position upon the mountain - possibly leagues across the great kingdom.

“Slink?” Macaque nipped her ear and she yelped in surprise- cheeky like. “I do not slink.”

And then the stomach flip as the magic pulled them in. The very shadows that seemed to seep and flow through macaques black fur, the ebbing of ocean currents between the jetties of his being. The cold kissed her nose, the sun flashed. Peaches blinked as the orientation of the sky reasserted itself. They were closer to Water Curtain cave now. The mosses and lichens that grew in the soft moisture were tell tale signs.

“I merely use what I have to my advantage.”The Six Eared Macaque pulled his wife into himself as he began to walk. In her decade here she had begun to see the mountain like a second skin. Each turn of stone was becoming like a new crease in her skin. Here she understood that, even though the forest was near the palace, it was no where she had treaded recently.

Her husband was taking her somewhere. But where ?

“You left my ladies in distress.” Peaches asked. The steps against the forest floor were soothing. Would she allow herself to be soothed ? It was easier for Peaches to forget the scars that marred her when it was Macaque. With Wukong …

It would always be a sore spot. Always be cut that had healed too thin and the scar left behind would ache in the cold.

“I left them with a note that said I was taking my wife for a moment.”

How different the world would be if they had just asked her to come with them. Had the two brothers even floated the idea between each other? Thought to show her the beautiful mountain and let her fall into it and in love with it ? Peaches knew she would have come. The beauty here was unmatched - the fruits and flowers and plants and growing things would have stolen her away faster then a demons courting could ever achieve. If her boys had only asked her… only shown her….

“How are you Peaches ?” Macaques voice was soft.

“I am… far away.” She decided to be honest.

“The memories again?” Soft, gentle. Her sweet boy was still there. Still within this … sorrow. Peaches had found the little monkey bleeding among her hydrangeas and honeysuckle. The white and purple petals were turned crimson and crushed beneath the tiny body. Of course he had been a wild thing, a furious flash of teeth and claws. Any animal would be. So when the weak little monkey bit into her hand she hadn’t flinched. Instead she had waited, taking a blanket to scoop the poor creature up and into her arms- and to contain those claws. The bite was foolish- what she did was foolish- but… she was a foolish women.

The bite was deep, the pain a lance in her mind. Those teeth were large enough, sabers in gums - knives of nature that cut into the soft pad of her flesh. He didn’t let go, he didn’t release her hand until the blood on his flank was cleaned. Until the gash in his side had been sewed shut. He was too weak to worry her flesh into ruin. To take his pain and tear her apart. He could have. Though small, though at a disadvantage, the little was gifted with weapons where Peaches had been gifted none. She was soft handed, soft as a magnolia flower. No claws no teeth no strength.

Yet he did not tear her apart. The tiny monkey was left alone after he was patched up. A bowl of water, a small basket of peeled mandarins. And the window- left open to let in the wet jungle air. Her kindness had cost her her hand- the day after it was purple and swollen. It was hard to work in the soil- to work in the garden and her little farm. She had carrots to pull, goats to milk, and trees to prune. By the end of the day she could barely close the hand and it had grown yellow on top of the purple. Like a plum trampled enough to ruin the flesh but not enough to break it open.

The next morning however, when she unwrapped to tend the wound and let it breath… she found the wrappings clean. The swelling was gone. The punctures were still there. But…. They had healed over.

She had been a fool. Peaches had thought it was from her tending that the wound had healed up. She had been a fool. Who would have known that her foolish heart would lead to this future?

“Its not just the memories- its a memory.” They had stopped walking now.

“Which one?” The leaves rustled above them. The air smelled of water and earth and stone. It was … calming. So the memory coming forward now wasn’t cast in sorrow. But in calm.

“Of you.” She reached up and pressed a finger to the very tip of his nose. “Of the garden. When we first met.”

Macaque grimaced.

“Not my best introduction...” He looked down at her hand. The scar was still there, silver moons along her skin.

“Are you embarrassed?”Peaches teased. Macaque paused. He set her down onto her feet, kneeling. His hands caught her wrist- the one he had scared all those years ago- and brought it to his face.

“Truly I am. I mauled your hand.”He kissed it, rubbed a claw over the scars, worried at it with his lips and his tender forehead brushes.

“You were in pain. And you healed it.” Peaches pulled him up. Off his knees. In these moments, these tender touches, was the sweetness that had grown between them. There was the flash of that little monkey she had saved. Who had slowly begun to bring her gifts and treasures. His first gift had never been showed. Macaque had never been talked about- as it had required secrecy.

“Lao Tzi had chased me out.” The simian smiled into her face, teeth flashing like moonlight. “Heaven was in an uproar over my thievery. But … they thought I was Wukong.”

“Mac!” She beat on his shoulder in play. Roaring laughter was rewarded to her as the trickier of the two loomed over and draped his arms over her front, pressing her back to his chest.

“I couldn’t let them know it was me!” His teeth were in her hair, soft croons and gentle nips being pressed to her skin. “I was in a bit of a hurry.”

Her cheeky six eared husband then began to press her and tease her in a very flirtatious fashion that turned Peaches skin flushed and burning. It was long moments and minutes after the teasing and the stolen presses of kisses and promises for later, that Peaches decided to open her heart a bit more to him.

“I miss it all. I miss the house and the village and …. I miss the garden the most. All my plants. My animals…” Peaches rested her face in his arm, drinking in the plum wine and orange blossom smell that was so thickly wrapped in his fur.

“All the growing things… do you think they are still there ?” It was easy to think of it here, when Macaque had been kind and soft to her. When he understood what emotional wounds were still healing, still painfully sore. The rush of his heart was against her ear was nice.

“Have they gone wild and returned to the woods ? What of the roses- they are the hardest here to tend. And the magnolia trees….” A bird flitted and flew its way between the emerald leaves. A dolphin flying through a sea of emerald green.

Macaque spun her suddenly, his hand gripping hers, his tail flicking. She was pulled along, hands grasping his as they walked faster.

“Lets walk. We will go and see the orchards and you will tell me all the flowers you had and loved and never got to tend.”

“I would tell you anyway.” Peaches laughed softly. “I loved my flowers.”

The look of serious thought didn’t alleviate in the wake of her laughter.

“You will tell me in detail and what seasons they grow- and what habitats they grow in. Who the traders were that gave you the seeds and the clippings.” They rounded the corner of a stone outcropping, the path before them becoming more well trodden. The path to the orchards.

“And I want you to find a piece of the mountain- get that foolish orange orangutang of my brother to help you clear it and drain it and turn its soil rich.”

The realization was dawning on Peaches then.

“Ma-Macaque…” Was he suggesting what her heart was starting to hope?

“You get the land ready.” His fingers squeezed hers. “I will collect the seeds in my journeys. I will find the best lines and horticulturists and gather you a collection that will rival the one we foolishly took from you.”

His eyes held hers. It had the same effect that a sunrise had on a snow trapped forest. The light in them was refracted and doubled as Peaches felt her heart fill. She didn’t realize that tears were dripping until Macaque was reaching up to coo and rub them free, calling to her in comforting familial tones a monkey would use to soothe an create comfort.

“And I will be able to play within your garden and see you smile like you just did. I would bring down the lunar gardens to see you smile again… as you did when i first saw you in that garden. ”

[miasmaghoul]

miasma i have been yearning for mean rain and the most well-behaved mountain you have ever seen. (he's on his knees.) will you indulge me? )

oh man rain's real mean you guys :(

(cw for slapping, spitting, a little blood, piss and rough oral. all consensual, dont worry, mountain is SUPER into it)

It's an ache Mountain can't describe that brings him here.

On his knees in Rain's room, fully dressed with his legs spread as far at they can go. He keeps his arms folded together at the small of his back and his eyes forward, watching dust motes float through the beam of silvery light pouring from an open window. The sun had been up when he first knelt, but Rain's space was meant for moonlight.

Mountain doesn't know how long he's been here, truth be told, and it doesn't matter. That ache demands he stays put regardless, forces him to stay still and silent. It makes him wait for something he can't put words to. Makes him yearn, makes him itch in a place he can't quite scratch. It makes him want.

And so, he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

When the door finally creaks open, he thinks it's the holiest of hymns.

Rain slips into the room with a fluid grace Mountain could never hope to replicate. He moves like water, his lithe frame draped in the gauzy fabric of a flowy white top he'd no doubt stolen from Cirrus. It suits him just as much as the skin-tight black pants he's paired with it, as stark a contrast as his dark, loose curls are against his pale skin. Bathed in moonlight, he looks like something out of a dream.

Mountain would worship him always, if he could get away with it. Would lay himself bare for Rain to observe, to inspect. He'd endure agony, ecstacy and everything in between if it meant earning Rain's touch, his attention. If it meant pleasing him however Rain saw fit. He'd give anything, give everything.

Rain closes the door, and does not acknowledge him.

The ache grows.

Mountain doesn't move. Doesn't dare to so much as breathe too loudly, lest Rain become irritated and shove him out the door. He can't risk it, not with the singular sort of need that's been eating at him all day. He listens, though. Tracks Rain's careful footsteps as he makes his way across the room. He's in no rush, ever casual as he clicks on a bedside lamp and rifles through a drawer.

Mountain's cock stirs in the confines of his jeans. He's gone from soft to hard and back again more times than he can count during his endless wait. If he glanced down, there would probably be a stain on the light denim. He couldn't help it, but he knows Rain won't approve.

Hell, that's half the reason he wore these particular jeans.

"How long have you been here?"

The words cut through the silence like a razor, smooth and sharp. Mountain shivers with them, hungry ears finally blessed with the first hint of what he's been craving. He shrugs, eyes still locked on the bedroom door. He can practically hear Rain's eyebrows scooting upwards.

"You don't know?"

Mountain shakes his head. If he had to say, it would be something between five hours and a hundred years. He'd wait a thousand, if Rain asked him to.

Behind him, Rain hums. It's a pondering sound, as though he's wondering whether or not Mountain is worth his precious time. It makes his stomach hurt. He wants to beg Rain to let him stay, wants to plead with him to soothe the ache in his gut. Wants to grovel at his feet until Rain sees fit to relieve him of his need.

But Rain hasn't given permission to speak, so he doesn't.

Again, Mountain waits. Stoic at a statue despite the stiffness in his jeans, the stabbing pain in his knees and the tension in his back. Everything hurts.

He hopes Rain makes it worse.

It's ages before Rain moves again, before his boots thud against the hardwood and the other ghoul reappears in front of him. Mountain keeps his gaze resolutely forward, his eyeline even with Rain's torso. The fabric of his top sways in a nonexistent breeze, more than a few of its buttons popped to expose the creamy skin of his chest. It's speckled with bites and bruises, evidence of what, exactly, he'd been busy doing while Mountain waited his turn.

"Have you been just like this?" His tone gives nothing away. If anything, Rain sounds...bored. "On your knees for me?"

Again, Mountain nods. Rain hums once more, that same sound of almost dismissive contemplation. He brings both hands up, idly twists one of his rings, and the rustle of his shirt brings with it the scent of the lake on a summer evening. It's accompanied by a waft of spiced woodsmoke, and Mountain knows exactly who had been busy fucking up Rain's perfect skin.

"Are you growling?"

Mountain mutes himself immediately - he hadn't even realized he'd started. He didn't mean to, he swears it, but even if he were allowed to speak he knows Rain wouldn't want to hear it. He chews on the inside of his cheek and hopes his remorse is evident in the way his shoulders sag just a hair.

"Let me guess," Rain lilts, reaching out to fiddle with a loose lock of auburn hair by Mountain's ear. Even the ghost of his touch is electric. "You need me."

He makes it sound like a taunt, and Mountain's stomach burns. He nods again, slow and deliberate. Squares his shoulders again before Rain can chide him for his posture. The other ghoul huffs out a sigh.

"How pathetic," he chides, and oh does it sting. "Sitting here for hours when you could have been making yourself useful."

Long fingers cup his jaw and Mountain lets his gaze be guided upward. He finds Rain watching him with mirthless cerulean eyes, his mouth set in a hard line. Mountain gulps even as his cock throbs, and before he can stop himself,

"I'm sorry -"

He hears the slap before he feels it, a sharp backhand that makes his head spin and his chest tight. The sting hits soon enough and Mountain bites his lip, hoping to draw blood that he can offer in penance. Rain grips his chin in that same cruel hand, guides him back, and Mountain can already feel the fuzz creeping into the edges of his mind with the look on his stunning face.

"Lucifer, you're pathetic," Rain scoffs, dragging his other hand through his own stylishly disheveled curls. "And here I thought you were going to be good for me."

I will, Mountain wants to scream. I'll be good, I'll be so good, please -

"I suppose I'll just have to put you in your place."

Mountain can't help the way his eyes slip shut at the merciless tilt to Rain's voice. The one he only uses when he can tell exactly what sort of cruelty Mountain craves, when he wants to belittle and shame. It settles heavy in his gut, makes him just dizzy enough that Rain has to give him a little shake to bring him back.

"Eyes on me," he orders, and it's an easy command to obey. Mountain may be edging towards hazy, but focusing on Rain keeps him grounded enough to maintain his pose. The hand on his jaw threads into his hair instead, grips a nice handful. "Show me your tongue."

Mountain does - of course he does - despite how dry his mouth feels. He opens wide and lets that pink appendage hang down over his chin. Rain's hum carries more weight now, the slightest hint of approval enough to make Mountain throb. Rain yanks him back by the hair, makes him suck air through his nose, and leans over him, eyes sparkling.

"You look thirsty."

Mountain can't hold back the groan that bubbles up in his chest when Rain spits directly onto his tongue.

"Don't you dare swallow," Rain threatens before Mountain can so much as move his tongue. He wasn't going to. He knows better.

It's tempting anyway.

He curls his tongue instead, makes a nice little home for Rain's generous gift. Rain releases his head with a derisive snicker, standing back with his arms crossed.

"I think you enjoyed that a little too much," he admonishes, eyes squarely fixed on the wet spot Mountain can feel on his thigh. Less than an inch from the head of his sore, ignored cock.

He's so hard. Always is, for this. Rain probably won't even let him cum, if experience tells him anything - or maybe he'll make him cum over and over until he's empty and weeping. Either way, the suffering is what matters.

Mountain twitches when the toe of Rain's boot presses into his thigh, a hair's breadth from his throbbing length, and it's work not to swallow the mess on his tongue.

"Someone's excited," he taunts, nudging the swollen ridge of the head less than gently. Mountain gives a fervent nod. "You were messy before I even walked in, weren't you?"

He applies more pressure and Mountain pitches forward just enough to accidentally drool Rain's spit onto his own shirt.

Oh shit.

Rain's next slap is expected, and somehow all the worse for it. Same cheek, same hand. It cracks through the room with a sick echo, and Mountain tastes iron.

"Useless," Rain sneers, unceremoniously shoving two fingers into Mountain's mouth to wrench out a gag. When he pulls them back they're tinted pink, and watching Rain lick up his blood and saliva makes every inch of him sing. "All you're good for is making messes, isn't it?"

Mountain sniffles, eyes wet at the corners, and nods. Rain rolls his eyes.

"Use your words," he says as though Mountain is very stupid. His cock spits against his thigh.

"S-sorry Rain, I didn't -"

"Sorry who?"

Mountain shudders.

"I'm s-sorry, Sir," he breathes, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to make a mess, I -"

"Liar," Rain interrupts, and Mountain gives him a bewildered look. "I know you came here because you want to be a wet, filthy mess."

Mountain can't stop staring up at him. He doesn't want to.

"In fact," Rain croons, reaching for his belt, "I think you want me to make you one."

His intention is clear as crystal, and the moment it settles into Mountain's skin he bites his tongue. He swallows thickly, trying his best not to sway as he watches Rain slip his belt from its loops and toss it aside. Silently, Mountain hopes Rain plans to use it on him later. He grips his own arms tight behind his back while the other ghoul unzips, every inch of him twitchy and quivering in anticipation.

"What do you say?" Rain asks, low and sultry over the splash of his own piss.

Rain's only half hard when he pulls himself out, maybe less, but it doesn't matter - any time he gets to see Rain's cock is a blessing, as far as Mountain is concerned. Rain gives himself a few languid strokes, pushes and pulls his foreskin the way he knows Mountain likes best. Makes him drool. He fattens up so quick, gets nice and stiff right where Mountain can see but can't touch. Anyone else would want to stay soft for this, but Rain?

Well, there are advantages to being a water ghoul.

Rain cants his hips just enough to slap the head against Mountain's cheek once, twice, three times. Enough to leak a little bead of pre and leave a sticky spot behind.

"Say please," he commands. Mountain feels so very dizzy.

"Please," he manages to slur, barely a whisper. Rain snorts.

"Say it properly," he smears the tip over Mountain's lips just because he can, and Mountain's eyes roll back at the scent of him.

"Please, Sir," he breathes, staring up with heavy lidded eyes, "please...please get me wet. Get me messy."

Rain offers an unkind smirk, milks out one more bead of pre that slides onto Mountain's lip. He doesn't lick it up. Hasn't been told he's allowed. Rain pulls back, takes a deep breath, and aims.

"Whore."

The first drops hit Mountain's knee, impossibly hot, and then a perfect golden arc hits him square in the chest. It forces a wave of the deepest sort of shame through him, makes his stomach flip and his balls tighten up. Mountain gasps when it really starts to soak in, and he can feel real tears gathering in his lashes when Rain smiles down at him.

"Th-thank you, Sir," Mountain gasps, fighting every muscle in his core that's trying to make him pitch forward. "Thank you."

Rain hums, pleased, directing the stream wherever he likes until Mountain's shirt is well and truly drenched. He feels like he's burning from the inside out, like his brain is leaking out onto his thigh and soaking into stained denim. He's panting by the time Rain's done, watching in a daze as he pushes out the last few squirts, lets it dribble out to speckle Mountain's thighs.

"Open," he orders, and like the good boy he is, Mountain does.

Rain shoves his still-leaking cock down his throat with no hesitation, and Mountain chokes on it just enough for the tears caught in his lashes to track down his cheeks. Rain purrs, smearing them all over with mean thumbs.

"Gonna put this mouth to good use," he drawls, "and you're gonna take it."

The way he says it is completely at odds with the punishing pace he sets. Brutal thrusts that stab at the back of Mountain's throat, sure to leave a bruise. Every one answers the call of that singular ache, and in no time at all he's floating. Lost in the gross, wet sound of Rain taking his pleasure and the slap of his balls against his chin.

Maybe later Rain will sit on his face and he can well and truly drown.

Mountain hopes he does.

[inkyajax]

i’m gonna sleep cause you live in my daydreams

character: alhaitham

genre: smut with a sprinkle of fluff

notes: eee first alhaitham piece!!! please heed the warnings for this piece; reader is quite bratty and avid in her quest to get alhaitham to pay attention to her! this technically isn’t written in canon (aka it would be considered a modern!au) but this is hardly noticeable since there’s no mention of visions or canon events etc within the piece | title credit: take a slice by glass animals

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, slight dubcon, minimal prep, sex gets rougher near the end, size kink/size difference, reader is a Brat with a capital B, daddy kink, one instance of name calling (slut), alhaitham is very clearly a professor in this although it isn’t explicitly mentioned, cock sucking, cock riding, a tiny bit of crying, dom/sub power dynamics, praise, reader is female, hints of a toxic relationship

words: 4.5k

synopsis:

It’s horribly selfish, you know it is, and on most days you can control yourself, can render yourself content with the fragments of attention he affords you, cradling them in your hands, savouring them like precious candies, hesitant to put them in the heat of your mouth lest they melt too quickly. But he’s been gone so often lately, busy with papers to grade and applications to reject and lectures to teach, and you just miss him so much.

And today, you can’t control yourself.

But trying to get your Daddy to take notice of you when he’s preoccupied, absorbed in the pages of his book or sucked into the writings of his dense work, is no easy feat.

Luckily, you’re a pro at it.

The late afternoon sun streams through the stained glass in large, lazy strokes, painting the room a glowing gold-tinged green. Motes of dust shimmer in the beams, floating aimlessly in their warm light, your eyes trailing their movement halfheartedly. A gust of wind wanders through the open window, slow and careless, dispersing the specks, and you sigh.

It’s Sunday.

You hate Sundays.

Because Sundays are the days before Mondays, and Mondays are the day Daddy goes back to work, and Daddy likes to spend Sundays doing nothing—which, in Alhaitham speak, translates to spending the whole day lounging around and reading.

It’s fine for the first little while, laying with your head in Daddy’s lap as his headphones cup your ears and sing you into a state of semi-consciousness, the fingers of his free hand brushing across your scalp, mindlessly tracing along the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the shell of your ear, then repeating the routine in an endlessly loop as aqua eyes fly across the pages of his book.

And, sure, that’s nice, feels nice, just basking in the company of one another, coexisting in an easy, peaceful, almost languid sense, but you only have a mere shard of his attention; a sliver, hardly sustainable for the entire day—and you, being the greedy little thing you are, want more.

It’s horribly selfish, you know it is, and on most days you can control yourself, can render yourself content with the fragments of attention he affords you, cradling them in your hands, savouring them like precious candies, hesitant to put them in the heat of your mouth lest they melt too quickly. But he’s been gone so often lately, busy with papers to grade and applications to reject and lectures to teach, and you just miss him so much.

And today, you can’t control yourself.

But trying to get your Daddy to take notice of you when he’s preoccupied, absorbed in the pages of his book or sucked into the writings of his dense work, is no easy feat.

Luckily, you’re a pro at it.

It starts slow, almost unobtrusive in a way, as it usually does on days such as these.

Turning your head, you scatter a few kisses along his inner thigh, dangerously close to his cock, nose nuzzling against black denim; needy, clingy.

Teal eyes flick down, sparing you a millisecond glance, lips quirking up into the breath of a smile and snorting before going back to his book.

Alright, that’s fine, you can do better.

Nosing at the outline of his cock, you smirk as you feel it begin to fill with life, your tongue unfurling from your mouth to flatten against the half-hard lump and curl, lips closing around it a moment later and sucking. Drool begins to collect at the corners of your stretched mouth, quickly drenching the material as you grind your tongue over his cock in slow, hard, repetitive motions, the denim rough against your sensitive skin, leaving behind tiny burning tingles.

This time, he doesn’t even bother looking at you, doesn’t bother going through the trouble, the only indication he’s even affected at all the slight hitch in his breath and how quickly he hardened beneath your lips.

“Are you misbehaving?”

“Maybe,” a cross between a purr and a pout. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

An indignant huff leaves your mouth in a whoosh, uncontrollable and automatic, features crunching under the force of your pout as it deepens.

“You can act like a little slut if you want to,” his voice is passive, dismissive, though there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face, one corner of his lips twitching and tugging upward.  “But you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m going to bother entertaining such behaviour. Brats don't deserve Daddy’s attention.”

His words spark a fierceness behind your ribs, bright and blazing, and you swallow against the urge to grin. You can tell from his word choice alone that he’s game, player two rising to his rightful place and ready to play, his claim a prompt, a challenge, a puzzle for you to solve, for you to win.  

Grumbling under your breath, you turn over with more force than strictly necessary, purposefully jostling his body, clothing rustling against the leather of the couch, and sink your teeth into his thigh, teeth scraping against denim. His cock, pressed tight to your neck now, twitches once.

Squirming a little, you flip yourself onto your stomach and tuck your knees beneath you, back arched, ass in the air. Dainty fingers find his belt buckle, undoing it with a practiced carelessness, movements vague and loose.

He chuckles—nothing more than a patronizing little snicker, gurgled at the back of his tongue—but keeps his gaze averted, arms raising to make room for your body as you adjust your position, elbow resting on your lower back, fingers flicking the next page.

His cock, massive and leaking, strains against the soft cotton of his briefs, material sticky and wet from your copious amount of spit, clinging to him, outlining the smooth shaft and the ridges of the head.

Pre-cum dribbles through the fabric, a pretty jewel shimmering near the elastic waistband, garnishing the head.

It’s such a pretty sight, tongue peeking out from between your lips to lap it up, giggling a little as more instantly oozes through the cotton, another dewdrop of arousal assembling in it’s previous place.

The taste lingers on your tongue, bitter and strong like his favourite roast of coffee, searing itself into your tastebuds. Your mouth waters, nerves tingling for more of his essence, desperation collecting in the dips and crevices beneath your tongue and along your gums, thick and staved.

It’s quiet as your fingers curl in the waistband and tug, but he lifts his hips, silently aiding you in your venture, and you smirk up at him, eyes burning into his face, a flare of pride igniting in your chest when you see his gaze still, staring motionlessly at the page, abstaining from the temptation to meet your own.  

But for now, that’s enough—enough of a reaction to fuel you further, to feed that hunger just enough to keep it wanting more—and your eyes refocus on the task at hand, jeans and briefs yanked haphazardly halfway down his thighs.

His cock is monstrous, gorgeous, all straight lines and velvet skin and gleaming with smeared dewdrops of pre-cum steadily accumulating in the slit, a singular thick vein ivied along the underside—your favourite vein, the one that pulses eagerly, the one that rushes with new bouts of blood with each upward pull of your mouth—and you use a palm to steady yourself, gripping his thigh as your lips part, little pants of breath hot against his skin.

With a hand firmly wrapped around the base, you feed him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your throat, leisurely and teasing just the way you know he hates it, jaw stretching wider and wider the further you gorge yourself on him.

You make it about three quarters of the way—never can fit him completely in your mouth without a little bit of his help—before you drag your mouth back up, lips leaving the prettiest shimmer of spit, a thin film coating his cock, aiding your hand in its slide.

It’s slow but deep, each stroke of your mouth ramming his cock down your throat as best you can, tongue curling almost possessively around the shaft as cheeks hollow on the pull back up, that big vein throbbing against your flesh.

His blood must be fucking buzzing, because you can feel it, the sudden influx that courses almost violently through his cock with each tug of your mouth upwards, procuring another surge of blood teeming with fizz.

It has your own thighs clenching, knees pressed tightly together, body shifting only slightly as you squirm—though you do not kid yourself into thinking that he doesn’t notice it, those minuscule mannerisms, that faint wiggle—a torrent of heat flooding the apex of your thighs, clit throbbing hungrily.

It’s difficult to glance up at him from this angle, head turning just enough to catch a glimpse of his mostly indifferent profile, the only change in his demeanour the flexing of his set, strong jaw as his molars grind together.

But that’s just not good enough, is it?

It’s getting messy now, just the way you know he likes it, lips glittering with your own drool, dollops of it running down his shaft in thick streams, pooling on his heavy balls. Saliva has soaked your own hand already, too, cumulating in the gaps of your fisted fingers and outlining your nailbeds, aiding you palm in slick strokes as it follows the trajectory of your mouth, viscous ropes keeping the two connected.

It dribbles off your jaw in big, fat globs, and you tug your mouth, almost reluctantly so, off his cock to lick at his balls with a certain voraciousness, avid in your quest not to waste a single drop of your combined fluids, chin glazed with your essence (because you know how Daddy hates waste).

Using this as an opportunity, you look up again, heart hardening into cold platinum when you discover that barely anything has changed, his eyes still flying across the pages of his stupid book, albeit a little slower now, tracing and then re-tracing certain lines as your tongue laves over his balls in flat, fat strokes. His own tongue darts out to glide along his bottom lip, drawing into his mouth and biting down on it, fast and hard, before releasing it.

With a petulant little mewl, you nuzzle your face against his bare thigh, nose brushing his drenched cock, and he swallows thickly, defined Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion, tongue curling around his teeth and sucking on them, eyes pausing for a mere moment before resuming their reading, gaze dragging across the words with a cultivated concentration.

A cute grumble rattles around in your chest, features chiseled in a tight, deep pout—brows knitted, nose scrunched, chin puckered—and you resume sucking him off with renewed vigour, desperate to garner his full attention, desperate for him to snap.

Because the tiny cracks in his mask of passivity are not enough. You want it to shatter into sharp shards, you want him to spare you more than a moment of recognition, you want him to pay attention to you!

Obscenity fills the room, your slurping vulgar as you slobber all over him, the rhythmic squelching of your hand as it pumps the shaft crude, filthy, voice muffled as you whine, high and pitchy and needy, around his cock.

But if the noise bothers him, he refrains from saying anything, readjusting his grip on his book, as if grasping it tighter will help him fine tune his focus.

It isn’t until you’re choking yourself on him—head bobbing hard and fast as rough coughs tangle in your throat, routinely shoved back down by the head of his cock; tears streaming down your cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake and spiking your fluttering lashes; chest hitching with suppressed little sobs that twitch your nose and tremble your chin, sprouting claws as they tear at your ribs, desperate to be released from their cage—that he finally acknowledges you.

“It’s difficult for Daddy to concentrate with his cock shoved down your throat,” he warns, words straining just a touch. A large hand threads itself through the hair at the back of your skull, tugging you off his cock with unexpected tenderness.

“Really?” you ask, unable to quell the brattiness frothing viciously in your chest, voice wrecked and ruined, another cough strangling itself on the back of your tongue as you stubbornly fight past it. “It wasn’t such a difficult feat for you in the past, what changed?”

His nostrils flare as he exhales, breath sharp and hard and heavy, jaw clenching twice and stare never straying from his book, though his eyes have stopped moving again, gaze unfocused and hazy.  

Your tongue slithers out from between a haughty little smirk, tip trailing around the head of his cock in an unhurried loop before digging into the slit, daring.

“Why are you lying to me, Daddy?”

“Why are you being bad, baby?” he answers your question with another, finally looking down at you fully, hand with the book sagging just a touch. His eyes are considerate, curious, concerned, notes of genuine worry infusing his tone.

Sudden guilt swamps your stomach, thick and sticky as it sinks into your gut and solidifies, and you swallow against the sour sludge staining the back of your tongue. Are you being bad? Have you blurred the boundaries between playful brattiness and real brattiness without even realizing?

“I—I—” the word hitches, but you push through. “I’m sorry,” you whimper, and you really do sound regretful, eyes shining as you look up at him, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle.

“What’s going on with my girl, huh? What’s got my little princess acting up like this?” his gaze searches your face, slow, scrutinizing, as if he can decipher the answer through your features alone. “It’s become clear that this is more than your usual coltish brattiness,” he says carefully. “You aren’t usually this…aggressive.”

“I just—” you begin, heat seeping into your cheeks, nails digging into your palms as you resist the urge to hide, to bury your face in his tummy and whine, feeling exceptionally childish and chastised. “I want your attention, that’s all. I miss you.”

“Miss me?” he blinks, brow furrowing with confusion. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“Are you, though?”

The question is fragile, wobbly as if you may cry, words leaving your lips before you can even assess them, and he frowns, placing the book face down and open on his thigh, muscles holding his place.

A film of memories glazes his eyes—a look he gets when he recollects and categorizes important information, and you swear you can almost see him shuffling through that big brain of his, analyzing, dissecting, concluding—before his features soften, melting under a sudden realization, and he tuts his tongue, tugging you into a sitting position and tenderly removing his headphones from your ears.

How can he scold you for behaving in such a way, when he’s been neglecting you, failing to recognize the cues—all of the signs and the symptoms; the way you twined yourself up in him on Monday night, reluctant to let go even for a moment, reluctant to go to bed on your own; the way you insisted on curling up in his lap on Wednesday while he did his marking, even though it was an absolute waste of time for you, drifting between napping on his chest and idly scrolling through your phone; and now, today, on one of his only days off, borderline ignoring you as you practically begged for him to pay you a few shreds of notice—failing to recognize what you need.

“Daddy’s been neglecting you, hasn’t he,” he sighs gently.

“Well, it’s—”

“No, no, he has,” Alhaitham cuts you off, voice stern. “Sundays are meant to be for both of us, aren’t they? For us to enjoy together, no? Especially after such a stuffed week.”

“I guess so,” you mumble, picking at a loose thread on his sweater, eyes focused on your fingers. “But it was rude of me to interrupt your reading like that. I—” Shame burns in your throat, achy and stinging. “I know better than to do such a thing.”

“It was, and you do,” he agrees with you, even and pragmatic. “You should have just communicated with Daddy instead of trying to provoke him. You’re a big girl, you’re capable of using your words.”

“You’re right, Daddy, I—”

“But,” he continues, speaking over you. “I should’ve picked up on the signs, too. I’m not a mind reader, and honest, open communication is important in any relationship, but I should’ve noticed something was wrong sooner and pressed the issue instead of dismissing it in favour of work, irregardless of how busy I was. That’s a Daddy’s duty.”

Tears prick your eyes, a heaviness you hadn’t realized you had been holding instantly eradicated, the platinum encasing your heart dissolving into sparkles of silver—light, sweet, happy.

“Hey, look at me, princess,” a thumb and forefinger grasp your chin, nudging your head up. “If Daddy lets you ride his cock, will you behave? Then can Daddy read?”

A compromise.

“Okay,” you’re whispering with a tiny nod, his hands finding your hips and hauling you toward him, into his lap. “Yeah, okay.”

A palm wraps around the base of his cock as you hover above it, holding it steady. He’s still soaked from your spit, your cunt slick from sucking his cock, enabling you to sink down easily enough, cute little hole stinging with the sudden stretch.

“Ah,” you whimper, eyes squeezed shut tightly, forehead pressed to his. “Hurts, Daddy.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, slightly breathless. “But I know you can take it for me, right? Show Daddy how you can take his cock.”

Of course you can take it for him, will always take it for him. He’s so fucking big, though, both girth and length well above average, but you were too impatient to be properly prepped, and he was too impatient to insist on it, the fingertips prodding your cunt deeming you wet enough to ride him.

He reaches for his book just as you bottom out, cockhead pressed snugly to your cervix, tiny spears of pain slicing through your gut, cunt spasming as it attempts to accommodate him.

A satisfied sigh slips from your parted lips, body molding into his—chests pressed flush against one another, sharp hipbones digging into plush inner thighs, face nuzzling into the junction of his neck. His chin rests on your shoulder as he resumes his reading, allowing you to wiggle around in his lap a little, getting used to the feeling of being stuffed full.

“That better, baby?” he asks, the question barely more than a wisp of breath, curling enticingly around your ear.

“Much,” you breathe, head nodding in slow, languid movements. “Thank you, Daddy.”

His lips press a kiss to your temple in response, distracted, already drowning in the pages of his book again as you begin to move.

It doesn’t take long before you’re whimpering into his shoulder with each uneven rut of your hips, small puffs of Daddy hot against his skin, letters of his designation humid and sticky. Silver hair twines around your fingers as you toy with the tufts at the base of his skull, hands laced lazily behind his neck.

It’s a little pathetic, a little desperate, how you aimlessly hump away at him—not chasing anything, just enjoying the sensation, enjoying being close with him—slick coating your inner thighs and staining his jeans, thick puddles of it seeping through the material and dampening his flesh.

But it’s so good, cords of drool drivelling from your mouth and onto his sweater, leaving tiny gleaming pools, eyes half-lidded and rolling, each brush of his cock against your favourite spot pushing another sweet little sound from your lips.

It’s all so languid, all so easy, just as Sundays should be, your cheek smushed against his shoulder as you drift between dreamy states of pleasure, forehead pressed to his neck, babbling out nonsense, his title tied into a knotty thread on your tongue.

“Daddy, Daddy, DaddyDaddyDaddy,”

“You’re doing so well, princess,” he murmurs, attention straying from his book for a moment to nose along your jaw. “Keep riding Daddy’s cock like that.”

You nod, stupid and giddy and so, so warm, drawing a deep inhale as if you’re attempting to breathe him in, to suck him down, to store him in your lungs forever—cedarwood and mint with just a hint of smoke—copious amounts of saliva gathering beneath your tongue.  

Pulling back slightly, you lick at his skin, dragging your tongue up the curve of his neck in long, wide strokes, gathering him in your mouth. A delicate shiver jolts through his body as your breath hits the trails of gleaming spit left in your tongue’s wake, and you giggle a little, kittenishly licking at his skin again, watching through glassy eyes as chills erupt across his flesh.

Clearing his throat roughly, he gargles the beginnings of a curse, the hand on your hip flexing, blunt nails sowing his name into your skin.

“Does that feel good, Daddy?”

“You always feel good,” he responds steadily, but his voice is husky, the edges of his words raspy and ragged with lust.

Another giggle pries its way past your lips, burrowing back into his shoulder as the rocking of your hips becomes more vigorous, vengeful, almost, relishing in his resulting smothered gasp.

Oh, how you love it when he gets like this, when he engages in this game with you, puzzles and challenges back on again after establishing some new ground rules. Because you know he gets off on this, too; on pretending to ignore you, pretending to be unaffected. But you can feel it, the micro-movements of his hips as they rut against you, or the gentle catch of his breath on his sternum, or the occasional soft grunt that manages to slip off his tongue.

He loves it just as much as you do.

It procures little sparks in your belly, sprouts tiny flames across your flesh nourished by every tiny yet colossal reaction you manage to elicit from him. They blaze brighter, brilliant, with each swipe of your slick clit on his pubic bone, a string of airy moans leaking from your mouth.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, a touch of patronization imbuing his tone. “Use Daddy’s cock to get yourself off.”

Your hips speed up with his encouragement, gyrating in fast, tight little circles, fingers readjusting their grip on his neck and nails taking root in his flesh, carving tiny constellations into him.

That book is still in his hand, pages crinkling under the strength of his grip, but he is no longer looking at it, oceanic gaze enraptured by you.

He’s so fucking pretty, tufts of silver hair clumped with salt, tips wet and sticking to his sheen temples and neck. Azure eyes practically glow as they devour you—all of your precious little expressions; the crumple of your brow and the dancing of your lashes and the quiver of your mouth—pupils gaping and gluttonous. His breath wafts over your skin in quick, harsh, hard little pants, but his voice stays relatively steady.

“Look at my baby, so good for her Daddy,”  

A whimper spills from your throat, forehead knocking against his own as slippery hands readjust their position, twining together behind his neck. Those tiny blazes have bloomed into a single inferno, flames licking at the walls of your insides, cinders seeping through your flesh and bubbling your blood, chased by another collection of sparks sent searing through your body with each bounce on his cock.

“You gonna cum?” he asks, breathless words tapering off into a whine, his nose nudging against yours, sweet, soft. “Daddy wants you to cum for him, baby,”

“But I—ah—I want your cum, too, Daddy!” you cry, pulling back to look at him with beseeching eyes, searching his face in an almost frantic manner. “Please, Daddy, please stuff me full of your cum, please, Daddy, I—I wanna be so full that I can’t take it anymore, until it’s too much for my little cunt and it starts leaking out and—”

“Fuck,” he groans, the word deep and dark as his book falls from his hands, clattering to the floor.

Large hands curl around your waist, eager and urgent as they halt your movements, his own hips snapping up half a second later as they begin to jackhammer into you, cockhead pounding against your sore cervix.

It jostles your entire body, limp and pliable and weightless between his palms as he fucks you.

He’s ruthless in his pursuit to give you what you want, grip so tight it’s a marvel he doesn’t crush your bones beneath his fingers, blotches of grey and violet flowering across your skin, planted by blood vessels as they break.  

The pain only works to complement the pleasure, head falling forward again as you mewl out his name, eyes roiling in your skull, shrouded by a thick haze of passion.

“There you go, baby, there you go,” he pants out, forcing your hips to move faster, harder, practically bouncing you in his lap. “Don’t stop, you got it,”

The illusion of choice has another moan barreling up your throat—you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, Alhaitham now entirely in control—but you nod your head anyway, playing along, thighs burning as the muscles strain, trying to aid him.

He’s close, you can tell, gorgeous little grunts streaming from his lips, steadily pushed from deep in his chest with every buck into you and peppered with gasps. His brow is drawn, unblinking eyes intent on your face, that well-worn mask of passivity completely evaporated, features tinged with smoldering desire.

It’s all so incredible, that inferno raging inside of you furling into a tight ball of fire, a seed in the beginning stages of florescence, nurtured by one, two, three slams of his cock before it blossoms in the most beautiful way; a brilliant blaze, a carnivorous thing that swallows you whole, engulfs you in its flames and draws you into its center, sweet little cunt clenching around him as it gushes torrents of heat, making a mess all over his thighs.

“Christ,” he nearly whines, the fingers splayed on your hips gouging into flesh, forcing you to fuck yourself on his cock twice more before he’s cumming, too, with a soft gasp of your name, breath shattering on his tongue.

Thick cum stuffs you to the hilt as his cock throbs violently, warm and comforting as it fills your insides, and you sigh dreamily, body melting between his hands, slumped against his heaving chest.

“Feeling better now?” he murmurs softly, knuckles stroking your hair, your responding hum and lethargic nodding causing him to chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Good.”

He leans down to pick up his forgotten novel, one strong arm wrapped around your waist keeping you clung to him as he does, and a few dollops of cooling cum ooze from your raw cunt, whining a little at the loss. You can feel them, dribbling out of you at a slow but steady pace, down your Daddy’s balls and onto the couch. Kaveh is going to kill you for that.

“Now rest, baby,” Alhaitham’s instructing as he sits back up, planting a kiss on the crown of your head before flipping through the pages in an attempt to find his previous spot. “Daddy has one more chapter he wants to finish before dinner.”  

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, II)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrd winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s.

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

IT'S BIRTHDAY MONTH, BABY. LET'S GET POSTING. My inbox is always open, so drop by with your questions, concerns, and convos.

Men ever failed.

Dream waited for a guard to sleep. For Roderick Burgess to scratch the golden border with his heel in a fit of pique. Someday, someone would make a mistake. It was the truth of humanity, and nothing, even a prison of magic, iron, and glass could last forever.

Years gathered in his keeper’s faces, and his outrage cooled into sharper forms. Intent. Disgust. Hatred even. Wrath brewed behind closed lips. He gave his captors nothing so long as they held him, but new nightmares twisted in his heart, ready to breathe and shriek to life.

The hours of the day made no change in his windowless hold, and he only judged the turning of the seasons by the weight of the coats his guards draped over the backs of their chairs. Their rolled shirt sleeves and the gleam of half-dried perspiration on their brows told him it was summer. Or near it. Persephone had returned to her mother’s sight and the sun glowed warm on the earth for another year.

He’d once pitied the queen of the underworld, especially when she was first forced below the earth, before her mother’s dogged pursuit of justice gave the goddess power and agency in her marriage. Now, he envied her. If only he had family who so cared for his freedom he would not languish in some paltry magician’s lesser hell.

As Dream of the Endless mulled over the injustices gathering like dust in the crevices of his prison, the door to his Underworld swung open. Though he couldn’t see the door itself, the light behind the gate’s bars turned golden, motes glittered like his sand in the beam as Roderick Burgess’s boy – well on his way to becoming a man – stumbled down the steps. His father’s shouts echoed down with him, and Dream’s posture straightened, buoyed by his captor’s distress even as the sun’s distant bloom pricked his heart with mournful hope.

In his rush, the child hadn’t even brought the key, and he pressed his face against the wrought iron, fingers twisting through to keep himself steady.

“Quick,” he panted. “Sykes is out, and the new ward collapsed. I’m calling a doctor, but one of you need to help the Magus move her…”

“Close the bloody door, you fool!” The distant roar cut off with a slam. Alex Burgess flinched away from his father’s temper, and the budding hope in Dream’s chest withered into an invisible wound, leaving an aching pit he rushed to fill with rage.

They so rarely visited him at this hour, on such a bright day. He wondered if he might’ve smelled the breeze if not for the glass, tasted yellow pollen and the ghost of ripening berries were he not locked behind magic and iron.

In truth… perhaps he did feel the heat, the touch of fresh air, a fraction of the world beyond. He sensed the whispered suggestion of wyrd pulling at him, plucking along the tattered place hope left when Burgess slammed the door.

Something waited for him beyond his prison. A step. A link unmade. It itched in the back of his mind like a phantom limb, and he nearly followed the call to move. To find and see. But his pride held him back from pressing his hands to the glass.

The elder of Dream’s two day guards turned to the other and scoffed. “Not here an hour and already causin’ problems. You owe me a pound.”

“There isn’t time for this,” the boy insisted. “She’s not well. Hurry! Please.”

He ran back the way he’d come, and barely a flicker of gilding touched the gate before it shattered behind the door again.

The guard who’d lost the bet rose with a groan, fetched the key from the table, and pounded off to answer his master’s call, closing each layer of security as he went.

Another burst of light and sound as the man left the cellar. Another tantalizing hint of the world above.

Dream did not move as his remaining guard straightened in his seat, twice as wary now that he’d been left alone with his charge. The Endless’s thoughts, however, groped after the phantom sensations he’d stolen with his gasp of light. He chased the thread of his wyrd through memory, looking for something to compare the moment to, but it slipped through his fingers, unraveling before he could reach the solution to his riddle.

He had little to do besides toy with the frayed ends of his story, and he refused to let the question lie, even when the second guard returned, the men ended their shift, the night guards arrived, and the guards of the day came back to sit in the same tableau.

------------------------------------------------------------

She woke to golden sun and dark wood, all warm and clean and entirely different from what she remembered. Someone had changed her into a nightgown, and she drifted back to herself in a small bed in a room with a slanting ceiling. An attic, maybe. She’d slept in those before. But this one was finished, with plaster on the walls and a window with proper glass and all.

And a boy was sitting by the bed in a rickety chair that creaked even when he wasn’t moving. Alex. He’d said he was Alex, and he’d taken her suitcase and asked if she was alright.

“How are you feeling?”

She pushed up to her elbows, peering around the room, and Alex poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.

“Here,” he said, “you should drink something. The doctor said it was heat exhaustion.”

It took a moment to poke at the empty gap in her memory, like examining a canker sore with the tip of her tongue. “What doctor?”

The boy wrapped her hands around the glass and guided it to her face until she relented and started sipping. It was as nice and cold as the lemonade had been.

“You fainted. The Magus called a doctor. The doctor said you had heat exhaustion.” He laid out the facts the way she spread her cards. Careful and direct. “Are you feeling any better? You’ve been resting here a few hours now.”

“I feel fine.” She didn’t feel well. She felt unsteady and ill, but not like she had before, when her mind grew knuckles just so they could turn white with the effort of holding onto her goal: reaching Fawney Rig and making a good impression on her new guardian.

She wouldn’t make things worse. She wouldn’t complain. She was well enough.

“If you’re feeling up to it, the Magus would like to speak with you. I’ll step out into the hall while you get dressed unless you need my help, and then I’ll take you to him. Alright?”

Aisling scowled. “I’m not a baby. I can get dressed by myself.”

A smile fluttered through a quick life and death across his face. “Of course you can. I’m sorry. We’ve just been very worried. You looked so small and fragile when you dropped in the hall…”

The Fosters liked to tell Aisling she was too proud. She looked too many people in the eye that she shouldn’t, and she didn’t like to apologize when someone took offense to the truths they asked from her cards. Maybe she was. She’d learned she couldn’t trust people to be kind for very long, but she could rely on herself.

Sitting up straight as she could and lifting her chin, she said, “I am not fragile. It was a very long walk, and a hot day, and I am not tall.”

A ghost of the earlier smile echoed in Alex’s expression, which was better than the pained look of concern he wore before. But Aisling wouldn’t accept any softness if she couldn’t have respect first. Sitting just wasn’t cutting it, so she moved up onto her knees to see more eye-to-eye and held out her hand for a second attempt at good manners.

“We didn’t properly finish our introduction,” she said. “I’m Aisling Hunt.”

Alex adopted a – clearly false – somber expression, but he buried his mirth well enough to at least feign respect. More importantly, he accepted the handshake this time.

“Alex Burgess. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hunt.”

The last name nearly shocked her out of her dignified pose. He wasn’t at all what she’d thought a child of the Magus would look or behave like. Not that there was anything wrong with Alex. He was an improvement on the pomaded princeling she might’ve expected.

She knew better than to ask questions. Open ears and closed lips. She hated whenever the Fosters told her to do that, but damn if it wasn’t a useful habit in new places with unknown faces. Find what was wanted, what was hated, before committing to a path. People would always tell her what they wanted, one way or another.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Burgess.”

“Just Alex, remember?”

“Aisling, then.”

“Aisling.” Another little smile. This one less condescending. Maybe even fond. “I’ll be outside.”

“Alright.”

The boy left the creaky chair and closed an equally creaky door. Aisling found her suitcase in the corner and put on a fresh dress that didn’t smell and tidied her sweat-stiff hair. Too late to make a good impression, but she’d arrived where she was meant to be. She went where she was told, and the Fosters couldn’t call her back even if they wanted. She was no longer theirs – their burden or their cash cow.

She didn’t waste time, barely pausing to sip a little more water to help her swallow down her unsteady stomach before reaching for the doorknob.

Her future waited downstairs, and the Magus expected her.

[weaveandwood]

Weave and Woods Chapter 12: Light and Darkness

Gale/Named Tav | Slow Burn | Angst | Read on AO3 | Entire Work

Summary:

After a wondrous night under the stars, Auroria and Gale have to head back into the gloomy grey reality of the Shadow Curse and the Absolute

“It’s not your fault.” He repeated again, softly punctuating each word, the pads of his thumbs brushing away the wetness on her cheeks. He knew she was thinking about her friend, still feeling like it was her actions that caused her death. That, coupled with this new guilt would lead her into a spiral. He could see it on the fringes of her eyes - recognizing his own experience when he isolated himself from the world after the orb took root in his body and again after receiving Mystra’s demand that he take out the Absolute via detonation. She had been unrelenting in dragging him away from that place in his mind. She still was. It was his turn to protect her, to fight for her

AN: This chapter is emotional whiplash and I'm sorry. CN: death

Auroria stirred as she woke up early, the sun’s gentle beams hitting her face and the distant sound of morning birdsong rousing her from her peaceful slumber. She stretched, feeling like a housecat as she laid in the warm light, comfortable in the soft bed watching dust motes float by. The weight of Gale’s arm draped over her bare waist and the gentle sound of his breathing in her ear only made her want to delay the inevitable return to gloomy, grey reality indefinitely. No, let her stay here in this idyllic setup for just a while longer.

She felt his thumb start to move in languid circles on her hip and she smiled to herself. He would live, he would choose to defy his goddess. For her, for their love. She turned over, and was greeted with a lazy smile and half-lidded eyes. 

“Good morning, my love,” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. Oh, she could listen to that voice forever. 

“Good morning,” she said with a smile, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose during the night behind his ear before settling in next to him, her head on his chest, his arm wrapped around her. My love - she had never been called that before. “You brought me the sun.” 

“I know you’ve been missing the sunrise each morning, so I wanted to surprise you.” He kissed the top of her head.  “You inspire me. You deserve the sun, Ora. You deserve so much more than just illusions - you deserve everything. I hope when all of this is over, you will still find me worthy so I can attempt to give it all to you.”

“You are already worthy of me, you know that, Gale. I thought I made that clear.”

“Speaking of…” he hesitated.  “I wanted to speak with you about last night.”

She furrowed her brow and sat up, her hand tenderly placed on the orb marking as she looked in his eyes, thoughts racing through her head. Was it acting up again? Did he think last night was a mistake? Was he having second thoughts about them? About defying Mystra’s command?

“What about it?” she asked. 

He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Have you ever stood at the edge of a great precipice and shuddered at how easy it would be to just…take one step forward and fall into the void?” He asked, staring up at the sky.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ever since Elminster delivered Mystra’s demand of me, it has felt like I have been balancing on that edge every minute of every day, a great drop to nothingness never out of my sight or my mind.”

He looked at her and took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss along her knuckles. 

“You led me away from that edge, Ora. Your words and your touch have reminded me what living can feel like. I no longer want to seek solace or purpose in that void - only in your love for me and my love for you.” 

Auroria’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears that she blinked away. It may have been an illusion, but the sunrise was too beautiful for tears. 

“You flatter me,” she smiled. “But I believe you did a lot of the work last night between the illusions and…other things,” she teased. 

He sat up and pulled her close to him. “They do say generosity is a noble virtue, whether in the streets, the charity box, or betwixt the sheets,” he said with a devilish grin before sweeping her underneath him, laying her back on the bed as she laughed in surprise. He settled between her legs and leaned down to speak softly into her ear.

“Besides, given my propensity for verbosity, it can’t be surprising I have a practiced tongue,” he teased before kissing her neck gently.

She laughed, tilting her head to the side to give him access to the one spot just below her ear that drove her wild. “How much time do you think we have until everyone else is awake and we have to start the day?”

He kissed her. “Enough time for me to get a little more practice in.” He smiled and pulled the sheet over them before moving down her body, placing gentle kisses along each of her scars until he reached his destination, the sound of her laughter and pleasure merging with that of the distant birdsong.

******

As the party edged closer and closer to Moonrise Towers, the horrors grew worse and worse. Perhaps because he was so preoccupied with his own imminent demise, Gale had never fully noticed the carnage outside of the Last Light Inn before that afternoon. Now that his mind was clear he could finally see, though he wished he couldn’t when they came around a bend in the path they had taken. Ora froze and fell to her knees ahead of him, a large group of slain tieflings in front of her. They hadn’t been as lucky as the ones who were in the prison.

“No, no, no,” she moaned, a far different sound from the ones that morning - this was one he never wanted to hear again. She looked around, searching everyone’s faces before finally locking eyes with Gale. “We didn’t…we didn’t see them when we went to the prison, we took a different path to Moonrise. We told them to come this way after the party, I said it would be safe,” she said, scanning the corpses of so many of the tieflings they had seen not long ago at the grove, everyone in a jubilant and hopeful mood after the goblin camp was neutralized. “I said it was safe. This is my fault.” Her face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands and cried. Gale recognized some of the tieflings he had spoken to at the party and earlier when they were exploring the grove itself. They knew there had been an ambush, but he wasn’t prepared to be confronted with just how many died. He felt his own eyes grow wet with tears.

He rushed up to her, dropping to his knees in front of her. “Ora, Ora…no. This isn’t your fault.” He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back as she clutched at his robes, heavy sobs pouring out of her. She was always so quick to blame herself when things went wrong. 

“This keeps happening. I make plans that other people count on for survival and they die,” she sobbed, losing herself to grief and despair.

He looked at the rest of the party, their faces showing nothing but worry. He made eye contact with Wyll. “Give us a moment?” He asked softly. Wyll nodded and they congregated a few paces up the road, around a small bend to give them privacy. 

He held her tighter, his hand lightly resting on the back of her head, pressing her gently to his chest. He rocked her slowly as she let it all out. “It’s not your fault my love, it’s not your fault,” he repeated. “You couldn’t have known they would be ambushed. And think of the ones you saved - they are so grateful for you, Ora.” 

She pulled away and looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed and her face puffy from crying. She wiped her eyes, unsuccessfully trying to stave off future tears from falling. He put his hands on both sides of her face, angling her to look at him so she couldn’t see the fallen tieflings. 

“It’s not your fault.” He repeated again, softly punctuating each word, the pads of his thumbs brushing away the wetness on her cheeks. He knew she was thinking about her friend, still feeling like it was her actions that caused her death. That, coupled with this new guilt would lead her into a spiral. He could see it on the fringes of her eyes - recognizing his own experience when he isolated himself from the world after the orb took root in his body and again after receiving Mystra’s demand that he take out the Absolute via detonation. She had been unrelenting in dragging him away from that place in his mind. She still was. It was his turn to protect her, to fight for her. 

“But…how can you keep putting your faith in me when this is the result?” She whispered, looking down at the ground, studying a particularly gray pebble between them. 

“Ora. I will say this a thousand times. This is not your fault,” he said as he placed a finger under her chin, tilting it up so he could look into her eyes and smiled softly. “You have such a big heart. From the beginning, you’ve taken everything on yourself - no matter how many times I tell you to let others help to carry the burden, you try to be the savior for everyone. These are dark and dangerous times. We cannot save everyone, but we must remain grateful for the ones we can. You cannot sink into the pits of despair. These lives are lost, but think of all the lives we will save when we defeat the Absolute. Together. Because of you.” 

He kissed her gently, feeling her lips trembling underneath his as she resisted breaking down again. He knew this one conversation would not assuage her guilt over the fate of these tieflings, but he would do his best to keep her afloat just as she had done for him since he met her. 

“All of us are here because of you. We are only here because of how much you care, how deep your love is for anyone who needs help. It’s who you are as a person, as much as you’re a ranger or I am a wizard. We would all be wandering separately without you. You are the gentle bond that formed this group and holds it together. So yes, we will put our faith in you. We will put our faith in you until the end of our journey and even farther than that. And I will put my faith in you until the end of my days.”

Ora looked over the bodies of the tieflings once more, as if trying to burn the memory into her mind so she wouldn’t forget what they were fighting for - not just for their own reasons of ridding themselves of the tadpoles in their brains. Their fight had taken on a larger purpose, though Gale couldn’t exactly pinpoint when. Perhaps it always had once they stepped foot in the grove. 

He stood up, holding out his hand for her. 

Her brow furrowed and she got that determined look in her eyes that he loved so much. There was a fire inside her that wouldn’t be put out, a fight that would never end as long as there were those in need who couldn’t defend themselves. She took his hand, standing up and kissing him deeply.

“Let’s go,” she said before stalking off down the path, leaving everyone in her wake. 

There she was, his fierce ranger. 

******

This place was exhausting. Whenever Auroria thought they were moving forward on their plan to take down the Absolute, five additional things were added to the long, long, long list of things they needed to do first. After seeing the tieflings on the path, helpless and ambushed and murdered, Auroria wanted to do nothing more than put a flaming arrow right between Ketheric Thorm’s eyes. Or maybe a void arrow - being sucked into an endless void seemed like an appropriate end for such a monster. Though it wouldn’t have mattered which arrow she chose anyway - Ketheric apparently couldn’t be killed. They just hadn’t figured out his secret yet. Add that to the list .

At least she got to get out some of her seething rage when she dealt with the goblins on Z’rell’s orders. Not another word - in fact, not another breath from any of you. It gave her satisfaction to watch them struggle, then finally die without lifting a finger. She felt the tadpole in her brain squirm with delight as she gave in to its influence for just those briefest of moments. She remembered feeling Gale’s hand on her shoulder after that, an unspoken question between them - Are you okay?  

She was not, but her boiling rage had quieted to a warm simmer. 

Trudging back to the campsite at the end of a long evening of pouring over maps and developing strategies with Jaheira, a few Harpers, Lae’zel, and Wyll, all she wanted to do was turn time back to that morning with bright sunshine in her eyes, laughter, and Gale pressed against her. It felt like so long ago, like it had happened to a different person. As she opened her tent flap she thought about finding the biggest glass they had in camp for wine. Maybe she’d just drink straight from the bottle. 

On her bedroll was a note. She smiled, recognizing the elegant script easily. 

My love, I know today was difficult for you. Come to my tent when you’re comfortable.P.S. I have wine at the ready.

She entered his tent and was greeted with a warm embrace. His arms wrapped tightly around her, and his hand moved to the back of her head, pressing her into him just as he did on the path earlier that day. He pressed a soft kiss on the top of her head and she melted into him.

“I never told you thank you earlier,” she said. “For pulling me out of the darkness. Twice.” 

“You don’t have to thank me, this is what we do for each other. I promise to pull you out of the darkness, just like you pull me back from the precipice,” he said before kissing her softly.

“Deal,” she said, smiling. “Now, I believe you mentioned something about wine?”  “Right this way, my lady,” he gestured to the side of this tent, two glasses and a bottle on a small table beside his bedroll, which had been combined with one of the spares to be twice as wide. He settled down onto it, patting the space beside him. He grabbed a book of poems and as they drank and laughed, he read passages out of it to her, his warm voice instantly relaxing her and draining her tension away. When the wine was gone and she was curled into him, her arm draped across his stomach as he continued reading out loud, she thought of the unasked question from the tower again - Are you okay? As long as he was with her, she would be.

[fourmula1]

Not sure if you're still doing it, but if so, 32, dust motes for maxiel for the micro word challenge pls💖💖💖 love your writing sm!

Flufftober Day 9: Dust Motes

max/daniel. 298 words.

-

The flight was long, and Max is exhausted and all out of sorts. He feels like it’s bed time but his phone tells him it’s early morning and everything feels upside down.

That’s what he gets for flying back to Europe after Suzuka for some obligations and then all the way to Australia before Qatar. His body doesn’t know what timezone he’s in and he’s fucking tired but he’d rather be here than anywhere.

Max climbs the front porch steps and lets himself into the farm house. It’s quiet, here. No one to disturb them, nothing around for miles. He heads inside and toes his shoes off, sets his backpack down before making his way through the kitchen to the back sun deck, enclosed in glass with a beautiful view of Daniel’s land.

There, he smiles when he spots Daniel curled up on the sunbed, looking peaceful and cozy cuddled in a blanket and scrolling his phone. Max watches the dust motes dance in the beam of morning sunshine coming in and smiles. Daniel hasn’t noticed him yet.

Max lifts his hand and knocks on the glass, tummy swooping when Daniel looks up at him and breaks out into a grin.

“Hi,” Max says as he lets himself out onto the sundeck, comes over to lean down for a hello kiss. Daniel meets him half way, reaches up to cup his jaw with his good hand as he kisses him back.

“How was the flight?” Daniel asks as Max wastes no time in settling down with him, tucking into Daniel’s side. He’s so tired he could die.

“Long. I want to go to bed,” he says through a yawn.

He’s tired and knows he’ll spend probably the whole day crashing but it doesn’t matter. He’s here.

With Daniel.

[chickenparm]

Fidget Device (Alhaitham/afab!Reader) (2)

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Art inspired by this fic by @drawlypsy can be found here!

Alhaitham/afab!Reader

2,867 Words - NSFW

Blowjobs, allusions to m!Masturbation

---

Pleasant dreams aside, the reality upon your waking is startlingly mundane. 

Alhaitham doesn’t stay, he doesn’t look at you as he drops his coffee mug into the sink and turns to leave. There’s barely any acknowledgement at all beyond him calling a generic goodbye into the depths of the house that really only housed you at the moment - Kaveh was absent as often as possible, including this morning. 

Your own work beckons you, but it’s impossibly hard to focus when you’re entirely unsure if last night was a dream or the real thing. 

Chewing on the end of your pen - something Alhaitham would’ve scoffed at if he’d spent longer than 5 minutes in your presence - you mull over the possibilities. It had to have been a dream, that’s the only conclusion you can really come to. Even someone as composed as Alhaitham wouldn’t have been able to be so nonchalant in your presence. 

Nothing but a sweet dream, one that you immerse yourself in with your cheek in your palm and the sun coming through the stained glass window against your skin in shades of teal and olive. Even in the mornings, Sumeru’s sun shines bright enough to warm you pleasantly in the home that Alhaitham stubbornly keeps cold in all seasons. 

How he’d smelled, how even in your dreams he’d let you cling to him as he thoughtlessly toyed with you as if it were nothing. Even in your thoughts he doesn’t pay you any mind, even in the throes of your excitement, even as you grind down against his lap, against his hand. The fabric of his gloves dragging against the skin of your-

Chin nearly falling off its perch with enough force to sting, you sit upright and push back from your desk. Glove. Alhaitham wasn’t wearing his gloves when he left. Alhaitham didn’t particularly favor change, down to the very outfit he wears and the various accessories that come with it. Why would he forego wearing something he’s so attached to?

His bedroom is never locked. There’s no reason for it - Kaveh knows better to cross the line into messing with Alhaitham’s belongings, and there’s always been a quiet acceptance of your presence when you poke your head in to ask him something. Even so, it feels odd to cross the threshold and step inside when he isn’t present. 

Alhaitham’s room is filled with wall-to-wall bookcases, a large desk that serves to hold unsorted books rather than any sort of work, and a bed that sits unmade beneath the window facing the sun. It’s tactically placed for him to awaken when the light brushes over him. Stepping closer, your fingers reach for the divot in the bed that he seems to lay in, blankets thrown back as if he’d risen in a hurry. 

It’s far from being still warm with his body heat, long chilled despite his departure less than an hour ago. Pressing your palm to his pillow, you wonder what he might’ve looked like as he dozed. The sunlight feels thick as it comes through the window, dust motes lazily crossing the beam in little pinpricks of light. Absently, your thumb drags along the pillowcase, pretending for only a moment that the fabric could be substituted for the smoothness of his cheek. 

Would he hum in response? Smile in his sleep at your touch? More likely he would awaken the moment you entered the room, pushing himself into a sitting position and look at you as if you were nothing more than the very sparks of dust that cast impossibly small shadows against the back of your hand. 

Snatching your hand back, clutching it to your chest and turning on your heel, you remind yourself of the entire reason you entered in the first place. Alhaitham’s gloves - where would they be?

Easy enough. His laundry hamper sits in the corner, its wicker lid pulled shut to hide what’s inside. Without as much shame as you should have for going through a grown man’s laundry, you lift the lid with a single finger and find your answer sitting right on the top. Black fabric that has an unmistakable stain as if it’d been hurriedly used to-

The lid snaps back down and you take two measured steps back to the middle of the room. There’s no misinterpreting any of that - from the evidence of what he’d done to you that’d seeped into the base of the glove’s fingerless portion, to the remains of his own pleasure smeared along what would’ve been the palm if he were wearing it. 

“Not a dream, then.”

Your quiet murmur feels deafening in the silence of Alhaitham’s bedroom. The sun still moves across the sky, his bed still sits unmade, the dust dances before your eyes as you stare at the wicker basket and try to piece together the simple truth. Everything he’d done last night truly happened, and he still left so quickly in the morning that you’re beginning to think he might have regretted it. 

Perhaps he was fearful of your reaction; he hadn’t necessarily given you room to say no, but neither did you want to. Certainly if you tried he would have, Alhaitham isn’t like that. So what caused him to run?

Shame. It had to be shame, judging by the evidence left behind. Alhaitham isn’t necessarily the neatest person in the world. Often you’ve entered this room where his jacket has been tossed across the back of his chair, or one boot sits by the door while the other is across the room. Even his bed is often only made to the point of laying the duvet flat and the pillows aligned, the sheet still mussed under the covers. 

Alhaitham put his gloves there to hide them. On purpose. 

—

This is a stupid idea. But it’s the only one you have, and that has to count for something. 

If there’s anything about Alhaitham that you know for certain, it’s that he’s punctual down to leaving his work at exactly five o’ clock without deviation. Then the short walk home, reinforced by the way the front door shuts and a little slower than usual he makes his way to the kitchen where you’re just serving up a portion of the soup you’ve made that you know he detests.

Just one portion. 

Keeping your back to him, you stare into the earthenware dish before you and ask, “How was work?”

“It was work. How was…” Alhaitham trails off, as if just now coming to the realization he had no clue what your plans were for the day because he didn’t bother to say anything to you before leaving that morning. 

Maybe you’re a little too satisfied that he’s come across this blunder in your presence, but you don’t let him flounder for too long. “My day was enlightening. Lots of new thoughts, I’m sure you understand.”

And oh does the sound of his sharp inhale make your heart race in anticipation. Elaboration isn’t needed; this conversation could be left right here and Alhaitham would know exactly what you’re referring to. But he calls your bluff, stepping closer as if his proximity would cause you distress. “I’d understand better if you shared them.”

“After dinner.” You promise, turning to hold the bowl out to him with hands outstretched, your chin jerking toward the table that oft goes unused. Angular eyes narrow in suspicion - first at the bowl in your hands, then to the table that’s been set with a single placemat, cup, and utensils. Everything tonight has its purpose, including the absence of your own seat.

But without a history of malice, Alhaitham can’t truly deny you this. His ungloved fingers pass across your own as he takes what you’re offering, skin burning against skin for the briefest moment before the exchange is made. When he’s seated, staring listlessly down at the food you’ve made, you busy yourself with extinguishing the oven’s flame and cracking the door to let the heat seep out. 

And then, your own dinner portion. 

Alhaitham has made it through a few bites, that damn book laid flat on the table as he multitasks. For once, you’re thankful for his utter distraction. It lets you sink to your knees unbothered, it allows you the freedom to crawl across the floor beneath the table until you can slot yourself rather neatly between his parted knees. 

The chair shoots back enough for him to look down at you, eyes wide and pupils visibly dilating at the sight of you on your knees, apron pooled around you, hands barely ghosting across the tops of his thighs. “What are you doing?”

A simple question, one that arguably fits his definition of needless, but you’re not here to split hairs over things like that. Letting go of him, you reach for the legs of his chair and tug him back toward you forcefully to emphasize your reasoning. “Having dinner, obviously. Don’t mind me.”

Alhaitham looks at you with undisguised wonder as your fingers creep higher, tracing the inner seam until you can cup your palm against him. Not completely hard, but he’s well on his way, and you remember quite vividly how he’d felt against you last night. Burning hot, insistent, begging you to do something about it if he’d only allowed you to.

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, anticipation for giving him exactly what he deserves proving to be a little too close to ambrosia for you to resist it. He’s grown hard enough beneath your fingers that you can feel the outline of him clearly, and you drag the pads of your fingertips hard enough that he jolts in his chair. Alhaitham’s knees press into your shoulders, and you tsk up at him in admonishment. 

“Eat your dinner. Quit squirming.”

And you’ll eat, too. Fingers tugging at the hem of his pants, just enough for him to bob free, you take a single moment to admire him. It’s a shame he kept this to himself last night - he’s rather pretty.

Saltiness blooms on your tongue as you press it against the head of his cock, first dragging then dipping the tip into the slit at the very tip. Above you, the spoon clatters against the table in response, but rather than chide him you instead fill your mouth with his hardness instead of your words. 

Alhaitham fills your mouth easily, pressing your tongue down as you take him further. The undulation of your tongue along the bottom of his cock make him jerk against you, your swallowing around him must feel far more interesting than whatever he’s reading up there. But he was so interested in it last night…

With a wet pop, you pull back and speak with your lips pressed against the head of his cock, threatening to take him in again, “Having trouble focusing? Do you need me in your lap again?”

Audibly he inhales, certainly prepared to give you a piece of his mind that he must be dying to share, but you cut him off by taking him as far as you can once more. The sound in his throat turns from something coherent to a choked groan as your lips reach the base of his cock briefly, then again, starting a slow pace that’s entirely at your leisure. 

Not his, despite how he rocks toward you in encouragement. Hooking your elbows over his thighs, you leave no room for him to chase after you. Just as he’d locked you in his grasp, you ensnare him just as solidly. At your mercy, he can only lean back in the chair and grip at the armrests with bare fingers and nails digging in audibly. 

The tip of your tongue presses against the prominent vein beneath, relishing in the feel of his racing heartbeat. It’s concrete proof that he isn’t as aloof as he tries to be, though his unfocused eyes on you are just as telling. Now he gives you his attention, undivided and blazing with complete focus. 

It should feel empowering, flattering even. Instead you only feel annoyed, and raise one hand to knock at the bottom of the table above your head. Focus elsewhere, you wordlessly tell him with your cheek bulging around the mass of him, pay me no mind.

Or you’ll stop. You’re not above that, even if you’re getting as much enjoyment out of this as he is. Intuitive even when you’re sucking on him hard enough to veer toward pain, Alhaitham’s hands shake as he reaches to the table, paper rustling enough to tell you he’s at least trying.

But the pages don’t turn, his eyes don’t move as he stares somewhere off in the middle distance. This is how he should’ve looked last night, rather than unaffected and bored. Without a doubt, he’s much easier on the eyes when his jaw is slack and his entire body is full of tension that’s threatening to snap.

The muscles of his abdomen clench, threatening an apex that you’re well aware is looming quickly. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, the exhale through his nose catching on the motion before he rasps, “You’re going to… I’m-”

The words can’t form, not while you drag your tongue on the ridge of his tip, against the vein beneath, along his length with no small amount of self-indulgence. Alhaitham throbs in your mouth, a clear warning for what he’s trying to tell you, and it’s one that you promptly disregard. 

He’s salty on your tongue, between your teeth and cheeks, his release hitting you with force that he can’t use on you himself. Paper crinkles above with his tension, and you’re treated to the sweetest sound of his appreciative moan from low in his chest. Alhaitham’s knees have locked you in, keeping you from pulling back even as he grows soft in your mouth as you swallow his release. 

With his clear refusal to let you go just yet, you gauge his expression from your lower vantage point. Blushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, chest heaving despite so little exertion - Alhaitham paints a pretty picture, one that you wish you could’ve been allowed to see earlier if he’d been just a little more forthcoming. 

With a thud, his back hits the chair once more and he stares up at the ceiling, cutting off your view of whatever expression he wears. Having lost your patience now that he’s obstructed your sight, you wiggle your way from his grasp and awkwardly shimmy from beneath the table. Lips swollen, you sweep at the corners with your thumb and pointedly turn back to the stove to actually get your dinner. 

Alhaitham can worry about dinner cleanup - you’re rather happy to lock yourself in your room and have a quiet evening alone. Maybe some more of those pleasant dreams are on the table, now that you’ve given yourself more fuel for the fire. 

—

His book has long since closed itself under the pressure of its own binding, but the sound can’t drag him from the half-aware, meandering reverie he directs toward the rafters of the ceiling. Steam that once rose from the bowl of soup is no more, leaving it to congeal in the bowl with only a single spoonful having been taken out of it. 

A tacky clock on the wall - one bought for the purpose of driving Kaveh insane - ticks steadily, ensuring that time is passing. He can’t make heads nor tails of it. Alhaitham doesn’t even try.

Somewhere deeper in the house, Alhaitham hears you moving around. The shower starts with a squeak of turning knobs and water moving through pipes. Images of you flicker behind his eyelids as he closes them, ones that include you undressed under the falling water, humming some tune to yourself that you seem to favor with its simplicity. 

How long has he been sitting here, unable to pull himself together? Slouched in the chair until his back aches, mind whirling with thoughts that are too ephemeral for him to dig his fingers into, openly indecent with his pants down for anyone to see if they were to come into the room. 

Archons the house is cold, he feels it along the backs of his limp hands, on the sweat across his forehead. Even on his dick that you hadn’t bothered to put away when you were finished with him. You’d left rather unceremoniously; at least he’d had the decency to put you to bed.

Cracking his eyes open once more, he turns them to the hallway that would lead directly to you and tries to imagine the exact amount of footsteps it would take to cross the distance to the bathroom. Or from the bathroom. 

Maybe if he called for you-

Alhaitham sits up at the mere thought, fingers digging into the arm rests as leverage. No, he’s not doing that. The chair clatters to the floor as he stands, first tipping to two legs and then all the way back under the pressure of his sudden movements. With still-trembling hands, he reaches to his waistband to put himself away, grimacing at the stickiness. 

It might just be in his best interest to shower as well.

[gretavanlace]

Poppins (part 2)

Jake & Josh x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: language, fluff, angst (sort of), alcohol consumption, drug use, still pretty tame but we’ll get there

Morning light is barely crawling into the room, dust motes chasing each other across the scuffed hardwood floors in a muted beam of sun sneaking through the curtains. The golden glitter makes you think of Josh’s smile…the sunshine always does.

It’s early, but you can hear Lily and Jake in quiet conversation across the hall. The only thing on earth that could rouse Jacob Kiszka in these wee hours is his beloved lily-bit. He loves her more than music, you’re certain of it.

The soft cadence of their voices tenderly tug-of-warring draws you out of bed and into the secondhand robe you keep hooked to the door.

Admonishing thoughts beat themselves against the walls of your still half asleep brain as you cinch the silk closed. You should have tried harder last night.

Should’ve waited for Josh to lull her back to sleep and reappear. You had things that needed to be said. Explanations to be heard.

Instead, like a coward, you’d shirked Jake’s reassurance off and disappeared into the guest room. Quietly clicking the door closed and locked as if silence could help you disappear.

After lying awake wondering why the flinch in Josh’s stare twisted your guts as it had, you’d finally drifted into a fitful slumber.

Their whispers tug you along on your bare feet until you find yourself near the doorway of the room that serves as Jake’s whenever he finds himself in town.

He is stretched across the bed like royalty. A king with his tiny princess tucked beside him in a nighty bearing grinning strawberries sporting comically large eyes.

Her miniature fingers toy with a fringed hole worn in his flannel as his touch curls through the hair on her head that matches his own in color and rattiness from their pillows.

“Daddy’s been gone a long time.” She complains, but with a contented snuggle in closer.

“Not so long, girly.” He tucks the blankets up around her. “Plus, he’s ordering an omelet for poppins, they take longer than pancakes.”

You feel like a spy, watching her upturned face scrutinize his own. “How come you call her that? Her name is…”

“I know her name, silly.” He grins. “Mary Poppins? You’ve never seen that movie? And he calls himself a teacher.”

For a breath, you long to correct him. Josh isn’t a teacher, and Jake knows it. His favorite brother is a professor of film analysis and criticism, who happens to be the rockstar of his field. He continues on at the relatively modest university he has chosen - where he remains the youngest ever offered tenure to date - for personal reasons, though regularly head-hunted by larger schools. An Ivy League or two having even chomped at his bit.

Lily-bit shakes her head and turns her attention back to the hole in his shirt she’s still fiddling with. “You need better clothes, uncle jakey.”

He starts to answer his niece with the fondest of smiles on his lips, but notices you instead. “Look here, lil. We’ve got an admirer.”

“Hi!” Her pudgy arms dart out, reaching for you with a delighted grin. “Come cuddle with us.”

“Yeah,” he raises an eyebrow at you over her head. “Come cuddle.”

“There’s a movie about you.” She prattles on, crawling across the waves of blankets. “Uncle jakey told me…when daddy gets back with your omelet that takes so long, we’re all gonna watch it. He said.”

“Who said?” You pull her into your arms as soon as she’s close enough to snatch up.

“Jake!” She huffs as though the answer to her embellishment should be obvious.

Jostling her around teasingly in your arms, you meet his wink with a blush “Well, who says he’s the boss?”

She leans back to scrutinize your face with an expression far beyond her years. “He’s not. Daddy’s the boss and you’re second boss.”

Jake stretches like a sunbathing cat with a hum of lazy satisfaction. “Joshua couldn’t boss his way out of a basket full of puppies.”

The garage door cranks to life, alerting Josh’s return, and lily scampers out of your arms, bolting out of the room to greet him…tiny feet slapping daintily down the hall with a squeal of delight.

“I, on the other hand…” he continues, quieter now as if beckoning you closer so that you might hear. “Have been told that I’m very good at taking control. Happen to be fond of letting go of it now and then, as well. Whichever you prefer, poppins.”

Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms and regard him affectionately. He’s so beautiful, so charismatic, how could you not?

“Why don’t you close the door and slide under the covers where it’s warm?” Jesus, the way his voice sounds. Hushed and hazy as it undulates through the atmosphere, reaching out to curl its searching fingers into your heart.

You shake the moment off with a smile, along with a lighthearted jab, “Ever think with anything aside from your dick, Jacob?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “No. Not often. C’mon, babe, lemme keep you company a little while. Come lay across my big brass bed.”

A soft laugh flutters out of you. What is it about him that renders you no more than a girl with a crush waiting to spot him in the halls of high school?

It’s Josh that breaks the spell his darker half has cast. Or, his voice rather, shouting happily from the kitchen, that breakfast has arrived.

Irritation flashes in Jake's eyes, but he erases it with a blink. “Was hoping for something a little sweeter for breakfast,” he sighs, snapping away the covers gracefully, after running his tongue over his lips. “But I suppose the pancakes I ordered will suffice.”

~

“Look!” Lily waves her tiny starfish hand at your plate, proudly showcasing a western omelet large enough to stuff three human beings to the brim, and a pile of sliced strawberries. “We got pancakes, but Daddy says you don’t like sugar in the mornings so you got something savey.”

“Savory.” Josh corrects. “It means the opposite of sweet. Think of apple pie, can you taste it?” She briefly closes her eyes and then nods. “Okay, good,” He nods back, heaping pancakes out of a styrofoam to go box and onto a plate. “Now think French fries. Which one is savory do you guess?”

“French fries.” She offers a curt nod to prove she understands and is over this line of conversation.

She is intelligent beyond measure, and it’s thanks to him. He never misses an opportunity to zero in on a teaching moment. Ever patient, ever kind, ever loving. Guiding her gently along as she discovers the world around her and the answers she seeks.

Three nights a week, no matter how exhausting his day has been, he sits at the dining room table and pores over books with her in a way that conceals the fact that he’s teaching her to read. He will pointedly stumble over the easy words he knows she’s learned, and color with love when she giggles like a bell before correcting him.

Jake slinks, feline-like, into the chair next to yours and crassly reaches over the table for the bottle of syrup waiting with its sticky cap. “I’m calling child protective services on you, brother.”

You watch on as he drizzles an obscene amount of the sugary mess atop his breakfast.

“S’that right?” Josh finds his own seat, sounding unconcerned.

“Yep.” You’re still staring as Jake lifts the fork to his perfect mouth, speaking around a bite, but with a napkin carefully placed to avoid anything offensive. Karen would be proud. “She’s never seen Mary Poppins? What kind of a father are you?”

“I saw the shining!” Lily offers up, not helping her father’s case.

Jake’s eyes lock in on his twin’s with an accusatory glare as Josh holds his hands up as if to prove his innocence.

“Opening scenes only!” He promises. “I was assisting with a dissertation. Kupbrick. She was up past her bedtime and sneaked in on me.”

“Redrum!” She gleefully announces before plucking a strawberry from your plate.

Josh hangs his head in exasperation, fingers rubbing tight circles into the bridge of his nose, “Oh my god.”

“See?” Jake looks exponentially proud of himself. “Like I said…CPS.”

~

It’s late - too late to still be floating in a tub full of rapidly cooling water, when your cell begins to vibrate noisily against the cheap linoleum flooring of your bathroom.

Josh’s name is displayed on the screen when you scramble to grab it up with a splash.

“She’s restless and asking for you.” He says, forgoing hello all together. “Can you come? I know I shouldn’t ask, but…”

“No…” you interrupt, already rising to climb out of the tub. “No, it’s alright. Really. I’m on my way.”

“What was that sound?” He asks, sounding peculiar. “Were you in the bathtub? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called, I…”

“Josh,” you interrupt. “Shut up.”

~

When you whip into the driveway, he is seated in one of the Adirondack chairs that pebble the porch, with his legs splayed wide, looking both relaxed and on edge.

The closer you step, hurriedly dressed in sweats, slides and an old tattered hoodie, the more bewildered you become.

One, you can smell weed drifting through the air…the heady scent that reminds you of backyard parties in college, that normally only trails after him when she isn’t around.

Two, he looks unbothered. Slightly nervous, perhaps, but nowhere near the anxiousness you’d expected to find when he’d fired the flare gun for reinforcements via phone.

“Did you get her to sleep?” You ask, watching his lips purse prettily around the dwindling joint, stepping up on the porch, confusion evident.

“She isn’t here.” He confesses with a sheepish glance upward in your direction, lovely face downturned.

Silence lingers as you take a seat next to him, but you wait, allowing him to break it.

Finally, he does. “You want?” He hands the joint off to you and watches intently as you draw delicately on it. “I lied, you know? And I’m not really sorry about it. How could I be? It got you here.”

“You’re faded.” You smile, passing back with a slow exhale.

“A little.”

“Where’s Lily?”

“My mom’s,” he shrugs, staring out at the fireflies twinkling across the lawn, in love with and chasing each other through emerald blades of grass. “Jake took her for game night. Candyland, go fish,”

“Hi Ho Cherry-O?” You question, nostalgia creeping in.

“Undoubtedly.” He’s still avoiding your eyes. “They’re going to stay.”

You pull at the strings on your hoodies, winding them through your fingers “So why am I here, Josh?”

At last, he rolls his head against the wooden back of his chair to find your eyes. “What did I interrupt last night?”

Heat rises inside you, crawling uncomfortably up the back of your neck until you’re forced to scratch at it to quell the itch. “Nothing. We were just…talking.”

“Talking.” He nods, and flicks the roach out onto the lawn before scrunching his face up, unhappy with his decision for disposal. “Alright, we’re talking right now. Should I press you up against a wall and slide my hands up your shirt now or later?”

“Josh…” you begin, mentally flailing about for an excuse.

“No.” He scrapes his chair against the porch, turning to face you. “You know he’s all bullshit talk, right?”

You stammer his name once more, at a complete loss for much else.

“Are you sleeping with him? I shouldn’t ask, but I don’t really give a shit. He’s going to hurt you. And it’ll be bad.”

He leans forward and laces his fingers, seemingly for something to do with them, and waits.

“His hands weren’t ‘up my shirt’,” you finally croak, stunned by this turn of events. Weren’t you just soaking in bath water? Halfway to bed? And now you’re here on the porch with Josh, your friend - yes, but also, your boss - a hint high and discussing heavy, heavy, shit. “They were on my waist, is all. And no, I’m not sleeping with him.”

Relief skitters across his expression, but only for a moment. “But you want to, I think. And I know he wants to…and so you will. And you’re so out of your league with him you aren’t even playing the same game.”

You recoil as if you’ve been slapped…and a slap definitely would’ve hurt less, but he hurries to rectify the situation he’s blundered. “No. No, I’m an idiot. What I mean, is…he’s a professional, sweetheart. A girl in every port and not a fucking one of them with a name he can remember.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” You argue without conviction. Of course he knows him as well as he thinks he does. It’s Jake and Josh. Of course he does.

“Do you want a beer?” He asks after another stretch of silence that is fat full of thoughts and things unsaid.

He disappears into the house when you nod, and you have to fight to stay rooted to your seat. You’d run to the safety of your car and speed away if you had half the nerve.

Soon, a chilled bottle is slipped into your hand as he rejoins you.

“Why him?” His query is small and uncharacteristically unsure. “We make sense, you and me.”

“There’s no ‘why him’ and there’s no ‘why not you’.” You lie. “What you saw last night was nothing. A moment of flirting. That’s all.”

“You’re a shitty liar.” He counters.

“And you’re a shitty detective if you think either of you are anything more than friends to me.” You take a casual pull off your beer like this is all just no big deal.

“A shitty liar, and a shitty actress.” He chuckles softly before following your lead with a drink.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @paleshadow-ofadragon @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @agirlwithmanytastes @imdepressedaf1996 @joshkiszkas @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @dvrkblooms @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordierama @calumspretty

[verbenaa]

to eden | chapter one

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: Rin lays there, her back against the grass as she stares resolutely up at the sky overhead, little drops of dew like tiny diamonds hanging heavy from blades of grass.

“I have nothing to say to you, just so you know.” She refuses to look over to the place where Astarion lays mere inches from her as she says the words, but it doesn’t stop her from moving her hand to rest it down in the small gap of space between their bodies. 

It’s an offering, if nothing else, though it is one Rin doesn’t know if he will take.

“Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing that you so rarely have anything worthwhile to say.” Astarion’s words carry his usual unaffected haughtiness that has her eyes rolling despite herself, a small huff of annoyance escaping her lips. 

But as she feels the coolness of his skin against her own, clever fingers intertwining with her delicate ones using only the slightest bit of movement she thinks that maybe, just maybe there can also be a little room for hope in whatever this thing between them is.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

In which Astarion and Rin learn how to bridge the gap, because maybe all that distance between them isn’t quite so large as they once thought.

A semi-retelling of events; focused on themes of learning trust, intimacy, and perhaps even love.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Female Tav

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: slight rivalmance, idiots to lovers, romance, adventure

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 5.6k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: discussion of wild vampire bites, feeling EMOTIONS, astarion being astarion

𝑎/𝑛: hello and welcome to my delusions aka a multi chap fic about learning how love and build trust and intimacy because i want to help HEAL HIM ♡

ao3 here

masterlist

Rin’s eyes open blearily, gaze unfocused, as she blinks away the sleep from her eyes. She squints against the bright sunlight seeping in through the tent, the thickly woven blue and white fabric illuminated as diluted rays of sunshine beam down, tiny motes of dust drifting lazily through the air around her.

It takes her several moments to orient herself as she lays there unmoving on the bedroll—one second to remember who she is, another for where she is, and lastly, several seconds to remember exactly what it is she did the night before.

She drags her palms up to cover her eyes, limbs heavy as if weighted with steel as she groans into the emptiness of the tent that surrounds her.

“Oh, fuck.”

Rin lets her hands fall back down onto the threadbare blanket that covers her, fingers twirling around a pull in the weave, the motion a small comfort, as she forces herself to open her eyes once more, dark green irises focusing on the sunlight that shines in from above.

She narrows her eyes at the diffused orb of the sun where it hangs in the sky above, leveling a glare towards it as best as one can while still laying down in their bedroll far past the hours of dawn. 

“I suppose it would be too much to ask for a little bit of cloud cover.” Her words bounce around the tent, aimed at nothing in particular, exhaustion still pulling at her limbs as she sighs audibly, drawing herself up to her elbows slowly as she looks down at herself, eyes scanning over her form.

She was, thankfully, free of tentacles. A win for the day, if nothing else. 

The twinge of pain in her neck was a new one, though. 

Rin brings a hand up, letting fingertips running over the tender marks that now decorate the column of her neck. It was a miracle she even woke up at all in retrospect, nausea curling through her body as the lack of blood from the night’s prior events wreak havoc through her system with every move she makes.

She can see the evening before clearly, the clarity of it all still bright in her mind’s eye. She remembers the way his lips twisted as he spoke words intent to be persuasive and confident, but those eyes of his had held nothing but thinly veiled desperation despite his every attempt otherwise.

She doubts he’s even aware of it, how expressive that handsome face of his really is. How his lips pull down ever so slightly at the corners, how his lashes sometimes shutter over crimson irises with a subtle apprehension she doesn’t quite understand.

She has no plans to tell him, either—she knows better than to waste a good weapon when she sees it.

It was a duality Rin found to be confusing, so at odds with the image Astarion works hard to present and had so carefully cultivated himself to appear to be.

This is a gift. This is a gift. This is a gift.

The words replay in her head over and over again, as if they were a broken prayer she never wanted to learn for an unknown god she does not want to know.

She doesn’t want to hear them. 

Doesn’t want to hear him there in her head, that gratitude ruining her image of him so thoroughly that she no longer knows if she can ever go back to seeing him the way she had before.

The words claw into her mind and bury themselves there deep and she wishes she could rip them out, cut them away with shears of the sharpest steel to forget about that small bit of humanity she had seen within him.

Rin desperately wants to tell herself she won’t do it again, would never again agree to letting him partake in her but she knows such words would be in vain, despite everything she wants to tell herself otherwise. 

She wants to be wanted. Wants to be needed far too much to ever deny him such a thing, a weakness in her that grows with every passing moment with leaves of green unfurling into her empty heart.

Rin stops that particular line of thought, ripping it out of her tadpole-addled brain before it can grow—before it too can bury its roots deep inside her mind and tangle there in the space next to his words. It was far too dangerous a feeling, one she is not keen to indulge in even in the supposed safety of her own mind.

Her cheeks heat at the memory against her will; the silver of his hair burnished to soft gold by the glow of the nearby fire as he followed her down against her bedroll, the rough fabric scratching over her too sensitive skin. The feeling of his breath against her neck as he searched for a place to bite, the brief lick of his tongue there, his murmured words “yes right here, perfect, darling” before the sharpness of his fangs pierced her tender flesh. 

That icy knife of pain, lasting only a second, before he began to suck. The way her body had responded, a deep fire of her own answering to that frosted heat in her neck as he drank his fill, the soft curls of his hair brushing against her burning skin as his lips move along the blood spilling from her throat like rubies.

RIn shakes the memories from her mind—everything, all of it—with a clench of her fist in the blanket. With a soft groan she rises fully, letting the blanket fall from tensed fingers and onto her lap as she moves to sit, hands instead busying themselves with rubbing the last bits of sleep still clinging to her lashes.

At the rate her thoughts were going she was going to have to ask Lae’zel to put her out of her misery, perhaps sooner rather than later.

Perhaps it was the dear tadpole that now sits in the space behind her eyes, wriggling away with its sharpened teeth deep inside her skull, that is causing such troubling thoughts to enter her mind.

Rin raises her arms above her, limbs stretching high above as she lets the watery sunshine filter over the planes of her face, soaking up the weak beams of light as if they could cleanse her mind of everything that plagues her—of the tadpole, of this mess, of Astarion. 

She doesn’t understand him, doesn’t understand why he would choose her—the one who he seems to carry such disdain for, out of everyone in this band of misfits. Her relationship with Astarion was competitive and petty at best, his half-hearted attempts at charm the only time he ever came close to being something that could be considered civil.

Maybe Astarion simply thought her to be the least intelligent of their group which, in fairness, she perhaps couldn’t outright deny. Maybe he’s not quite so far off the mark with that assessment if her present decision making skills are anything to go by.

Rin grabs at the decanter of water sitting next to her bedroll, the glass gleaming as she uncorks it before bringing it to her lips, taking small sips as she surveys the now familiar interior of her small tent, the space a surprisingly grounding constant in her life despite the short amount she’s had to call it her own.

It’s bare, mostly. She didn’t have many belongings before her illithid kidnapping, much less what she had on her actual person when she was taken and then deposited onto the sandy shoreline with little grace. 

Not much but a worn bedroll and blanket sit in the center, several books found over the past weeks stacked unevenly in a corner still waiting to be read, a tarnished hand mirror she found sitting atop the stack.

Her lyre sits propped up against a tent pole, miraculously undamaged after everything so far, the carved wood darkened from years of use in the places where the tips of her fingers have learned to rest.

She sighs once more as she makes her way on her knees to the small basket she’s made use of as a table, turned upside down to hold the rest of the scattered belongings she has. 

Her leather bound notebook still sits open from where she scribbled down the events of last night, drops of ink decorating the page around her words (neatness never was her forte). She’s written so much over the years—bars of music, lyrics to songs, words she’d never had the bravery to say out loud and instead immortalized with cheap, watery ink on paper.

She moves past the journal and past the tie for her hair, fingers searching for the small vial of perfumed oil sitting next to a chipped mug filled with the blue flowers she had picked from the riverbank days ago, blooms now withered and drooping.

She had stolen the perfume off a table at one of the many market stalls back in the city some time ago, the aroma of syrupy honey and fresh blooming jasmine filling the air as she uncorks the small vial to dab it onto her wrists and the space behind the slight points of her ears, running whatever oil is leftover through the waves of darkened gold as they cascade down over delicate shoulders.

Rin grabs at the mirror sitting off to the side, picking it up to look at herself. Still the same as always, her eyes flitting over the reflection looking back at her—the smattering of freckles across her sun-warmed cheeks still remain, same messy dark blonde waves a handful as always, lips still plush and pink despite the blood lost last night. 

She changes out of her night shirt, tossing the wrinkled linen to the side to spread against her bedroll before pulling on a pair of leathers and a flowing linen tunic, laces still loose around her chest as she adjusts the collar to hopefully hide the bite mark adorning her neck before standing.

With one last fluff of her hair, Rin exits her tent, coming face to face with the full brunt of the Storm Coast sunshine.

She winces at the light, a hand coming up to shield her from the rays with a discontented noise as she makes her way to the fire roaring in the middle of camp, Gale stirring a pot of something with one hand as he holds a well-loved spell book in the other, brow furrowed as his eyes scan the faded text. 

“I trust you slept well, friend?” Gale’s smile is warm and frankly all too chipper for such an hour as Rin approaches, setting down the book in his hand onto a small side table setting next to him, the wood aged and wrinkled with years of use.

“Any sleep is a successful sleep when it means waking up without tentacles, don’t you think?” She grabs at the apple sitting next to the spell book, bringing it to her mouth and biting in the crisp, red flesh. It snaps as her teeth bite in, the juice coating her lips with a refreshing, familiar sweetness.

“Ah, yes, our good friend ceremorphosis.” Gale ladles her out what looks to be some sort of porridge into a bowl, handing it to her before launching into a monologue on said topic with a confidence Rin can only envy. 

Rin sits down on a conveniently placed stool next to Gale’s cooking pot, content to let him drone on about whatever he pleases as she listens to the cadence of his voice, hoping it will provide a successful distraction from the other thoughts moving relentlessly through her mind. 

Everything about Gale was warm—warm brown hair and warm brown eyes, warm demeanor and warm voice. So very unlike another member of their group that seems to occupy her thoughts with a worrying frequency.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see a certain white-haired vampire trying his hardest not to look her way, a puzzled expression poorly hidden across his features as he fiddles with his hair, fingers brushing through the strands as he sways slightly from foot to foot. 

His timing is poor as he glances up at her the moment her eyes flick over to him, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments across camp before Astarion looks down again. He hastily grabs a book from his table and opens it at random, fingers forgetting to turn the pages as he simply looks down upon it without motion, body still as stone.

Rin blatantly ignores him as she moves her attention back to Gale as he drones on, nodding blandly and answering him when appropriate, giving him as much of her attention she can manage with Astarion pretending not to look her way.

“Thank you for such riveting discussion, Gale. And such good food too!” She interrupts Gale during his soliloquy, moving to stand as she takes the last bite of porridge in her bowl before setting it down amongst the other dirty dishes.

“I’m not sure how we’d ever survive without your talents at both conversation and cooking.” She lets herself wear a charming smile as her compliments hit home, Gale looking thoroughly pleased at her praise, standing up straighter as his smile widens.

“Ah, yes. Well, it is always an honor to be able to nourish both one’s mind and soul. And body.” Gale adds on the last bit hastily, drawing a chuckle from Rin as she leaves Gale where he stirs the porridge with a polite smile before steeling herself and sauntering over to where Astarion pretends to read his book by his tent.

“Too many big words on the page, Astarion?” She approaches him with a raised brow, nodding towards the book held open in his hands. “You haven’t turned it in quite awhile.”

“And here I thought you were trying not to look at me,” Astarion slams the book shut with an elegant motion, the pages clapping together audibly in the relative silence of the camp. “I can’t say blame you. I’d have a hard time not staring at myself too, if I were you.”

“Yes, well, your glaring ego does make it quite difficult to ignore, especially in such bright sunlight.” Rin crosses her arms as she leans back, bearing her weight on her hip as she cocks it to the side. “Good Morning, Astarion.” 

“And Good Morning to you, darling bard.” 

Astarion stretches out the syllables of the last two words, and the emphasis on them has Rin rolling her eyes despite how the words send something in her belly tumbling despite Astarion’s obvious insincerity.

Astarion sets his book down on a decorated table next to him before looking back at Rin, his eyes running up and down her body before settling onto the place where he left his mark on her neck, still half-hidden by her collar. His gaze is intense, something about the look in his eyes unsettling her as his eyes flick up to her own once more.

“How do you feel?” His question is surprisingly genuine, any trace of his usual persona far away as he waits for her answer.

She wasn’t quite sure what to expect from him, his usual attitude so at odds with these small pockets of sincerity that she has somehow managed to see twice in the past twelve hours. 

She hates it. 

“Concerned, Astarion?” Rin raises her brows in question before deciding to grant him as close to an real answer as she can, though she doesn’t fully understand why she finds herself leaning towards such honesty when it’s never served her terribly well in the past. “I’ve felt worse, don’t worry.” 

“That’s…good. It will pass.” He nods his head slightly, silver curls bobbing with the motion. His voice carries that same thread of sincerity, the sound of it disconcerting.

“Well, it certainly beats waking up in an unmarked grave.” Rin’s tone is light, breezy; the tilt of her head almost charming as she steers the conversation away from such perplexing emotions.

“I can arrange that, you know.” He picks up a knife from where it rests on the table next to him, examining the blade with the same air of casual indifference he does everything, a familiar wicked smirk playing on his lips. 

This is the Astarion she knows, the only version of him she is comfortable with knowing, and its reemergence has her confidence surging back with it. 

“Can you? I’m not so certain those hands of yours have ever done much digging.” She nods her head where he still holds the knife between perfectly manicured fingers.

The shadow that briefly crosses over his eyes at her words is gone as quickly as it comes, Astarion leaning ever so slightly into Rin’s space instead, the motion distracting her away from the question forming on her lips.

“Darling, if you want to know what these hands are capable of, all you have to do is ask and I’ll gladly give you a demonstration.”

The smile Rin gives him is saccharine as she lets her body relax the slightest bit towards his own, ever mindful of that knife still held between nimble fingers that could so very easily find a home in the spaces between her ribs.

“I’ll pass.” She keeps her smile sweet as she leans away, shooting him a sly wink over her shoulder as she turns to leave him where he stands in the over-bright light of day.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The cave yawns above, the sound of their footsteps echoing high against the sharp stalactites that hang down like crooked teeth. Rin keeps her feet near silent as she makes her way down a small offshoot, the rest of her companions back at the mouth of the passage as she scouts ahead.

She’s not entirely sure what she’s even looking for, though any possible lead about their current predicament is better than what they have now. Slowly, she steps, careful to keep her footsteps light as she moves forward along the rocky ground beneath.

The darkness is heavy, cloying almost, the bit of darkvision from Rin’s partial elven heritage barely enough to help her see. Her ears perk slightly as she hears the smallest of noises behind her, the barest movement of a rock on the ground alerting her of his presence as she scents him behind her, the potent mix of bergamot and brandy one she has recently become more familiar with than she would like.

“Is that the slithering of a snake I hear behind me?” Rin whispers the words low into the air as she stops moving, not bothering to look over her shoulder to the place she knows Astarion sneaks from several paces behind, his own footsteps practically unintelligible against the ground as he draws nearer.

“Darling, you’ll have to say that once more because I’m quite certain I didn’t hear you right.” Utter disdain drips from the words, his scorn leaving Rin no choice but to steal a glance over her shoulder at him if only to witness the inevitable expression of contempt that decorates his elegant features, eyebrows drawing low over crimson eyes narrowed in her direction.

“Fine, have it your way.” She throws a smirk at him from over her shoulder as he approaches her. “Would a prowling panther suit you better, then? Though, frankly, I think you have more the air of a house cat than that of an actual predator.” 

A lie, but he didn’t have to know that. The disbelieving raise of his brow tells her all she needs to know about what he thinks of her comment, though.

“Well, if I am to be a cat then what does that make you? Perhaps a little mouse in need of a chase?” He tilts his head with feline grace as his eyes flit over her features.

Rin opens her mouth to say something—pink lips parting to let out a retort, an insult, anything she can to fill the space, unwilling to let him have the final say—when she hears it, a subtle sound farther up the path that draws both of their attentions, heads turning in sync.

A bang echoes out, louder now as it reverberates off the cave walls, followed by ringing silence left to fill the space. Before Rin can react she feels Astarion move, his elven reflexes far quicker than her own as he grabs for her. His hands fall to her waist as he walks them both backwards with quick, quiet steps into the shadows of the damp wall, his claret gaze narrowed as he stares at something she cannot yet see farther down the way. 

Warning bells go off in her head as her eyes search the darkness beyond to no avail, dread settling in her belly as the inky blackness gives no notion of unveiling whatever lays beyond it. She can feel the presence of the being as it no doubt wonders what dares to disturb its lair; its dark power oily as it radiates through the narrow space.

He’s barely breathing, she notices, his chest practically still as it only expands and releases with the slightest bit of movement. He no longer seems to try to hide his fangs, and she absently wonders how she was ever able to not see him for anything other than a vampire as she searches the planes of his face instead of looking at whatever it is that lay ahead—how could she have ever overlooked and dismissed what seems so obvious now?

He is a perfect predator, every inch of him screaming it with a certain darkness that seems undeniable, from the tension in his limbs to the brows dipped low over cunning eyes.

Rin looks away from him for only a moment, stealing a quick glance towards where Shadowheart and Karlach have too flattened themselves against the wall farther down as they try to blend as best as they can, the great axe in Karlach’s hands at the ready as Shadowheart practically glows in time with the pulse of her blessing from Shar.

Whatever it is ahead seems to be ill inclined at the very least to put in much effort to come searching for them, that same presence pushing no closer as the group all stand frozen, waiting.

She can feel the damp cold of the wall seeping in through the padding of her stolen armor, a chill sneaking in through the metallic plating that permeates into her skin. But it’s nothing compared to the feeling of where Astarion’s hand rests against her waist, the weight of his fingers resting above her hip heavy as they press into her.

Their armor brushes where their bodies touch, Astarion making the profile of their bodies as small as possible as he crowds her against the dripping wall, Rin barely daring to breathe for fear of the metals clinking against one another and drawing the attention of whatever it is that sits somewhere up ahead. She can feel the warmth in her cheeks, the slight flush stealing across her face with a telltale rosiness at the lack of space between them. 

Some small part of her takes notice of that power receding slightly, slinking away slowly though she pays it little mind, her thoughts so suddenly filled with him that everything else seems unimportant in the wake of his closeness.

The proximity is electrifying. 

Her mind whirls at the nearness, flitting back to the few times they’ve ever been so close—the memory of his body hovering over her own as cool lips move against her bloodied skin; that very first day on the beach, his body dragging hers down into dirty sand with a knife to her throat and those same cool lips speaking threats into her ear.

Blessedly, Rin thinks, he hasn’t yet truly noticed her scrutiny of him or the flush that stains pink across her cheeks. She is unable to look away from his face this close, her eyes memorizing the sharpness of his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes as his face still stares in the direction of the noise; his senses, vampiric or elven, searching for something she cannot even hope to find in that impenetrable darkness ahead. 

Slowly, as if summoning his attention with her thoughts, Astarion turns his head to look back in her direction. His gaze moves downward, no doubt taking notice of the slight pink of her cheeks as his plush lips widen into a smirk. 

Astarion steps in closer to her body, just slightly, but the effect is nothing short of exhilarating. Rin finds herself somehow closer to the wall, the hand at her waist pressing harder into her armor as his thumb brushes up and down in light motions that have the darkest parts of her she had hoped to ignore lamenting the barrier of their armor, wondering how his fingertips would feel against the softness of her skin instead. 

With a torturously slow motion, Astarion drags a hand up, barely brushing over the silhouette of her body as he raises his gloved fingers to rest on the exposed skin of her neck. Rin stands there frozen as his eyes stare into her own with an intensity she’s wholly unprepared for.

Lightly, Astarion brushes his fingers over the new marks there, twin spots of healing red high upon the skin of her neck, barely visible above the collar of her armor. Rin’s breath catches in her throat at the feeling, a shiver running down her body at the touch, much to her dismay, as Astarion eyes stay stuck to her neck.

“You tasted absolutely divine, darling.” His words are a whispered, heady thing as his eyes move up to look into hers once more, full of a certain promise Rin is unwilling to put a name to.

But the expression on his face is one of perfected, calculated seduction that he tries to hide beneath a hot gaze as he watches and waits for her reaction. Rin keeps her features neutral as she considers him, the lack of much of anything there dousing any embers building inside her.

Astarion looks at her as though she is something he can simply win with a good enough strategy, as though if he plays his imaginary cards right he will emerge as the victor of some unknown prize.

She can spot a mile away what this is to him, what she is to him. 

A game. 

And she’ll be damned if she lets him win.

Rin puts on her best coquettish smile, looking up at him from under dark lashes as she wets her bottom lip. 

She moves her hands from where they rest at her sides to slide up the armor of his chest, touch light as she stops just short of his collarbone, examining the sleek black material under her hands as her fingertips play with the artful metalwork. She raises her eyes to his own again, challenge rising to life in the deep emerald of her eyes.

Astarion leans in slightly towards her, his scent filling her nose at the closeness, the smirk playing on his lips deepening.

“Play your cards right, darling, and maybe I’ll let you have another taste.” Her words are sweetly mocking, whispered on an exhale as her palms move to press flat against the planes of his chest before pushing hard.

Astarion stumbles back a step, air coming between their bodies once more as he rights himself, a brief look of surprise crossing his features before a wicked smile takes its place.

A part of her regrets something in those words the minute they leave her mouth—something wrong about them she can’t quite put her finger on—but she brushes the feeling away, shoving it deep into the recesses of her mind to be analyzed later like she’s done for years and years as she breezes past Astarion with a victorious smirk, ponytail swishing. 

Rin makes her way back to where Shadowheart and Karlach wait, unwilling to take note of the look exchanged between the two of them as she approaches, the blush yet to recede from her cheeks.

“Well, I think we’d better find another way around, don’t you?” Rin gestures to Shadowheart, ignoring the curious raise of her brow as she begins to walk ahead, Karlach coming into step beside her.

“Whatever you say, boss.” Rin dislikes how wide Karlach’s smile is as she turns to look at the tiefling.

“Oh, hush. Not a word from either of you.” And with one last noise of exasperation, Rin finds her way to the front of the group to lead them onwards.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Rin glances up at Astarion over her cards, held between her fingers with the finesse she would any other weapon. Her eyes meet his own as they assess her, attempting to see through her strategy as his elegant fingers draw another card from the pile sitting between them, a fat candle melting wax onto the tabletop off to the side illuminating the woodgrain.

Shadowheart gives an exasperated sigh from her place next to Rin, her own hand of cards long since flung out onto the tabletop in defeat, arms crossed in front of her chest as she rolls of her eyes.

Astarion keeps his face still, careful to give no tells as he places two cards into play on the table and waits. A lucky hand, to be sure.

But as Rin draws the next card, bringing it up to her face to look at, she smiles wide, the card just the one she had predicted she would pull. She carefully places her cards onto the table face up, her own set trumping Astarion’s own. 

“I win.” Rin eyes Astarion with sheer triumph as she says the words. 

“I’m shocked, darling. I didn’t know you were such a little cheat.” Astarion’s words are mocking, though Rin swears she can see something akin to amusement in his gaze as he arches an elegant brow, adjusting his posture to lean back with an air of indifference.

“And here I thought you liked that sort of thing.” She preens in his direction, still bathing in the feeling of the win.

“You’re both awful. What a pair you two make.” Shadowheart stands with a noise of disgust, dark braid bouncing behind her as she leave them to move instead towards where the other group sits in front of the fire, conversing happily about something or other.

“Counting cards. Really?” There was no real point in denying Astarion’s accusation—she was, in fact, cheating.

But, then again, so was he.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you weren’t hiding a card up that sleeve of yours.” She nods to where he has an arm draped casually across the back of the wooden chair.

Rin grabs at the bottle of wine sitting on the tabletop, eager to busy her hands with something as she takes a swig to fill the silence. She still felt somewhat off-kilter following the interaction with Astarion earlier, could feel his eyes on her the rest of the afternoon, as if he was appraising some unknown part of her.

Her fingers play at the handmade label of the bottle, ink and parchment warped by drips of the dark red liquid. Her earlier words to him keep drifting in and out of her mind, unable to be dismissed. 

She had written it out earlier, still fresh from their exploration, wet quill moving hastily over the vellum as she organized her thoughts the only way she knows how, penmanship rushed as she wrote word after word kneeling upon the packed dirt with still-armored knees.

He confuses her, and while she may not trust him (though she’s unsure she ever has really trusted anyone), she doesn’t want to let him starve either. Despite all his misgivings and abrasive nature, she is loathe to withhold and force him to work for his food when she could provide it so very easily. 

Everyone deserved a chance to eat. 

Even beautiful, pompous, agitating vampires.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier.” She swallows, fingertips running over the smooth, dark glass in her hands, looking everywhere but his face as she finally says the words that had been plaguing her thoughts. 

“You’ll have to clarify, darling. I don’t commit every silly little thing you say to memory.” So dismissive, as always. His consistency is a small comfort, at the very least. 

Rin sighs as she forces her hands to stop their motions, resting her elbows on the table instead, as her eyes finally drift to his face. Astarion looks as calm and unbothered as ever as he pretends to be uninterested in what she has to say, though she can see the slight tension along the edge of him, lining his shoulders and neck he surveys her with a guarded indifference as he waits for her to continue her words.

“What I said earlier, in the cave.” She lets her eyes meet his own, darkened jade staring into depthless incarnadine.

“You don’t have to do anything, Astarion, to get my blood.” That carefully cultivated guarded expression on his face falls, lips opening as if trying to find words, but nothing but air releasing on his breath.  

“I’ll give it to you, gladly. I won’t make you ask.” 

Astarion does nothing, says nothing as he sits there and stares at her, face blank as the candlelight flickers softly over his features. No clever words, no cunning smirk.

And with those parting words Rin stands to leave, unknowing of the weight that those few words carry as she places the empty wine bottle down on the worn wood and walks to her tent, Astarion still staring at her empty chair aside the slowly burning wick.

[starcrossedlovrs]

Marauders meets My Chemical Romance: The second book of the series “May Death Never Stop You”: “Danger Days” by me, starcrossedlovrs (AO3).

Rating: Mature. Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

After the devastating loss of his closest friends and his fiancée, James Potter finds himself in a perilous situation, forced into an uneasy alliance with the enigmatic Regulus Black. As they embark on a desperate mission against Voldemort, James must navigate a world of darkness and deception, grappling with his own grief and forbidden desires. In this sequel to I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love, loyalties are tested, and love becomes both a weapon and a refuge. Will their fragile bond survive the shadows that threaten to consume them, or will their pasts destroy any hope of a future together?

An excerpt of the ninth chapter “Shut Up And Run With Me”:

James sprinted through the dense woods, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His lungs burned with each inhale, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. The sharp scent of pine mixed with the earthy smell of damp leaves filled his nostrils as he pushed through the underbrush, branches slapping against his face and arms. The panic that had seized him when Gideon warned him about the Order’s arrival was beginning to fade, replaced by a grim determination. He needed shelter—somewhere to hide and regroup.

 

He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing onto the forest floor. The silence of the woods enveloped him, broken only by the distant calls of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind. The ground was cold and slightly damp beneath him, the smell of earth filling his senses. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat gradually slow. His muscles ached from the strain, and his mind buzzed with a hundred worries. But he forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t stay exposed out here; he needed a more secure hiding place.

 

As he stumbled deeper into the forest, the sound of a nearby stream trickled through the trees, its soft babble a rare comfort. The canopy above thickened, casting dark shadows across the forest floor. Then, he spotted it—an old, abandoned hut nestled among the trees. It was small and dilapidated, its wooden walls covered in moss and rot, but it was better than nothing.

 

James approached it cautiously, pushing open the creaky door. The smell of mildew hit him immediately, and the inside was dark, filled with shadows and cobwebs that stretched across the corners like ancient, forgotten drapes. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight that pierced through the cracks in the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was dry, and it offered some protection from the elements.

 

He set to work, sweeping away the dust and cobwebs with an old broom he found leaning in a corner. He shook out some moldy blankets and laid them on the floor to create a makeshift bed. As he worked, his mind wandered back to the farm, to the safety he’d felt there. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of the blanket, and a pang of regret washed over him. He thought of the photos he’d left behind—the faces of friends and family who had been his anchor, his reason to keep fighting. Now, they were just another casualty of his hurried escape.

 

Exhausted, James lay down on the blankets and closed his eyes, hoping for a few hours of sleep. The sounds of the forest—chirping crickets, the rustling leaves—lulled him into a restless slumber.

 

He woke up with a start, the morning sun streaming through the cracks in the walls, casting thin beams of light across the hut. His body ached from the hard floor, and the musty smell of the hut filled his nose. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that he needed to find food and water if he was going to survive out here.

 

He spent the day foraging in the forest, searching for berries and edible plants. The knowledge Lucretia had shared with him came back in bits and pieces, guiding his choices as he picked through the undergrowth. The berries were tart and barely filled him, but the act of searching kept his mind occupied, giving him something to focus on besides his gnawing hunger and the constant undercurrent of fear.

 

Between scavenging trips, he tried to repair the hut, patching the holes in the walls and roof with branches and leaves. The scent of fresh pine filled the small space, mingling with the musty odor of decay. Despite his efforts, the feeling of restlessness gnawed at him. Each patch he made, every hole he covered, felt temporary, like he was delaying the inevitable.

 

Alone in the woods, with nothing but his thoughts for company, the memories of those he’d lost came flooding back. He remembered the laughter and warmth of his friends, the sense of purpose that had driven them. But now, all he had was the quiet of the forest and his own heavy thoughts.

 

At night, he lay on his makeshift bed, staring up at the ceiling of the hut, his mind drifting back to Regulus and their last encounter. “I’m going to murder Voldemort,” Regulus had said, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. James had dismissed it then as a reckless boast, but now, in the solitude of the forest, he couldn’t shake the thought. What if Regulus had been serious? What if he really had a plan?

 

He sat up, the thin blanket falling away from his shoulders. His breath was visible in the cool night air. Regulus had been close to Voldemort, closer than most. If there was even a slim chance that he knew something—anything—that could help bring Voldemort down, wasn’t it worth taking the risk? The idea of doing nothing, of hiding away in the woods while Voldemort continued his reign of terror, was unbearable.

 

The next morning, James packed up his meager supplies. His body was stiff and sore, his stomach a constant reminder of his limited food supply. But he had made up his mind. He had to find Regulus. It was a long shot, but he couldn’t sit idly by any longer. He couldn’t let fear dictate his actions. He needed to do something, anything, to feel like he was fighting back.

 

As he moved through the forest, days blurred into nights. His search for Regulus became a fixation, a way to keep his mind off the hunger and the cold. He wandered the woods and fields, often doubling back on himself, guided by a mixture of intuition and desperation. Each night, he slept fitfully, his dreams filled with faces from his past—friends he’d lost, battles he’d fought, the farm he’d fled.

If you want to continue reading, here is the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58061965/chapters/147820018

[ppushable]

of course we'll be okay

jean kirschtein x fem reader / longfic / chapter wc: 10 167

1 - resigned delusion

masterlist

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I can't remember my name. Civilization is wiped and the future is bleak. The zombies are here.

But it's not all that bad. It's a little selfish to think like this, I know, but I can't seem to have it any other way.

My name isn't a big deal. As for the memories, well, I've made better ones, with people I really care about, and who I really hope care about me, too. And how can you expect me to care about a society I don't even remember, or a future I've never imagined? Okay, now that was selfish.

---

No matter how terrible things may seem, I always end up reminiscing. Nostalgic for the days when I lived so freely, when my only care was if I would come home alive. When I was swarmed by people who really, really cared about me.

When the two of us were stuck to each other, inseparable, through hell and back.

If I could make one wish, it wouldn't be to change the past, but to have never experienced it at all.

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ao3 tags:

Zombie Apocalypse / Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse / Slow Burn / Slow To Update / mc is awkward as hell / at first / no y/n / POV First Person / im sorry if this is a mess / somewhat canon compliant / Sad Ending / if we ever get there / Reader-Insert / Angst / no beta author is friendless and hesitant / Fluff / Coming of Age / Blood and Gore / Zombies / Modern Era / Nonbinary Hange Zoë / Amnesia / Amnesiac Reader / Character Development / Cross-Posted on Wattpad / Enemies to Lovers / Enemies to Friends to Lovers / Jean Kirstein Being An Asshole / morally grey zeke yeager / Other Additional Tags to Be Added / side marco bott/reader / only in the beginning rlly / Forced Pregnancy

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i've been thinking about writing this for a really, really long time. so i began. and then i started thinking about posting it. there's not much more to say without full-on rambling, but i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoy writing it. at least, i hope i didn't waste your fanfiction time. there are so many amazing stories out there that i took inspiration from. (the last of us is not one of them)

some things to note;

there will be violence/gore/injuries

and angst

and fluff

and dumbass shenanigans

the story might be long and convoluted because i'm not too sure what i'm doing

warnings will be added before the gnarly chapters

things are subject to change! mostly the tags, but nothing too major.

without further ado ♥

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Above hangs an unfamiliar ceiling, corporate drop tiles, harsh light cutting hard shadows on its rigid surface.

“Hello, Ostrich!” That sharp voice cuts a line straight through my ears. “How are you?”

The words that come out of me are slurred, half-baked. “Good, how about you?”

“You’ve slept in. The school bus left twenty minutes ago.”

“What?” The heels of my palms sink into the foamy mattress as I push myself up and a nasty static builds in my head. 

“That sure got you up, eh?”

Green and white checkers line the laminate floor below, blinding white sunshine bouncing off its waxed and perfect surface into my fresh eye. Even as I try to blink away the ensuing dark blue blotch, the squares persist in the corners of my vision. 

That horrendous thing was there yesterday, too. 

Yesterday? What was I doing yesterday? I was here, wasn’t I, in the same room with the same pockmarked ceiling and the same sun and the same green and white. In that little instance in time in this room, in this body, under these blankets, my entire life happened. Before yesterday, there was nothing. 

Nothing? What am I talking about?

The person at my side raises a mushroom into a light beam. Motes of dust dance around the fungus, giving it a heavenly quality despite its globby and wrinkled appearance. “Look at this. You don’t think it’s poisonous, do you?”

“Professor Hange.” 

“Maybe I should feed it to, uh.” Their grip on the spout loosens and it falls with a pitter-patter. The face behind comes into focus: squarish goggles, hawkish nose, elastic mouth. “What did you just say?”

I rest a hand against my face at the sacrifice of stability. “Professor—”

Hange shoots up with a hard clatter as the milk crates they sat on are knocked over. “Shut up! Did you just— you— I thought—” They give up on words. “No!” And out comes a deep laugh. “No way!” 

They scramble to the other side of the room — it only takes a few steps — to a folding table pressed against the wall, plucking out a pen and paper with a crisp flourish. 

A knock comes from the open doorway at the foot of my bed, catching both of our attentions — it’s a middle-aged woman holding a stack of blankets. We lock eyes and she smiles, a movement that squishes the corner of her eyes into pleasantly deep wrinkles. Something compels me to return the gesture — and I will, probably, when the room stops tilting. She speaks. “Everything okay here? I heard something fall.” 

Hange doesn’t allow a huff of breathing room. “She remembered! Me!”

Her brows shoot up. “Really?” And the smile deepens. “See, I knew it was only a matter of time—” her gaze wanders to the paper— “what is that?”

Hange drums the notes with their fingertips, the sound strangely calming, like rain against a car window or grease simmering on a quiet night. “Paper.”

“For what?”

“Scientific observation.”

“No.”

The professor’s body deflates like a wilting flower and makes a sound like one, too, if wilting flowers could speak. “But I need to observe.”

Instead of thoughts, there lives a school of deep-sea fish in my head — too slippery to snag, pin down, and comprehend, but pretty to skim over and lose concentration. Every once in a while there’s a flash as one fleetingly separates from the herd, only to merge once more into the flickering storm, into itself. Pretty. The air swirls with nature’s sparkles. 

Where am I? Who am I? Why am I sitting on a bed, watching these two bicker? Why am I even on a bed at all? Where’s my mother? 

“Professor, from what I’ve heard, she just woke up. Couldn’t it wait a bit? At least make a decent first impression!”

“But it’s already—”

“Professor Hange Zoe! As a functional, responsible adult you should know—”

“Who said I was responsible? Yesterday I—”

“Um!”

The yammering terminates as both sources turn toward the origin of the disruption, me. What the hell am I thinking? “Sorry.” Sitting up is hard, especially when you’re sweating bullets in front of a crowd. I lean against the headboard. “Where am I?”

They share a glance, the new arrival’s notably pointed. “I’m trusting you with this.”

Hange beams. “Alright. Let’s get started with introductions, then.” With fierce velocity, their hand smacks their hollow chest (crumpling the paper within). “As you know, my name is Hange Zoe! I used to be a professor, but now I’m head of research. I believe we met yesterday, though I’m not sure how much of it you remember.” It whips to the side. “This lovely lady is Mirabel. She’s… she helps clean up sometimes.”

Said person carefully purses her lips. 

“To answer your question, we’re in a bathroom. Not just any bathroom! A bathroom of Shiganshina mall, or what we like to call, Shiganshina branch. Well, it’s more of an outpost than anything else, but it’s perfectly safe! You’re always welcome to leave, of course, but I personally don’t recommend it.” The last few words are muttered as an aside. 

“What?”

They continue. “By the way, there’s been a new virus going around.”

Covid?

Hange pulls their goggles into forehead territory. I’ve never seen their eyes before. “It’s probably not what you’re thinking — this virus I speak of is more contagious and much more deadly than anything we’re seen before. In fact, the whole world was shut down because of it, and nobody knows how! Rather, nobody’s able to think that hard anymore.” With a whirl, they sift through a pile of paper on the table. “This new virus… is so cool!” And they plop a blinding-white sheet on my lap. “So exciting!”

It’s a human diagram, complete with label lines and scribbled descriptions. If I focus, I can make out the words…

“It’s not something you wanna contract. A lot of us, firsthand, have seen the effects of it.”

When I try to flip the paper, it splits into two. There’s two pages. This one has the same person, but looks as if he was put through a meat grinder. 

“The effect of zombification.”

The single eye of the diagram stare at me. “Did you draw this?”

“No, it was my associate. Quite talented, isn’t— wait, that’s not the important part. Did you hear the part when I said ‘zombification?’ Like, as in zombies?” 

“Zombies?” Disappointingly, there’s no more pages. “I didn’t know they were real.” The zombie’s torn-up skin is beautifully shaded, hair clotted, teeth stained, eyes glassy, backbone knotted and humped and jutting into different directions. It’s handsome, even, in the same way an antique end table or fantastical map might.

From the background, Mirabel: “Maybe you shouldn’t have started with the virus thing.”

“You’re right… I reckon I have something that’ll jog the memory. Wait here.”

She clucks like a hen and then turns to me. “Are you all right, dear?”

The corner of the page is crimped, and the world comes back to me: heat under the blanket, tartness in my mouth, a tang of pain where my spine meets wood. “Ye– yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not cold, are you? Or hungry?”

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you hurt?”

Slow. “I feel slow. Sorry, I’m not really sure if I’m saying anything that makes sense.”

“You’re only just waking up.” Warmth lands on my arm — her hand snuck up on me while I focussed on her face. “You— you’ve been in a bit of a coma of sorts for a while. Give it time, dear.”

“What are those blankets for?”

Mirabel looks taken aback and shifts the pile of blankets in her opposite arm around her body. “These ones?” As if there’s another stack of linens laying around that I’m referring to. “They’re for the children. Well, I suppose they wouldn’t be children to you.” A small, rolling chuckle. “They’re all around your age, including my son.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a mother?” 

“Ha!” she chortles, landing a side eye. “Charming little one, aren’t you? Ha!”

I half-shrug, awkward. I don’t know why I said that. “What’s he like? Your son.”

She puffs out her nose and shakes her head. “He can test my patience sometimes, that brat. You wouldn’t know it when you see him, but he used to be the sweetest thing.” She places the blankets on the bed, burrows into her back pocket — she’s wearing skinny jeans — and pulls out a sticky-looking wallet. She fiddles with it until a tongue of photo sleeves waterfall out like something out of a cartoon and points to the top one.

It’s Mirabel — younger Mirabel — seated with a hay-haired toddler with a jelly bean face and a beam stretching ear to ear. “His favourite food is veggie omelet.” She eases into a smile as well, as if the mere sight of the image sucks her back to that day a decade or so ago. 

I wonder who took the photo. “Cute.” Because what else am I supposed to say?

Her eyes flick from the wallet to my face. “I’m glad you think so, but there’s a reason he’s never had a girlfriend.”

“What?”

“What?”

Down the column of photos is another rendition of her son, evidently a more recent one, taken in his adolescence: middle-parted hair affixed with an illegal amount of gel, a petulant leer, smug lips a hair-length away from curling into a bonafide shit-eating smirk. “I meant his, uh, kid picture.”

“Of course, dear.” 

For the first time, I feel awake. 

Mirabel lets free a dainty laugh and makes herself at home on my bed. “Oh, I’m just teasing you. Don’t look so frightened! You’re like a fish.”

I blink away the stinging in my eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hm.” The giggle subsides into a curve of the lips. “You’re sweet. I never really got the chance to properly speak to you in the past, but now I can see why Hange takes such a liking to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes,” she responds, but her head tilts to the side a bit like she’s confused, or about to drop a bomb. “I… do believe you’ll see a great deal of things today, things you might not understand at first, but I want you to remember. Be kind to yourself, and be kind to others. Especially the children. Please be kind to them.”

Where did that come from? Against my better judgment, I want to ask.

“Hange debuts!”

Mirabel kind of falls into herself and the androgynous terror returns, fist clenched and waving like a weapon. “Catch!” And it splays open.

A small something glimmers in midair before manifesting as a sharp pain on my collarbone. “Ow!”

“I told you to catch.”

The thing is hard, and made a thunk when it hit. One hand reaches to rub the surely future bruise as the other rummages through the folds, searching. The professor plops on the other side of the bed as my finger finally catches and raises the object: a small metal plate swinging off a beaded chain. “A dog tag?”

Sinking onto their elbow, Hange beams. “You like it?” Yeah, just make yourself at home.

“It’s pretty cool.”

“I was expecting a bigger reaction.”

The plate slowly rotates on its string, revealing engraved letters. 

0009

MARLEY

– – – 

The bottom line’s missing.

“Do you remember this?” Hange leans forward, teetering dangerously on their arm. 

“Am I supposed to?”

“Interesting.” They pull out a pad and pen from nowhere, letting their chin hit the mattress, and jots down the word “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” I echo.

“It was on your neck when we found you.” They draw an imaginary line around their neck.

I look at the silver-grey pendant again, this time through a film of scrutiny as if focussing harder can unlock some ancient hidden memory. It doesn’t.

“Can I ask questions now?” Hange whines. 

Mirabel’s eyes roll, then rest on mine. “What do you think?”

“Me?” She nods. “I don’t see a problem w—”

“Great!” They heave ramrod straight and flip to a new page in the notepad. “For starters, tell us your name.”

My jaw unhinges. Hange looks on, wide-eyed, awaiting an answer that will never come. My name, my name. Just answer this simple question. Tell them your name.

“I can’t.”

The floodgates are open now. I’m scrambling for even an iota of memory that belongs to myself, that defines me, that makes me my own person, but there’s nothing there. It’s like trying to see something that’s just too far away to see, or too small to focus on, something that I can touch but never, never feel. It’s not fair, because those memories belong to me. I can feel them. They’re right there! But the more I reach, the closer I’ll get. Isn’t that right?

What’s the last thing I can remember? The sad-looking mushroom? No, before that. Hange, shoving pebbles in their mouth? No, that happened yesterday. Mirabel with worry on her mouth and shaking my shoulder? No, that’s now. 

“Yo! Little amnesiac?”

“Hello? Are you okay?”

And just like that, I’m back. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

She smiles, but the concern is still there. “It’s okay, dear, don’t force it. Nobody is angry. It will come in time.”

Hange is right beside her. “Okay, but can you force it a teeny bit? Umph.” Mirabel elbows them hard. “Okay, fine, next question.” They tap their temple, crimping strands of shaggy, brown hair. “Now, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Yesterday — again, yesterday! — I was awakened as Hange barged in with a small velvet sack and spilled its little circular contents onto the green and white. Before that, I was looking at the ceiling, and before that, my eyes were closed. Before that… 

“I don’t know. Yesterday, my eyes were closed, and then I was looking at the ceiling, and then you came in, Professor, and spilled some rocks on the ground, and put them in your mouth. Before that, though, I can’t—” My hand runs up my cheek, onto my forehead, fingers weaving through strands of hair as if trying to scoop the brain encased within. “There’s nothing.” My other hand comes up too, and they squeeze. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

They fall silent. “Do you want to hear a story, Ostrich?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Good question,” they smirk, pulling their goggles back on. Rising to their feet (and making that side of the bed spring up), they clasp their hands in the crook of their back, straightening with newfound importance.

“Long ago—” Mirabel cringes and stands up as well— “there existed a hotel named the Ostrich owned by one John Jarman and his wife, Mary. This hotel was very, very special, as it was the site of over sixty murders — notably, murders of very rich people. These killings were conducted by none other than the Jarmans themselves. 

“When they got a rich visitor, Sir Jarman would call out to his lady.” Their voice reaches a comical low. “‘Honey, there’s a fat pig here if ya want one.’ To which his wife would reply—” now their voice turns up several octaves— “‘Okay, honey, just put it in the sty till morrow!’ 

“So they’d butter the guest up and put him in a special room right above the kitchen. And when all was quiet in the night… Bam! The floor opened up, the bed tilted backwards, and he’d be dropped in a vat of boiling oil. Have you ever had chicharrones? After that, the corpse was stripped of anything valuable and thrown into a river. And by the morning, it was like he was never even there. 

“But one day the Jarmans made a fatal mistake — their eyes grew bigger than their brains. For they tried to go after a particularly popular and wealthy man and got caught when people noticed his horse wandering around.” Curling their lip in… scorn? They continue. “Do you know why I named you after this hotel?”

I’m full of dead, fried rich people? “Why?”

They lightly tap one of their lenses. “Because John and Mary are such boring names.”

“You would have named me John?”

Their hands fly to their hips. “Well, with that attitude, little missy, I just might!”

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

The two of them deemed my condition — both mental and physical — up to par to go out into the big, wide world. 

Shiganshina is a hollowed-out shopping mall. Brightness radiates in from the paned ceiling and bounces off the white walls, keeping the palace bright and warm — a nice contrast to the cooler temperatures of dying winter. 

The mystery hallway leads into a walkway that wraps around the internal perimeter of the building’s second story, the occasional bridge connecting opposite pathways above the first floor way below. Green and white still dominate the catwalk here with only the pattern switching from checkerboard to big white squares with tiny green diamonds at every corner. Anything else would be asking too much, I guess.

Hange’s gait is easy. Mirabel’s steps are more forward and practiced. A few people pass by, but for the most part, this place is barren. Not one individual is spared from Hange’s greetings. 

“Abel!” Our procession halts as Hange locates their next victim. “You’re looking nice and groomed today. What is it, a new oil or something? How are you?” They hold out a hand in greeting.

Abel wears thick, strapped glasses over his short, blond hair. He rubs the side of his index finger along the nice and groomed scruff on his jaw. “Very well, thanks.”

“It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it? The sun’s—”

“Very nice.”

“Ah.”

Abel gets right down to business. “So did you get the field notes from—”

Someone across the abyss falls with a yelp, dropping what sounds to be several dozen metal pipes. The tings echo and take too long to dissipate, but the two keep talking.

If I don’t find out what my name is, I’ll be Ostrich forever. I let my gaze wander. If anything, this place is well taken care of — it doesn’t smell terrible, the floor and walls are spotless, and the people seem alright. The person in charge of cleaning here is doing a great job — even the glass-paneled railings are crystal clear. 

Most of the stores here are occupied by random pieces of junk, but a few have their large display windows blocked out in some way or another. The one closest to me is covered by a blanket depicting some sort of house. 

Wait, not a blanket. Someone actually took the time to paint this window from the inside. 

A cabin in a field backed by a rocky cliff, chopped logs littering the area before it. The chipped (and in some places, peeling) planks holding the structure together are of the same material as a wide picnic table near the scattered logs, adorned with the various foods of the forest. There isn’t anything particularly special about the subject — the grass rolls, the apples shine, and the windows hint at nothing. But it’s empty, as if the residents just left or disappeared or vanished. As if something very, very wrong is happening. There is a stranger looking out from the window. It moves. 

Me. Me? It’s me. Oh, who is that?

“Ostrich?”

Hange bears a look of mild concern which is quickly wiped out by their usual grin. “I’ve got some business here with Abel, so you guys’ll have to continue on without me. Right, Abel?” He grunts. He’s probably the type to hide in a dark, moist corner in perpetual squat. “Try not to miss dear old Hange too much.”

Mirabel beckons me with her head. “We’ll do our best. Right?”

“Yeah.” You’re overthinking this, Ostrich. It’s just a nice glass painting. We say our goodbyes.

Constant motion and colour keep my concentration hostage on our trek. It’s fun to peek into the open windows to see piles of empty water jugs or folding chairs or construction equipment, or to read the vivid signs above them to see what could have been. A few people still litter the area, to whom Mirabel nods or says a small greeting to. It’s quiet. 

“Almost there.” 

I step a little longer to catch up to the woman as she points with her chin. She loves using her head.

“You see it?”

In a darker corner lives a store with Spencer’s graffitied on the half-drawn garage door that serves as its entrance. Brick makes up the walls. Its single, large display window hints at nothing, obscured by… clothes?

“We’re not going in there, are we?”

The place is silent. Mirabel raps her knuckles on the door before forcing it up with a metallic squeal. “Hello?” She continues inside. I trail behind.

Like the surrounding area, the interior is dim, with the far reaches of the narrow room fading to black. Though the store seems to have been emptied of its original merchandise (thankfully), it’s far from empty: soft contours of cloth line the floor, trinkets lay askew and scattered, and food wrappers glisten in small clumps. A wet dog smell permeates through every pore and crevice of my body — it’s either poorly ventilated or contains something that gives off enough scent to cancel out any fresh air.

A large platform against the back and right walls spans nearly the entire area, hanging a few feet below the ceiling. Blankets spew out from beneath makeshift curtains tied to the exposed pipes above, effectively screening it. 

Lining the walls below the platform are wired bakers’ racks, piled with clothing and miscellanea. 

It’s lived in.

“Amazing, hmm?” Aluminum screeches as Mirabel pushes and knocks over a few cans with her foot to make space for the blankets. “How quickly a dozen or so adolescents can tear through a clean room! We haven’t sent any cleaners lately in hopes they’ll do it themselves — ha! — but you can see how well that’s going. Even the dorms back in Trost are cleaner.”

Cleaners? Trost? “Adolescents?” Fearing attack, I don’t turn away from the shadowed jungle. “This is where they all live?”

“For now, yes. And it’s where you’ll be staying, as well.” Her footsteps grow a bit louder as she nears. “It seems everyone’s out right now.”

My breaths grow shorter on their own. Maybe because of the smell. “I’m staying here?” 

“Are you coming along, Ostrich?” Looks like she didn’t hear. 

“Actually, can I stay here?”

“Really?” She’s shocked. “Okay, well if you ever need help, ask anyone down in the kitchens. They’re all very nice, I assure you. I’ll be making my rounds, so I won’t be staying down there for long.”

I risk a glance and little wave at Mirabel’s silhouette, prompting her to join the black mass that is the wall. I’m not sure what to feel.

Luckily, I manage to find some sort of electric lamp. Click. A rough circle of light surrounds me, exemplifying the absolute filth of this place.

I’m staying here? As much as I try, I can’t squeeze an ounce of emotion out. It’s not that I don’t care, right? It’s just that I don’t know anything better than this. I don’t remember a better time. Why am I even here? I should have gone with Mirabel. 

Of all the people I can be, I have to be a stupid one.

Maybe I should start cleaning. 

A few ungainly steps later and I’m in the hallway. I try not to stare down the next person walking down the hall as they pass. “Excuse— excuse me.” I wave.

It’s a woman with choppy copper hair. She seems weirdly happy as she points toward the requested cleaning supplies before making her way off to wherever. I don’t step on a single green diamond on my way there.

JANITORIAL ROOM

Authorized Personnel Only

It has a square, wired window too high up for me to peek inside and a door handle — not knob — which needs to be messed with a little before opening. I step in and let the door whoosh and click shut behind me.

“Nobody taught you to knock, brat? What the hell do you want?”

Every organ in my body purges as the strange little man looks up from whatever he was doing. Somehow, my voice finds me. “Clean.”

He rests his elbows on the mini table before him, the resulting wobble nearly knocking over the spray bottle and various chemicals on top. Light from the door’s window frames his face perfectly, sliced up by the cable crisscrossing its inner surface. “Speak up, or don’t bother wasting my time.”

What’s with this guy? Inching my hand to the knob — not handle — behind me, I clear my thought process and focus on the space between his steel-sharp eyes. “I would like to clean, sir. The dorms, that is. I’m here for cleaning supplies. That’s all. Sir.” Please don’t bash my head in with a spray bottle. 

“Hm.” He narrows his eyes. “New?”

New? Oh, he’s talking about me! “Yes. Sir.”

“Come here.”

What choice do I have?

He rises to his full, impressive height as I approach. I don’t need to see him to feel the force of his demands, just watch my toes. “I don’t want to see a single speck. All beds should be made, blankets should be tucked, no mop streaks, and so help me if there are any wall stains. Understood?” 

“Yessir.” Please, somebody let me out of here. 

His arm flourishes to the impressive collection of cleaning supplies on the wall. “Take what you need.”

“Thank you, sir.” If that arm even clipped me… I slink around his throne, somehow still feeling his stare when he’s turned the other way. Broom and dustpan, disposable gloves, a few garbage bags, cleaning spray—

“That won’t do.” Frozen in a squat, I listen helplessly as his startlingly heavy footsteps stop inches behind me. Plastic crinkles in the dark as the man snatches something near my ear. “You need thick gloves, that thin shit won’t do. And here.” Somewhere near the end of the room is a clatter and a thump. “Nobody worth their weight forgets the bucket. And—” another thump— “Scrub Daddy. Unless you want to scrub the grime with your teeth?”

Scrub Daddy? Nothing comes out when I open my mouth, so I force-clear my throat. “No, sir.” The bucket is shoved into my arms — I barely catch it in time — as he breezes past, taking up his throne once more. “Thank you, sir,” I say to the air.

“One last thing,” he juts as I clear his desk, making my cells disintegrate for a moment. A mystery object lands in the bucket.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Out.”

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

I start by picking up every non-garbage item (as far as I can tell) and tossing them on the big shelf by the window, then bagging the actual garbage with the gloves. The broom takes care of the dust and dirt between the hardwood and under the collection of bakers’ racks — it puffs up thick, so I’m eternally grateful to the janitor for the last-minute bandana mask. At least, it’s what I think the white cloth is for. If it’s a loincloth or something I just might hurl myself to floor one. But why would he give me a loincloth?

Then comes the task of cleaning the platform. This entails lobbing up the lantern and praying it won’t break, the incredibly perilous trip up on a wobbly ladder which will probably tip or break or be the catalyst to the end of my short life, pushing out an absolute jungle of futons, sleeping bags, quilts, pillows, and other horrifying objects, and actually falling off but landing safely but shaken onto the teeming pile. I push it all out, onto a pre-cleaned portion of the hall. 

Finding no water anywhere, I manage to flag down another passerby who directs me to some sort of pulley system that brings up tubfuls of water. It also seems to mutter and sing. Strange. I lug one in, fill the bucket, scrub the walls until I run out, and repeat. I do this again with the mop on the floor, making sure to get rid of any streaks. 

My whole body burns but still comes the reassembly process. Using the mop handle, I beat the devils out of the pile in the hallway before lugging everything back up on a borrowed stepladder. Everything’s out of order — that’s someone else’s problem.

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

At some point Hange checks in and drags me out to the now-dark mall. I didn’t even notice the room darkening as I worked. It was strangely therapeutic. 

It’s different at night. The whole place would be in black if not for the periodic solar lights stuck to the walls, ceilings, and support beams, basking us in yellow and white. 

“I don’t know how, but you did it!” Their glee is evident as we snake through the now-empty platform, hands clasped, feet pounding polished concrete. “Levi’ll love it. The cadets’ll love it! Hell, maybe we can even squeeze a  ‘good job’ outta the Comm– never mind, that’s pushing it. Whatever! We’re almost there.”

“Professor, I left the supplies—” 

“Shut! We’re here.”

“But—”  

My arm wrenches to the side, followed by my body, as the leader shoulders through an emergency exit. My back burns. A film of darkness lays over my eyes, the plopping of our steps more prominent than ever. Another second and my legs will give out.

Hange pushes through another door, this one requiring a little more strength. Moonlight. The earth, sparse and grassy, far below. Something sharp biting through my slipper socks and cold breezing in through the leg holes of my dusty pyjama bottoms. Reflexively, I suck in a stabbing, frosty lungful of air that billows out in a big puff, steam engine style. The smoke clears to reveal two silhouettes against the cloudy sky.

“Surprise, you two!” The professor claps the painful divet between my shoulder blades. “Meet our newest installment. You might know this one already.” They drive me forward, my lazy steps doing little to deter the action.

The two are easy to tell apart — one is a smiling, freckled unit and the other is glum and fluorescent-eyed. I would go blind if I stared too long (he’d pluck my eyes out). Both have dark hair and grow more menacing with each reluctant step.

Bright-eyes speaks first. “Professor Hange!”

“Woah, Professor!” the tall one exclaims almost simultaneously. “Isn’t it a bit cold for just pyjamas?”

“She’s fine.” Their head pops into view. “You’re fine, right? Levi will kill me if someone gets sick.”

Pushing my cold legs together, I nod. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“No way,” Tall chuckles, already undoing his coat. “It’s too cold.” The zips of his waterproof cloth don’t drown out his voice as he shrugs it off. “You’ll be needing this more than me.” He finally sheds the garment, handing it over. 

For me? “Thank you.” 

“No problem. I’m actually very weather resistant. You might be surprised.” He beams with the heat of a weighted quilt on a winter morning. Maybe I don’t really need this coat.

But a sudden chill sobers me and it’s on in an instant.

“What’s up with this?” the smaller one asks, waving in my general direction. 

Hange shrugs. “Started to remember. All good. Okay, I’m done here.” Hange half-stumbles back to their other foot that wedges the door open. “I’ll get back to business, then. See you, Ostrich.”

“See you,” I mutter. 

And with a screech, they’re gone.

Tall doesn’t waste a moment. “So, it’s Ostrich! It’s nice to finally see you walking around.”

Starry-eyes lowers himself to sit criss-cross, opting to stare into space through the metal grate railing. 

“Thanks, it’s… nice. Walking around and all.” What am I doing here.

With an amused breath, he tilts his head. “You don’t remember us, do you?”

Not meeting his eyes, I shake my head. 

He brings forth his big hand. “I’m Marco. My friend over here is Eren.”

He’s smiling again. Our hands meet — his is rough around the edges and warm, even the dark band around his finger, and I release it a bit too quickly. “Hi, Marco. Eren.” Something about this meeting kills me. 

“Alright, well, hey, sit down, Ostrich. You’re one of us, you know.” Marco plops down and taps a nearby cushion. “How are you feeling?”

I sit. It’s cold. “That’s a good question.”

“Yeah… I realize now it’s pretty dumb.” His freckles are all messed up as he scrunches up his nose. 

My focus switches between the far-away ground and the plaid cushion I’m on. “Yeah.” Then snaps back to Marco’s face. “Wait, no. I’m not saying your question was dumb, I’m just— it’s—”

His short laugh cuts me off. “Relax. You don't need to be nervous.”

“Okay.” This mouth of mine. It’s a death trap. 

Marco’s fingers pick at the spaces between the metal. “So, how are you liking Shiganshina so far?”

I rub the sleeves of the coat together. Zip, zip, zip. Why did he give this to me? “It’s nice. Hange is nice, the people are… nice. The view is nice from here.”

“You’re allowed to say bad stuff, too,” he pries half-jokingly. 

“I don’t like the dorms.”

“Ah, there we go.” He stretches backwards. “Yeah. Nobody does, really, but it’s the only room with heat. It’s liveable.”

Eren snorts, his first real contribution to the conversation. “Stop lying to yourself. Everyone hates it.”

“Okay, yeah, everyone hates it.”

Is now a good time to say that I cleaned them? I don’t know how to do it without sounding arrogant. Is it arrogant? It’s quiet now, but for how much longer? I should just step up and say it. It would make them happy. No, it wouldn’t. Yes, it would.

“Anyways,” Marco breezes, “how many of the others have you met?” 

“Others?” I respond dumbly.

“The other cadets. The other teenagers, if you will.”

Oh, the children. “I haven’t.”

“Then you’ll be meeting them all. Tonight!” He drums his fingertips on the metal. “Everyone’ll be back tonight, bar one guy. But I can introduce you to him myself.”

What. “How many people? I mean, if you don’t mind.” As if knowing can make tonight sound even less appealing. 

“Uh, ten? There’s me, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Eren-Mika-Armin…” With every entry, he puts up a finger. “Reiner and Bert, Ymir, Christa, and Annie. That’s, what…” He looks at his fingers, lost. 

Every name drags me down an inch or two. “Thirteen, including me.”

“Right. Wow, there’s a lot of people!” Marco puts his hands away and pauses, brownish eyes drilling into mine. “Hey, don’t be nervous. Everyone’s really nice, I promise. And we’ve all met you in the past.”

Again with that. It’s like everyone’s in on a secret inside joke that only I don’t know, except that inside joke is me. 

But he’s so very easy to trust, even though we’re strangers. As long as he’s there with me, it can’t be too bad… I squish into his coat and try a smile. “Okay.” You cheesy fucking bastard. Woah, potty mouth. 

He smiles too, and I don’t have to try anymore. “But I have to warn you, it can get a bit loud sometimes.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

Hands springing to life, he straightens to the point of tipping back. “You have no idea!”

Sensing Marco’s incoming story, my smile becomes toothy.

“Shut up!”

Like an anvil, Eren’s hushed yell pulverizes our talk. He points at something he’s looking at, prompting Marco to stand. I follow suit.

The balcony overlooks some sort of large garden with alternating lit and shadowed rows of ridged dirt, garden tools, and the rare green smudge that indicates growth. All is surrounded by a tall ring of trash composed of cars, construction fences, broken skids, metal railings, rocks, or anything, really, that can stand on its own and keep anyone or anything out. The pale dirt ends in grass and trees some way beyond the barrier. 

“Another one.” Marco squats to jot some ink onto paper.

“Another what?” An invisible chill runs through the area, making the leaves rustle and shift the dappled pattern of light and shade they cast. Nothing’s there. 

And then my shoulder and cheek are encased in warmth as Marco gets real close and aligns his line of vision with my own. “Right there.” I feel the voice more than I hear it. His pointing finger ends at a spot where dirt and grass meet. “See?”

Where’s he pointing? Marco’s close. Wait, where is he pointing? I’m about to ask again when a sudden movement ends my straying — a pale branch, creeping, wobbling forward from beneath the silvery blades. 

Hand.

Twiglike fingers drag and push into the dirt, joints bending backwards. The attached arm contracts, presumably dragging forward a body. Despite its horrendously bony characteristic — even from this second- or third-floor view, I can easily make out the double-beamed support of the forearm — it keeps scraping forward. Closer. Every inch pulls the blood down to my feet. 

“Third crawler tonight. Wonder what’s up with that.”

The person wears nothing. Something about the distance or lighting gives whatever skin isn’t torn up or filthied a washed-out hue.

“Maybe there’s a bear.”

The hand jerks forward again, disregarding rocks or twigs, shakily pulling the body into view. That is, the head and one side of the torso.

Where’s the rest? Why is nobody doing anything? Why can’t I? Doesn’t that thing need help? What does its skin feel like? How long? How long until it touches me?

“You wanna get the pager this time, Eren?”

“Yeah.” 

Foliage and deep red blood decorate the loops and sacs that bulge and trail out of the chest cavity, the surrounding ribs prominent and hanging by whatever holds ribs together. The creature shudders, loosing a few organs with a sickening swell. It persists.

Click-click. Click. “Drunk bastard’s asleep!” The statement is followed by a series of loud bangs that rattle our cage and resonate in my teeth. “God-fucking-damn it. Hannes. Wake up. Hannes!”

“Don’t, Eren. He’s pretty much out of commission anyways.” 

“No shit! Should I go down?”

“No rush.” With a final rattle, a clothed arm obscures my view. 

“Hey.” A pale blur which turns out to be a waving hand belonging to Eren catches my focus. “Your ears. Plug them, or something.”

Marco’s elbow clears the railing. He holds a lengthy rifle with its butt against his shoulder and his cheek along its length, a single saucer-wide eye trained on the target. 

I didn’t even notice he left my side. 

He hisses — in or out, I couldn’t tell — before the air blasts into pure noise. 

Sometime in the aftermath, my legs decide to sit me down. Marco (and, after a final glance into the forest, Eren) turns his attention towards me, his words completely lost to the high-pitched din but his actions clear as ever — reaching out as if to cuff my ears, shrinking back, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he mouths. Once again, he points at the figure with something like pride. From this angle it’s apparent that its head is imploded; I prefer to stare at the shockingly good marksman with the sanest grin I can muster.

“Did you hear the part when I said ‘zombification?’ Like, as in zombies?”

No, this isn’t happening. I’m dreaming, that’s what. Of course. 

Granted, this feels all to real. The human brain is a marvel of nature, isn’t it? Can’t wait to wake up.

The two engage in strained conversation of flurrying hand movements and exaggerated pronunciation, resulting in Marco waving goodbye and going inside. The remaining pair of us sit together in the high-pitched eee until it dissipates into the non-silence of nighttime. 

“So.” Eren shuffles his feet closer to him, knees in his arms. “Can you hear now?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it’s your first time seeing one.”

Seeing what? Say the word. “Yep.”

Skimming over the corpse, he wrings his hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Eren worries his mouth as if sucking off some goo on his teeth, and suddenly blurts, “I hate it.”

Zombie. You’re imagining it, Ossie, tomorrow you’ll wake up in that room again and forget everything. “Hate what?”

“What do you think?” He waves at the mall. “This. And everything else. Those things. They ruined everything.” A telltale waver slips into his speech. “Everything we do is dictated by them. I hate it. I mean. Have we ever really had anything?” 

Like a long-winded siren, the boy’s volume gradually increases. Sirens mean danger. 

“Is it that bad?” 

Something snaps quietly. “We’re living like fucking livestock here, don’t you realize that? I thought your head’s better now, so why can’t you see that it’s not supposed to be okay? Our life is confined to these walls—” here he whips out his hand at the aforementioned wall, the motion rippling through his torso— “and the whole world outside is lost! Lost! Everything! They took everything from me! From us! And you’re just gonna accept that?”

Is he always like this? A walking time bomb? My body weight shifts forward as if to spring on my feet. “Eren—”

“No.” 

With the piling pressure his eyes grew from a smolder to a bonfire, ravenous in a forest of decay. 

But in the same way, it’s almost childlike. Was it the same sense of anger? Frustration? Invisibility? Innocence? It’s probably not that deep. “Yes?”

“You don’t remember it, so you wouldn’t understand.” He doesn’t try to hide his distaste. “But they’re not… supposed to be here. It’s— we are. It’s our world. You get it? They took it from us. Took our plans, our dreams. Our families.” Stiff-fisted and tight-jawed, he continued. “I hate them. They need to be eliminated. You get it? I’m…”

He gathers himself. 

“I’m gonna do it, Ostrich, myself or otherwise.” I slip into his eyes. “Every last one of them. I’m going to kill them all. Not sparing a single one… I’m gonna kill them all.” 

And I fall. “What's stopping you?” 

Those creatures with broken ribs and beautiful hair. Let him do as he pleases with them. It doesn't concern me. Soon I’ll wake up. I’ll wake up. 

He oozes into a more comfortable expression as the door bursts open behind me. “Alright, so the Hannes problem is taken care of,” Marco announces. “You should come inside, Ostrich, there’s someone I want you to meet. Actually, Eren, you should go, too. I’ll keep watch for a while.”

Someone to meet? 

Eren’s expression lapses into annoyance. “What happened to the two-person protocol?”

“It’ll be brief.”

“What’s it about again? Think you forgot to mention that part.” 

“You’ll see when you get there, he’s waiting just outside the inner door.”

Back to Eren. “Whatever.” He leans to one side as he gets up. “Let’s go.”

The returnee holds open the door, flashing a small smile as I cross. Cheeky bastard. 

I’m joking.

Eren holds open the second door behind him, flashing a small glance to make sure it doesn’t close on me. I mutter a quick thanks as we stand, seeing… 

Nothing. 

“There’s nobody here.” The boy sifts through his hair. “What the hell, Marco?”

The wall behind us booms thrice — I flinch — and yells, “Eren, is that you?”

At this, he brings up his other hand and drags them both down his face with a drawn-out groan. “What the hell, Marco?”

I nearly touch his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Wait, who’s that?” the wall — rather, the person inside — hollers. “Eren, you’re sounding pretty feminent today.”

“Connie, what the hell are you doing in there?”

“Woah! He’s back!” The wall cackles. “So, uh, I need help.”

Marco, you cheeky bastard. 

With a sigh, Eren’s hands drop. “Ostrich, this is Connie. Consider yourself lucky you don’t remember his face.” His next words are forced through his teeth. “Connie. Introduce yourself.”

“Wait, it’s you, Ossie?” Something hard hits another hard thing. “Ow! Ossie, it’s me, Connie! Remember me? Handsome face, Greek physique? Connie?”

I smile at the flat surface. “Hi, Connie. Sorry, I don't remember you.”

“Aww.”

“Come out to introduce yourself,” Eren grunts, leaning against the wall. 

“Well, that’s the problem, señor. I can’t.”

“What?”

“I’m stuck.” 

“Just get out.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I’m stuck.” 

If looks could kill, the plaster would have a smoking hole with the wall inhabitant’s crisp body in the middle; intervening at this point just might save Connie’s life. 

“Uh, Er— uh. Let’s just get him out?” 

With a deep breath, he nods.

What am I supposed to do now? Eren looks on expectantly. “Connie.” It’s so weird, saying that name out loud. I hold up my fist as if to knock, but decide against it. “Can you move?”

“Yeah, if I go sideways. There’s more space down this way though.” Footsteps and random bumps move in the opposite direction of the exit door.

Eren holds his impressive eyebrows derisively high. 

“You just need to get out, right?” As long as we find his point of entry, he should be fine. Right? “Where did you come in?”

“I dunno. I got lost.” Without warning, he squawks and enters some sort of hyperventilated frenzy. “Sorry, spider web. But I think there’s wind coming from over here. Wind equals good, right?” His voice fades. “Wait, you guys are following me, right?”

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

We end up in front of the janitor’s office. My visible companion clicks his tongue. 

“Before you ask, no, I’m not going in there.” 

“Aw, come on!” Connie whines. “I can’t get out myself and it’s dark and smelly in here! There’s spiders and ghosts!”

Waving the air as if brushing Connie off, Eren leans in close. He smells like plywood. “Let’s just go. Nobody’ll miss him. We can tell Marco he got out on his own.”

It’s hard to tell if he’s joking.

“I can hear you!” Bang bang bang. “I can heaar you…” Bang bang bang bang bang. “Gemme out!” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I venture with a sprinkling of irony. Just in case he actually is joking. 

“Let me out!”

“I mean.” He glances at the spot where the noise emanates. “It’s not like he’s gonna die.”

Is he serious?

He scans my face and scratches his jaw. “Fine, we’ll get him.”

That’s better. “But we can’t really do anything if the janitor’s still inside. Can you check if he’s in there?”

“Why me?” He shoots a dour look down his nose. “Never mind.” Pushing his back flush to the door, he inches sideways until the window is nearly in line with his ear, snatches a peek, and gives a thumbs-up.

“So we just have to go in there and pull Connie out… right?”

“Actually, it’ll be better if one of us stays out here to keep watch. Take this.” Pulling up the bottom of his sweatshirt, he digs into his pants pocket and pulls out a square solar-powered light. “I’ll knock if he appears. Good luck.”

“Thanks?”

And then the door to the janitor’s closet shuts behind me once more, darkness pressing and eating up the edges of my vision. 

Thanks, Eren. After all I’ve done for you. 

I need light — how did I turn this thing on? My fumbling fingers eventually reach a soft button and push, directing light straight through my head. Great. I point the light somewhere useful. 

Rows of columns of cleaning gear, some still in their original packaging, hang from hooks extending from the white pegboard or rest on one of the numerous shelves. I didn’t see all this before — it’s like a torture chamber for dirt. A few feet from the entrance of the rectangular room is the folding table in which the janitor made his first appearance, now cleared of all equipment. “Hey, Connie? Where are you?”

“Right here.” Pointing the light upwards, I’m able to catch my first glimpse of the guy, in the gap between the top of the pegboard and the ceiling. “Hey, I can see my hand! I’m not a ghost!” He waves excitedly, hysterically even.

Until someone bashes their knuckles on the door. Not a second later the light clicks out. 

“Ostrich! C’mere!”

“Where?” I trudge dumbly toward his voice, bumping into what feels and sounds like a mop bucket and breathing a curse. No way they didn’t hear that. 

“Here!” Fingers patter on the particleboard. “Come on!”

Snippets of voice come from the entrance. No more stealth. I rush toward the opposite side of the room, tossing the light over before fumbling and grabbing Connie’s hand. It’s smooth.

“Hold on…” With astonishing force, he pulls me back.

“Woah—” I push my feet against the wall — please don’t break — hooking my other hand over. Connie grabs that too. 

The door swings open as I make it over, flip for a churning fraction of a second, and land heavily on Connie’s body. He grunts on impact just as a flashlight flicks on. 

“Hm,” says the janitor. Brightness sweeps over us on the concrete in small pegboard-sized circles. I can’t breathe; Connie scarcely takes a breath himself. Through a pinhole, his slow and crisp footsteps matches the image of his boots. He kicks the mop bucket to the side with a loud plastic grinding sound. We flinch. 

“Mop bucket fell over. Damned thing.” He drops the light somewhere and settles the mop against the wall. “You can leave now.”

“Er. Yes, Captain.” Eren. The door eases shut. 

“Captain” adjusts the light once more, straightens his throne, and sits down with a sigh. 

Slowly, almost painfully so, I roll onto the cool, grainy ground. 

Something taps my hand. Highlighted by a pockmark is Connie’s eye, hazel to the point of yellow, which swivels back away from the janitor’s room. We need to get out. As sparingly as possible, I nod, though I’m not sure if he sees it. 

We stand in silent — but shared — agony, the kind that shakes your limbs and makes the floor seem hundreds of metres down. Connie takes my hand, forming a clammy layer in between, and leads us back the way he came. We slow and separate. 

“I think we’re okay here,” he mutters, turning on the light in his other hand to reveal his massive grin and bald head. Thank god he remembered that. “Heh heh, that was a close one, huh?”

“Yeah, we nearly escaped death by bludgeoning.” I tremblingly slump against a wood support as he giggles. “That’s hilarious.”

His mood isn’t quelled. “Ohh, come on, have some humour.”

“We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

“You know.” His scalp glistens with a thousand tiny hairs as he lifts the light over himself. “Some ladies would kill for a moment alone with this handsome fellow.”

This guy serious? I’m not seeing that ‘Greek physique.’ “I’m sure.”

Gently, he lays down the torch, springs up, and digs into the pocket of his neon green and black zippered hoodie with a crinkle. “So grumpy, huh? Here.” A wrapped good is tossed into my lap as Connie falls on his ass. Inside is something squishy and dense. “It’s a Twinkie,” he explains at my probing. “I was looking for a place to hide them so Sasha can’t eat them. Don’t tell her I’m giving this to you, she’ll crucify me.” Having successfully pulled apart the top of the package, he bites the whole thing in half, pulling back to extract the sugary flesh.

“Are you sure?” The edge of the clear plastic is smooth and flimsy.

Crumbs spray from his mouth. “Just promise me you’ll stop being grumpy.”

Grumpy? I blink a few times. “Okay, I promise.” I slide to the ground too, smiling. “I’ll be nice.”

“Better be.”

My face drops. “Connie.”

He sniffs. “Relax, Ossie. Just enjoy your… freshly crushed Twinkie.” He tilts his head in fake arrogance. 

“You know, Connie, if somebody didn’t get stuck in a wall, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”

“I could have left you in the janitor’s office.”

The words come out before I can stop them. “I could have left you with Eren.”

He sticks out his tongue. 

The crinkling dominates before I manage to tear open a corner of my package, opting to squeeze out the cake which oozes and cracks like a sad horse. I take the crumbly glop on my tongue. 

“Pretty good, huh?” Connie sprays. “You wouldn’t even know it expired six months ago.”

The sweet in my mouth turns bitter. “Six months,” I utter without swallowing, a line of drool threatening to spill. Bacteria and fungi spread their tiny poisonous seeds, creating rot. “That’s… fine.”

“Hey, if you got a problem with it, I’ll gladly take it off you.” He holds out a hand expectantly. 

Before he can react I squeeze the package some more. In a movement similar to his own, I scrape out the remaining pulp with my teeth and swallow.

Connie’s jaw goes slack as I chew, then shoots upward with a clack. “Okay, girlypop, okay! It’s all yours!” The statement is finished with a cackle.

“I said it’s fine, Connie,” I state, definitely spilling some this time. “A little mould won’t kill me now.”

“Yeah, if—” his eyes wander my face— “if the embarrassment doesn’t get you first!” His hysteria surges as he points. “You look so stupid right now! A lifetime’s worth of Twinkie!” He exhales more than he breathes in and soon resorts to gasping for air.

“Me?” I dart a sleeve over my mouth, though it’s already too late. “Look who’s talking!”

The filling in his mouth decorates his chin, legs, and floor. “I don’t take shade from a person named Ostrich. Gotta be the dumbest bird to be named after.”

“Well, I don’t take shade from a person named Connie.”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with my name?”

I pretend to see something interesting on the ceiling, pretend I’m not about to explode into a stupid grin. “I just think Connor is better.” 

“Okay—” he conjures the most serious face he can muster— “you’ve officially made it to my enemies list. Prepare for living hell.”

“What’re you gonna do, shine the sun off your head like a flash bomb?” Now I cackle. 

Okay, maybe that was a little bit mean. 

“Hey! This—” he jerks his hands round his head, the motion affecting his entire hunched form— “is a choice! I shave my own head ‘cuz I want it that way!”

“Okay,” I choke. “Okay, you’re bald by choice.” 

“Stop laughing!” 

“Okay. I can’t. Okay.” Pinching my nose, I draw in a breath. Then sputter into laughter. 

It wasn’t that funny, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I really am going mental. 

“I’ll just wait till you’re done,” Connie grumbles, but even in the dark the ghost of a smile can be seen. 

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

We start walking again a bit after — Connie’s afraid my laughing attracted ghosts.

“So, Ostrich. You’re starting to remember?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you remember me?”

“No.”

We walk for a bit more before he speaks again. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“You’re asking me, Shiganshina’s resident amnesiac?”

“Funny. You don’t need memories to have a personality, you know? You’re not a ghost.”

The air smells familiar. “You think so?”

“How about you caress my handsome face and we can both find out?”

I flick his forehead and go cold. 

Did I just do that? 

But he just claps his hand over the point of impact. “Ow! Always the head!”

“Just such a big target,” I nearly sputter. “You’re lucky I don’t call human resources on you or something.”

“Yeah, whatever. Come on, tell me. There’s gotta be something.”

“I really have nothing, Connie,” I say. “But aren’t you the one who knows me so well? Why don’t you tell me something about myself?”

His thinking cap is on. “Well, for starters, you can’t walk straight with a damn.” 

“Strike four, Connie.” 

“Four? You’re already counting the number of times I pissed you off.” He sniffs. “I knew you cared. I can’t wait till we’re all together again…” He giggles like a little girl. 

“That laugh. I don’t like that sound.”

“Relax, Ossie. I’m gonna make it happen.” He thumps his chest. “From now on, I’m gonna focus on getting you out of here. Before bedtime.” 

“Weren’t you the one begging for help earlier?”

“I’m a changed man, I’ve grown.”

It’s a little scary to get so chummy with him so quickly, even if we do supposedly know each other. Always is the small nagging organ in my body releasing its small nagging liquids, telling me to stop, that he hates me, that I’m completely embarrassing myself because this guy is fake or a ghost or clinically insane. Maybe he is. Maybe I’m embarrassing myself. Maybe I’m embarrassing him. 

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

Has it been ten minutes? An hour? It’s like the inside of this wall bends space and time. Einstein would cry.

Light in hand, Connie slows to walk beside me. “Do you remember Covid?”

“Of course! I’d always keep the tracker tab open because of how paranoid I was. I…”

All I see is white. “Holy crap, did you just remember something?”

My hand can’t block out the light. “Put that down.” 

“Think, Ostrich! Think!”

The memory is fleeting, only a wisp of the past unlucky enough to be snuffed up by me. “I’m trying!”

“Harder!”

“Please, Connie, put that away.”

“Oh.”

And with a snap, it vanishes. 

“Did you remember it?”

Blinking doesn’t get rid of the dark blotches. “No.”

“Aw, man.” He hurries to catch up to me. “But you did just remember something, right?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

Shuff. Shuf. Shuff…  If I’m not careful, I might blow a hole in these slipper socks. 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it.”

No response.

“Connie? It’s alright.”

He mumbles.

Seeing him dejected like this feels wrong. “Um, you haven’t told me something about yourself, Connie.”

“I’m just a guy, Ossie, and I made you lose your only memory.”

This boy. “Connie, it’s fine. Really. I have lots of time to remember things.” 

He kicks the ground. “I know, but…”

“It’s just like you said.” Desperately, I try to remember. “It doesn’t matter if I can’t remember anything, because I’m still my own person. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“Tell me something about yourself,” I repeat.

He rubs his hands against each other— “Well…” —and begins to pick up steam. “So, last week we raided this beauty shop, right? And J-boy said I was stupid for doing that, and I called him a horse face, so he threw a cream tube at me. I caught it like this, right—” his arms twist in a weird way as he reenacts the scene— “and it turned out to be a hand cream. I’ve been using it ever since, and frankly, I think he’s jealous.” 

“Hand cream? Is that why your hands are so soft?”

“So you’ve noticed? Ha! I can’t wait to tell him. We gotta get back!” His pace picks up. “I’ll even let you try some, Ossie, because you’re such a good friend.” 

I just met you, but I’m glad you’re happy again. “That means a lot to me.”

“Hold this.” He suddenly stops and shoves the light. “Back up, I’m gonna do something.”

“Something…?” I step away.

Connie squats, swings forth his hands, and leaps backwards. 

I watch as he smashes his feet through the wall, slapping the cold, hard ground with his skull. 

Blap.

“Connie?”

The light reflects innumerable dust motes and the eerily still victim of fatuity. Suddenly, the dark seems a little more alive. “Connie!” His head lolls when I cuff his shoulders. “Are you okay?” Blood trickles from his nostril. “Okay, dumb question.” 

He still has a pulse — but for how long is a mystery. 

Oh shit. This is real. 

I haul him around so his head is near the hole and try shoving him out by pushing up on his ribcage. Warm and squishy… just like that zombie. My arms go a little numb as I take a quick look — first forward, then back. Dust. 

I need to focus. 

Scarce light pours in through the hole as I push — now his shoulders are out. Tiny shards of the wall crumble over his chest. Tiny, dark red shards. 

Plaster bricks. 

“Oh my god! Connie?” The ground vibrates — someone is running over from the other side. 

By some miracle of god (or Connie’s hidden genius), we’re right where we’re supposed to be.

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

gosh this chapter was clunky. (it gets worse.) for the record it was rewritten at least 5 times in every pov and tense and i've since grown tired of it. do you trust your author when they tell you that the next chapters will be better? do you? (don't)

i hope you liked it and all. i know you cant expect shakespeare on ao3tumblr but i keep thinking 'gotta be perfect gotta be perfect!' please lmk if i did anything wrong or something can be improved on. i try to get better.

please take care of yourselves

final notes: mc gets better

⊹˚₊‧ ───────── ☾ ────────── ‧₊˚⊹

masterlist 2 - little sproutling

[retaurd]

i'm a girl on here and i like u !!! i hope u have a good day

im normal im being reallynormal about this. my heart is exploding my soul is illuminated as if by the sun, warmth and love are pouring from me like rushing water, im as weightless in this moment as a mote of dust suspended in a beam of light