#blood mentions and severe injury reference cw

[thesunshinecourts]

countdown to tsc: apr 7., 2024, 23:58 pdt

2. digging your fingers into fresh dirt // renee walker, after lazarus

When Renee gets to the garden, her fingers are still stained with blood.

It had taken Abby’s most soothing tone and Wymack doing a passable imitation of Aaron’s impatient candour—the same language as Wymack’s, but less heart-filled bluster, more blunt force trauma—to get Renee to leave the room. She’s still not sure she should have, but Abby’s voice had been gentle when she’d said, this isn’t like Matt. Giving him something to believe in will come later.

Renee doesn’t know if she’s ever seen Abby so angry and horrified. It’s worse than how she looked at Kevin’s injuries, that very first night. It’s worse than how she looked at Neil, both times, after the Nest and after his father. It’s almost as devastated, Renee thinks, as the way she looked when she held Allison tight to her chest that first night after Seth.

Wymack is better at holding his expressions in check, but Renee knows him. There had been a tremor in his knuckles when he opened the passenger car door. He’d gotten it under control fairly quickly, to his credit, but Renee had noticed.

Renee had thought, I am not the only one who must draw on all my reserves to keep steady.

She breathes out, then in, as if the smell of growth in the world around her can flush through her body. When she was a second year, Seth had taken a biology class with Dwayne. It had nothing to do with either of their majors—she remembers Juan making some sort of joke about growing pot, and Seth elbowing him with a sidelong glance at Allison, who had rolled her eyes and told them both that she thought they’d be lucky to keep a fake plant alive in the shithole they called a dorm—but Seth had liked it better than anyone had expected, occasionally offering up things he found interesting from the units on horticulture.

There had been a joke about photosynthesis once, something that had been mostly earnest information, but he hadn’t been able to resist throwing in some teasing at the end, always trying to make Allison laugh. Renee feels a sudden wave of indescribable, quiet grief when she realises she can’t remember how his joke had gone.

There are four plants to her left, still in the plastic pottles you buy them in at the store. Renee remembers Abby talking about a sale a few weeks ago, and wonders if these are those same plants. It’s been a demanding few weeks, she thinks. Life is often unkind to those that cannot move of their own accord.

She’s not really thinking about it when she walks over and picks them up. She puts them together, two by two, and squeezes her fingers around two pottles per hand. There are probably gloves somewhere; a trowel too, maybe.

Renee does not care.

Kneeling down at the edge of the garden, there’s a patch with looser soil than the rest. It is poor behaviour, she thinks, to start messing around with Abby’s things without asking permission first, but Renee does not have the space in her yet to hold back. Abby will forgive her, which is not an acceptable reason to do something, but Renee is so angry. She spent her whole night transforming terrified grief into determination and a plan, and then the six-hours-and-then-some drive from Castle Evermore back home with nothing in her mind but Jean. The impossibiity of him.

The impossibility of him still being alive. The impossibility of her getting there in time, and even that’s still to be determined. The impossibility of how much she aches, looking at him and thinking about him and praying for him. Four hundred miles on the I-77, and all she could do was pray.

It was a very human thing, Renee thinks, to walk into Evermore to get him out. Stephanie had been proud of her, and Abby had called her brave, and Andrew had looked at her with that innate knowledge of someone who understood what it meant to take someone under their wing, and absolutely none of their thoughts and love and understanding change the fact that Renee walked into Castle Evermore with more fear than faith.

She digs. One hand into the soil, then the next. There is blood on her fingers still, beneath the nails. Part of Renee has the uncharitable thought that she hopes it’s Zane’s, stray flecks from when she punched him. More of her accepts that it’s Jean’s. She does not know when it is from: when she first knelt at his side on Riko’s bedroom floor, when he was carefully settled into her car, when she and Wymack lifted him into Abby’s house, when she sat beside him and held his hand as those broken, wounded sounds ripped their way from his throat and drove right into her heart, piercing it through, over and over, just as the way the ugliest part of her, buried beneath therapy and anger management and the most wilful calm she has ever had to cloak her body in, wishes it could do to Riko.

Jean’s blood beneath her fingernails, spattered across her hands, buried into the soil. She’s planting a flower she does not know the name of, and all she hopes for is that Jean will bloom.

Please, she prays, tugging the roots apart with a care and precision she did not feel capable of two hours ago, listening to Jean’s screams. Please, she prays, pressing the plant into the soil, cupping her hands together to scoop the dirt, helping it settle into its new home. Please, she prays, patting down the soil, warm earth meeting her palms like a balm.

Please, she prays. Stephanie says you are not done with him yet. She was right about me. Thank you for getting us this far. Please. Please. Please.

“Renee?”

It’s Abby’s voice, exhausted and haunted and utterly wrecked. She still manages a wan smile when Renee looks up at her. Abby doesn’t seem to notice that Renee has been co-opting her garden, or maybe she’s too raw to care.

“You can come back in now,” she says, like she knows it’s both a gift and punishment at once.

Renee nods, then stands, brushing the dirt off her trousers. She looks at Abby as she approaches, trying to choose her words. To ask how he is would only invite more sadness; to ask if he’ll live betrays how deep her fear has run.

“I’m sorry,” she says in the end, quiet but sincere. “That must have been… very difficult.”

The look Abby gives her is brief, but pained. “He breaks my heart as much as any of you,” she says, quickly, fervently, “but that is never a thing to apologise for.” Abby looks so sad. It makes Renee ache, but this is not the type of thing she can wipe away. “Thank you for bringing him here,” Abby says, and Renee feels rocked with it.

“Thank you for letting me,” she says in return, and neither of those are entirely what they mean, but it is enough. Renee will always walk into Castle Evermore to save Jean, and Wymack and Abby will always open the door when she arrives in South Carolina. There is no version of this story, Renee thinks, where they follow any other script.

This is what it is to be Foxes, after all.

“He’s still not quite himself,” Abby says. There is a part of Renee that finds this sentence amusing; Abby has never met Jean, not truly, only from Kevin’s stories. More of her is somber. She knows what Abby means. “But I think he’ll feel — perhaps only marginally, but I think he’ll feel more at ease having you beside him. I’ve done what I can, for now, and there will be more medication and treatment and dressing of his wounds, much more before the night is through, let alone before he is recovered, but —” She exhales, long and low. “He is alone, and in pain. We can’t do much more about the second one. But he can have you back.”

Renee nods, setting her jaw as Abby steps back to allow her through.

“Then he shall have me until I am no longer needed,” Renee says, and thinks, and perhaps some time longer after that.

Abby gives her a careful look. “That could be a very long while,” she says, but she does not offer any sort of objection.

“That’s okay,” Renee says. “I don’t mind waiting.”

[prentissluvr]

forget-me-nots — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst ➖⟢ cw : light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing ➖⟢ wc : 5.6K summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

heartache is one thing. heartache for someone you don’t know, someone whose face you’ve never seen or who you’ve never met, is another, stranger thing. it’s common for many to feel this heartache before they know their soulmate, but sometimes you feel as though you have to worry much more than most.

you try not to let thoughts of your mystery soulmate consume you, but you seem to have constant reminders of them litered on your skin in the form of tiny blue flowers. admittedly, you find it romantic that forget-me-nots are your soulmate flower, with their symbolism of true love, respect, and fidelity. the flowers themself feel like a good omen, a sweet promise of a steady love waiting for you. but, the frequency with which they appear on your skin feels far less lucky and always feeds you so much worry for this person you’ve yet to meet.

this morning, you wake with new blooms snaking along your left collarbone, peeking out from the seam of your sleep shirt. and when you change into new clothes, you find a few more growing on your bicep and the side of your ribs.

sighing, you stand at the mirror lightly brushing your fingers over the small flowers and wonder what sort of trouble your soulmate got into last night. as always, worry floods your chest, but you do your best to tamp it down considering the fact that you only bear a few new blooms. the more severe the injury, the more flowers appear on your skin. today, your soulmate must only be dealing with small surface cuts.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they're still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

you imagine what you might say or do when you meet them. maybe you’ll want to check on whatever wounds they have, be sure it’s not too bad, or maybe you’ll scold them for making you worry so much. you’ll certainly ask what they do in their life that gets them so injured so often. maybe you’ll do it all.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s been a rather strange week. the flowers from last thursday have completely faded, and you’ve gone a day or two without any new forget-me-nots appearing on your skin. the strange part has been at work. on monday night, one of your coworkers died in the building, but you still had to come in to work the next day. one of the rooms was taped off, but that was the only evidence of the misfortune. the same thing happened last night, thursday, and you’re ready to do everything you can to get at least the next several days off of work. you don't want to risk anything.

and now, it seems the goddamn fbi is interested in whatever has happened. you’re not a huge fan of the federal government, but you have to admit that the bureau has sent two of its most attractive agents. normally, you’d keep your head down, but you feel inexplicably drawn to one of them. he’s the taller of the two, which is impressive because the other is already tall, and he has pretty brown hair and dimples that you catch a glimpse of as he talks to one of your coworkers.

he looks away from her as he moves away, seemingly done with the interview. he catches your eye, and your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. he’s a beautiful man; pretty and sweet looking at the same time as he’s traditionally handsome and slightly imposing. you’ve never loved a stranger’s eyes so much.

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

“that’s alright. sometimes the smallest things can really be helpful,” he reassures, keeping the kind look on his face. “have you noticed anything strange about either of the deceased or the building this past week or so?”

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

you find the question sort of odd coming from an fbi agent, but you instintually feel like you should take it seriously. “um, yeah, actually. it was really cold by the bathrooms last night when i left. at first i thought the ac finally got fixed, but it was still sort of warm over here. in this area”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can't quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

saturday night is the second busiest night at the bar, but you’re glad it’s not as crowded fridays normally are. you walk straight to the bar to order your go-to drink. as you wait for the bartender to make it, you stare at yourself in the mirror behind the counter out of the corner of your eye. today, there’s two little forget-me-nots right on your left cheek. they look sort of cute there, and you guess you should be grateful that it’s such a small wound. there’s no other flowers on your body yet, which feels like a good run for your soulmate. that’s a little over a whole week in between different injuries, even small ones.

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you're old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

agent greenaway’s words echo in your head. “be careful. you should go home early tonight.” he seemed so sweet, so genuine and caring, and all you’ve been able to think about since then is meeting someone like him. finding someone kind with a little red mark on their cheek and a forget-me-not on their right pointer finger to match the papercut you got earlier this afternoon.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

you sip slowly at your drink, and when the cup’s empty, you pay the tab. the bar isn’t quite serving as the distraction you hoped it would. as you head for the door, your gaze snags on a mop of brown hair that wouldn’t be considered familiar for the fact that you’ve only seen it once, but feels that way regardless. quickly, you scan the rest of the bar, and sure enough you catch sight of agent greenaway’s partner, across the way and very obviously flirting with a pretty brunette.

for a moment you pause, wondering if it would be weird or too out-of-the-blue to approach agent greenaway, but the pull you feel towards him overrides all else, taking your hand and guiding it to throw all caution to the wind.

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

“uh– no, no i don’t mind,” he flashes a quick smile back at you, but his gaze and attention are clearly stuck somewhere on your face. for just a split-second, you’re confused by what he could be staring at, but it clicks not a moment later. you don’t know how you missed it: the red mark on his left cheek, so small that your eyes glossed over it when you sat down. eagerly, you drop your gaze to his hands, one casually wrapped around his beer bottle and the other resting on the table. and sure enough, so tiny and pretty against his big hand is a single forget-me-not on his right pointer finger, exactly where you have a bandaid wrapped around your own.

you suck in a sharp breath, eyes caught on the delicate flower and unable to drag themselves away to look back at his face. just like everyone else, you’ve thought about it a million times over, what it would feel like to meet your soulmate, what you would do, how you would act. in this moment, you feel frozen, but you feel right and you feel a million questions and urges rise up in your heart and mind. you desperately want to reach out to him, to touch his hand and the little flower and make sure that they’re both real.

but you absolutely cannot keep your gaze away from his face for long at all and when you meet his eyes, an irresistible smile stretches across your face. you look at him with nothing short of wonderment. he’s just stunning and you can’t believe that he’s supposed to be… well, yours. 

just staring at each other, you feel a little flustered and awkward, unsure what to say to him. then you realize he should probably know your name, and all you know is his last. so you stick your right hand out and tell him your name. he takes your hand with a smile and repeats it back, saying it carefully and savoring the sound and feel of it on his tongue.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“sam greenaway,” you echo, easily remembering how he introduced himself yesterday. then you puzzle at his reaction and the way that the name doesn’t feel quite right as you look at him. he cringes slightly, like he’s done something to be guilty of. “or… not?” for a minute, things were starting to add up to you. the way you felt drawn to him yesterday and his job as an fbi agent finally explaining all of his many injuries. you figured he must be in fights often.

“i– i’m sorry, this is so– i mean if we’re really,” he takes a deep breath, trying to reset and figure out how to say things right. “if we’re really, you know, soulmates… well, there’s just a lot– a lot for me to explain. i’m not an fbi agent and my real name is sam winchester. but i swear, there’s a reason for me lying and i promise that i’ll explain it to you if you’re willing to hear it. which i understand if you don’t–”

“i do,” you say in earnest, finally cutting him off. it took you a second because, for a moment, you were too stuck on him saying the word soulmate aloud in reference to the two of you. it felt special and you were only half paying attention to the things he said after because of that. then all you were thinking about was how endearing he seems when he’s flustered and worried. “it’s okay,” you reassure him, “i want to hear it. i– i mean, sure, it’s sort of strange that you lied about, you know, all that, but… i’m not– i’m not gonna just meet my… my soulmate and not give you a chance.” he still looks a little tense, but his shoulders have dropped a bit in relief and there’s the hint of a grateful smile on his features.

“thank you,” he says, glad for your reassurance but still worried about how you might take the rest of the far weirder explanations that he has left to tell you. “can i maybe get you a drink?”

you smile at the offer, but shake your head a bit. “i was actually just heading out when i saw you. would you maybe wanna get out of here? my apartment’s less than a ten minute walk away.” for a moment, you wonder if that’s too much for just having met, but sam visibly relaxes just a little bit more.

“that would be nice,” he smiles. he’s getting ready to stand when he glances across the bar, seemingly remembering about his partner. or not partner. you’re not quite sure. “my brother, dean,” he explains simply when he catches your gaze on the other man. “i should tell him where i’m going.”

“okay,” you nod, filing the new information away in your mind and watching him weave between tables and flirting couples to reach his brother. the exchange is a bit funny to watch. at first dean looks annoyed at being interrupted by sam. then he glances at you with a sly smirk and makes some comment that is probably less than appropriate judging from his expression. and then his face morphs into one of surprise before it’s taken over by a smile. he claps sam on the shoulder and sends him off. you almost miss the look that dean gives you as sam heads back towards you because you’re so focused on the sweet smile that sam’s now wearing. you only catch dean’s look for a second before sam is back at your side. it’s easy to assume dean as the older brother, with his eyes on you being protective, proud, careful, and happy all at once. and they’re close enough that sam told him about you right away.

walking home with sam at your side is both completely strange and familiar all at once. it’s strange for a number of reasons, the main being that you’d never invite any other unknown man to your apartment, especially not one with a cryptic identity and such an imposing build. and yet, you’re not afraid or worried because of how familiar and safe it feels. it feels familiar because it feels right, it feels like exactly what you should be doing.

on the way over, he asks about you a little bit, trying not to overwhelm you with questions or seem overbearing with how eager he is to hear what you have to say. his kindness and carefulness are clear to you, and you love it. you answer happily, despite knowing he’s partially asking to avoid talking about himself until you settle down.

once inside, sam follows you right to the couch in the living room, sitting when you motion towards it and plop down into a chair across from him. he takes in the space, eyes roaming over your furniture, decor, and every little detail. he wants to know about you, just like you do him.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“thank you,” you respond softly, wondering exactly what parts of the room he likes. you let him look around a second or two more before speaking again. “so… can i ask? you know, about it all, i guess? about you?”

he doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks the way that you ask is so lovely. half of him wants to make up some silly, somewhat believable explanation to spare you the truth, but he knows that would never work out well. not if you choose to stay together in some way or another. already, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t doubt that you’re indeed his soulmate, the one who he’s been sharing wounds and flowers with for as long as he can remember. sam has both yearned for and dreaded this moment. he tries not to be obvious about it or over do it, but he’s sort of a total romantic. he’s had doubts about how this whole idea of soulmates could really be real or make much sense, but those thoughts are eased with each moment he spends with you. he still wants to get to know you before he does anything with you, but the way that he wants to get to know you is something he’s never felt before. it’s undeniably special.

the dread is because he’s known ever since he got back into hunting that he’d never be able to hide the truth of his world from you. he has no idea how he’s going to get to you to believe him or convince you that he’s not completely insane, but he’s going to tell you the truth anyway. even if you do believe him, he wants to give you a choice. you shouldn’t have to get involved with this life in any way at all if you don’t want to. he’d never force you to try things with him if it’s too strange or too scary or hard or anything. and already, he knows that he’ll never stop thinking about you if you do choose to stay away, but he also knows that he’d never try to change your mind or force you to do anything else other than exactly what you want.

“of course you can ask,” he responds, matching the softness of your own voice. “i, um– i’m honestly not quite sure how to say all of this without sounding totally crazy, and i completely understand that, but just– try to bear with me, i guess. and if you need proof, which i also understand, i’ll do my best to get it for you, it’s just– sort of hard.”

honestly, you’re wildly confused as to what the hell he could possibly say that would make him this anxious. it worries you a little bit too. you don’t want him to feel afraid to tell you anything at all. so, you nod at him in encouragement, trying not to seem nervous yourself.

“my brother and i, we– we hunt monsters. real ones. ghosts, vampires, demons, the works. they’re all real. your coworkers who died, they were– they were killed by an angry spirit. we got rid of it last night,” he says those words like they’re a ten ton weight off of his chest, but he’s still got another ten sitting there as he awaits your response. he looks at you so carefully, trying to gauge any sort of reaction.

you raise your eyebrows in surprise, and probably disbelief and a million other things. “angry spirit? like a ghost?” you’re not sure why that’s the first question that slips out, but you suppose it’s an easier one than are you insane? or what the hell are you talking about?

he nods his head carefully, like he’s waiting for you to freak out or call him crazy and tell him to go. “yeah. the ghost, she had died there, near the bathrooms where you felt the cold spot, in the 90s. she was triggered to kill when the man suspected of her murder was granted parole.”

“okay,” you breathe out, sort of nervously. the craziest thing is that you don’t disbelieve him. you’re not convinced by any stretch, but when you look him in the eye and listen close to his voice, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “i mean… that is sort of a kinda crazy thing to say,” you begin, “but i’ve always sort of believed in ghosts, so i don’t think you’re completely, you know, insane.” you laugh a bit, trying to lighten the mood a little. you don’t want him to stress, however unbelievable his words are. “the rest is a bit… shaky, i guess. it’s a hard thing to believe, i mean… vampires. and– and demons. it’s a lot. and honestly, i’m not sure how much i’ll really, truly believe until i see, i don’t know, something, i guess,” you admit, “but… but i don’t think you’re lying to me either.”

“thank you for that,” he says, voice as sincere as ever, “and i completely understand. honestly, part of me didn’t want to tell you at all, but… it’s sort of my whole entire life at this point and it wouldn’t be fair to hide from you. or– or to not give you a choice right off the bat of whether or not you wanted to be involved. it’s– it’s a lot and it’s dangerous. and if it’s what you want, i promise i’ll try to find a way to prove it to you, it’s just… hard to do that without putting you in danger. and i really don��t want to put you in danger.”

“that’s sweet, sam,” you say, not really bothering to hide the way you feel. “i’m not, you know, eager to meet any monsters anytime soon, but whenever it’s… the least dangerous, i guess, you can show me. until then… i’ll just trust you. and in the meantime maybe we can sort of just get to know each other?” you suggest, surprising yourself with how ready you are to trust him on this.

sam smiles at you sweetly. “that sounds perfect to me. i just– i don’t want to force you into something you don’t want for yourself. i live out of crappy motels and my brother’s car while hunting monsters that shouldn’t be real. i’m just… i’m sorry i’m not someone easier.”

you smile at him sort of sadly. “that’s not your fault, sam. i never asked for someone ‘easy’ anyway. just someone kind and respectful and you seem to be just that so far. besides, there’s gotta be a reason, right? that… we’re soulmates. honestly, if you were anyone else i wouldn’t trust you like this. an–and it’s not like i’m trusting you blindly because of something that we’re supposed to be. we just met. i’m only trusting you because it feels right to. and this whole soulmate thing never made too much sense to me until i met you. now it sort of does, because this feels right so far. at least, it does to me.”

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

as two people who aren’t quite ready to jump into such a committed relationship with completely different lives, it’s a little bit strange to be soulmates. and yet, nothing about it is anything but honey-sweet to you. the night you met as soulmates for the first time, you ended up talking for hours. all you had to do was sort of ignore the huge and slightly unbelievable bomb he dropped on you within the first hour of talking. oddly enough, that was sort of easy. you learned that sam’s appetite for knowledge is just about insatiable, including when it comes to knowing about you.

he had words rolling off of your tongue, asking the best, most interesting questions and providing such sincere and in-depth responses. that night, he was just lovely, and that’s pretty much all he’s been since. he’s this adorable mix of confident and shy, awkward and knowing just the right thing to say. and he’s incredibly smart, an almost stanford pre-law graduate who was headed for bigger things before he was pulled back into hunting a little over two years ago. this explains the difference in all his injuries from the past two years versus the three beforehand. secretly, you mourn for the life that he, and subsequently you, might have had, but only because he gets a little wistful every time he talks about stanford.

mostly, you talk on the phone, only stopping late in the night when one of you catches the other yawning. he seems to sleep so little, yet he lives such a tiring life. you almost always seem to be the one who gets too tired first. one night, you fell asleep to his voice, and since then, you feel like it’s the single best way to drift into dreams.

sam tries to avoid the topic of the supernatural, but you ask him about it anyway. as you get used to the idea of monsters being real, you find yourself wanting to understand it all better. you want to understand him better. and you don’t want him to feel like he has to hide the biggest parts of his life from you or for him to have trouble fitting you into his world.

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he's told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

sam keeps you by his side the whole time, one hand on you every moment that he can afford it. the second the ghost appears, he blasts it with a salt round from his shotgun, and he thinks he could cry when you flinch at the loud noise. yet, he feels comforted that you don’t seem all too scared. and strangely, you really aren’t. sam easily makes you feel safe. luckily, the next time the ghost appears, it bursts into flames moments later thanks to dean burning the bones.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, pulling you into a hug that’s more for his peace of mind than yours. of course, you don’t complain, easily finding his arms to be your new favorite place in the world.

oddly enough, taking it almost slow works well. he kisses you the next time he sees you, a week and a half later, and you’ve never wanted anything more than to have him keep kissing you, over and over again. he just feels like yours and you feel like his and you’ve barely known him for long, but when he kisses you it’s like there’s stars hung from the ceiling and flowers made from nothing but love and healing growing all over you. when he kisses you it’s sunlight and moonglow bottled up and mixed with sweet, pure maple syrup. his lips on yours feel like lucky four leaf clovers, like it’s possible to taste heaven on someone else’s tongue.

and though it mostly works for him to just visit as often as he can, which sometimes isn’t often at all, and to call him at every moment you can, the yearning only grows. you swear that you’re addicted to his lips, to his big hands cupping your jaw all gentle and sweet or his bulky arms boxing you in as he kisses you so hard that you melt right into the sheets.

and some nights, though he tries to hide it, you can hear him struggling with what seems to be the weight of the world on his shoulders. his job is anything but easy or fruitful. before, you thought that you might worry less when you found out exactly why your soulmate was getting injured so often, but now every time new blooms appear on your skin, you spend all day fretting until you can get him on the phone to make sure he’s alright.

you suppose he gets just as worried as you, despite the fact that you’re never in nearly as much danger as he is. a week ago, a jagged edge on a metal wire fence snagged at your skin, drawing a very shallow, but long line of blood down your forearm. seconds later, you had a frantic sam on the phone, so worried about all the little blue flowers on his arm. 

it’s not as hard as he thinks for you to tell how much fear and worry he lives in. you know that he doesn’t tell you the half of it sometimes, even when you ask. all you want is to have him a little closer, to be there for him and provide the sort of comfort that you’re sure he’s never really had before. and though he’s told you that having you to talk to, so receptive and encouraging for him, has been a complete blessing, you still wish for more. you want his arms enveloping you and his lips on yours and his warm body in your bed. really, you just miss him. all the time.

⟢⟢⟢

tonight is one of the glorious nights that you get to have him with you. his broad frame takes up so much space in your bed, and you love it more than just about anything. he props himself up on one elbow and you mirror his pose as you let your eyes roam over each other’s features and take turns rambling about every little thing from this past week. unable to resist, sam kisses you often. he just leans over, swiftly closing the small space between you and pressing his lips to yours. he looks so beautiful like this; at peace, his shirtless body and protective tattoo framed all prettily by clean white sheets.

eventually, comforting words turn into a comforting silence, and you drop your head to your pillow. your eyes droop a little as you play with the idea letting a few more words slip from your tongue. you want to say something to him, but you can’t tell if it’s the right time.

sam settles on his pillow, just like you. “what is it?” he whispers, inviting and respectful. his voice tells you that you’re welcome to say whatever you’re thinking about, but that it’s okay if you don’t want to quite yet.

you smile a little at how well he’s able to read you. since he asked so sweetly, you say it. “i can’t be away from you, sam. i love you, i really do.” this isn’t the first time you’ve said the three special words to each other, but his eyes grow infinitely softer than they were before each time you do.

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it– it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

you swiftly cut him off with a kiss that he more than willingly melts into. “i know,” you whisper against his lips, barely moving from him to speak. “but– but what if we tried something else? you still go on your hunts and all that, but you and dean can stay here in between. there’s this cabin in the woods i’ve been eyeing, it’s sort of small but it’s isolated and we could ward it. i’ve been looking into protection and warding spells, and i think we could make it work… only, you know, if you wa–”

this time he’s the one to cut you off with a kiss, passionate and sweet all at once. when your lips part, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours like he can’t bear to be any further from you.

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“i want to,” you echo his words, just as sincerely. “please, sam, let me do this. i’ve been saving money for a long time and it’s a little run down so it’s not too expensive. and i’m getting sick of this apartment.”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

that word gets to him. sam doesn’t really have a solid or normal concept of home—the closest thing he has is the impala. but it sounds so right when it comes out of your mouth. “and– and you’re okay with that?” he asks, still needing to be reassured, “you said it was isolated, and–”

“i’m sure, sam,” you emphasize, “it’s only 20 minutes from town and the roads to and from are never busy. i’ve always wanted to live in the woods, i swear. and if it meant i could be with you more, i’d never ever say no to this. please… can we talk to dean about it?”

“yes,” he gushes. “yes, of course, i– you’re amazing.” he seals the deal with a firm, giddy kiss. “and if dean says he doesn’t like the idea, i don’t care. i’m gonna do this with you.” another kiss and your heart softens infinitely. “besides, he loves the pie from the bakery on morrison street, which means he can’t say no.” he gives you another kiss and pulls away again, and you know that he’s bound to keep rambling if you let him, so you wrap an arm around his neck and thread your fingers through his soft, pretty hair. then you kiss him hard until he can’t breathe. he returns the favor by tenfold, whispering through labored breath how much he loves you and wants you and thinks that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

[fungifanart]

Romantically Bankrupt

Characters: Male reader, Yuu!reader, Ruggie Bucchi

CW: Blood/fatal injury, death, heavy angst/whump, hurt/no comfort, angst with a sad ending

Word count: 2.8k

Notes: Happy Pride Month, my fellow queers! Sorry it took me so long to get this done, but I promise it's worth the wait! Also, props to you if you get the reference to a certain other Ruggie fic of mine! ( @lemonchuu / @leichor pspspspspsps) ( And @nemisisnemi pull up a chair)

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Ruggie genuinely can't remember a time when he's felt happier than he does now.

Living comfortably with a stable, high-paying job at the Sunset Savanna palace, thanks to Leona.

Being able to move his grandma into a nicer, safer part of the kingdom and work with government officials to slowly but surely close the gap between the rich and the poor.

And last, but not least: Doing this and so much more with his beloved husband by his side. The man who came to this world with nothing, but still rose from the title of Janitor to the Prefect of Ramshackle dorm and then eventually to the Headmaster of NRC itself.

Y/n.

His handsome, loving Y/n.

The man whom he's sworn his heart and soul to for the rest of their lives.

The man for whom he's used all of his built-up PTO to spend a whole week with starting today, their five year anniversary.

Ruggie flops down into a chair at the kitchen table after finally finishing making his and Y/n's anniversary dinner and waits patiently for his love's return.

Fifteen minutes later, Ruggie's ears perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching and then the front door to his and Y/n's shared living space opening.

"Ruggie, I'm home! Sorry I'm late, I had a phone call that--" Y/n's sentence ends abruptly as Ruggie runs up and surprises him with a tight hug while he's still in the doorway.

"Shihihi! Welcome home!" Ruggie exclaims while nuzzling his face into his husband's neck, "I'll forgive you for being late just this once, seeing as how it's our anniversary! Not to mention how I'd hate for the special dinner I made to go to waste!" He finishes lightheartedly while motioning towards the kitchen.

"Like I'd let that happen! But first, I got something for-" Y/n moves his hand from behind his back only to just realize that it's empty and looks back at Ruggie to see him happily sniffing the bouquet of rhododendrons, begonias and chrysanthemums he'd bought for him.

"Shihihi! You know old habits die hard!" Ruggie quips before placing a tender kiss on his husband's lips, "I love them, dear. Thank you so much."

This tender moment continues in the kitchen where the two men eat their dinner while discussing all manner of things, from how their days were to how their friends are keeping up to how Grim will do as Acting Headmaster while Y/n is away, until the food is finished and they fall into a comfortable silence. A silence which Ruggie breaks upon seeing Y/n begin to fidget nervously.

"Is something wrong, love?" Ruggie asks while placing his hand on the other man's in comfort.

"N-no! It's just that I got some amazing news earlier and it's getting harder and harder to contain myself!" He says with excitement rising up in his voice.

"Well, don't keep me waiting, then! Lay it on me!" Ruggie urges, his curiosity at it's peak.

"Ok ok! So do you remember that phone call I mentioned that made me late?" The other man begins before taking both of Ruggie's hands in his own with a big smile, "It was from the adoption agency! The papers were accepted!! We can adopt a child!!!"

All time seems to stop in the moment it takes Ruggie to process this information before resuming as his face breaks into the biggest smile he's worn all day and he reaches across the table to wrap his husband in a tight hug.

The two remain like this for several minutes, hugging and crying from happiness until they've calmed down enough to separate and look at each other with eyes full of love and adoration.

"I'm so happy that I get to adopt a child with you, Y/n!" Ruggie says elatedly.

"Me too, Ruggie!" The other man responds, "Now, all that's left to do is--"

"W......... ...p..."

Ruggie blinks for a second, unsure of what he'd just heard, "Uh, what was that last part, Y/n?"

"Huh? Well, I was just saying how we need to--"

"W...KE U..."

'There it is again. It sounds far away, but close at the same time...and what is it trying to tell me?' Ruggie thinks as he attempts to clear out his ears with his finger to hear better, "Sorry, my ears are acting weird suddenly, could you say that again?"

The confusion on Y/n's face is quickly accompanied by concern as he reaches forward to check Ruggie for a fever, "Dear, are you feeling alright? Maybe you should--"

"PLEASE, RUGGIE!!! WAKE UP!!!"

The hyena's surroundings begin to melt away into darkness as he hears the voice loud and clear, that of the real Y/n begging him to wake up from this apparent dream, the last thing he sees before doing so being dream Y/n's concerned face dissolving into the darkness.

Ruggie floats in the void of unconsciousness briefly before he feels a pair of hands shaking his shoulders frantically and his eyes flutter open to see the real Y/n's face looking back at him, contorted in desperation that turns into immense relief upon his awakening.

"Ruggie! Oh my god... oh my god. Thank goodness, you're okay!" The Prefect says while pulling the hyena into a tight hug with shaking hands.

"Y-yeah...sorry for worrying you! I'm okay now, though!" Ruggie says while shaking off the drowsiness caused by Malleus's spell and returning his boyfriend's hug.

Ruggie would've preferred that this nice moment go on for a bit longer, but it's instead ruined by the sound of a spell being launched at the two of them and the Prefect instinctively rolling them out of the way.

"Crap, I was so relieved that I almost forgot." The other man says while helping Ruggie stand up and staying close to him protectively, "We managed to severely weaken Malleus in the dream world, but he's not down just yet. Will you help us finish him off?"

And here Ruggie was just getting used to being awake again and suddenly he needs to fight. Typical.

"Shihihi, anything for you, Y/n!" Ruggie says while shaking off the last of the drowsiness, "And besides, I need to pay that guy back for teasing me with something that hasn't happened yet!"

And so, the fight continues as Ruggie and the others lob spell after spell at the weakened fae prince until Malleus's stamina is seeming to reach its limits, which his dormmates and the Prefect use as an opportunity to try to reason with him again.

"MALLEUS-SAMA, PLEASE YOU MUST UNDERSTAND--"

"Malleus, it hurts me too, but this isn't the way to--"

"Malleus, just give it up! This can't go on forever--"

"Lostie, please! This isn't who you are--"

"SILENCE!!!" Malleus yells in one last fit of rage that sends a barrage of thick and sharp thorn vines out in all directions, one of which speeds towards Ruggie faster than he can dodge.

Ruggie closes his eyes and braces for the feeling of the vine tearing into his flesh, when suddenly--

"RUGGIE!!!"

He instead feels a hand pushing him away, hears the Prefect’s voice calling his name in sheer desperation and opens his eyes just in time to see the thorn vine drive itself directly through the other man's stomach as he lets out a blood-curdling scream in pain.

Ruggie's vision turns red at this and the next moments go by in a blur until he comes out of it to the sight of an unconscious and now normal Malleus at his feet.

He has no time to wonder how that happened as he whips his head around to find where his boyfriend is and sees him collapsed on his back in a growing pool of blood with Grim crying his name next to him.

"Y/N!!! No no no no no no--" Ruggie says as he sprints over and slides on his knees to a halt next to him and holds him in his arms, uncaring to how much blood would get on him, "Y/N! Hey!! Talk to me!!! Grim! Go find Professor Crewel or Riddle or someone who can help!"

The direbeast sprints away as the Prefect stirs in Ruggie's arms.

"...*cough* R-Ruggie? You're alright?" He looks at Ruggie with barely focused eyes and coughs up blood on top of the blood already gushing from the gaping hole in his stomach.

"Forget about me! Why'd you do that?!" He practically screams as he shoves his scarf into the wound in a desperate, but vain attempt to stop the bleeding, all survival knowledge having left his brain due to panic.

"S-sorry...*cough* when I saw the vine coming at you, my body moved on its own. I just couldn't bear the thought of you getting hurt..." Y/n says with a small, pathetic smile.

"I-- That's-- Y-you shouldn't-- I-I'm not--" Ruggie tries to argue, to say ANYTHING, but, looking at the ever growing pool of blood around them and hearing the sound of the Prefect’s breathing becoming more labored, all words die in his throat and all he can do is look into his love's eyes while tears pool around his own.

Just as the tears begin to fall, the Prefect reaches up his hand to caress the hyena's cheek, which he takes in his own trembling grasp.

He's scared. So scared.

Ruggie's finally found something, someONE, that his childhood self could only dream of finding and now here he is, slowly but surely slipping away.

His spiraling is interrupted by the Prefect’s weakening voice, "R-Ruggie, there's actually-*cough* s-something I need to tell you in case I-*cough* don't make it..." He says as his words grow more forced.

Ruggie's eyes widen, "H-hey! Don't talk like that! Grim's gonna get Professor Crewel here and you'll be patched up in no--"

"Ruggie...please just listen..." The Prefect says in a weak tone that overpowers the rest of Ruggie's sentence, "If I don't make it, I want you-*cough* to go to my room-*huff* at Ramshackle. T-there's *huff* s-something in the very back of the drawer in my desk that I-*cough* want you to have, ok...?"

Ruggie nods nervously as his grip on his boyfriend's hand tightens, "S-sure, but that's only if you don't make it! Which you will! I mean it!" He says, unsure whether he's trying to convince the Prefect or himself.

"Y-yeah...of course..." The other man responds while turning his gaze straight upwards, "Hey...would you mind-*cough* telling me what you dreamt about...?"

Ruggie blushes in embarrassment thinking about it, "Uuhh...w-well...you and me, we were...uh...living together. I was working at the palace and you were the Headmaster here and...we were...really happy. I'd really like it if that could be our reality someday."

The Prefect continues to stare upwards as his eyes glisten with tears, "That-*cough* sounds wonderful...*huff*...I'd like that too." He rasps as Ruggie can see the tears threatening to spill over, "H-hey, Ruggie?"

"Yeah...?" The hyena responds.

"You k-know I love you, r-right?" He says with a weak, but geniune smile causing Ruggie's heart to skip a beat.

"O-of course! I love you too!" Ruggie responds plainly with no hint of sarcasm or false bravado, just the honest truth.

However, this one statement is what makes the Prefect's tears finally spill over, "Th-that-*sniff*-makes me-*cough* so happy to hear. I love you, Ruggie." The next part, he says in a barely audible whisper, "I wish I could’ve...*huff*...shown you how much..."

Time slows down to a crawl in this moment as Ruggie watches the love of his life close his eyes and feels his hand go limp in his grasp, seemingly at peace.

But not Ruggie.

Ruggie is anything but at peace.

All sound is cut off in this moment to the point that he can't even hear his own voice as he desperately calls out Y/n's name and shakes his shoulders, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

He only stops upon being pushed away by someone he vaguely recognizes who tells him something he can't hear before putting their ear to the Prefect’s chest and trying all manner of tactics to resuscitate him.

But it's too late.

Ruggie had already guessed this, but the confirmation saps the color from the world around him as the person and a small animal still work feverishly for several minutes.

But it doesn't work.

The end of those several minutes of fruitless work is marked by the person placing their fur coat on top of the Prefect's body.

Ruggie goes fully numb at this, his brain barely registering anything about the world around him and even his own actions as he only realizes he's started walking away upon seeing the faces of people he's pretty sure he knows as they either are only just waking up or nursing their own injuries.

How lucky they are to walk away with their lives, unlike a certain someone. Unlike the one person who mattered.

Ignoring the questions of his peers, Ruggie exits Diasomnia and continues walking.

To where? He doesn't know or care anymore. It's not like Y/n will be there to greet him after all.

The minutes pass by in a blur as Ruggie walks until he finds himself at the gates to Ramshackle, 'Oh yeah, that thing Y/n wanted me to have.' He thinks numbly to himself before entering his boyfriend's dorm.

Walking into the Lounge, the hyena's mind clears enough to see the faces of the dorm's three ghostly residents in front of him who look ready to fire a barrage of questions, but settle on one upon seeing his expression.

"He didn't make it, did he?" The middle ghost asks, all three of their expressions turning crestfallen as Ruggie nods silently, "That's...unfortunate. He probably already told you about his gift for you, so go on up to his room, lad. We won't keep you."

'Like I needed your permission.' Ruggie thinks bitterly to himself.

Upon reaching the room he's been to countless times at this point, Ruggie hesitates, but pushes forward and opens the door, already regretting it as he's bombarded with Y/n's scent and every memory he's made with him rushes through his head relentlessly.

Fighting back the tears and forcing each foot in front of the other, Ruggie eventually makes it to Y/n's desk and opens the drawer, finding it empty save for a single envelope with his name on it leaning against the very back.

Snatching up the envelope, Ruggie opens it and immediately recognizes his boyfriend's handwriting on the paper contained inside.

"Dear Ruggie,

If you're reading this, then it means I'm no longer alive. With how dangerous things have become, I've suspected my death as a possibility for quite some time now, so I wanted to be prepared for this outcome.

As I'm writing, you're currently out working one of your jobs and I still find myself marveling at how hardworking you are. It's one of the qualities that I love and respect the most about you. Just before you left, you mentioned how you'll need to hit the grind harder than ever to provide for your 'darling future husband.' which you probably meant as a joke, but it still made my heart skip a beat to imagine that kind of future for us.

But...regarding the future, I really need to apologize. It seems like I won't be able to fulfill the promise we made before we officially started dating.

I'm sorry. I really and truly am. I don't know how I died, but I can one hundred percent assure you that it was never my intention to leave you like this, because the time we've spent together, however brief, was easily the happiest I've ever been and I sincerely hope that you can say the same.

You may have already noticed a certain something I've left behind this letter, which I had hoped to give to you in person later down the line, but seeing as how that's no longer possible...

It's probably cruel to ask this of you now, but:

Ruggie Bucchi, I love you with all of my heart,

Will you marry me?

Forever yours,

Y/n"

Shoving his hand back into the drawer, Ruggie pulls out one more thing like the letter said, a very small box that he opens to reveal a circle of metal adorned by an even smaller glittering jewel on the top.

A ring.

An engagement ring.

The Prefect was going to stay and he was going to propose to him.

With this revelation, Ruggie's legs finally give out and he drops to his knees, tears falling freely down his face as he tightly clutches the letter and ring box to his chest.

"Yes, Y/n...I will marry you…”

[virginsexgod69]

7| Revenge Kill

pairing Daryl Dixon x F!Reader

summary As you search the pharmacy, you run into a familiar face.

cw violence, murder, mention of infidelity, mentions of child death, vague description of children as walkers, injuries, profanity, attempted theft, shitty ex husbands, i think that's it?

note i've never written fighting before but i figured it'd be like writing smut, but violent? idk man, it was a challenge. lmk your thoughts and any feedback, if you have it, would be appreciated!

2.3k words

Series Masterlist

The severity of the situation did little to strike fear into your heart. It was the end of the world, the dead were rising, and there were already so many other worries that held your focus that this felt like a huge inconvenience, rather than a life or death dilemma. A frustrated sigh left your lips as your turned to face the owner of the gun with your hands raised in surrender. The gun holder was a shabby, malnourished looking man whose hair was matted and overgrown. He looked to be in such an awful state that you almost wanted to hand him the medicines out of sheer pity. That was until a familiar voice, a voice you’d never forget, said your name in the form of a question. 

“I-is that really you?” He asked, his aim faltering for a split second. The pity you had felt at first morphed into hurt, which was quickly washed away by a wave of rage. 

“Trent?” You spat the name of your ex husband. While you were technically not divorced, you still referred to him as an ex husband and since the world ended, there were no laws to keep you from doing so. He still kept the gun pointing at you, which boiled your blood even more. 

“What the fuck are you doing out here? I thought you left!” Your voiced dripped with pure hatred and venom for the man that abandoned his family in the midst of the apocalypse. 

“I.. I did, b-but I came back.” 

“There’s nothing for you here. Leave,” you demanded. He cocked the gun and moved his finger to the trigger, fixing his aim on your head, but you didn’t falter. 

“I’m not leaving, not without that medicine.” You reached into the bag and pulled out the allergy pills and chucked it at his head, causing him to flinch and fumble to catch it. 

“That’s all I’m giving you, now get out of my fucking way!” You slung your bag over your shoulders and picked up your hammer, but his firm grasp on your arm stopped you. 

“Baby, please. I don’t wanna hurt you, but I need that medicine.” You tore your arm from his hold and swung at him, your fist colliding with his hollow cheek. He stumbled backward, almost tripping over his feet, but he caught himself on one of the shelves. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you lifted your hammer over his head and brought it down with full force, but he caught the wooden handle just before the metal end could greet his skull. His arms shook as he fought against your hold. 

“I’m s-sorry! Please! Don’t k-kill me. I have a family,” he begged. All you could see was red. How dare he use the family he chose to leave as a bargaining chip for his worthless life. 

“You had a family and you chose to leave them,” you growled as you yanked the hammer from him. 

“N-no, you don’t underst–” his own pained scream cut him off after you slammed the hammer into his shoulder, causing him to drop the gun. It slid across the floor and under the shelf. Shoving him out of the way, you lunged for the gun, blindly feeling for it underneath the shelf. Your fingers curled around the handle and you pulled it from its hiding place. 

“No. You don’t understand. You have no family because your kids are fucking dead!” You pointed the gun at him now as he cowered in fear, clutching his shoulder in pain. 

“Dead?” He whimpered. Tears fell from his eyes, leaving clean streaks on his dirty face. 

“Killed by the dead all because,” your voice shook as the memory of that day brought angry tears to your eyes, “because you ran away to screw my best friend when you should’ve been being their fucking father!” You screamed. You couldn’t see his own grief stricken face through your tears as you pushed down on the trigger. The gun was jammed and nothing came out. You screamed in frustration and tossed the useless weapon aside before reaching for your own gun. He tackled you to the ground before you could unholster it. He, too, was seething with anger. 

“Why are you putting the blame on me, when you’re their fucking mother!” His filthy hands encircled your throat, cutting off your airways as he sobbed. Your vision blurred, not only from your inability to breathe, but from hitting your head on the ground when he tackled you. 

“I have a baby on the way, and I know for a fact that Sierra will be a far better mother than you could ever dream of being! So give me my medications so I can make sure she’ll live to see that day.” His biting words were only background noise to the ringing in your ears. You thrashed beneath him as you tried to pull his hands from your throat. When they wouldn’t budge, you sank your nails into his flesh, slowly dragging them up his hand. As his skin tore, warm blood flowed from the wounds while he screamed in pain and reflexively pulled his hands away. You took advantage of the opening shoved him off of you, knocking him to the ground. Your sledgehammer wasn’t too far out of reach, so you grabbed it and used it as a support to help you stand through your dizzy spell. 

“She can be a good mother on her own, just like I was, because you’re not going home to your new family.” You swung the hammer at his head, but he just barely dodged the deadly hit. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t say anything that would convince you to spare his life. He deserved to die, in your opinion. Whenever you sat and reflected on your life, almost every bad thing could be traced back to him. By some odd stroke of luck he didn’t deserve, he kept dodging your hits and you were starting to become tired. You already weren’t on your A game after having taken a few hits.

“Y-you’re fucking crazy, you know that!” He hissed as he struggled to his feet. Fed up with his entire existence, you tossed the hammer aside and successfully unholstered your gun. He lunged at you at the same time you fired the the gun. The bullet only grazed him as you collided with the wall behind you. It was true that evil never dies. You ducked just in time to avoid the punch he threw at your face. You threw your entire body weight onto him, sending him back to the ground. He let out a pained grunt once his head slammed against the cold tile.  His state of disorientation served as the perfect opportunity to land a punch across his face, then another, and another. He writhed in pain beneath you as he tried to fight you off of him. The pain of his face against your fists didn’t phase you because the revenge felt too great. He deserved every bit of this pain, yet it still would never compare to the pain your kids probably felt when the dead ate them alive, the pain you felt when you came back home from a run and found their half-eaten, living-dead bodies stumbling  around around with him nowhere to be seen. His scratched up hands blindly clawed at you as he begged for his life between sobs of anguish. Those sobs were nothing but music to your ears, so melodious to you that your own sobs didn’t register to you as your own. 

“Please,” he croaked through his swollen, bloodied mouth, “let me at least be there for one of my kids,” he begged. His words gave you pause, freezing you in your position with your fists balled as you straddled his waist. Sparing him hadn’t once crossed your mind, but in that moment, you almost considered it. Almost. But that thought quickly flew out the window when he mustered up enough strength to toss you off of him, leaving you face down on the cold, dirtied tile. He roughly gripped the back of your head in his big hand, lifting it up before slamming it to the floor and holding you down as you struggled to get up. His grip released as he quickly stood up, trying to speedily limp away with your bag of medicine and medical supplies tossed over his shoulder. Dizzy and with your nose and mouth stinging in pain, you grabbed onto his ankle at the very last second, causing him to stumble. He didn’t fall, though, and instead continued to drag his beaten body toward the door, with you slowing him down. 

 You felt defeated. All this effort you put up just to lose to the same man you’ve already lost to so many times. Seeing him again dredged up so many painful memories, reopening recently inflicted wounds and scratching at old scars. Giving up would be so easy. The pain and dizziness that surged throughout your head and the coppery taste in your mouth were compelling cases on why you should. But your hatred overpowered your exhaustion. 

Finding a hammer in that boutique felt like striking gold. Daryl had found it in a random drawer behind the register’s counter, along with other clutter that was left over from a construction project of some sorts. He grabbed it and made quick work of using the claw to pry the nails from the wooden boards. Once he removed what he deemed to be enough wood, he looked around, expecting to see you standing by. You not being there sent his alarm bells ringing. There were plenty of things you could have been doing other than looking for a hammer and he knew you could handle yourself, but he’d still preferred to be safe than sorry. 

He unsheathed his knife to have it ready lest he run into any trouble. His walk increased into a slight jog when he heard the cacophony of shouts and crashes coming from the pharmacy. With his knife held out in front of him, he crept inside the building at the same he heard the thud of a body colliding with the ground. At his feet, a man holding a bag laid face down on the floor with his hands held out, clawing at the tile. You -with blood leaking down your nose and from your mouth- crawled up toward the stranger and sat on his lower back, earning a pained groan from him since you knocked the wind out of him.

“Daryl, give me the knife!” You frantically screamed with your arm reached out for the weapon. Daryl was confused as all hell, but that didn’t stop him from handing you the weapon- handle first. You muttered a thanks as you accepted it. You grabbed a fistful of the man’s ratty hair and lifted his battered face from the ground before slicing the knife across his throat. Daryl watched the life drain from the man’s eyes as the blood poured from his throat, oozing toward his feet. You let out a sigh of relief and handed him back his knife. You struggled to your feet and snatched the bag from the dead man’s hands. 

“Didn’t find a hammer,” you hunched over to catch your breath, “but I found a shit ton of medical supplies!” 

“Wha’ happened back there?” He asked as the two of you left the building. 

“Asshole tried to rob me…then kill me,” you replied, omitting most of the story.

“You okay?” He looked at your face with concern, but you waved him off and wiped the blood from your face with the back of your hand and walked ahead of him. Your head and face hurt and you were slightly dizzy, but other than that, you felt fine. Daryl was already doing enough by staying behind and helping out with your cabin, burdening him with something small like this would be too much. He didn’t seem to believe you, but didn’t press any further. 

“Found a hammer and got the wood off the door. This outta be enough to patch that hole up,” he told you once the two of you returned to the outside of the boutique where he left the wood when he went to find you. 

“Oh. Nice,” you dismissively replied. You truly were grateful, but the pain and dizziness you were experiencing made it hard to focus on anything. You set the bag down before gently lowering yourself to a sitting position on the curb. You closed your eyes and rested your head in your hands. 

“Hey. You sure you alright?” 

“Uh huh, just need to sit down for a bit before we get goin’.” 

Daryl looked around at the surrounding area to make sure there were no walkers nearby. There was a few hours of sunlight left, just enough to get back to your cabin before nightfall, but only if you left now. As for walkers, other than the odd straggler, the area was relatively clear.

“If we wanna make it back ‘fore nightfall, we should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you agreed, despite not feeling any better. You stood up, the throbbing pain and dizzy spell making it difficult. Daryl dropped the wood and caught you when you stumbled. Had you not been injured, you’d have been internally squealing and giggling because he caught you and held you upright in his arms. 

“Nah, somethin’s wrong,” he commented as he examined your face. 

You weakly swatted his hands away, but they didn’t go anywhere. “I’m fine, I just hit my head once or twice,” you admitted a little too nonchalantly for his liking. 

“Think you got a concussion or somethin’,” he hypothesized. You gently removed his hands from your shoulders and picked your bag up off from the floor. 

“We should stay here ’til mornin’ so you can get some rest.” As much as you wanted to push back , to disagree and keep going, you knew you needed the rest. He took the bag from you and picked up the wood boards before leading you into the boutique.

note hi, it's me again. with finals and graduation season coming, updates are gonna be a little slower (not that they were very frequent before lmao). i thank you all for your patience <3. also i have my AP Lit test tmr, so wish me luck =[

THANKS FOR READING!

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GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENTS / CONTENT WARNINGS FOR PART III OF IN THE NETHERWOOD

As a preliminary matter, I want to stress I have not decided whether to split part 3 into two parts. I will be sharing the full draft with Sam and a couple of mutuals to get their thoughts, but I will let you all know before it’s posted what my decision is.

First and foremost, I want to explain a few of the content warnings.

The primary theme of Part III is dead dove, do not eat.

Violence. Part III contains explicit violence/blood/gore. I don’t think it’s overly detailed, and in some instances, there are a few cut to black scenes, but know that as a whole, there is quite a bit of violence ahead. There is a scene describing a dismembered body, but again, not in too much detail.

Non-con. There are several references to non-con in Part III against other characters but there are no actual depictions of it. The non-con is accompanied by some rather disturbing revelations of additional violence, so just be aware. Again, nothing is depicted.

Self-mutilation/injury. This is a cut to black scene, and the injury inflicted is done for survival purposes. It is not explicit.

Douma. He’s his own content warning.

Explicit sexual content. When I say part III is smutty I mean it is smutty in the most explicit way imaginable. Reader gets fucked literally by her Wolf, if that’s not telling enough, idk what is.

Finally, I want to stress that there is a Part IV — so please, whatever you think you have to fear in reading Part III, give it a chance. I promise you, I will never leave a story unresolved.

With that, happy reading! I will post the full CW/TW list below. See you soon 🤍

TW: dead dove do not eat • explicit violence/gore • references to non-con against several characters (not depicted) • mutilation • self-mutilation/injury (broken bones) • references to torture (not depicted) • brief description of dismembered body • Douma is a sadist • references/mentions of characters being eaten alive • death • angst

CW: explicit sexual content • MDNI • monster-fucking • werewolf fucking • Giant wolf cock • mates/mating marks • heat cycles • breeding • cum so much fucking cum • belly bulging • dick imprint • cum swelling • oral sex (F! And M! Receiving) • scent kink • breeding kink • creative use of the mating bond • vaginal fisting (?) (idk Sanemi has his whole hand in her at one point) • vaginal fingering • possessive/protective mates • discussions of pregnancy

Lastly, we are doing a trial run posting with Part 3. This installment is massive, and I’ve had issues in the past with tumblr not letting me post or not letting people reblog. If this happens again, I will delete the original posting and reupload it as two separate parts — Part 3 and Part 4. In that event, the final installment of In the Netherwood will be Part 5.

I ask that if I have to split Part 3 up, that you please, please reblog and comment — not only so it gets visibility but also because I hate the idea of losing any interactions that I might get on the original post.

Part 3 will be posted before the New Year.

[onestepbackwards]

Love That Bites Pt. 9

Hiiii! Welcome to part 9 of my Dracula x Reader fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter, though I apologize if it feels kinda wonky. I finally got a new pc built during writing, and a bunch of other stuff has happened. It was hard to piece it all together with so much happening in my life. I hope you all enjoy it though! Just in time for Nocturne to release :D Summary: After arriving in Dracula's castle, you can't help but feel you are in a dream, though you certainly wish it was to avoid the awkward air. Meanwhile, Dracula contemplates his next moves. After all, he's sure he's bound to be the center of the world's gossip mill when they find out he's caring for a Belmont.

CW: Anxiety, references to bad home life, injuries mentioned, blood drinking

Word Count: 4216 words! Like my work? Come check me out here: Link Likes and reblogs appreciated!

Tag List: @Onewiththebeanbag @starrlo0ver @sleepyendymion @dame-sunflowers @sapphicsfordracula @ursamajor17 @maorizon @marshmelloe Wanna be on the taglist, let me know in the comments!

First: Here Last: Here Next: Here! --

Sorting his affairs turned out to be a much more annoying endeavor than Dracula originally intended.

Despite this, he wasn’t all too surprised.

For the past few centuries, despite being the King of the Night, he has had very little presence in paranormal societies.

Every time he had been revived since this cursed cycle began, he had barely been alive long before a Belmont or some other hero would come and battle him to the death.

Even if for all intents and purposes he was the King of Vampires, he has had little or no time to rule.

He absentmindedly swirled his glass, before taking another sip.

There were two probable scenarios because of this.

Vampire covens and supernatural communities were in chaos.

Or-

They were in various communities across the globe, staking territory. He doubted any of them would be happy he was back to rule.

No one liked their own power to be threatened, after all.

Even when he was actively King, vampire covens and paranormal communities weren’t always happy to serve him. Many just did for his power, or the safety he offered.

Some felt the call of power from him and Castlevania itself. Others are uniquely tied to him and his castle. Those ones he hardly had to worry about.

No, he had a feeling his return wouldn’t be as happily accepted outside his usual circles. Most would probably only lend him an ear since he was Death’s master, and Chaos’ champion.

Did not mean they would be cooperative or happy.

He let out an agitated sigh. No doubt being killed over and over made him appear weak. Dracula suspected many would be aiming for his throat and his throne.

Nevermind the fact he was almost always slain just after being revived, before his powers ever had a chance to settle.

And he was sure many underestimated the power of the Belmonts. He may have always just woken up around each battle, but each Belmont still had power beyond belief.

“What a nuisance.” He muttered, downing more blood.

While normally he would handle this himself, he couldn’t afford to sit idly and wait for such pathetic attempts on his life and power from want-to-be rulers.

Dracula had a guest this time. He had you.

Back when his precious Lisa had still been alive, he had been alive for several centuries at that point. Almost every underling knew she was off limits, lest they desire something more painful than death itself.

Even those he knew wanted his head knew better than to go for his wife.

Lisa had been left alone by his servants and other creatures of the night. Ironic how it was the humans that took her from him.

The gall and irony humans had to call him and his own monsters after that. Bah.

The glass in his hand cracked, and he looked at it in annoyance.

Banishing it, another drink was brought to him as he continued to think.

Things were different this time. At least back then, no one dared to lay a finger on his wife. But now?

He had no doubts a target would be on both his head, and the Little Belmont’s.

Dracula was sure word was already spreading across the castle, and no doubt would soon do so to other communities nearby.

‘The Dracula? Taking in another human?’

He can already imagine the gossip.

The scowl on his face darkened.

It would only be a matter of time before word reached across the globe.

He knew you could take care of yourself, sure. You had told him several stories of hunts you had when he had been imprisoned, usually involving the death of a beast hunting innocents.

However, there was no way in hell you would survive in your current state. Whatever had happened, had intended to either permanently harm, or to kill you.

Dracula’s free hand gripped his throne tight, and he felt the arm of it splinter slightly.

How you received those injuries was a whole different issue that he would have to investigate later on. An issue he planned on thoroughly going over.

So for now, you were under his official protection while you healed.

Unless of course, you decided to go against your word. Though, Dracula heavily doubted you would do so.

You really were different then those who came before you.

This would not be easy, but when had it ever been? He was just thankful you knew how to defend yourself, and had the means to do so.

Once word got out, and you were healed, he also had suspicions you would be hunted. Either as a Belmont, Dracula’s human, or a ‘traitor’.

He may not have been privy to any sort of personal information regarding hunters and their circles, but he knew back a few centuries ago, helping out a ‘monster’ was a death sentence. It did not matter if they didn’t wish to harm humans, simply helping a beast was an act against god and humanity itself.

Hunters and the church considered such a person no better than the very beasts they hunted at that point.

Dracula doubted that sentiment was completely gone, even now in more modern times.

Reaching up, Dracula pinched the bridge of his nose in thought.

He had someone making potions for you at least. Hopefully you wouldn’t be badly injured for too long.

After that, he wondered if you would be opposed to staying here at his castle? You didn’t seem disgusted by it, nor did the castle seem to try and push you away like it did other intruders.

Those who were not welcome usually felt such pushes on their mind and body. Only the strong willed could push onwards past it.

Even his castle seemed to see you as a guest.

The castle bent to his will, sure, but it was still a being of Chaos. This small revelation also intrigued him, how such a being seemed not to mind your presence.

Perhaps it was that it also didn’t consider you a threat? It was obvious you currently had no intentions to fight him.

Dracula’s eyes narrowed, a presence pulling him out of his thoughts.

The room grew darker, and a familiar figure rose from the shadows. It flew around his throne, before giving a bow in front of him.

“Good to see you back, Master.”

Death.

Dracula looked over the divine being that had worked under him for centuries. His second in command, his devout lieutenant.

Dracula gave the being a brief nod of acknowledgment, and Death rose.

Even after all the deaths Dracula had endured, Death itself still remained loyal after all these years. He supposed he should count it as a blessing now.

“Report?” Dracula then idly asked, drinking from his glass.

“Things are running smoothly. Everyone is settling in quickly, as usual my lord.”

Dracula hummed.

“Good. Good.” He mumbled, mind still partially elsewhere.

A moment passed, and Death gripped his scythe.

“Master, if I may be so bold…”

Dracula held back a sigh, already having an inkling to what he was going to say.

“Do you think it is wise to have a hunter, let alone a Belmont residing in the castle?”

There it was. He knew his subordinates would be asking sooner or later. He wasn’t particularly surprised Death was the first to make an inquiry.

“They pose no threat. This Belmont is… different from the others. I would like to speak with them properly about our standing with one another as soon as they are recovered.”

He then looked Death in the face.

“They are not to be harmed while under my care. Do I make myself clear?”

Death studied him for a moment, probably wondering if he had a few screws loose, before nodding his head.

“As you wish, milord.”

Death was silent, and a beat passed. Dracula hoped his warning managed to sink into the other entity’s skull.

He was no stranger to the fact Death was his most avid supporter. Although Death had always followed his orders, the entity didn’t shy away from making its own decisions if he felt it was best for his master.

Staying within Dracula’s orders, but bending the rules just enough to do his own thing if he could get away with it.

Typically Dracula didn’t mind. Death was his most trusted lieutenant for a reason.

However, he couldn’t help but feel Death may try and get around this one rule if it felt it was best.

As much as he hated it, he would have to keep an eye on all his close subordinates.

Dracula tried not to focus on the growing migraine building in his head.

“Now, what of the vampire covens across the earth?”

Death gave him a subtle crooked grin, and Dracula had a sinking feeling he would need another drink before returning to see you.

—

Dracula’s castle was far more pleasant than you would like to admit.

Your brain was in and out of a fog, but even then you could appreciate just how nice the guest room and washroom alone were.

You almost felt like royalty with how classy and intricate the rooms were, and how they had convenient modern touches.

Never had you stayed somewhere so elaborate and fancy. All the hotels you have been in couldn’t even come close to compare.

Even now as you laid in the giant bed with its soft, velvet sheets, you couldn’t help but be amazed.

Kinda ironic, the home of your ‘enemy’ was way better than any place you had ever stayed at.

Besides maybe your own home before your step family took over, you supposed, though that was a long time ago.

Slowly rolling onto your back, you winced as your wounds flared and your stomach churned. You continued to admire your setting.

The bed had a beautiful silk canopy around it, and you still couldn’t help but be enamored by it.

Or by it all, really. Even if it was a bit overwhelming.

…Just how long has it been?

You had been in and out of sleep, occasionally slipping into a doze before startling awake. The time was lost to you.

In retrospect, you couldn’t help it. Your instincts were going haywire from… well, everything.

The bed and sheets were nice at least. Almost too nice.

You were used to your old sheets, or stiff bed sheets you’d find in cheap hotels.

Not soft satin sheets and pillows that were as fluffy as a cloud.

There was also the glaring fact you were in monster territory. Despite how nice the decor was, it was something on the back of your mind also keeping you up.

Yes, Dracula said you were a guest, but it was hard to lower your guard when you knew just outside the door were monsters roaming up and down the halls. That this whole castle was filled to the brim with the paranormal and monster kind.

You were also a hunter, and a notorious one from a notorious family at that.

It wasn’t hard to imagine some monsters may go ahead and take a shot at you, regardless of Dracula’s orders.

To some, it may be worth it to suffer Dracula’s wrath or ire if it meant eradicating you from existence. It wasn’t exactly a secret that a lot of the paranormal hated you.

You carefully laid on your side, and looked out the window.

A small comfort. Originally, the window had been covered by thick curtains. However, you had pulled them aside to attempt to relieve your anxiety.

The clouds were dark. You couldn’t tell if it was night or day at this point. Perhaps that was the point.

But you were so tired. Exhausted.

You really couldn’t even sleep if you wanted to, knowing Dracula, or at least a servant, would be bringing you a meal sometime soon.

The hunter in your soul didn’t wish to be taken off guard, even if it was to be fed.

A small part of you wondered if you should even eat. Your instincts whispered in your mind about poisons, warning you of incoming death.

But that was ridiculous. Imagine it, you, a hunter, dying from poison.

No, if Dracula wanted you dead, he would have killed you by now. By his own hand no less, you were sure.

Still, that didn’t stop your instincts from making things difficult.

You curled in on yourself a bit tighter, wincing when some of the stitches tugged. Reluctantly, you adjusted to keep them from stretching.

You reached over, and grabbed the nearby pillow, and hugged it close to your body for some comfort.

It smelled nice.

That was another issue. You were so sleep deprived and struggling with blood loss, your brain liked to bring up such things, no matter how much you were trying to shut them out.

Gripping the pillow tighter, you felt your face form into a sour look.

“What am I going to do…” You mumbled, closing your eyes again.

At least if you didn’t sleep, lying here would be some rest. Better than none.

Though you hated to admit how much you jumped when you heard a brief, but loud knocking against the door. Talk about acting like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs…

You sat up in bed with a wince, and you noticed that no one seemed to enter. Another knock followed the previous one. Your heart pounded in your chest.

“Uh… Come in…?” you called out, uncertain. Were they waiting to see if you were awake, or what?

The doorknob slowly turned, and you felt like the breath was punched out of you when Dracula stepped through.

Right. He had mentioned he would return.

He looked different though. Better, if you had to put a word to it. He wasn’t particularly disheveled to begin with, but now he didn’t look as… Hungry? Irritated? It was hard to figure out the words.

The Lord of the Night had also changed. Similar style, dark cloak and all, though he had on a vest with a dark red dress shirt underneath, and some sort of fancy slacks.

You imagined you probably would have wanted to change too if you had been wearing the same clothes as a stone statue for however many years.

But seeing Dracula again? You hated to admit how he practically took your breath away.

His power and presence were just as intimidating as before, and he wasn’t even angry. How did your ancestors handle him before, when he felt this powerful without seemingly intending to harm you?

Dracula looked you over briefly as he walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. Even if there were no traces of malice on his face, a shiver still ran down your spine, instincts still screaming to run or fight.

You swallowed your nerves down as he walked closer.

He stopped at the side of your bed, and once again, you had to crane your neck just to see him at his full height.

That is, until with the wave of his hand, a chair nearby in the room came scooting forward. It came to a stop behind him, and he sat down without a glance.

Internally, you hoped your awe wasn’t blatantly on your face.

When he sat, he crossed his legs, before holding a tray with some sort of bowl on it. He held it forward, and you blinked at it slowly.

“I hope you are resting well, Little Belmont. I had some servants make you some soup. I fear eating solids may upset your stomach, which would aggravate your injuries if you were to grow sick.” He spoke, his voice low and deep. Even if he wasn’t loud, his voice still seemed to vibrate in your chest.

It took his words a few moments to register, and you looked between him, and the tray. He took in your expression for a moment, before speaking once more.

“If you fear it has been tampered with, I assure you my servants-”

“Oh, no… It’s fine. Sorry, I’m…” You spoke, cutting him off, ignoring how your pulse spiked when you realized you did so.

“S-Sorry… My head is a bit foggy, is all…” You then explained, before shakily reaching for the tray.

Dracula was quick, or perhaps, your brain really was slow. He held out a hand, and quite gently might you add, set the tray down on your lap.

“Of course. You must not exert yourself, and you must eat. I do not know how long it has been since you last ate, but you need something in your stomach.”

As if hearing the conversation, your stomach loudly growled, and you felt your face flush in embarrassment. When was the last time you ate? This morning? Night before last? You couldn’t exactly remember…

It was brief, but you swore you could have seen Dracula’s lips twitch upward seeing you grow flustered. It must have been your foggy mind and imagination. Or not, he could be internally laughing at you. Who knows?

Meanwhile, Dracula knew he had been right to bring you soup. He just hoped you could hold it down.

Though he didn’t want to admit how… endearing it was seeing you grow flustered like that. For a Belmont, you were quite the adorable human.

He would never admit it of course, but hell save him if Death ever found out he had such thoughts. Dracula would never hear the end of it.

Especially considering such thoughts were about a Belmont. Someone he should be wasting no time slaying.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

There was something so different about you, even now, as he watched you pick up the spoon and attempt to eat.

You didn’t stare at him with burning hate in your eyes, but curiosity. There was a sharp mind behind those eyes that asked questions. Someone who didn’t just jump to conclusions.

Was it so wrong he wanted to see more of that, especially in the family of his enemies, who had blindly ran and fought? Killing innocents of his kind?

He was no saint, far from it. But he knew of many others the Belmont clan had killed.

But you… You were so different. He didn’t wish to say it outloud, but he wished to push forward that way of thinking. Perhaps he could even find a middle ground with you.

You weren’t just some ‘scary hunter’. The Little Belmont in front of him showed so much more, showing the better qualities of humanity.

His face almost soured at the thought, but even he could admit every one in a million, perhaps one good human was born. You seemed to be that one in a million exception so far.

Just like Lisa had been.

He decided not to think too much on what that could mean, though he hoped it promised good things in the near future.

It was quiet for a while, and Dracula couldn’t help but study you as you ate. First and foremost, it was to watch and make sure your body could handle it.

But he had his own selfish reasons for doing so.

He could move again. React to you. Speak to you. Touch you.

However, he found it hard to speak. There were many things he wanted to talk about with you, and half of them he intended on waiting until you were a little bit healthier.

Anything he thought of before now though, was suddenly caught on his tongue as he observed.

Perhaps it would be better this way. Dracula prided himself on being charismatic and influential, but that was amongst the supernatural. This was a Belmont, and he knew things were… shaky at best.

However, as he watched you try and consume more of the soup, he found himself managing to say something.

“Are you feeling alright? Adjusting well?”

Briefly, you tensed when he spoke, before you seemed to force yourself to relax. He made a mental note of that reaction, wondering if it was because of him, or if it was a natural response.

Dracula could understand it if it was from him, given the circumstances, but even he could tell there was something off about it. He didn’t like the feeling settling in his gut over the bigger picture.

“It hurts a lot, but I’ll live.” You spoke, your voice still rough, but sounding leagues better than before. For a moment, it looked as if you wanted to say more, but held your tongue.

Interesting.

You were still for a moment, struggling to look at him. No doubt you were still having trouble thinking clearly, and struggling with everything that had happened. Have you even slept?

He had his doubts you’ve even rested. You may not look as manic like before, but you looked completely exhausted.

For a moment, he briefly thought about using his abilities to make you sleep. It was something Lisa would request on occasion if she hadn’t felt well or couldn’t settle.

However, he stomped that idea down. The last thing you needed was him using his powers like that on you, unless explicitly agreed upon. Even though you were… receptive of him taking care of you at the moment, he didn’t want to shatter that small bit of trust.

Given that he had suspicions about your home life, he imagined just the small bit of trust you had given him at all was momentous. Dracula couldn’t afford to lose that. Not now.

Though Dracula hated the odd pain in his chest as he stared at you. He was worried. Something he didn’t think he would ever feel again.

“Thank you, by the way.”

His eyes were on your face in an instant as you spoke.

“I… You didn’t have to take care of me. I do appreciate it.” You spoke, your eyes still on the bowl in your lap.

Your voice was small, and quiet. Dracula could tell though, saying that must have taken strength.

You didn’t see his eyes soften ever so slightly.

“You are welcome. As my guest, I will do my best to make sure you are taken care of.”

Internally you wanted to scream. You hated how much you liked the sound of that. When was the last time anyone cared enough to take care of you? Your mother before she had died all those years ago?

It had been way too long, and it was Dracula who was seemingly wanting to take care of you.

Damn your foggy mind.

A few moments of silence passed.

“I… Um…” You began, unsure on how to word this.

“About when you were a statue…”

You had so many questions, but didn’t know where to begin. Was it even a good idea to ask in the state you were in?

“You could hear and see everything, right?” you asked tentatively.

Dracula was silent for a moment, red eyes staring into you. It seemed he was contemplating what to say, and you tried not to get nervous as the seconds awkwardly ticked onward.

“Indeed I was. I was aware the moment you stepped foot in my castle the first time, though I was not aware it was a Belmont, not at first.”

His voice was still like velvet. No wonder vampires were such good hunters if they could talk like him.

You really needed to force yourself to sleep. Maybe if you smacked your head hard enough on the table, you could knock yourself out before you did or thought anything weirder.

Clenching your fist, you attempted to figure out what to say next.

“Um…”

Internally you cursed yourself for making this awkward. Why did you have to bring this up?

“Then… What now?” You asked, trying to find some semblance of what comes next. Just because he was taking care of you didn’t make everything all happy and cheery.

You couldn’t wash away centuries of history and bloodshed out of nowhere.

Dracula shifted, then reached over to the bedside table, and grabbed a glass of water. You looked at it confused.

When had he brought that in?

Before you could ask, he was gently holding it out to you.

“We can discuss that after you have rested. We have much to go over, but worrying about that and discussing it while you are injured won’t help your healing.”

He looked away a moment, as if contemplating what to say, before his eyes met your own once again.

“You have gained my interest and respect, enough to hear you out and discuss everything. When you are in a state to do so, of course.”

A part of you opened your mouth to speak, as if to say you could do it now, but you froze. Your eyes landed on the glass he still held out.

After a moment, you closed your mouth, and took the glass.

In that moment, you couldn’t help but feel like some sort of agreement or contract was formed, as if your fate was sealed.

As you sipped the refreshing water though, and looked over at Dracula himself, who seemed pleased you accepted the drink…

…You wondered if this would really be that bad?

Perhaps your future wouldn’t be as bleak as you thought.

[gepardling]

night-time rendezvous IV w/ gepard .

desc. : i spent my last 2 days on plant hormones, it's time i invest into my own hormones. be honest tho would u still stay housemates w/ a vampire if he attempts to bite u? wrong answers only. serval wants u outta there for ur own safety, she alrdy knows tht geppie's clock is ticking :/ ( wc : 1.7k )

tags / cw : sfw, but mentions of blood, injury and vampirism, gn!reader, (they/them used), vampire!AU for the Landaus, reader is a human, they uh KISS (it's not too spicy, vaguely spicy), he tries to bite :(, proofread but lore may change

index : prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3

— DAY 3

The following night, you are greeted by a different face. Serval’s sharp features are striking as you open your eyes for the first time. She pulls the curtains open, briefly bathing in the moonlight that spills from them. "I trust you're doing well, my dear?" She asks, the unfamiliar softness laced in her tone. You can't help but notice the tension that lingers in the air as you nod in response. Serval's presence alone was enough to keep you on edge. You murmur your gratitude for her hospitality, albeit with a slight wariness.

She studies you for a moment before offering a faint, enigmatic smile. "I know this isn't what you expected when you stumbled upon our villa," she begins, her tone holding a hint of sympathy. "But we have rules here, and my brother has broken a significant one." The mention of rules and Gepard's apparent transgression leaves you puzzled. You're not sure what she's referring to, but her cryptic words certainly pique your curiosity.

"What do you mean by that?" You asked cautiously, fully aware of Serval’s capacity to switch-up mid-conversation. Her gaze remains fixated on you, her eyes betraying an inner conflict. She appears torn between revealing more and keeping the details shrouded in secrecy. Her voice takes on a softer tone as she finally responds, "My family has a code of conduct that we must adhere to, and Gepard has disregarded a significant aspect of it by bringing you here. You see, we have kept our existence hidden from the human world for centuries, for our own safety."

The weight of her revelation hangs in the air, leaving you to contemplate the implications of her words. You gulp lightly, a slight shake evident in your tone. "I promise I'll leave as soon as I can. Then you won't have to see me again..."

Serval offers you a faint, sad smile. "I appreciate your understanding, dear. It's not just about seeing you, it's about the safety of both our worlds. I hope you heal swiftly, but I fear the ties that bind our two worlds may not be so easily severed." Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of a complicated truth.

Serval sighs before clapping her hands together. "If you need anything, let me know," She sings, suddenly awfully cheerful. "I've left some clothing for you to wear since yours seemed... A little tattered." She quipped before leaving the room. And she was right, a neatly folded pile of clothing was laid on the chair opposite your bed.

With Serval's exit, you take a moment to inspect the clothing. It's a simple but well-made ensemble, and some comfortable shoes. You decide to go for a stroll before another family member inevitably comes across your path. As you walk through the villa's ornate halls, you take a moment to examine some of the centuries-old paintings adorning the walls. The dimly lit corridors cast an eerie, yet intriguing ambiance. One painting, in particular, captures your attention. It's a portrait of a young Gepard, standing next to a woman who appears to be Serval, although her countenance is less stern in the painting. The depiction of a family, seemingly harmonious, contrasts with the hints of tension you've witnessed.

Continuing your exploration, you find a room filled with an eclectic collection of trinkets and antiques. Each object tells a story of a time long past, and aesthetically they seem exceptionally out of place in the grand villa. Your journey takes you deeper, and before long you realize you've become lost. A foreboding presence seems to lurk behind the door at the end of the hall, and strangely it pulls you towards it. The door's handle feels cold to the touch as you slowly turn it, and the creaking of the hinges only amplifies the feeling that maybe you shouldn't be there.

As the door inches open, you find yourself in a room that is shrouded in shadows. The only source of light is a solitary window, its curtains drawn shut. The room is filled with a musty, age-old scent, and you can barely make out various objects scattered about. On the dresser, an old-leather bound book rests on the dusty surface. The first page of the book reads "Cocolia", seemingly the name of the owner. In the corner, a large, ornate mirror captures your attention. Its surface is slightly tarnished, but you can still see your reflection. As you gaze into the mirror, an unsettling feeling creeps over you. It's as though you're not alone, as though there's something or someone lurking just beyond your sight. Before you could go any further, a hand grasps your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin with fright. But it was only Gepard. 

His sudden appearance both startles and comforts you. His voice is calm, and he speaks in a low, soothing tone, "I'm sorry if I frightened you. This part of the villa is rarely used, and it can be quite unnerving, especially at night. Are you exploring?" His hand remains on your shoulder, offering support and reassurance, and you feel a sense of security in his presence. You notice your reflection in the mirror, and that the empty presence next to you doesn't reflect what's really there. Your frayed nerves are quickly soothed when you remind yourself it's just Gepard. 

"I was looking around, but I got a little lost," you sheepishly admit.

Gepard nods understandingly. "It's easy to get turned around in this place, especially if you're not familiar with it. This villa has been in my family for generations." He offers a warm, reassuring smile, but his eyes betray a hint of secrecy. "I can guide you back. There's nothing of interest here, I assure you."

With Gepard by your side, the tension begins to dissipate, and you find yourself feeling more at ease in the grand but somewhat sinister surroundings. As you walk back, your attention is grasped by a portrait of Serval and an unfamiliar woman, and you turn to Gepard with a questioning look. "Is this a portrait of Serval? Who's the woman next to her?" 

Gepard nods, his expression solemn. "Yes, that's Serval. It was painted centuries ago. She and that woman, they… Have a long history." He doesn't offer much more in the way of explanation, and the conversation falls into a contemplative silence. You sense that there's something he's keeping to himself. As the silence between you and Gepard lingers, curiosity finally gets the better of you, and you decide to address the unspoken weight in the air. 

Your voice is soft, tentative, as you break the quiet with your question. "Gepard," you begin, choosing your words carefully, "there's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

You watch as Gepard's expression shifts, a mixture of surprise and concern in his eyes. He stops walking, turning to face you fully, and you can see the discontent in his gaze. Gepard takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to some point in the distance as if he's searching for the right words. "You're right, there are things I haven't told you," he admits, his voice tinged with a sense of internal conflict. "This villa is a place of many memories, some beautiful, some... not so much." He pauses, and you can see he's consciously choosing what to say. "My family, they value their traditions and, well, they don't exactly see eye to eye with the world outside these walls. It's a complicated story." His eyes momentarily lock with yours, their usual glimmer replaced with a dull gaze, before he turns away.

Respecting his discomfort, you don't push for more information. You can't help but steal a few glances at him, noticing a certain pallor to his skin, an ashy hue that hints at something deeper. His once vibrant and charismatic eyes seem tinged with exhaustion, carrying the weight of secrets he's reluctant to share. Although you're not aware of it, Gepard's abstention from drinking blood has left its mark. His distant stare reflects the strain of his restraint, and his typically sharp features seem softer, as if the lack of sustenance has dulled his natural intensity. 

Despite his weariness, Gepard sensed your desire to explore the villa further, and decided to show you the library. The villa's expansive collection of ancient texts and manuscripts held secrets from centuries past, and he wanted to share this secluded part of his world with you. As you wandered through the rows of old books, you were met with centuries worth of knowledge, secluded corners of the world you had yet to see. It was as if you'd found a safe space, away from the otherwise creepy aura of the Landau estate. It felt as though hours had passed since your arrival at the small library, but you were starting to get a little tired of the cryptic hemomancy manuscripts, instead looking for something a bit more… human. 

Gepard's presence was magnetic, and his fingers brushed yours as you struggled to reach higher on the shelf. Your heart raced as your eyes locked in a knowing gaze, the library's silence amplifying your desire. The book you were initially looking for was long forgotten as Gepard's lips met yours in a deep kiss. He pressed you against the bookshelf, hands finding their way to your hips. His lips released yours, and began to gently trail down your jaw, littering the faintest kisses against your skin. But the subtle scrape of something sharp was in stark contrast to his soft lips. Gepard's fangs, usually concealed behind a charming smile, hovered dangerously close to your neck. Your eyes widened in realization, and a sudden panic bubbled up inside of you.

"Wait, Gepard," you gasped, your heart pounding with a mixture of desire and fear. You pushed against his chest, trying to create some space between you, hissing in pain when the pressure stung your injured arm. For an instant, it felt like he might not listen, his gaze dark and unrelenting.

But then, Gepard's eyes flickered with recognition, and he pulled back, his breathing heavy. He looked at you, his expression torn between desire and guilt, his own fear mirrored in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I didn't want to take advantage of you like that." Without another word, Gepard left, and his strides were too fast for you to keep up. You didn't see him again for the rest of the night. 

there's so much unnecessary hidden lore in this tbh i shld hav jus written vampire smut nd not gotten this invested into it but it's 2 late now. the mirror represents the forgotten hall and cocolia is the person who betrayed the landau family (more specifically serval).

[ilasknives]

FEBUWHUMP DAY 1 | Helpless

Hi! I've written exactly nothing for several months but I'm here and I'm trying febuwhump. The keyword is trying. I am not confident in my perseverance skills. I'm doing it by splitting the prompts between three different sets of OCs who I have never introduced here before. Today's prompt's OCs are Artie and Arlowe, my most beloveds that I keep talking about and never writing for, so we're fixing that! Their story is a companion story to Collarbones, and I will write it without prompts at some point, I swear. For a shred of context, Arlowe does illegal street fighting for money. This is a scene of their first meeting, where Arlowe has gotten himself injured so badly he can barely move, and Artie finds him :)

Day 1 | Helpless | Artie and Arlowe

CWs for blood, injuries and mentions of fighting and broken bones.

Every breath made the pain worse.

It radiated out from his side, rolling over him in waves with each rise and fall of his chest, every twitch, every swallow.

He was…. somewhere. Where was he? Some staggered distance from the fight, collapsed against an alley wall in - he didn’t know where. Didn’t even know how he’d gotten here.

The ground swam when he opened his eyes, and he hissed his way through an exhale that burned. Fuck. Broken rib? His shoulder? He’d hit the ground too hard to know where the pain started, taken too many hits to know which one did the damage. He'd won the fight at the cost of his ribcage and he'd barely made it out of the ring, but at least his pockets weren't empty anymore. At least he'd given as much as he got.

He needed to get up. The sun dipped, night threatening to swallow him if he laid there any longer. Shadows were already crawling over the alley, and Arlowe had always liked the dark, but not when he was at risk of drowning in it. Not when he couldn’t swing blindly and win.

You’re getting weaker, he told himself, the voice in his head sounding far too much like someone else. He dismissed the thought. He’d dealt with far worse than this, and he was fine.

He needed to get up.

The ends of his hair stuck to his arms when he shifted, sticky with blood. His, or someone else’s, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both. Probably… fuck, probably both. The ache gnawed at the edge of his vision and he tried very hard not to breathe under the wave of it.

The day grew steadily darker around him, and Arlowe did not get up.

-

The long haired fighter was injured.

That’s how Artie referred to him, anyway. Long haired fighter. Like it was a name. Longhairedfighter, the mysterious newcomer who never hit first but never lost a fight.

… Maybe it was more like a brand.

Artie had seen him fight a few times. His name was never on the rosters, not after the time it had been smeared out with a scribbled ‘fuck you’ over the top - he was usually written down as ‘unnamed competitor’, now. Always at the top of the roster, the one everyone wanted to fight, the one everyone wanted to watch.

And he was slumped against a wall, looking very much like he couldn’t move for all the world, like he’d barely notice if someone came at him with a knife.

“… Hey.” Artie shuffled a little closer. Thick bruises painted the fighter’s chest, disappearing down under his shirt. How the hell had he gotten so far like that? “You good?”

The response was a slow thing, thick and slurred. “Fuck… off.”

“You need -” Artie shifted on his feet, made to step a little closer, but the look in the boy’s eye made him stop.

“Don’t touch me.” It was sharp, the words much clearer this time. Kind of frantic. Artie backed up, hands up placatingly.

“I won’t. I won’t. I’ll stay back here, yeah?” He took another step back for good measure, because he might look like he was an inch away from death’s door, but Artie had seen him break skulls. “… what happened?”

The same response again: a slow, slurred, ‘fuck off’. This time, he heaved a breath that looked like it hurt and forced out, “Don’t… need… help.”

“… Right.”

Normally, Artie might be inclined to believe him. He was a ferocious fighter, vicious and dangerous and quick. He didn’t hit first but he did hit back harder, and he’d never lost. Not that Artie had seen, anyway. 

But now, he didn’t so much as twitch as Artie stepped closer again. Closer, he could see the deep, sticky stains of the blood all over him. In his hair. The trembling of his hands, the way he had to drag his gaze across the floor before he could lift his head to glare weakly at Artie.

… Helpless. He was, wasn’t he? Not normally, but - now. He was hurt bad.

There was something in his eyes that screamed a pained, desperate sort of fury.

And - hell, Artie’s sisters had always told him not to go fucking around trying to rescue injured animals, but he could never leave well enough alone, and he had hands that were used to being bitten.

[smolghostbot]

Battle Against a True Hero: Part 2/4

This was supposed to be a two-parter but then I really wanted the final bit to be from Contralto's perspective, so look forward to that eventually i guess.

Part 1 / Finale

Word Count: 900ish Contralto character reference CWs: Brief allusion to a minor neck injury, mention of blood.

======

Sure enough, when he walked outside in the morning, there was Contralto… sleeping on his couch, curled up on top of one of his throw pillows, using her little hooded cape as a blanket. He couldn’t deny that it was a bit cute, especially considering how fiery she was while awake. He considered waking her, to begin whatever this “fight” would entail, but decided against it. Walking to the kitchen, he took out some eggs and bacon, and began to make breakfast. Maybe the way to pacify this tiny woman was through her stomach?

It didn’t take long for the sizzling to wake up the little hero, who instantly climbed up to the top of the couch so that she could meet the human's eyes, weapons drawn. “So… the human has finally arrived! Are you prepared to meet justice?”

He could tell she was beginning a speech, the same from last night, but genuinely couldn’t hear her over the sounds of the frying pan in front of him. “Gimme one second, and then I’ll listen to your heroic speech again, okay?"

He could see the little sprite sit down indignantly and wait. After several minutes, he brought over the plate of bacon and eggs, and sat it down on the coffee table. “Would you like some?” As he spoke the words, he could see the little hero’s face twist in disgust. “Unlike you humans”, she spit the word out with clear vitriol “We sprites are noble people who would never eat another living creature. Eat your monstrous meal if you must, and then finally let me get this over with!"

“Oh, you’re like vegetarian or something? I should have thought of that… sorry. I have, uh, I can make some toast? It’s like bread, but-”

Contralto angrily interjected. “I know what toast is, what do you take me for, human?!... But… I would like a slice of toast… if you are offering.”

The human took his own food back to the kitchen and ate it while waiting for the toaster to finish, figuring the apparently-vegetarian sprite would take offense to him eating meat in front of her. After finishing, he brought the toast over to Contralto, and sat down on the floor across from the couch, hoping to come across as non-threatening. He really didn’t want to have to fight this little hero… for her sake.

Contralto gave a polite bow and a thanks as she began to eat. After she ate about half of the slice of toast, way more than the human would have expected given her tiny frame, she stood up, and brandished her weapons.

“Now… if you're done making excuses… let our fight begin. For the sake of the whole world, I will smite you!”

"... Why?"

The simple question from the human seemed to completely stump the little hero.

"I… I told you why! I have to rid the world of the menace of humanity! To free my people from your subjugation! Now, enough talk! Have at you!"

And with that, Contralto began to charge across the table, ready to leap at the face of the unperturbed human. Not seeing a way out of this without at least some confrontation, he simply grabbed the sprite by her hood, making sure that the grip wouldn't suffocate her, and held her in the air so that she could only swing her weapons wildly. He ignored her yells of protest as he began to give a quick speech of his own.

"Listen, Contralto, you seem like you're on a noble quest here and all, but… am I really your enemy? After I let you sleep in on my couch and then gave you breakfast? Is that something a villain does? I don't know anything about your people, so maybe there are evildoers out there to be slain or whatever, but I promise, I mean you no harm, and I really don't want to hurt you. So… are you sure we have to fight?"

He stared pleadingly into the sprite's small, lime green eyes, but her response remained defiant. "You're not escaping me that easily, human! I said we were fighting… and if you won't do it with honor, then we'll have to do this the hard way!"

At that, the human sighed. If she wants a fight, maybe he can oblige… like play fighting with a puppy. Sighing, he seemed to give in. He placed the sprite back on the table and spoke. "Okay. Do your worst then. I won't stop you."

He grew nervous as Contralto instantly scampered up his arm, coming right up to his neck. She once again prepared a speech, arguably the worst part of this whole ordeal.

"As you wish, human. Prepare to be struck down by the hopes and dreams of every sprite in the world. All of our power, flowing through these sacred blades, with one singular focus: To annihilate you and every other horrible human in the world! Now, prepare to be brought to justice by Contralto, Hero of the Sprites, Defender of the Helpless, the Hero Who Never Gives Up! Hyaaaa!!!"

With that, she dug both needles with as much force as possible into the anxious human's neck.

…

There was a mild itch.

Like being bitten by a mosquito.

He could feel the area warming up, maybe she had drawn blood? But certainly not enough to kill him. He felt the same sensation several more times, as Contralto continued her shouting. After an awkward minute or so, the human finally grabbed the small hero by the back of her clothes again, and brought her up to his face. He could see the red shimmer on her blades, and the confused fury in her eyes. Slowly, he asked a single question.

"... Are you done?"

[yuripoll]

KNOCKOUTS: Gunjou (2007 - 12)

Gunjou (aka, Gunjo, or Ultramarine) is a 3 volume seinen series by Nakamura Ching about a woman conspiring with the lesbian in love with her to murder her abusive husband.

"I want you to kill him..." Her husband abuses her on a daily basis. Unable to stand it any longer, she asks her lesbian friend to kill her husband for her. And unable to say no to the woman she loves, the lesbian kills him... Only 22 years old when the series began, Ching Nakamura offers up a work carved from flesh, blood, and bone. - MAL

ENG available on the author's site & JP available on Book Walker.

CWs under the cut. General severity rating: major.

In particular, if you are sensitive to any kind of abuse or are just generally in a bad place, I suggest taking caution with this one. Very bleak outlook & a very uncomfortable read. Heads up that while I've tried to be thorough, its very dense with triggering content and the list below is definitely not fully exhaustive.

sex & nudity <- explicit but not erotic

violence & gore <- blood & stabbing from the murder. not super gory, but there's a lot of visible injury ie deep cuts & heavy bruising. i was listing individual instances here but it got too much; other violent imagery includes (but is not limited to) blunt force trauma, slapping/punching, choking, being hit with a glass bottle.

rape <- references to rape here and there, but most significantly there's a scene where the lesbian deuteragonist is pressured into having sex with a man in ch6. the same character also had transactional sex with a man to get an opportunity to kill him. while this is the worst example, afaik the vast majority of sexual encounters shown or referenced have some kind of transactional, dubiously consensual edge to them.

homophobia (& lesbophobia specifically) <- protag refers to deuterag a "stupid lesbian" on like. the second page of the first chapter. and it doesn't really improve from there. deuterag was also rejetcted by her parents for her sexuality.

victim blaming <- deuterag calls protag stupid for marrying an abuser.

toxic relationships & manipulation <- main duo. they aren't even in the realm of healthy. see the above two points. things get violent between them at points but not to the same degree as with protags past abusers.

physical abuse (inflicted by a father and by a husband) <- major aspect of the protag's past. semi-frequent scenes showing this abuse. deuterag attacks protag in ch4 and immediately hates herself for it.

emotional abuse <- tbh i do think the degree of toxicity that the main duo get to reaches this point.

csa mention(?) <- i remember it being brought up once towards the end on my first read but i missed it on my second, so either i made it up or its literally just one little mention.

vomiting <- ch4, not shown on screen but there are sound effects. same in ch5. you DO see it in ch23 though, not super detailed.

suicide <- attempted suicides shown in ch2 (by jumping from a pier), ch6 (by asphyxiation), ch9 (getting onto train tracks). suicidal ideation regularly brought up by the main characters as a way of escaping their situation. both characters regularly express wanting to die. one character death is dishonestly framed as a suicide.

child death <- ch2, side character accidentally left her baby to drown in the bathtub. you see it happen in ch5.5

miscarriage <- protag mentions that she has had multiple miscarriages, one being caused by being kicked in the stomach. ch25 has a character (unknowingly) really rub salt in the wound.

animal injury <- ch1, a cat gets hit by a car (its taken to a vet and lives). we see the animal + blood but nothing detailed.

grooming(?) <- deuterag's older lesbian friend hit on her while she's still in high school, and they later entered a relationship. this never actually plays into the relationship that we see, but it happens.

mentions of teen prostitution <- ch3, suggested a couple of times that the protag (at 17) sell herself to escape poverty.

heteronormativity <- multiple lesbian characters consider trying to just adapt to men or try and settle down to avoid societal rejection.

character death <- side character, accidental drowning

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @newbornwhumperfly!

From your gifter: A/N: This was super fun to write! I hope I did your characters justice, they’re all awesome. The way you write Morja is a beautiful mixture of thoughtfulness and fear, and I did my best to capture that. Enjoy and happy holidays! <3

Title taken from the song My Skin by Natalie Merchant

CW: military whump, mentions of war, injury whump, verbal abuse and threats, kneeling, noncon touch, mentioned past conditioning, non-graphic wound care, blood, references to suicide, gun mention, xenophobia

Promises Sweeten the Blow

Morja hears the cell door slam shut behind him, four locks clicking into place. He’ll be alone now, for who knows how long, while intel he gave up is analyzed and picked apart. Then, he’ll figure out if all the things the captain promised him are even a remote possibility.

The mission went well, for the most part. The infiltration had been easy. New Athens had made a bet on secrecy over defense, and they had lost it. It was the escape where things had gone awry. He’d clambered into the jeep with several new bruises and a massive gash down his bicep.

He sighs, picking himself up off the floor of his cell. He can still feel the ghost of a gun’s barrel on his upper back. A lieutenant had pressed into him the whole way back to base, while he whispered threats in his ear about what he dreamt of doing to “athenian bastards like you.” He’s about seventy percent sure the lieutenant's name is Cuthbert, but it doesn’t really matter. The chances he’ll ever actually use it are low.

For a prisioner’s cell, his room is surprisingly well furnished, though it’s eerily suicide proof. The faucet on the sink is too short to hang anything off of, the bed is smother proof, and his clothing lacks strings or ties. He isn’t even allowed shoelaces: his boots close with zippers and buckles. It makes sense, unfortunately, but the suicide prevention measures also mean that there's no medical supplies available to him to treat his wounds.

Not that he was expecting there to be, but it would’ve been nice, especially since he isn’t supposed to go to the hospital wing because he’s a security risk. Maybe he’ll get seen if the data proves to be fruitful, but he doubts that.

The wound isn’t mortal, and he’ll just have to make do.

It feels wrong to use up one of the shirts that the captain gifted him, but he couldn’t just leave it to bleed. Cleanliness was important. He wouldn’t want to disrespect the space the anóteros had given him by getting his blood everywhere.

He efficiently tears the bottom half of the shirt into strips, and he’s starting to wet them in the sink when he hears the heavy locks on the doors start to slide open. Nerves flare in his gut. Had the analysts finished already? Or was the lieutenant who’d pressed the gun to him back for more?

The door slides open, and Morja knows who it is the moment he catches sight of the gold rimmed glasses. It’s the captain, trailed by a woman carrying a large backpack, and leaning on a sparkly purple cane that matches her outfit. Another anóteros. Both of them step into the room, and the woman’s eyes go straight to the slice on their arm.

He freezes, wet fabric dropping onto the porcelain of the sink with a smack. His legs fold under him automatically and he collapses into a kneeling position with perfect posture. There hasn’t been time for the intel to be analyzed yet. The captain is here for another reason, and his mind races with all the tiny slip ups from the mission. He knew a correction was inevitable, but it still stings when he realizes it’s happening now. After a beat of silence, the captain steps forward and enters the cell.

“Good afternoon, Morja.” Their tone is serious but polite.

He doesn’t get why they act like this towards him, courteous and respectful, but his mind silences the thought before it can turn into something bigger. It doesn’t matter. They're anotero, they can act however they want. He should be thankful that they lean towards mercy.

They crouch down in front of him, and he suppresses a flinch. He hasn’t been with Tyrus that long, but he can feel his behavior already starting to slip. Just because he’s not in New Athens anymore doesn’t mean he can be disrespectful.

“I was worried that you might be hurt,” they start, referencing the blood caked patch of skin on their arm, and Morja swallows. Had he been that bad at hiding it? “Do you remember Sarai? She’s a doctor. She can take care of that, if you’d like.”

Morja doesn’t know how to react. It is a test? To see if he’ll let other people touch him? Or is he to be punished later for taking too much? But the woman is standing right there, and it would be rude to decline the captain’s suggestion.

“If you’ll permit it, she can look at it, captain,” he says, voice whisper quiet, hoping he made the right choice.

The captain nods and waves her over. She smiles and follows his instruction, bending down towards him.

“Hello, Morja, I’m Sarai,” she introduces herself.

“Thank you for offering your aid, anóteros,” he responds politely, averting his eyes.

“How about we get you onto your bed? That will probably be more comfortable for you, don’t you think?” she says, tone just as patient as the captains.

Once again, he finds himself unsure how to answer. But then again, “how about” was less of a question and more of a disguised order. “Yes, anóteros.”

Both her and the captain back away so he can stand, and he quickly rises and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He keeps his head down. If he can’t kneel, this is the next best option.

The doctor sets her bag down next to him, then goes to wash her hands. Once she’s done that, she throws on a pair of gloves and starts to examine the wound. She explains every move she makes, and asks permission to touch, and it's jarring.

Medical care is a privilege, and she is anotero. She doesn’t have to ask.

For some reason, the captain stays, maybe to remind him of his place, though they must have better things to do than watch over their captive diathésimos.

He gets off easy. No stitches are necessary, and the doctor simply uses some tape strips to close the wound after she cleans it. She asks him some questions about allergies and the like, takes his vitals, and checks him over for any other injuries. There's just some minor bruising, though, and the pair leave once he’s been tended to. The captain says they’ll be back later to bring him some food, and update him on the intel they recovered.

Morja wonders why they insist on doing things like that. It’s almost certainly below their station, so if it’s a ploy to earn his trust, then it’s rather see-through. The bandages are too soft against his skin as he lays on the oddly textured anti-suicide sheets, pondering the captain’s endgame.

For a stupid second, he can almost believe their intentions are true. Maybe, things could change.

——————————————————————————

Eventually, he hears the telltale noise of the locks being slid open again. He doesn’t know how long its been, since the cell doesn’t have a clock, but he perks up anyway. He’s absolutely ravenous after the mission.

However, the captain does not step through the door.

Instead, it’s the lieutenant from the boat, the one who’d pressed his gun to him.

Morja falls to his knees. So this is the correction for getting hurt. It was foolish of him to assume he was safe.

The lieutenant closes the door behind him, then walks across the room to where Morja is kneeling. His fingers grip Morja’s chin and pull it up, and he scowls deeper when he notices the fresh bandages.

“I don’t know what kinda game you’re playing, bitch,” he says, voice low and deadly. “But I can see you trying to wrap the captain around your finger.”

His nails dig into Morja’s cheeks as he squeezes his face harder. “They’re a good person, and they’re also smarter than you are.”

The pressure is nearly bruising now. “Whatever scam you’re running, it won’t work.”

He pinches even harder. “And if I catch you fucking with anything, you’ll pay.” The lieutenant pulls his hand away, then swiftly slaps Morja across the face. “Understand me?”

“Yes, anóteros.”

What else is he supposed to say?

Just as he was in New Athens, he is still underneath everyone.

[susiequaz12]

Carrot Top 59- Breathless

Here’s the next chapter! There most likely will only be one more official chapter before the series is complete (minus some drabbles) Chapter 58. Masterlist.  

CW: Not much for this chapter. Recovery whump. Some blood mentions and references to past injuries and torture. Some aspects of medical whump, and consensual spice. (Both characters are referred to as ‘boy’ but they are 19, and 21.) There is fluff. Lots of it. 

- - -

Andrew sat on the edge of the medical table, waiting for Tusik to check up on him, his feet dangling above the floor. 

They had been doing countless blood tests, trying to figure why he was coughing up blood, or having those severe bloody noses. Tusik was nearly at the answer. 

Well, in fact he had come to the answer as to the why behind it, but he was currently looking for a solution to fix it. A more permanent one that is. Replacing the blood Splice had pumped through him with some of his sister’s was enough to slow down the process. Their shared genetics and abilities counteracted some of the affects that caused all the bleeding, but Tusik knew it wouldn’t last. 

Andrew swung his legs absentmindedly and picked at the paper on top of the table. One of his ankles sat tight in a cast- still trying to heal from where the bones had been shattered and hammered back together- the other in a brace. He was still sore all over- almost constantly- but at least he was mostly functional at this point. 

That raging fever he had had the first two weeks he’d been home made everything far more difficult in the path of his recovery.

The door creaked open- bumping into the wheelchair propped behind it.

“Oh- sorry- sorry I-” 

Andrew stared up to look at Micah- standing in the doorway. 

“Hi-” he whispered.

“Hi.” The boy whispered back. “How- how are you feeling?” 

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. 

“‘M not bad- today’s been an okay day, pain wise.”

Micah nodded with a smile. “That’s that’s good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Andrew breathed- taking in the air to fill the silence that hung thick between them. 

“We uh- we haven’t really had a chance to talk-” Andrew stated.

Micah nodded. Taking a step closer to the boy. Micah had been there for every step of the recovery- but he had been so feverish, and sick and in pain those first few weeks, that it had been keeping him alive as the main focus. 

“No we- we haven’t.”

“Is that why you’re here?” 

Micah nodded, glancing at the boy. He didn’t look worse than he had been- but not necessarily better. There was some semblance of color to his cheeks, paired with the dark circles under his eyes made larger by his glasses.

“Tusik said I- said we could have a moment before he does your checkup.”

Andrew patted the side of the table next to him, motioning for the other boy to come sit down. 

Micah stepped over carefully- trying to find the words that had been rummaging through his brain since the boy had been taken. 

“I’m sorry.” The words came out of Andrew’s mouth before Micah could say anything.

He chuckled. “I thought I was the one going to apologize. What are you sorry for?” 

Andrew shrugged his shoulders, staring at the floor where the boy stood in front of him. 

“I’m sorry you had to see all of that. That you had to see me like that. I didn’t ever want you to get wrapped up in this- I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess- sorry that I made you worry- that- I’m sorry that-”

“Hey-”

Andrew reached up a shaking hand towards the boy- his fingers brushed against the side of his face where the cut from the man’s knife had torn through his skin. Andrew choked back a sob.

“-I- I’m sorry that he hurt you-”

Micah smiled faintly, placing his hand over the other boy’s on his face, and turning it to kiss his palm.

“I’m alright, Andrew, really.” He moved the boy’s hand, holding it in front of him before taking the other and stepping closer. “Are you?” 

Andrew stared off into distance behind the boy. He shrugged, and gripped Micah’s hands a little tighter. 

“I- well, I-” He hid a sob behind a forced laugh as tears started to leak from his eyes. “I wanted to die.” 

Micah nodded. “I don’t blame you.”

“It would’ve been easier. I mean hell, I’d lie if I didn’t say there were a few times I begged for it. It’s just been a constant battle of pain- every day- and at times I- I’d do anything for a relief.” His voice was breaking and Micah rubbed his thumb along the edge of the boy’s hand- Giving him the freedom to speak at his own pace. Andrew knew he didn’t need permission to speak anymore. But the reassurance was comforting. 

“I’d- I’d give him whatever he wanted. Scream- beg- get on- on my hands and knees and plead to him for anything I could do to make it stop-” The boy choked back a sob- closing his eyes to bring himself back to reality. He chuckled slightly- “I mean if you knew everything he did, it’s a miracle I didn’t die that first day he had me.”

Micah kissed the backs of his hands, his thumb rubbing along the scar from Andrew’s first day. 

“I’m glad you’re still here-” Micah whispered. 

Andrew pulled away a hand to wipe the tears on his face with the sleeve of his sweater.

“You- you made it worth it.” Andrew whispered. 

“Hmm?” 

“Honestly- the time we spent together is what kept me going. Anytime we’d just sit and watch a movie- or make cookies- or I’d- I’d sit and reread our texts it was- it was some little form of sunshine. It made things feel more- more normal.” He took in a deep breath- thinking of his next words carefully as Micah listened. 

“And I- I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you everything. I was worried it’d push you away, and I- I was scared to lose you because I- I enjoy having you around- I-” his breathing was quickening. Micah grabbed his hands tighter and Andrew took a deep breath to calm himself. 

“There you go- it’s alright, take your time.” 

“I- I know I’m a lot to handle. There’s an endless amount of pain and baggage and trauma that’s too much for me sometimes- so I don’t blame you if- if you if you want to walk away- or if I’m too much, or-”

“Andrew- honey-” Micah cut him off. He cradled the boy’s face in his hands, wiping away a strand of tears with his thumb. He tilted his face down- planting a soft kiss on his forehead. “You are not too much to handle. Okay?” 

Andrew took a few deep breaths- their foreheads met and Micah closed his eyes as the other boy’s hands went to rest on his wrists. 

“Okay-” he whispered. 

Micah knew he didn’t believe him. 

They stood there in silence for a moment- breathing in each other’s presence. Andrew could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. It was all he could think of to say.

Micah chuckled. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I- you’ve just- you’ve helped me so much. You’ve taken care of me- helped me through- through all of this mess, you haven’t judged me for lying to you, or hiding things, you’ve just always been willing to help- and I- I haven’t done shit for you.”

The boy shook his head, bringing a hand to cradle the back of the boy’s neck. Andrew leaned in to the touch.  

“You don’t know the half of it.” Andrew’s eyes shifted to meet the other boy’s. Micah smiled. “I’ve never had a guy care so much about me- or how I’m feeling. They only want me because I’m cute and available. I mean, you’re the one in pain, and you’ll ask me how I’m doing. You’ve taken the time to figure out what I like- what my favorite things are. You’re so selfless, and you always know how to make me laugh, or smile. I don’t know how you do it, it’s-” Micah paused for a moment- he could feel his face getting flushed as he spoke about the boy. “I just care about you so much. I want to help you get better, so you- so we can do all the things that’ll make you happy. So that you can be happy.”

Their eyes met, and Andrew smiled- sending butterflies flittering through Micah’s belly.

“You make me happy.” Andrew whispered. 

“I- I do?” 

“I want to kiss you-”

Micah stood there speechless for a moment- Andrew’s eyes darted to the boy’s lips- then back up to his face. 

“Are you- are you sure?” 

Andrew leaned forward- pushing their foreheads together. He took a soft breath- his heart pounding in his chest- and then closed the distance between them. 

It was so soft- so gentle. Micah’s breath was warm against his face- but it was only a moment. He pulled away just as quickly as he had pulled him in- unsure if they both should continue. 

Their eyes met and Micah was the first to pull away from the gaze. He had promised himself- if Andrew- no- when Andrew made it back- when he was better- he would ask him. 

He would confess it all- bare his heart open. But now- face to face with this boy that had just kissed him- he didn’t know if he had the strength to. He could ruin it so easily with just a few words- and yet Andrew had kissed him.

That obviously meant he wanted something, right?

“Andrew I- I had something I- I wanted to ask- I-”

“Please-” Andrew whispered, reaching a hand up to pull Micah’s face back to look at him. “-whatever you have to say- can it- can it wait? Can we just have this moment?”

Shit- the boy was right. They didn’t need to worry about logistics. About injuries or recovery- or anxieties or labels- just this moment- this boy sitting in front of him- that longing look in his eyes. 

That look was different this time. No longer begging for relief- longing for sympathy. It was simply waiting for reassurance.   

Micah cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his thumb along a patch of hair that hadn’t grown back yet. Andrew let his hands fall around Micah’s waist. 

Micah nodded, his voice falling to a whisper as he stepped in to Andrew’s touch. 

“It can wait.” 

And their lips met once more. 

At first Micah waited- almost hesitant as he let Andrew take the lead- and then- only then- when Andrew didn’t pull away- he kissed him back.

And it took Andrew’s breath away. 

He let the weight of his head be cradled by the boy- and wrapped a leg around him- pulling him in closer until he was pressed against the table, standing with his thighs in between Andrew’s knees. Andrew sighed as Micah let his fingers curl and play with his hair. The breath was hot against Micah’s lips and he could feel the rhythm of his inhale. 

Andrew let his fingers fiddle with the hem of the boy’s shirt- and Micah nodded against the boy’s lips. 

He let his hand find it’s way underneath the fabric- reaching up against Micah’s back- the other crawling around his waist. His skin was so warm- so soft and gentle. 

It was smooth- untouched- and Andrew couldn’t help but think of his own- littered with tangled scars and slashes- remnants of a whip or a knife- carved into his flesh as a permanent reminder.   

Andrew nearly pulled away but Micah only held him even tighter. A noise of contentment from Andrew brushed out against the other boy’s lips as he deepened the kiss, and he could feel Micah smile. 

There was so much warmth in the pit of his belly- fluttering up to the pounding in his chest. 

In that moment- cradled in Micah’s arms- their bodies and lips pressed flush together- Andrew could set everything else aside. 

He no longer thought of the scars that littered his skin as Micah pressed against him. He didn’t think of the bit- the muzzle in his mouth and the collar around his throat as he let himself be cradled- and kissed- and loved. He only thought of Micah.

Of the way his lips felt against his- the breath spilling over him- and he analyzed the way every touch felt. The boy’s fingers playing through his hair- holding his head and his face- the way his hands felt against Micah’s skin- his arms encircled about him- trying to pull him in tighter- to savor every touch- every breath. 

When Micah finally pulled away Andrew was left breathless. 

He had been left breathless countless times before. But those were the result of a hand- trapped around his throat- a collar buckled tight- or a wave of pain so engulfing it stole all his air.

This kind of breathless came from pure joy- from overwhelming emotion so strong that his body had to take a pause to recover.   

He was breathless- but oh, so- so happy.

Andrew couldn’t stop smiling. He held the boy in his arms- burying his face in his shoulder. 

Micah turned his head- kissing the side of the boy’s neck, crawling up to tease at the back of his ear.

 Andrew nearly giggled. 

He wanted to say it. He wanted nothing more than to be as vulnerable right now as Andrew had been with him. The only difference is that Andrew didn’t necessarily have much of a choice. Micah did. 

His breath tickled Andrew’s ear as he whispered. 

“Andrew I- I’m- I think I-”

He smiled. “I love you too-”

Micah pulled away- staring at the boy briefly before kissing him again. This time it was different- it was full of fire and passion- a tongue dipping briefly behind teeth- swirling heavy within the breath. Micah let his lips cover Andrew’s- like he was trying to breathe the life back into him once more. Open mouthed- gasping- as if trying to suck in air like a drowning man. 

And in a way- Andrew had been drowning. 

He had been so captivated by his pain- his torture and trauma- that he barely allowed himself a moment to realize the love and the happiness that had been surrounding him. 

Everyone here wanted him to get better. They sat by his bedside- wiping his face as he was wrought with fever- holding him still as he thrashed with a nightmare. They reassured him- hundreds and hundreds of times- no matter how much he told himself- that he was not a burden. 

That he deserved to be rescued- and safe- and healthy- and loved. 

Andrew had been surrounded by a lot of love in these past few weeks of recovery- but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly feel it. 

So for now- in just this moment- he let Micah love him. Even as the kisses moved past his mouth- trailing down his neck. Andrew leaned his head back- letting the soft lips brush over the scars around his throat before they found their way to his jaw- his cheek- eventually back to his lips. 

Andrew finally allowed himself to be loved. 

He allowed himself to be breathless. 

- - -

Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @thehopelessopus @burtlederp @whump-me-all-night-long @laves-here @yesthisiswhump @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @brutal-nemesis @lunaabsentee @morning-star-whump @beatenbruisedandbloody @sowhumpful

[heizours]

WOUNDED SCARS

summary. seeing you severely injured and badly hurt after doing a commission (requested)

tags. gn! reader, grammatical mistakes may occur

cw. usage of call signs, many mentions of blood / bleeding, mentions of (reader) collapsing and getting hit, hostage tendencies, mentions / thoughts of reader dying, mentions of torture / possible murder, slight possessive behavior, (reader) was refered as a glass in itto's part

feat. itto, diluc, xiao, aether, pantalone

note. reader doesn’t get hurt from a commission but an enemy of the fatui in pantalone’s part

ITTO.

He freaks out, freaks out too much that he isn't even bothered that he's making a whole scene because of it.

His usual playful and jolly persona will disappear in an instant, and for once he holds a concern and serious expression on his face.

Any person that would be passing by him will have their guard up, because it’s one of the first times they have seen the oni, so serious which is rare to see from him.

According to Shinobu, the reason you were late and wouldn’t be able to attend the date he had arranged for you at the moment, was you just came back from a commission which unexpectedly gave you major injuries and was the reason you were at the edge of losing too much blood.

As she continued to inform him of your whereabouts and your condition, the dread feeling in his stomach continued to drop, that he had to stop shinobu from continuing further, as just hearing from her that you got hurt already does a big damage to him.

What more if he sees you, with his own eyes?

After Genta told him where you're currently resting, he didn't waste a second going to you as he practically ditches everything in his way.

I hope you don’t mind a clingy oni next to your side because, do you expect the arataki itto to leave you after this? The answer was evident that it’s a no, he will stay with you until you have finally recovered from the current events and not even you could stop himself from doing so.

He would be very protective of you, afraid that you will leave his sight any second, like he's some sort of guard dog. Every person that's going to talk to you will have to be 6 feet away whether they like it or not, and if they get too close from his liking? Perhaps, you better grab his arm before he pounces on them .

He tries to hide the fact that he is worried about you and would instead tease you with playful remarks to make you smile or laugh, but on the matter of how he takes care of you gently like you're a piece of glass says a lot more than he is.

Once he sees it with his own eyes that you’re recovering, you would have to convinced him to stop the act of scaring and driving away the people who goes near you, as you assure him that they don’t mean any harm and are different from the ones who had attacked you.

Itto sheepishly apologized for being a little overbearing during the time you were recovering after being scolded by you, while embarrassingly stuttering out that he just doesn’t want you to experience the same scenario again.

If you ever try to do another commission again, then i hope you're also expecting for Itto to join you and he will not take a rejection as an answer.

"Hey babe where are ya going? Huh go where? Let me go with you! What me? worried? Psh, Of course I’m worried!”

DILUC.

He freezes the moment a caretaker from the winery entered his office in a distressed state, to tell him that you're currently being treated in the bedroom the both of you shared.

The atmosphere in the room completely drops. He could feel the anger already bubbling inside him which is directly not at you but to the culprits who even dared to do this to you.

What would the citizens react if they find out that the darknight hero they shower with praises, failed to protect that one person that is important to him?

The caretaker explained that after successfully completing a commission, you had unexpectedly met a bunch of fatui agents on your way who took noticed that you were Diluc's siginificant other, and knowing that your lover has a rocky relationship with them, they decided or tried to take you with them, which resulted of you getting minor injuries from them that was still enough to leave you bleeding.

If the caretakes wasn't outside of the winery while visiting the vineyard, you could have collapsed before you could have reached the door.

Every word that leaves from them, continues to fuel the bitter taste in his mouth, as his fingers continued to dig into the fabric of his gloves from clenching his fist too tight. It seems that time has stopped all around him, as he could feel the sharp intake of his breath shaking before standing up from the chair he was sitting, not even caring if it had dropped to the ground.

He wasted no time running and slamming the door open, which startled the maids who were tending to your wounds, and you who was instructed to lay down while they do the rest of the work.

Noticing that the two of you needed some privacy, the maids left the room without a word and closed the door, leaving Diluc still frozen in his position.

He stood there as he scanned your inflicted body who was displayed in front of him, and back to your face who would let out a pain wince when the wounds that were dabbed would inflict a discomfort on you, while multiple thoughts were racing through his mind.

How could he be this careless? would he lose you too? after giving in once again to love, will this be the consequences he’ll have to suffer?

Every step he took, he could feel them dropping to the ground but who is he to care about it at the moment? Your words of assurance that you’re okay, falls deaf on his ears as he refuses to believe that you are.

He knows you too well, that no matter how much you convince him that you're okay, it wasn't the same. His beloved, his only exception in all the seven nations is in pain because of his carelessness.

He sat at the side of the bed you're in and hesitantly wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a hug, placing a gentle hand on the back of you're head.

No words were spoken as his warmth continued to envelope the both you, and as every second is passing by, he never intended to let you go, as if he was scared that you will disappear just like the wind.

He closed his eyes in relief, dropping his head on your shoulder and didn't even noticed he had shed a tear from his eye.

He swears in the name of the archons, that after all this fiasco is over he would do everything in his power to punish those scums who had disgracefully did this to you, and there’s no escaping from it.

"..Beloved, how are you feeling? You’re safe here, don’t worry. I won’t let them harm you again, not on my watch"

XIAO.

The grip he has on his polearm tightens that it could potentially be broken after being informed by Smiley that Verr Goldet is treating you in one of the spare rooms of the inn.

The chef explained that you came back bleeding from a commission which caused a great shock when the boss of the inn had caught sight of you.

The bleeding couldn’t be stopped so verr goldet had to fetch a first aid before ushering you to follow her, while instructing the chef who was currently off from his duties to look for Xiao and inform him of your condition.

The yaksha has to physically restrain himself from crashing the polearm in his hands as Smiley continued to tell him that a group of treasure horders tried to rob you after doing the commission and if you didn't have enough strength to fight them off, you could have also been brought as a hostage.

Numeral possibilities began to cloud his mind, and it was not helping that they were all made out of negativity, as he was losing every ounce of his patience left from going on a search for that hoarders that tried to take advantage of you in your vulnerable state.

How could this happen? he was always there to be your protector, a vow that he swore to himself whenever you’re in danger, so why did this happen? 

Why didn’t you call his name? at that time, were you thinking that it will be your last breath? is that why? because you didn’t want him to experience holding your lifeless body in his arms?

He didn’t even waste a single second teleporting to your door after the chef gave him the go-signal to visit you, and just to his luck it was the same exact moment that Verr Goldet had left the room with multiple cottons that has patches of blood on it, on the first aid in her hands.

Verr Goldet could see the evident concern and worry on Xiao's face which was a rare behavior from him, so to ease his worries the lady approached him and informed the yaksha that your wounds are already patched up. It might take some time for some of the injuries to heal, so the least thing he could do right now is to monitor the said wounds, if it's causing you further discomfort.

It didn't take too long for the lady of the Inn to fled from the scene, leaving Xiao on his own who still didn't dare to enter the room, as he was too afraid to touch you that even a single finger could be the continuous cause of your pain.

He hesitantly slid the door to open, and there found you buried in the blanket of the futon as the yaksha freezes in his position, cautiously checking if the sound he was making is disturbing you. The steady circulation of your breathing could be seen from the corner of his eye, but it wasn't enough to ease his worries.

Knowing that he had mastered the ability of staying quiet, he soon finds himself standing over your figure, while carefully searching for any expression on your face to tell him if one of the wounds are acting up to give you any displeasure.

After monitoring that you were doing okay at the moment, the heavy weight that he has been carrying on his shoulders were lifted up, as Xiao let out a shaky sigh of relief and his knees gave up on the floor beside the futon you’re laying on.

Words are not enough to describe how terrified he was and how his world stopped moving for a moment after the words had reached his ears that you were hurt, that he could have almost lost you then and there if not for your strong will to go back home to him.

He’s no stranger to loss, he had experienced this same feeling many years ago after losing his known family because of the karmic debt, but for some reason he was saved by the geo archon himself, and up until now he continued to question that why of all people, why was he saved from his suffering? what is his purpose?

Xiao was engrossed by the thoughts that are plaguing his mind, not until he turned back to look at your sleeping form just to check if you’re peace isn’t being interrupted, and at that moment, that exact time, there was the answer he has been looking for, it was right in front of him all this time.

It was you, you were the answer. He was born to meet you, he was saved to protect you and he was saved to love you.

Xiao lifted his hand to caress your face, and you subconsciously reacted to it, as you leaned your face into his hand, and as much as he wants to search for the treasure hoarders that even dared to scratch the only person he puts effort in, he doesn’t pay attention to it at the moment since he prefers to not be separated with you for a second, fearing that your condition will get worse if he leaves your side.

It was a naive move for this hoarders, who even thought that they would not be punished because of their actions, and it was also naive of them to think that there is nobody who’s brave enough to face them. However, all those pride and bravery will be gone in an instant, once xiao has set his eyes on them.

For now, they may move freely wherever they please but the moment he could put his emotions and mind in peace after seeing a good progress from your recovery, he would not hesitate to tear every inch of teyvat looking for the hoarders.

“..Please, call my name next time. No matter how many times you call it, I will always be a second earlier to it”

AETHER.

The panic flashes through his eyes, as he tried to keep his emotions and thoughts in check, but failed to do so because he couldn’t bear to see you suffer any longer.

The both of you were just trying to finish the last commission for the day by finishing this hilichurl camp near springvale, and because you didn’t pay much attention to your surroundings, you didn’t notice the mitachurl making its way towards you.

It was even too late for aether to notice or at least warn you, that it intentionally hit you on the head with its shield, causing you to collapse on the spot because of the impact.

Only then that the blond was aware of your situation when he heard the panicked screams from paimon, as she desperately flew towards you and tried to wake you up while the creature continues to advance near the both of you.

At that moment, Aether's whole body was paralyzed from the shock and fear that had struck him, as he tried to scream your name, but nothing came out of it. the words were stuck in his throat and all he could do was desperately watch the scene in front of him.

He’s not one to lose his composure completely, but all it took for him to lose it was the mitachurl continuing to take advantage of your vulnerable state as his tiny companion never once left you, and instead hid on the side of your neck as she was on the verge of tears because of your unconsciousness.

In a flash, the said creature was put to rest in aether’s hands as his anger had gotten way ahead of him. He was shaking, and the sword in his hand dropped to the ground creating a clattering sound as he grits in teeth in frustration for carelessly letting that creature harm you.

Mondstadt’s honorary knight? What's the point of holding a title like this, and being showered by constant encouragements from the citizens, when he couldn’t even protect his lover? 

Whispering thoughts of discouragement began to torment his mind, as they began to chant that he isn’t strong enough, that he’s the reason why you’re in this state, that- all those voices vanished in an instant with Paimon's desperate voice overpowering them.

The little mascot was shaking his shoulders vigorously with tear stains on the corner of her eyes, as she shouted at him that they need to bring you to the cathedral now where barbara could help you, and that there wasn’t anytime to waste.

Aether’s feet moved in auto-pilot as he carried you to ride on his back, gripping your legs firmly before making a run for it, while ignoring to catch his breath with paimon flying by his side. screw everything, the only thing racing through his mind right now, is to get you help and the treatment you need.

He can’t lose you, not when he already got separated from his twin

The knights that were on duty to stand guard at the gates of the city, didn’t hesitate to sprang into action after seeing their honorary knight’s desperate and distressed state. The other went to fetch the healers and barbara, while the other assisted by making way for the three of you, as the citizens in mondstadt were left to witness the scene with confused yet terrified expressions.

The blond arrived at the cathedral as he continued to ignore the burning feeling in his lungs, too engrossed and desperate for you to be treated immediately instead.

As Barbara and a knight assisted the both of you to enter the establishment, Aether fell on his knees with a loud thud as the traveler took deep heavy breathes from running while looking at your disappearing form entering the doors of the cathedral.

Before the hydro vision wielder could follow your unconscious body that was being carried by the knight, she felt a desperate hand tugging her back and when she turned to look at the culprit, there she saw Aether on his knees, a few droplets of his tears threatening to fall from the corner of his eye, as the hopelessness in his voice begged her to do everything she could do, to heal and save you.

The deaconess couldn’t help but feel bad for her dear friend, as she patted his shoulder to assure him that you will be alright, and you would recover in no time because you’re in good hands. thus, those were the last words Aether had heard before Barbara turned her back on him, as she proceeded to prepare to heal you with the abilities she has got.

Aether didn’t dared to move from his position despite hearing the pleas and protests from the other knights who had caught wind of the situation, as the only thing swimming in his mind right now, is you and your safety. It continued to be like that, until someone had to at least bring him something to seat on if he’s planning to be waiting for the process to be finished.

He was a complete mess which was something rare to be seen from Paimon's perspective, and despite the aching feeling that the both of them continued to feel, the little mascot still didn’t hesitate to throw in a few words of moral support to the traveler.

Sooner or later, the sound of the doors of the cathedral caught Aether's attention, which caused the blond to stand up from his seat, who was impatiently awaiting for barbara’s response if the process had gone well or could have gone worse, but after seeing the successful and relief look painted on the deaconess’ face, all the big weight that his whole body was carrying have been lifted as if he could breathe again.

It didn’t take too long for aether to enter the cathedral’s infirmary, as he was granted by barbara’s full permission to do so, who had taken pity for the blond and yourself.

As he quietly opened the door, he saw you still in a deep slumber as barbara informed him that you will need to take some nap at the moment, since the hit from the shield was a bit harder than intended.

He gently seated on the side of your bed, watching the fall and rise of your chest, as he scans the bandages that were carefully wrapped around your head, were the bruise was located. he was about to reluctantly touch it but backed up the last minute, as he was too terrified to unintentionally hurt you even more and worse, could interrupt your rest.

Aether held your hands with his, as he placed a chaste kiss on top of it while caressing it gently as he could. the blond soon closed his eyes in relief, letting himself shed the tears he has been holding back for a while now.

If he was only aware of what’s happening around him then this should have never happened, but you’re still here, breathing and alive for him, isn’t it?

Aether may have committed the mistake of not being able to protect you, but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to commit the same mistake again, because he’s going to make sure that not even a single finger would harm you, never again.

“Seeing you like this....because of me— it breaks my heart. Rest assured, I won’t let you experience the same thing again”

PANTALONE.

His smile falters the moment the fatui agents from his divison, entered his office in a nervous and cautious state, to inform him that an enemy of the organization had ambushed you, after knowing that you were the harbinger’s significant other.

The temperature in his room completely drops, as he demanded them to let him see the clearer picture, and no it wasn’t the tone of his voice that made the agents start to shake in their boots, it was also not the pen that he was holding for signing the papers in front of him, that he had snapped in an instant after your name had left their mouth, but it was the continuous smile that he continues to wear, like he isn’t even affected at all.

But behind the facade he puts up for the public, do not be betrayed by his expressions, because deep down he’s actually more affected than you think, and just the thought of someone even daring to touch his precious gem, and leaving their trace on you had made him more livid than he had imagine.

The fatui agents began to push at each other on who should open their mouth, knowing that pantalone doesn’t like to wait especially if it’s about you on the line. The longer they continue to argue who should do it, the shorter the regrator’s patience is running thin from their childish shenanigans.

He absolutely doesn’t have the time for this, as countless thoughts began to stir up in his mind. what if you’re looking for his comfort and assurance right now? what if you’re injuries aren’t being treated yet? what if you think that he doesn’t care at all? what if he loses you before he could even see your condition?

Pantalone clicked his tongue in annoyance and frustration as he raised his voice at them, clearly demanding an explanation before the bubbling anger bursts inside him, which only happens during once a blue moon. His voice alone stopped the dispute between the agents in front of him, as one of them finally decided to took the bait and explain the situation to the harbinger.

Every word that leaves from the agent continued to fuel Pantalone's anger and bloodthirst that was a rare sight to see from him, as he could feel his knuckles underneath the exquisite gloves he wore, started turning white from the pressure of clenching his fist, while trying to put up with the forced smile up on his face.

How dare this people touch you? how dare they even consider that going for his lover, is a great idea? how dare they think they could get away with this?

There’s nothing more than he wants to do about this low lives but to capture and torture them right away, but knowing that you’re probably shaken up and is in need of his presence right now, he decided to set aside those thoughts for now.

As soon as the agent’s explanation had come to an end, the current of the air around the room was completely tense and suffocative, that even the fatui agents standing in front of Pantalone could feel the weighing pressure.

The beat was quiet for a few moments before the man tried to calmly spoke, as he desperately tries to calm himself down from the burning wrath that is boiling inside him, while trying to make his instructions clear to them.

A few minutes has passed by after the confrontation when the fatui agents didn’t wasted a millisecond bringing the ninth to where you are right now, and each step he takes continues to increase the uneasiness pooling inside of him, which was not a common emotion he always show.

The journey to where you’re being assisted and treated at the moment, didn’t take much time as pantalone soon finds himself standing in front of your door, while the agents left him to do some “business” the man gave them before leaving his office.

Pantalone raised his hand which was oddly shaking and reached the door knob to open it slowly, only to find you in a terrified and panicked state, while the healers around you tried to ease your worries, which are what they were doing until all of them stood up professionally before politely exiting the room after seeing the regrator behind the door.

A wave of confusion hits you when they all left the room immediately one by one, until you turned your back and found your lover staring right into your soul, with an unknown emotion painted on his face. Pantalone's posture was too tense, as his eyes carefully and closely dart over you, while looking for the said injuries that the suspect had gave you before looking back at your face.

He took a step towards you, looking for any signs if you don’t want him to go further, but after seeing the encouraging look on your face, he took hurried steps, until he was kneeling in front of you while clasping his hands with yours.

Pantalone touched the side of your face with the back of his hand, as the tear stains in your eyes could still be seen, before he cups your face into his hands as he gently demanded if you have any idea who did this to you, and if you remember at least one of them, but after shaking your head and barely whispering that you just don’t want him to leave you right now, he decided to not question it any further.

He stood up from the floor and soon sat beside you, as he swiftly grabbed your waist and putted you on his lap, as he gave you the opportunity of letting you burry your head on his chest, while his arms enveloped around you like a protective shield before putting a desperate kiss on the top of your head.

Pantalone couldn’t help but to wrap his arms around you tighter but not tight enough to make you uncomfortable as you peacefully lay in his arms. All the stress and headache that he was feeling, were all gone after bringing you back in his open arms, as if you were his only medicine that could genuinely calm him done in this land.

As for the said enemy who was the main cause why you’re in this condition, he would let them run away for now, giving them the chance to think that the fatui would not be able to find them. But let it be a reminder, that once he had gathered the intel that he needs before capturing them, he would not give them a chance to even breathe the same air as you.

In the name of his majesty’s Tsaritsa, he would not let this same scenario happen again, he would not let you be harmed again, he would not let the only thing, that’s keeping him in check be taken away from him by some low lives and for those people who are responsible for this, would be met with a severe punishment from him.

And no, he doesn’t care if the expensive and ravishing clothes he’s wearing would be tainted by their blood, he’s not the wealthiest out of the harbingers isn’t it? He could easily replaced those with a chunk of cash.

They may have thought that they could escape from someone as him, but their judgement was wrong when they will soon find themselves trap in a cage like a helpless bird, once they are in his control and territory.

One thing's for sure, and that is they should have known better than to underestimate Pantalone’s wrath.

“Shh my treasure, it’s okay. I’m here, and I don’t plan to leave any sooner. Would you like anything while you’re on bed rest?”

[vespertineneon]

I barely see C!sam fluff so uh

Gn/Male reader getting home kinda injuried like dear god how are you alive and sam just trying his best to help them? Maybe injuried because of mobs OR reader is also a hybrid of sorts but certain village sees hybrids as monsters so they attempted to hunt and kill em? Idk-

I’m so in love with this oh my god. Yes yes yes a million times I fucking love this.

A/N: Reader is a Ram hybrid. They have horns (similar to Jshlatts for reference). This is very short, sorry! But I had fun writing it. Also, funny story, I came up with most of this at 2am while mumbling ideas into my voice memo app. And originally I was like “let’s do an enderman hybrid reader.” But I realized in the morning that taking a shower with Sam as A FUCKING ENDERMAN HYBRID wouldn’t be very fun.

CW: mentions of Assault, blood, injuries, medical supplies, implied nudity(not sexual.)

A horrid scene kept playing over and over in your mind. Brief flashes of a stinging pain. Everywhere. Your horns being grabbed and pulled at. Hell, it felt like they had been torn out of your skull at some point. You were beaten up and bloody. There were welts, lashes, bruises and cuts all over you from the assault. A couple of villagers had tried following you home. Eventually grabbing you and beating you unconscious. You had woken up nearly 2 hours later, covered in blood and dirt as you hazily tried to make it back to your house. But your house was far away, and you didn’t feel like walking that far. Hell, you probably COULDN’T walk that far. So you settled on walking to your boyfriend’s house instead. Upon opening the door, Sam seemed to be in more of a state of shock than you were in.

You two were now in the shower together. The water was lukewarm but it still burned when it ran over your recent wounds. Sam had already washed dirt and blood from your hair and horns. Thankfully, your horns weren’t damaged in the encounter. It was a quiet shower, with the occasional hissing noise as you sucked air through your teeth when Sam glided a soapy washcloth over more severe wounds. One gash in particular, right along your shoulder made you flinch away when he touched it.

“Y/N..”

His voice was laced with concern, but it had an aspect of demand as well. Avoiding your shoulder wound wouldn’t do you any good.

“I know.”

You uttered under your breath as you hesitantly faced Sam, pressing your head into his chest so he had better access to your shoulder. He wrapped a large arm around your waist, washing away dried blood and dirt from around the gash. You softly whined into his chest, wrapping your arms around him as you tensed at the pain. And then it was over. Water poured over your shoulder, washing the soap away. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head, setting down the washcloth and wrapping his other arm around you. He pressed you into his chest and swayed with you in silence for what felt like years.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” Sam mumbled into your forehead as he turned off the shower.

“Mm.” It wasn’t much of a response. You didn’t even know what you were trying to communicate with a singular noise. You were too lost in a plethora of feelings. The memories of the VERY recent assault, the sting of your injuries, the calm that your boyfriend provided, the warmth of being pressed against his chest.

After drying off, you were in a tank-top and loose sweatpants. Sam was kneeling in front of the couch you were sitting on, wrapping gauze around your injuries after applying various ointments and disinfectants. He was careful and gentle when treating you, as if you would shatter if he handled your injuries to hard. He kept urging you to explain what happened, and eventually you let in, dumping everything out in a big mess of word-vomit. And he was silent and still. Stopping what he was doing as his expression was unreadable. It was an uncomfortable silence. Tense. But you ended up breaking it.

“Sam? Are you mad?”

Of course he wasn’t mad. He could never be mad at you over something that you couldn’t control. He was angry at the world. Angry at it for being so cruel and horrible.

“No.”

He stood up, putting his medical supplies away before coming back and sitting down next to you. He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling his head into your uninjured shoulder. He seemed to be shaking a little bit?

“I’m not angry. You just don’t deserve this. You mean the world to me, and I hate how others are so oblivious of how… perfect you are.” Sam was quiet, soft. He seemed a little bit shaken up at the story.

“Next time you need something from a village, you’re telling me. I’m going with you.” And that wasn’t a request. You knew he was gonna get on your ass if you ignored him. So you nodded, leaning back into him. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep after that. He was playing with your hair the entire time, holding you close.

You were so peaceful. But he had other things on his mind. Because he sure as hell wasn’t gonna let a few village pricks get away with hurting you.

[fictionfixations]

UTMV Human Superhero AU

Honestly what I'm posting now is kinda just somewhat old stuff, like not recent and new things but more like just tryna fill my blog with posts while ALSO keeping with the theme? ??? Anyway have another AU lmao- I actually don't read as much UTMV fanfiction so zero idea what's more common than others. SO! This'll just be current notes I have for different Sanses, but that also means I just have the more common Sanses instead of Sanses like Error, Reaper, Fresh, Lust, and so on.

CW: Mentions of famines, drought, murder, injury, blood, bullying, disowned, cannibalism, pressure, high expectations, etc.

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Nightmare's Gang, dubbed the Bad Guys (Which Killer jokingly refers to them as Bad Gays) by the media is a high ranking supervillain organization, consisting of members,

Dust- VN: Executioner Has voices in his head. (When he's lost it, his eyes turn red.) They predict the future and help him get by, but with the drawback of them sounding like those he has killed before. It haunts him and leaves him unable to eat, sleep, or anything after. The sole survivor of a mass genocide, suffering through Survivor's Guilt. He had no one to get help from, and eventually found himself with Nightmare. He's bitter and craves revenge against the shitty heroes who failed to help him then and now.

Horror- VN: Butcher Once trapped in a persistent famine and drought, he was unable to control himself anymore. He ate anything that moved, including people, much to the disgust of the public once it came to light. People were disgusted by him, but with his newfound desire for cannibalism came a power. He'd find himself in a state of constant hunger, yet the more he ate, the more invincible he became. Sometimes he'd be able to even use another's enhancement.

Nightmare- VN: Nyx Forgotten in his brother's shadow, he grew bitter and angry. 'If they wanted a monster, then that's what I'll become', he thought. His power let him see people's worst fears, bringing them to light with 'hallucinations'. In a way, he could change reality to his own making. In the 'hallucinations', he produces a black fog that hides the ground and everything the eye can see. When inhaled, it poisons the victim severely. Few survive, but those who do are easy to spot due to their sickly figure. The black slowly overtakes them. They throw it up. 'Corruption' Nyx calls it. Then they lose all will. A puppet in the making.

Killer-VN: Jester He was kicked out of his own home due to his sick nature, and nobody wanted the kid with an odd obsession with blood. Killer always had been fascinated by death and soon became a murderer who hid in the shadows, yet known to play with his 'food'. Soon he had caught the attention of Nightmare who took him in. Killer's power had to do with drinking blood. It let him use that person's enhancements, and at times he could wield multiple at once. He grew fangs due to it as well, and enjoyed joking about how he was a vampire. It always sent him on a sort of high when he got some in his system. It was also due to this that he had an unhealthy addiction to blood, though if he were to stop he'd weaken. When he can't find a source, sometimes he'll just take his own blood to calm the desire. Sometimes though, if he has a big enough amount of blood from someone, he can copy their features. (edited)

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The heroes lmao. no special name for them [ig they're just the stars but thats about it. Also they'll probably end up falling apart due to different ideals n such]

Swap- HN: Knight can form a shield and sword on will or whatever? [thoughts pending]

Dream- HN: Hemera He can provide 'suggestions' to people in a soft siren-like voice. When he does it, it forces a calm over them, almost like drugging them, and they do as he says. (For some reason people dont call him out for having a 'villain' like power unlike Nightmare's)

Ink- HN: Creator Can create things with his brush, easy to understand

Cross- HN: X Put under high expectations, he was meant to become a hero at his birth. It wasn't what he would've chosen as a job, but he was helping people. That was a good thing right? He was being helpful. That was his purpose, after all. Wasn't it? He has heightened senses. He can hear better, see better, even move faster and jump higher. Sometimes he adopts other people's abilities, almost like a mimic, being able to make sounds or voices. He once had a dog (dead now), so he has a habit of copying a dog's noises, like growling when under threat.

MANY notes subject to change, though I'm already using them for a series on another thing so it'd be awful to change it now, BUT some sanses haven't been shown yet, or even done anything yet so changes could happen [though the bad gays have already been shown haha along with their powers and '..backstories'

[pseudonympls]

From Fear

Part Eight of Love Blooms.

Art for this chapter by @pharlapcartoonist 🖤

CW: injury, ptsd, oral sex, angst, hurt/no comfort, pregnancy, morning sickness, blood, trauma mentions, cancer/illness references, death

Chapter word count: 14.5k

I wake, my eyes open. The room is dark, suffocating in its nothingness. And then, almost like it never left, the pain comes. I rise up like the undead, the muscles in my arms and legs burning with dissent. A heat that I’d felt before, only not as intense, licked up from my ankle, the damaged one. An animalistic roar leaves my lips and scorches my lungs. My fingers scramble down the length of my leg to find the cast, holding what remains of my ankle securely in place. The lights flicker on, and seven or so disgruntled moans come from all four corners of the room, making my head thunder with agony, my ears ring at even the slightest of noises. A nurse, two, came in and rushed to my side. My blurred vision attempts to identify them - as if one of them would be her. Bear even a hallmark of Emily. Dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes. But they remain foggy silhouettes in the slowly focusing room.

“Oh gosh, Mister Burnham, please, please settle down, you’ve been in and out for the best part of a week” one of the nurses stutters in a drawling, cockney accent, her voice is harsh and hits my ears like the sound of metal grinding in a machine. Sets my teeth on edge. All my senses are blunt, like a badly kept butcher’s knife, and I keep striking, hoping to hit home, but nothing seems to happen. I’m always shy of that elusive cut. I try to sit up, my arms scrambling for purchase, but they’re leaden, feeling the way they do after one too many drinks, numbed and weak. If only the same could be said of the pain.

My mouth is so impossibly dry, flakes of spittle fly from the corners of my mouth as I struggle to sit up, struggling to use the last remaining ounce of my strength to figure out what’s happened. My arms strain under my own weight, seeming desperately weak.“Wh-what”  “Wh-where am I?” I scramble still, my vision abnormally foggy. “Em-” I cough, “Emily?!”

“Sir, there’s no Emily here.” the other nurse speaks this time, although I can barely tell where sound is even coming from at this point.

“Wh-where am I?!” I repeated, somehow still not being heard.

“You’re in St. Thomas’ hospital in London, sir, you were in the tube disaster, fourteen dead, but you survived” as if the words held some sort of tonic, my vision slowly ebbed back to me, showing me to be one of several in a hospital ward. Two nurses - distinctly not Emilly - flanked me. 

“T-tube disaster?” For a moment, I had forgotten what had brought me here, how I had gone from that sleepy town up north to London, the capital. And then, like boiling water dripping through ice, realisation slowly melted through me. 

Emily had gone. Come here, but not here. Not this hospital. 

I had come so close, and yet now the cast around my leg threatened to slow me - already had. Days laid up in this bed, I could barely stand to entertain the thought. My adrenaline was through the roof, my heart thumping through my chest and at my temple. I knew now where I needed to be, where my heart ached to be. “I need to get to Mile End” I spat out, my thoughts all converging to one singular point, almost too many to comprehend. The nurses looked at one another, worry painted on their sullied faces. The pity that Emily had told me, in our most intimate moments, that she dreaded the look of, yet it was one that followed her around constantly. Perhaps it had found me too.

“Hold on just a minute, I’ll get the doctor” the tall blond nurse with the gravelly voice said, turning away and walking down the ward. I glanced at her friend, who avoided my eye contact.

“H-how long have I been here?” I wanted to make sure I understood, fully, how much time I had wasted being weak. How much precious time I had with Emily left, before…before the inevitability of war came for us all.

“S-six days, sir” the nurse replied, making eye contact only when it was completely necessary, somehow knowing that her reply would send me into a blind panic. Before I lost sight of everything, the nurse had brought the doctor around, and he smiled at me, a schooled, tight lipped smile of sympathy, from the middle of the ward. 

“Good evening Mr Burnham, I’m Doctor Jenkins, good to see you finally with us.” - he glanced over at the nurse “He’s lucid?” The quieter nurse nodded furtively, somehow sensing my next move.

“Beg your pardon, Doctor, but yes, I’m right here and I’m real fuckin’ lucid right now” I moved an inch, each tiny movement set off bizarre ache in different, seemingly unrelated parts of my body. “Look, I know I’ve not been here long, but I need you to discharge me-I need to go to Mile End” each of my thoughts slotted into place, making sense in my own mind as I plotted out how I would return to her. Put my plans into motion.

“Sir, I think we should talk first, about your injuries, what they mean for you” he pulled up a chair from a neighbouring bed, and sat down, a knowing look to his face, one I’d seen before.

“Injury? Oh, that?” I gesture down to my ankle flippantly, “I did that over seven months ago, healed right up though, I just have to keep weight off of it for a while, right?” as the words left my mouth I knew them to be farcical, the way the Doctor’s expression drooped, even in my fuggy, barely awake state, I knew I was wrong. It was different from last time.

“Mr Burnham,” the doctor started, pulling out my chart from the end of the bed, preoccupying his eyes with the words, rather than my face “You shattered your ankle, some previous trauma weakened the joint, you may never walk properly again, thankfully you’re young and should recover…but no-one can ever guarantee these things, It’s something even the will of God can’t promise, nevermind medicine” 

The words sank like stones into the pit of my stomach. Growing, imperceptibly large until I felt like I myself, was made of stone. “I-I what?” 

The doctor nodded grimly “Yes, it’s possible you may never walk again, but as I said, you’re young, and with being discharged…”

“Discharged?” I interjected, my heart grew weak at the chance of seeing her again - and soon.

“Yes sir, we saw your ID sir, US Army, we contacted your superiors, and they came straight away, thought you were trying to dessert” with those words the ward doors opened loudly, clearly needing some grease to quieten the screaming hinges. The heavy stomps came down the corridor, a cigar hanging loosely from his puffy lips. A smirk hanging from them. The Sergeant.

“Well, Private, or should I say Mister Burnham” he sneered. “I’m afraid this may be one of the last times we ever meet” he glances distastefully down at my ankle, as if it were the shit on his shoe.

“S-sir, what do you mean?” my mind whirs a million times a minute, trying to decipher the code they all seem to be speaking in.

“I mean that you’re of no use to us, boy, none at all, not with an ankle like that” he puffed out his chest in defiance. “Sad to say, that we’re going over this coming Monday, and I have no choice but to discharge you on medical grounds” he sniffed, loud and disgusting in the silence, “Oh, and your little friend just insisted on coming” he rolled his eyes as the greatest sight for sore eyes ran down the corridor, before a nurse reprimanded him for running in a hospital.

“Leonard” I breathed, a sigh of relief, my pained expression twisting into something that resembled a smile.

“You know, it’s a good thing you have such great friends, Mr Burnham, we were in half a mind to say you’d tried to dessert” Leonard reached the side of the bed, his mouth pulling into half a smile, “I’ll leave you be, I suppose” he said, taking the doctor sat beside me with him.

“Like we would try that shit, again” Leonard smiled, his face stretched wide as he, exhausted, collapsed into the chair the doctor had left vacant, getting closer to my eye level.

“Man, what’re you talking about-?” I asked, bringing my fingers up to run through the hair at my scalp, something to soothe, whatever comfort I could get.

Leonard scooched closer to me, his voice dropping to just above a whisper “I had to fight your case. They were on you from the first night, I knew when you didn’t come back after the second that something was up. I went to the hospital, spoke to..” Leonard clicked his fingers in absent thought.

“Bessie?” I finished his sentence.

“Yeah that’s right, her, she told me that Emily had gone down to London, and let’s just say I didn’t need her to tell me where you went”

“I should’ve said something” I shook my head, my peripherals coming slowly back into focus, the hubbub of the room didn’t pierce my ears so harshly, anymore.

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, “Nah man, you were following your heart. Who knew that by doing that, you could truly be with her, with the one you love” he glanced down at my ankle, surely in pieces beneath the cast.

I swallowed, all the information felt like an ocean I was trying to traverse in my mind - and all of a sudden I was not so strong a swimmer. “Is it true?” beyond seeing him, the pain, how I still yearned for Emily, I could barely believe it. Luck sometimes gives with one hand, and takes away with the other. 

“The war?” Leonard sighed “ yeah, you’re done, they deem you unfit, you won’t be going to France, after all” he smiled, a shadow of sorrow behind his brown eyes. How we’d been together through everything these past few years. How we’d swore, drunk to our gills back home, that we’d all die together. Me, Greg, and him. Yet fate had a funny way of picking us off one by one, as if our lifelines were set to converge for a little while, but ultimately pull apart, setting us on different paths. Separating us for good.

“You’re lucky, man, they thought with everything-” his voice cracked, and tears threatened to flood his eyes. “With everything that you’d have some brain damage” his hand came to my shoulder, a touch, a bond.

I shook my head, “Who knows, I might still-” but Leonard cut me off mid sentence.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he sniffled behind the stony exterior, barely letting any tears fall as he regained his self control, “don’t fucking say that” he sniffed loudly. “Just say you’ll be back up north before Monday, to say” he sniffled deeply “to say goodbye”.

I felt the hot prickle of tears behind my own eyes, and my arm went to grip his shoulder, equal as we held each other. “After everything, how could I not”.

Leonard and the Sergeant left later that night, and I sat, useless in that hospital bed. The leers of the other patients upon me. Every time you think something is going to feel so sweet, so joyous, something else has to turn around to offer up its right hook. I would find Emily, but I would lose Leonard. As if I was capable of digesting more than a few punches to the gut in one week. 

In the night, in the anything-but-silence of the ward, I heard the nurses speaking. Eager to keep my face neutral so as to not arouse suspicion, I held on to every word.

“But Carol, he’s a yank” the softer spoken of the two said, the annoyance clear as anything in her voice.

“I know, but he’s so pretty, look at his jaw,” Carol moons “it’s so sharp,” she sighs wistfully “and he’s so tall,” there’s a pause, and I can only imagine they’re looking at me in the halflight. “He mentioned some girl, Emily, do you think she’s his best girl back at home?” 

The other nurse sighs heavily, patience wearing thin “Who’s to know, but I can tell you’re jealous”

“Shush, I am not…” there’s a brief silence “But she’s a really lucky girl, anyway” 

There’s a slight clattering of instruments, perhaps even a tray, and then the other nurse finally speaks “Carol, button it, we have rounds to do, and keep it down, you’ll wake the entire ward with your pining” 

In the morning, after a modicum of sleep, I had strained to sit up, feed myself and move my other leg - stiff, but decidedly unbroken, I had called one of the nurses over. I wasn’t being big headed, but I could tell she had taken a shine to me, as she handed me my razor and held the mirror in front of me and tried so desperately to make light conversation. I humoured her, but at the forefront of my mind, of every waking second, there could only be her. Emily.

Later on I had finally convinced her to hand me the crutches. The biggest ones they had were still too small for me, the burn of my lower back attested to that. But I had to try, I had to try and get out of there. While the pain was worse than last time, this time I had something different. Something pulling at my heartstrings, pulling me forward, closer to her. This time I had the strength. Once I had dressed myself in the clothes I had arrived in, I had, on aching arms, made my way to the nurse’s station. 

Clearing my throat I spoke to the blond nurse “Hey, Carol, is it?” she glanced up at me from her desk, realising it was me. I hated using her feelings for my benefit, but I needed a way out of here, and fast. “Um, I was wondering if I could speak with Doctor Jenkins?” 

The nurse looked at me through her eyelashes, and I saw a violent blush creep up her cheeks. “Mister-Mister Burnham,” she stuttered out every word as if tasting something awful on her tongue. She stared open mouthed at me for a few moments, a quizzical look on her face. “S-sorry, what did you say, sir?” she finally said, breaking the awkward silence that lay between us.

I smiled, trying to keep calm “Doctor Jenkins, do you think I could speak with him?” I repeated, my jaw starting to clench. 

“Oh!” Carol jumped up like her seat had been attached to a livewire “Oh yes of course, Doctor Jenkins, I’ll get him for you right away” she went to rush off in the opposite direction, and much to my annoyance, came back to me hurriedly “Sorry, sir, shall I just get you back to your bed, I’ll get Doctor Jenkins to come to you” her fingertips grazed my elbow and I couldn’t help but flinch away.

“N-no, it’s fine, I can get there myself” I nodded “Thanks, though” I turned around and started moving slowly to my bed, not daring to look behind my shoulder to see if she was still looking at me.

Some time later, Doctor Jenkins arrived at my bedside. “I heard you’d like to speak to me, Mr Burnham?”

“Yes Doctor, I-” I sighed heavily “I need to leave, say you’ll discharge me?”

“Right, hmm” the doctor reached for my chart and leafed through leisurely. “You will need to get that ankle regularly monitored,” he sighed “But as far as I can see, we can’t hold you here, sir” 

“What?” my heart tapped out an unsteady rhythm beneath my chest, hearing the words I thought so desperately I wouldn’t. “So, I’m free to go?”

“I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere fast with those” he nodded to my crutches, leaning against the wall next to the bed “But yes, you can leave at your leisure, sir”. As fast as I was capable of, I readied myself, gathering what few possessions I had brought with me. I bid a hurried goodbye to the nurses that had seen to me, and the men I had shared the ward with, most of whom seemed glad to see me go. And as I hobbled down the street to the nearest station, I swear swinging on crutches had never felt like flying, not before this.

***

“Em” he whispered against my lips, and my thoughts rang out like a death knell, haunting my mind.

One of your last kisses with him

Make it count

He lifted me onto the table, my skirts billowing out underneath me, creating a cavernous parachute for him to traverse. He slipped my dress down over my shoulders, until it collected roughly at my waist. I bit my lip in anticipation as his lips came to my peaked nipples, hard and straining in the cool night air. He soothed them with his mouth, hushed silent words into them as his lips sucked and licked at me, tightening my core even further.

“Do you like it when I’m down here?” he whispered into my thigh, my fingertips buried in the shoulders of his shirt, I nodded with rapt attention. Seeing him there, betwixt my thighs, dropped to his knees on the ground, laving at my most sensitive parts, had me coming undone on his lips faster than expected. As his tongue parted me I groaned, widening my hips, wanting him to press further into me, wanting so much for him to belong inside. One of his arms threaded around my right thigh, the other came to tickle and tease at my entrance, I was no more than a shuddering mess at his behest, my hips thrusting to get more sensation.

And more I got.

He pushed not one, but two thick fingers inside of me, and I had to suppress a squeal. Involuntarily I pressed my thighs together, locking him into place. “Tsk, Tsk” his lips reverberated into me, the wood of the table groaning under my insistence, as I continued bucking into his face, his tongue tracing lines of decadence, unfolding the splendour that was my mounting orgasm. “I can’t have that, can I? Need to keep these open for me, sweetie,” Bo hummed against me, and I could only murmur pathetically back at him as he spread my legs even further before him.

I made the mistake of glancing down to where his lips met me, and was startled by his unwavering gaze, watching how I writhed against him, my fingers clawed into his hair more desperately, the bittersweet knowledge that this would be the very last time I would be torn apart like this. I shut my eyes, shutting them to my reality, my future; what little I knew of it, I knew it couldn’t contain him. Focusing in on the pad of his tongue, the slow, tortuous curl of his fingers inside me I let go all the negative thoughts - let myself be wholly in the moment. I slipped free from the grasp of reality, of this tortured circumstance, and shattered down on his mouth, my thighs tensing erratically next to his ears. However he did not stop his assault on me, only slowed his tumult until I was shaking on the table, sending what silverware lay on the opposite side clattering to the ground.

I knelt below Bo, palming him through his underwear, undeniably thick and hard, he pressed back, sighing deeply as his neck rolled backwards, his eyes tearing away from mine for but a second. As I pulled him out of his underthings, I was glad that he wasn’t looking at me - the way I stared at his member, I wanted to remember this moment, a flurry of them, for years to come. How I finally sank him deep within my mouth, felt him shudder beneath my touch. He gripped my hair, firmly but with a softness that only made me quiver more. Guiding me in the way that he liked - grazing my tonsils with the tip of him felt so good, so good that I was fortunate that it made my eyes water, and I could hide the tears that spilled out. Blaming the heft of him, the weight as I used my tongue and throat for his pleasure, how I wanted so much to just be a toy at his disposal. Something entirely without feeling, without a past to weigh her down - merely an instrument for his joy.

I gripped the headboard, felt it acquiesce underneath my weight, our collective thrum. How I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, I felt his palms come to my hips, and I, powerless to my own lust, could only buck up into his grasp, backing into him with desperation. “B-Bo please” I hummed, unable to take the teasing much longer, one release beneath his lips hardly seemed like enough at this point. I was hungry for him. His hands traced the curves of my behind, lighting pathways of sheer delight as he went, but what hit me as the most bittersweet was his touch - how I knew it would be some of our last. He licked a long line down my spine - root to tip - only making me arch myself even more into him, making a feral moan leave my lips, a question still asking, begging to be answered. Bo’s fingers spread me, and swirled around playfully between my swollen folds, so oversensitive by this point I almost shuffled away from him - but one of his solid hands kept me firmly in place as his fingers meandered even more delicate pleasures from me. I dared to look over my shoulder, letting my hair fall along with me, swirling into a ruffled mess down my back. My eyes found his, a dark tornado of lust that brewed beneath those baby blues, the sweetness of this man, so totally at odds with how darkly he looked at me, how I had unleashed the monster within.

“Oh, fuck” he groaned, throat thick with desire - and I watched on, beguiled, as the peaks and troughs of his body glowed in the lamplight, the delicate swathe of skin that lay at his stomach, pulled taut at his posture. The sinews that laced his arms, every single one I wished to kiss, nick with my teeth, and I tried to block out the sadness - that I knew I never would get to explore him again so completely. I wanted to be fat with him, eat him up so wholly for our entire lives, sickly sweet. The glut of him filling me up forever.

He adjusted himself, loosely palming his thick manhood with equally thick fingers, my mouth opening a touch too much, “P-please, Bo” I repeated, my eyes barely tearing away from the heaviness between his fingers.

“All in good time, my love” was his reply, thick and gravelly with lust. With two fingers parting my aching lips he speared himself into me, an altogether animalistic sound left my lips, my fingers squeezing the wood of the headboard so hard I thought it may break. His face crumpled like an autumn leaf on the wind, so wholly consumed by me.

I saw his eyes flit up from where we joined to my own, his lids resting so sublimely upon his pupils, shrouding his inner light in darkness, a darkness that I was certain I was about to feel invade my every pore. My neck aching, I resumed my forward facing, the absence of visuals making every movement that much more of a surprise, a shuddering pleasure that rippled through to my bones. I felt him lean into me, plundering my depths even further, the backs of his legs resting against my behind, he leant forward to pepper soft, wet kisses along my back. I twinged around him, this new position pushing my every boundary, stretching me so perfectly to my limits. I learnt that the lines between pain and pleasure were often blurred. So often was that the case with Bo.

Slowly, so slowly I thought I may burst - he began moving, inching out of me until I was desperate for him to fill me again, his hands, soft yet unyielding, gripped my waist and prevented me from backing into him, savouring my need for his touch as he stilled my aching hips. He moved us into a rhythm I tried very hard to keep, bracing myself against the headboard I pushed back as much as he pushed into me, every slide and thrust satisfying an itch buried deep inside. So deep did he reach me, pressing against a spot so tender I nearly screamed every time he hit it. His breath hot against my neck, he leaned down, burrowing even further inside, I yelped as he wrenched my arms from the headboard to bring me back, flush against him, bracing himself with my breasts, the harsh kneadings of a man teetering on the edge, his lips pressing breathless, groaning kisses into my collarbone.

A thousand “I love you”s fell from our lips as he slid in and out of me, our fervoured lips, blushing with the contact - each one meaning more than the last. My hands, grasping for any inch of him, settling around his neck, my arms in a prayer to him and only him in that, our final moment.

“I-I love you” he whispered into my hair. In our final moments I had seen the man that lay beneath that boyish exterior, the man I hoped he would have the chance to become, providing he survived the next few weeks, months, years. He tore me apart so beautifully, and I, teary eyed, ensured that I had done the same to him. How I had regretted every word, every flinch away from him as I asked him to leave, the atmosphere thick, heavy with our shared sorrow. But it was for the best. Better didn’t necessarily always mean better for everyone, there was always someone left with a hole in their chest. And this time I was more than willing to take the bullet.

He had gone. Left at my request, still how I bade him to leave left me wrought, hollow and weeping, wishing I could have taken him with me, showed him the sights, laid our love out for everyone to see, from shining city to sleepy hamlet. After the fight, the torture I had regretted putting him through, I stood, half naked in my bedroom, feeling his love seep out of me as I started to dress. I had made my decision, however ill-fated, I couldn’t let myself lose another love like this. This time, I had been the one lost. 

Cool, salty tears spilled fresh down my face, and more than once the flighty thought came to me to follow Bo into the night. To say it was all for naught, my own self defence mechanism roaring into action, a protection for my heart, and my own heart alone. I had decided long ago that I was fine with being alone, and how I was returning to that solitary dance. I had hoped to make him angry, furious enough to leave me of his own volition. Trick him into making his own decision about me, deciding that I wasn’t worth his time, or his love. Yet instead how I had watched him, naked in front of me, practically begging to stay, how I couldn’t stand even one more minute of his determination. Instead of him dying, I wished it were me, I had made the decision to die in his heart, hoping that he let me go, let me carry on into the night. Alone - how I truly must be.

Charlie wound around my legs, always knowing when to pick his times. I opened the door for him, the darkness still lingering on the horizon before the dawn broke. My boy would be fine - he was part wild as it was, he gladly spent as much time outdoors as he did in, and food wouldn’t be scarce. Not with Peter’s chickens merely a mile away. “Goodbye my dear boy, you’ve really been such a good cat, haven’t you?” I scratched underneath his white chin, his eyes lazily closing. I shook my head, having cried enough tears to fill a lake, I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury, not anymore. I remember when Tommy brought the little bundle of fluff up the stairs to me - a balm to my pain, my ache. In a way, it almost felt as if I were saying goodbye to both of my boys then. Goodbye forever.

As the first red fingered dawn broke over the sea, I heard the chugging of the oncoming train, I drew myself up taller as I climbed aboard. That first, early morning train empty save for a few young children, luggage and gas masks in tow - evacuees, returning to their homestead of London, a grimness painted on their faces. Often only grave news prompted evacuees to return home - the sorrow of a thousand lifetimes imbued in such young bodies, I could barely stand to look at them, as we started the long journey down south.

Stepping onto the platform I was met with the grey fug of the city - I coughed, harbouring the smog into my lungs, how I would miss the clean, salty sea air - in favour of the city smog of London. Even during the terror soaked years of the war - London was still filled to the brim with people, bustling, herding about, walking at such pace that it shocked me - took me aback in a way I had almost forgotten. Nerves wrecked my stomach as I walked through the towering streets, and at the corner before Mile End I ran, clutching my stomach to a greasy alleyway and emptying the contents of my stomach to the floor. My eyes streamed, along with my nose, and I tried to tell myself it was because of the sickness, not weakness.

The great, four storey hospital stood stout in the neverending vertical jungle that was London. Still a good three times bigger than the hospital at home, its size intimidated me. What challenges lay beyond those walls, what could I still my nervous heart with, other than pure and plentiful distraction. As I was hastily shown around by one of the Matrons, I noticed cracks in the ceiling, ones so deep and long I could follow their journey throughout the entire hospital - mirrored in walls of adjacent rooms, the bottom corner of a ward on the level above. We sucked in our bellies as we made our way past stacked patients in the hallways - “It’s London, love, we’ve got our problems with overcrowding as much as the next hospital, the rooms are reserved for the truly sick” the Matron said, gesturing to the patients lined up along the corridors walls. 

“Oi! I am sick, you daft old bat!” A particularly crusty looking older man, vertical on a hospital bed chimed in to the Matron as we hurried past.

“Oh just ignore him, the place is full of men like that - proper characters” the matron chuckled “Too bad they’re all the same bloody character” she jibed, seemingly to herself.

I smiled along to the insipid joke, while simultaneously trying to take in as much detail as I could about the place I would be calling home for the foreseeable future, warts and all. After orientation, I got stuck in with a few patients, simple things like redressing wounds and observations. And I couldn’t help but notice the dirtiness of this place, how everything seemed to be covered in a thin layer of filth - I would later find out that this was due to the smog, how it floated in the air, slowly settling on everything from walls, to beds to tables. Everything here was marred with London’s dirty air, goodness knows what it was doing to everyone’s insides, if the outside suffered so badly.

On a particularly sweaty, summer’s morning, I awoke in my cot, my stomach writhing with hot snakes, I leaned over the side of the bed and promptly threw up on the floor. The sweat coating my brow, and seemingly the rest of my body, made me feel as if I were sitting next to an open flame. Hot, burning. I slowly dressed myself, hoping the nausea would go away, give me some reprieve. But I quickly found out that I would be offered no such luck. On my third trip to the bathroom inside of an hour, Wendy, the tall slender redhead I’d been partnered with, nearly ambushed me on the other side of the door as I came back around to busy myself with some paperwork.

“I’ve got some ginger tea that will help with that” she said, wide eyed and grinning at me.

“It’s nothing, something I ate last night…” I wiped the spittle from my mouth, heat filling my cheeks as I walked over to the desk, and felt Wendy’s unmistakable presence follow me there like a lonely puppy.

A brief pause ensued as she watched me leaf through a few papers, my eyes still watering from my stomach’s refusal to stay still. “When’s the happy day then? You must have a good idea by now, April next year maybe?” Wendy finally piped up, pretending to go through some discharge documents next to me. 

I felt her words bite at me, sharp as daggers “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean” I shook my head, not even daring to look at her as I worked.

“You’re up the duff, if I’ve ever seen it, I’ve only known you a few days Emily, but I’ve seen young girls chucking their guts up a dozen times or more, tends to happen with a bun in the oven” tears stung at the corners of my eyes, and I tried my best to stay solid, stay calm.

“I-I can’t get pregnant” I whispered, my fingertips gripping on to the papers perhaps a little too tight.

“And how do you know?” Wendy took a step closer to me.

“My husband and I…we tried for years, we-I’m barren” I kept my voice at a constant monotone, trying not to let the assault of emotions bowl me over entirely.

She placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, “Well, maybe it’s simply your time”

My words writhed in my mouth, and I practically spat them out at her “No-no my husband died, over two years ago.” I clenched my jaw “Missing, presumed dead” 

Wendy softly exhaled through her nose, realising how her excitement was only a turn in the knife already wedged in my chest. “Oh I see, maybe you’re not barren at all, sorry to say that your husband might’ve been the one with the problem” 

“I-” I started, not quite sure what I was wanting to say, even if I could.

“Emily, if you ever want someone to talk to, or you need some of that ginger tea, you know where I am, love” she patted me on the shoulder once, and left me to my thoughts, to the tornado of them she’d just unleashed. Every day I awoke with the same, poisonous writhing in my belly, and it felt almost familiar to me - reminded me of the day, the week, the month after Tommy left. But something felt different, something was off, something swelled beneath my belly, quelled my drive and made me lightheaded, weakened and weary. Something not merely caused by a broken heart, something deeper. One hot, muggy filled morning I put pencil to paper and sketched out the last few months, and my menses, often four to five days long and every three and a half weeks or so. I gathered the data and plotted it all down. I got to last month, counting along the days, the weeks that had gone by, and my stomach fell through the floor, and lay squelching in the wards below, as I realised I was more than six weeks late.

My mind spun, whirled totally out of control as my hand shook around the pencil. It clattered to the floor and my vision whited out at the edges, my world tilting on its axis as the information settled in my mind. I had never been this late in my life. Even when Tommy and I were trying, I had tracked my cycles so doggedly that if I was even so more than an hour or two late that month I would have suspected something, had a whiff of doubt. But my bleeding was the curse that was always on time, so accurate that you could have set a clock by it. And I all too filled with grief about its arrival, had assumed that I was simply unable to carry, unable to conceive, the wanting in my heart for a child of our own had only soured my ceaseless tracking of my bleeds, and I had eventually given up looking for answers among the numbers, a clue among the days and weeks in the hand scribbled calendars in front of me. I had truly lost hope. 

But what if it wasn’t me, wasn’t my womb that was so unsuitable for life, what if it were Tommy. Nothing could have sullied my memory of him, the memory that was once so bright, the glow of his honey skin fading day by day, hour by hour that I spent with Bo. The way he touched my body, the way he loved on it so, no longer reminding me of how Tommy had done the same. Their movements and kisses and touches as different as their fingerprints, so unique to only them, their only commonality being me, the object of their affections. 

A string in my chest pulled taut as I imagined telling Bo the good news, how he would be a father. The pain I saw flicker in his eyes when I told him I was unable, replaced by endless joy and a spark of light. Good news to send him off to France with, another pig to the slaughter, but this one had hope in his heart, would carry with him the weight of fatherhood, instil the fight inside of him to return to us. Me with our babe in arms, aglow with the finality of motherhood, how I would sacrifice my body and mind for the will of another - a child so whole and perfect, forged totally in love and adoration, the coming together of two nations - a fight of greater evil. Immediately, the bubble burst on my little day dream as another nurse I had not remembered the name of yet came into the office, rifled through a filing cabinet and slammed it shut, wrenching me from my thoughts.

I swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise in my throat, and let the finality of the reality I had created crash down on me. I would not be telling Bo he would be a father, we wouldn’t be building a family together. He would never kiss my ever swelling stomach as it grew his baby inside me. I had stemmed the flow of our relationship, cut off the blood and sutured the wound shut clumsily that night back home. I had made sure he wouldn’t come looking for me, never even know about the babe - his babe - that lay inside of me.  Tears I wasn’t aware I was shedding hit the paper, waterlogging the leaden scratches I had made on it, blurring them. Dates, days and months bleeding together, as they would carry on. As I had to.

Unable to quell my sickness any longer, I begged Wendy for the ginger tea, praying and hoping that it would offer some small reprieve in the nausea. I knew that I only slept due to the tremendous weight this pregnancy was placing on my body. I woke up tired, moved throughout my day as if my brain were a lead weight, fell asleep during observations on particularly placid patients, I felt more dead than alive. I was surprised my blood didn’t sing from all the ginger tea I consumed. Luckily in the hospital gardens, a small greenhouse stood. The gorgeous refractions of light bouncing off the tinted glass, housing all the tropical plants that England’s fickle soil couldn’t bear to harbour.

The dead, wilted flowers bent limply over the side of the vase on the patient’s bedside table. Its neighbour breathed steadily - an older lady injured from a fall but otherwise healthy, snoozed in her bed, the orange glow of the afternoon sun hitting her eyelids, colouring her powdery pallor a healthy tan. The sickness of the morning had begun to ebb away, what with a small helping of porridge to settle my stomach and enough cups of tea to carry a camel to the ends of the earth, I had finally been able to attend to my duties. The white petals of the roses had turned greenish and transparent at the edges. Only half a day away from becoming a brown, wilted mess, I took the vase in both hands and placed it on the edge of the sink in the corner of the ward. I began emptying it, taking the stems in hand and throwing them into the waste bin, and my idle mind began to wander, tending the garden with Tommy, how my hands would turn dark from all the dirt, all the mud. We were both as filthy but happy as pigs in shit - dare I say it, the happiest we’d ever been.

I took a sharp intake of breath and I saw the blood beginning to trickle down my arm. A thorn amongst the roses, sharp and unyielding, had pierced the skin on my hand. I dropped the wilting stem and quickly rushed to run my hand under the cold tap. Pink water coloured the inside of the sink, quickly running down the drain and away as I pressed a wet paper towel on the wound. Although it was small, I continued to bleed like a stuck pig, the sting almost completely gone, even as the blood kept blooming through the paper.

That would teach me to be idle in my thoughts, so caught up in my own mind as I worked, I needed to remain present and together. If not for me, then for the baby I now carried in my belly, my last remaining memory of Bo, that could live on with me. 

Even when the blood eventually stopped, my head felt light, limpid with fatigue, and I had to find myself to the nearest chair, my fingers gripping the porcelain of the sink so hard my knuckles bleached. My mind swam with insecurities, with troubles, and despite the way the wound stopped bleeding, how the ache in my heart refused to stop. Thick, heavy tears poured out from my eyes and salted my tongue, running in thin rivers down my throat and dampening my uniform. Somewhere, from an unidentified invisible wound, my lifeblood was still leaking out.

Once the bleeding had finally stopped, I gathered myself, if only partially. It was as if I was forging a mask to display to the others, a facade of togetherness, of sanity. How I had almost wished for the dank dark fingertips of madness to trace its fingertips up my spine, latch itself on to my skull, keeping me there in sumptuous insanity forever, but I - staunch in my resolve, wanted to carry on. Had to. It wasn’t just myself I was carrying through this life, not anymore.

Somehow, the news made it fast around the staff, and I found myself the victim of pitied looks from across the wards, perfect strangers asking me how I was - knowing I was an unwed mother, the father of my babe practically sentenced to death over the channel. I was treated with a gentle air of condescension by everyone, with a tentativeness. The only peace I ever got from it all was when I was with patients, their minds too idle for sordid gossip, or too young to understand the gravity of the situation.

After a day or so of settling in, I was quickly assigned to the childrens’ ward. The matron walked me down the centre of the room. “Temporarily we shall have you presiding over the children’s wing, I think you will find it suitable?” I held the wave of emotion inside. There had been so precious few children back home, save for a few evacuees that had arrived when the war broke out.

“Y-yes, that would be wonderful” I could barely hold the joy in. I was shown around the children's wards, fit to burst with the young. From the wee babe in arms to the almost fully fledged young women and men flitting around the halls, it was ripe with life. Young souls just getting their footing in life, some who would never see theirs unfold at all. My stomach twisted with anxiety, each pull sending fresh nausea flooding through my veins, and as I introduced myself to the other nurses and orderlies, I fought back the urge to weep openly, feeling as if my purpose in life was finally close to being fulfilled. 

A tiny, blonde girl with sapphire blue eyes looked at us from down the ward, she must’ve been no older than six, her tiny frame barely taking up any space in the hospital cot. Tubes sprung from almost every surface of her skin - connecting to several drips hung high above her bed. Despite being anchored there, her tiny hands and fingers were drawing with abandon, tracing great shapes and swoops with a lump of charcoal in her hand.

“Lucy, this is Nurse Worsley” my superior gestured to me. The girl abruptly stopped drawing, as if she and the world felt I deserved her rapt attention.

“Hello there Lucy” I sank down to my knees next to her bed, my elbows catching me - even close up she was tiny, barely bigger than a toddler.

“Hello Nurse Worsley” Lucy parroted back to me, her eyes flitting to the Matron, seeking approval from the tight lipped nurse next to me.

“Lucy, can I tell you something?” I almost whispered at the tiny girl.

“Yes” she responded similarly, her tongue catching on the few teeth she had, a sharp hissing sound ending every sound, the lisp only adding to her cuteness.

I crept in closer, pretending as if I were about to divulge a huge secret, making sure to glance around for any sign of potential eavesdroppers. “You may call me Emily, if you like, does that sound alright to you?” 

“Yes N-I mean, yes, Miss Emily, is that alright?'' she smiled a mostly toothless grin. 

“It’s perfect, Miss Lucy” I smiled back.

She tossed a wave of her golden blonde hair over her shoulder and picked up the charcoal that lay in her lap, and began drawing again. Her fat fingers clutched the black wodge of charcoal and doodled with abandon. I delighted in watching her, swoops and banks over the paper - while her artistic talent was certainly that of a child her age - her vision was beyond her years. She proceeded to tell me that a tall, misty obelisk was Big Ben, a round creation that rather looked like a cat, was St. Paul’s cathedral, and even the houses of parliament that looked more like a London bus than a building.

Away from the hubbub and the noise of the children’s ward, while nursing a steaming cup of ginger tea, I surveyed her documents over the next day, and it rended my heart from my chest. The beautiful girl was suffering from a lymphoma - a terribly advanced sort of cancer that she would never recover from - never even reach her tenth birthday - if her labs were to be believed. Her body was in free fall, every cell attacking itself and every part of her in total and absolute panic mode. But you wouldn’t have known it, looking at her precious face, the way she smiled at me, how even in just those precious few days we had forged something so real, so concrete, I couldn’t bear to let her fall.

Each night my hands clung around myself, offering up some sense of security, the feeling of someone holding me tight. I sweat in the hot, humid room offered to us, our bed and board situated in the east wing of the hospital, never too far away when an emergency crept up on us in the dead of night. On more than one occasion I had woken up in the early hours, either to the sound of my room fellows snoring or worse, a nightmare. On more than one occasion I had woken up with my palm cradling my lower belly, how at this early stage I couldn’t necessarily feel them. They were far too small to flutter beneath my belly button or to swoon inside me so much that I’d feel a touch of vertigo. But the knowledge that they were there, enrobed in my flesh and floating amongst my blood, brought me both unimaginable hope and agonising pain.

Whenever my body allowed, I laid awake, my muscles aching, my brain heavy in my head, my eyes begging to droop, to close, to bid goodbye to this reality but for a few moments. To recuperate what we had lost during the day. I shamefully wished, in my deepest, most sordid thoughts, that Bo would show up. Windswept and worn from our time apart, but eyes bright and expectant to see me. I ran away, and a small part of me had expected him to follow. Had silently prayed for it. Prayed for him to follow the pattern that we had carved out over our last year together. And I, forever a slave to my own naivete, believed that he would return to me. Could return to me. 

I eagerly gulped down the last of my ginger tea, the soothing effects on my stomach surely no more than a placebo effect by now, plying my body and mind with a fool’s errand, one that I was all too ready to embark upon. Nevertheless it worked, the spicy tea stung my throat and made my eyes water, but helped me to keep the contents of my stomach down for a few more hours. More than enough time to see to a few patients and go through a few reams of paperwork. Yet I was nowhere near full capacity, and I silently doubted I ever would be, if it were to continue on like this. 

“Is there-is there any more ginger?” I glanced around the kitchen, laden with pots and pans - all clean, mind you. Communal living took me back to the years where I studied for my nursing degree, how difficult it seemed to merely exist around others, once you were used to living alone.

“I’m sorry Em, I’ve got to accompany Doctor Phillips in surgery, just about to go in,” Wendy said on her way out of the room, “I trust you can find it in the greenhouse?” She said, clearly rushed off her feet, and I couldn’t help but bemoan the fact that it was because of me that everyone else was being worked to the bone. We are only ever as strong as the weakest among us - and this time I knew that it was me. 

“Thick, fibrous green stalks, slender leaves, I checked on them only the other day, they should be ready, just don’t lose the roots, this time eh?” she snickered, her eyes full of the sorrow and pity I had grown to hate, but simultaneously had learnt to be bulletproof against. If I wasn’t being sick I was inwardly mourning the loss of the future me and baby would have, a life without the father - without Bo, not a chance to be loved by him ever again. Because of me. Because of my choices. 

Silvery tendrils of grief laced themselves around my neck, tightening at the knowledge that Bo wouldn’t even know he was to be a father, and would likely die in ignorance. The thought constricted my throat to an uncomfortable degree, but I nodded along to Wendy’s instructions, and made my way to the greenhouse. Past the patients in their gowns reclining on the benches, dotted around the gardens. Past the children, the mobile ones frolicking amongst the tall grasses, playing invisible games. Wishing to be anywhere but in such a place of sickness. Our peacetime a long forgotten memory in this disease of a war. 

The greenhouse was a gorgeous relic from the Victorian era, shrouded in pale glass and delicate wrought iron curves that were telltale of the time period. When everything from flour, to soap, to coal was rationed, the opulence seemed ostentatious, almost brash, nowadays. 

The down right decadence of the architecture was an artefact of more prosperous times. The curved petal-like panes of glass were surrounded by star bright rays pointing outward, and the arched supports were filled with swirls and swoops of metal work reminiscent of jewellery worn by the eponymous Queen herself.

Towering over the smaller planters, running parallel along the length of the building, were trees that reached the full height of the greenhouse, palm leaves that looked so beautifully exotic. Temperatures inside the greenhouse echoed those of the climes it was meant to mimic, the hot, damp interior of the building made of glass caused a dewy sweat to break out on my upper lip. Though I reassured myself that I wouldn’t be in there long, just long enough to retrieve the ginger. Inside lay other plants that weren’t commonly grown in England - pale white orchids and flame like celosia. Despite the hot summer’s weather, it was too risky to plant any of these beautiful buds outside, lest a frost would catch them unawares on a particularly cold night. I spied the unmistakable slender green leaves, curling around in their abundance. Sweetly nestled beneath the soil was my saving grace, a small tincture of relief, however brief it would be. 

Having brushed the errant soil off of the beige bulbs of ginger I stood back up, only to have my balance suddenly thrown off. As if the whole world were shuddering beneath my feet. An earthquake in central London? Surely not…My hand came out to catch my fall, sliding along the shiny glass as I bumped clumsily back into the greenhouse door. When I eventually righted myself, I felt off kilter, askew, my balance all but gone. I closed my eyes and went to bring my palm to my chest, to still the tremorous thrumming of my heart, before my arm was caught unawares by something. Something large that was jutting out of my light blue dress, straining under my white apron.

I shuddered a cry - my belly thick and swollen beneath me, almost rippled with a movement, and I felt them. Felt them flutter around inside me, so soft and delicate, ‘twould have put a butterfly's wings to shame. At once, something so beautiful and so wanted, yet the circumstance couldn’t have been further from ideal. My breaths were thick and laboured as they swooned around inside me, and I backed out of the greenhouse, letting the ginger drop to the floor in my haste.

The weather that was a balmy summer’s afternoon upon my entrance to the greenhouse, was now a freezing cold winter’s bite that nipped at my skin, and the way the sleet fell against my clothes soaked me rapidly to the bone. All the patients that were enjoying the warm afternoon were gone. The garden an icy, barren wasteland, the deciduous trees spiky in their emptiness, the buds having retreated into the cold winter’s embrace. Thick, grey clouds prevented barely a sliver of daylight from breaking through. It was so dark, and visibility so bad that I struggled to see anything at all, but I did see him.

The iron gates, curved in their splendour beheld the only figure on the horizon. There he stood, tall as giants, his weather worn clothes sticking to him in the frozen rain. His hair a touch longer than I had seen it before, a tentative curl at the ends that just begged to be spun around my finger. The sharp jaw that I had adored had grown a new friend, thick tufts of darker blond graced his jawline, but it was unmistakably him. Unmistakably Bo. A crash of thunder and a flash of light, and both of our faces illuminated as they tilted skyward - the rain hammered ever harder down on us. Slicing against my sensitive skin, now feeling as if it would split open and bleed if I was to stay outside for even a second longer.

“Emily!” I heard his deep boom cleave through the sheets of rain, his loud footfalls splashing into the puddles that lay between us. The gap between us closing, not in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d have him back with me…with us. Without hesitation my palm came to my tummy, as if to tell our child what they already knew - he was here - he was home.

“You-” he faltered, beholding me “You’re…” he clasped his hand hard into mine, his palm enclosed on my own. His eyes pulled to my stomach, round and between us.

“We are” I took his palm out of mine and brought it to my belly, the feeling still alien against my stomach. He spread his palm wide, holding me, the long lost support I’d so sorely needed all this time.

“I thought you said that you couldn’t-”

“I know, I-I was wrong” “It has been known” I smirked up at him, barely believing he was here. Here, with me.

“I’m going to be a father?” the huskiness of his voice receded into the background as realisation washed over him, and a tender look bloomed in his eyes.

“Y-yes” I shuddered. “A-and I’m so sorry” the rain continued on, harder, “I’m so sorry for leaving you” I weeped “For asking you to go, I didn’t mean it,” my diaphragm protested against both the tears and the words I was struggling to get out “I’m so fucking sorry,” I pressed my own palm into his. He removed his palm from me, almost abruptly, pulling me by my waist into him, careful to be gentle around my huge middle. My hands came up his back, finding their home at his shoulder blades, pulling him even closer, I had to touch him, feel all of him. Tears indistinguishable from the rain still trailed down my cheeks, as I felt Bo’s chin come to rest on the crown of my head, I suppressed a particularly loud sniffle.

Eventually, we parted, and I hiccuped the words again “I’m so sorry” His jaw feathered as he listened to me, still gorgeously sharp even beneath the newfound hair. “You-you found me” I shouted over the rain, my voice getting lost amongst the drops.

“I found you” he mirrored, his sky blue eyes crinkling at the edges, the wonder exuding from them. “You - we’re getting soaked,” he circled around me and dragged me back to the direction from whence I came, back to the greenhouse. Offering dry sanctuary against the elements. Our mouths met, hot against the chill of the rain, our bodies melting into one another's. If it were possible the rain was louder on the inside, pelting against the glass aggressively, like it was angry at being denied entry. The glass in the heavy wood door flexed under the strain of the wind, so wild and tumultuous that it threatened to rain broken glass down on us all. Even in an entire building made of glass, the darkness of the grey clouds that lined the skies made it seem as if night had taken hold too early, the sky far too dark for this, a midsummer afternoon.

“You look…” my palm came to his chin, the scruffiness of his short beard a ready assault on my senses, “different”.

“I’m not the only one” Bo smiled, his fingertips hovered next to the taut fabric of my apron, somehow both afraid of touching me and drawn to me like a magnet, the fear that perhaps I wasn’t real, was merely a daydream, what lay between us was only a figment of his imagination.

“I…” I felt the tears well in my eyes, “I was so afraid that I’d never see you again, t-that” I finally looked up at him, his own baby blue’s filling at the corners, “That I’d never get to show you what we created…together” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the violent crashing of the storm outside, the rain turning into hail battering the glass from all angles, creating this tiny little haven of safety from the din outside. Our little sanctuary.

“There are things I’ve seen, places I have been and oh, how none of the splendour of it compares to this…to you” he clumsily reaches for my hand, and brings it up to his blushing mouth, pink with the cold and warm with anticipation. Pressing the cool of my hand to the heat of his lips I sighed into his touch. Thankful and blissed out at even the slightest of contact.

“How your body has changed, worked so hard for this” he twirled me around amidst the bedelias flanking us, and I couldn’t suppress a blush as he pulled me over to one of the higher raised beds. Next to the springtime flowers that peek through the soil, he leans back against the wood, taking a seat there.“My dreams, every single night have been filled with you,” he mumbled against my throat, wrapping my wrists around the back of his neck. “Seeing you again, touching you again” his thick drawl tingled the edges of my ears, and I gingerly placed a knee either side of his hips, coming to a seat in his lap, leaning back ever so slightly to allow for the new addition between us.

“Fuck” he whispered as he beheld my size. His large hands splayed out over my tummy, feeling the taut flesh flutter underneath his fingertips, I bit back a groan at how good his hands felt on me, even the slightest touch and baby knew who it was. Our hearts beat out a rapid rhythm in response to his presence.

“You’re back-” I stuttered, unsure if I could let go of him a second time “F-for good, this time?” 

“Forever, this time” and there wasn’t a single syllable without sincerity that came out of his mouth. Slowly, tenderly our lips joined again, his weight shifting underneath my own to create a safer space for me. His hands melted into my hips, grazing gently over the taut skin that framed them.

I felt his excitement beneath me, and it only fanned the flames of my own as I gently moved my hips on top of his, our gentle hushes and groans only loud enough for the both of us to hear over the roaring of the storm outside. Maddeningly, slowly, he shimmied out of his trousers, bunched up around his legs but he didn't care. I’m aching for him, as he clearly is for me. Dark pink, straining and shining with arousal, he takes on much of my upper body weight to help me on to him. I felt embarrassed, a hot flush of unease at my body’s incapability to be nimble. But as soon as I sink on to the thick length of him, my mind goes blank with the kind of pleasure I had been denying myself. Bo let loose a throaty moan, and in solidarity, I joined him. Movement would be too much at this point, the stretch was so all consuming, so heady that I can barely stand it, stand the mind numbing pleasure we’ve bestowed upon one another.

Our lips barely left one anothers as we sat, entangled, intertwined, I’m throbbing around him at the feeling.  How even a few months away from each other is enough to send me completely wild now that he’s buried inside of me. The thunderstorm outside never stops its assault on our sanctuary as he slowly uses his hips to thrust up into me, sending pulses of pleasure to my every pore as his teeth and tongue come to play at the flesh of my neck. I had missed the feel of him inside me, the stretch, the way he made my every extremity tingle and sing with his touch. He helped me move, thrusted up into me with every breath, and the hot sweat of the summertime returned if for but a moment. My lips caught on the hair at his chin, too long to be stubble but not long enough to be a beard. How I welcomed the burn.

Somehow his absence had wound me even tighter, our time apart meaning that I was ready to come undone at the first instance. I felt my impending orgasm approaching, and hid my face in his neck, breathing in his heady scent of tobacco and clove, letting it consume me. Bo’s arms tensed around me and I felt his hips grow irregular, my lips came to where his neck ended and his shoulder began and dotted tender kisses, as many as I could muster before we both fell of the edge, climaxing together, our aching bodies relishing the release of pleasure that radiated from head to toe. I shook with the strength of my peak, somehow stronger than normal, twinned with the new swoops and tickles inside my belly. I laughed in surprise, halfway between pleasure and wonder and grasped Bo’s hand, placing it on the parts of my belly that moved.

He groaned into my neck, kissing up the sweat that had beaded there, I was left quivering around him, my arms wrapped around his neck, steadying myself the only way I knew how.

“She’s” he huffed “She’s moving” he pulled back from me, eyes wide.

“She?” I whispered in disbelief, my own breath finally starting to even out.

“I dunno, I just get a feelin’” the corner of his mouth pulled up into a gorgeous smile, his dimple making an appearance, and I was overcome with such love that my eyes promptly started stinging with tears again.

“You’re not going this time…” I panted “You’re going to stay and look after us?” 

“I’m staying” he said between hurried breaths “Forever, to look after my girls”. I smiled, sweaty and spent but completely enraptured in him. His hand spread wide on my belly, the kicks our little girl was blessing us with.

Finally we disentangled from one another, my feet coming back to terra firma. As Bo pulled up his trousers I couldn’t help but look out at the awful weather, the rain bleeding down the glass, both hands absentmindedly resting on my belly, soothing each kick I felt with a sweep of my palm, a tiny reassurance. As we went to leave, hands clasped around another’s, the world seemed to shift again. Not another earthquake, surely that was impossible in this part of the world? But this time, I noticed that the movement was enough to knock me off of my feet, as Bo stood perfectly still, his face changed from serene happiness to that of complete shock and horror.

I lay on the ground, knees splayed wide. From behind the glass of the greenhouse, the seasons seemed to switch from autumn, to winter, to summer, all within the space of a few seconds, sending me reeling. The only thing that grounded me was Bo. Knelt next to me with one hand in mine and the other gently pressed on my swollen belly, his face a picture of pain and anguish as he looked down at me, at what lay between my knees. Seemingly an endless river of blood flowed from between my legs, and I caught myself feeling faint, my elbows unable to bear my weight anymore, I slumped to the ground, hearing Bo’s voice growing ever fainter in my ears. “Emily?! Emily please wake up” he repeats and my vision goes blurry. I feel so sleepy. So deliciously tired. That kind of sleepy where you can’t quite keep your eyes open, and in fact you don’t want to -  you want to succumb to the slumber, its welcoming embrace.

“Emily?!” his voice contorts in my head, becomes something else entirely.

Suddenly, I’m no longer in the hospital gardens, or even the greenhouse. I’m in the nurses quarters, surrounded by other nurses in their nightgowns, terror written all over their faces, and Wendy is still screaming my name next to me. The colour of the sky, a dark pink, puts the time at around 3am. I shake myself from the dream - what very much felt like reality. My breathing laboured and hot, the other nurses disperse from their circle around my bed, although Wendy stays.

“Jesus, Emily, are you alright? You nearly woke half the bloody hospital with your screaming!” she whispered, shaking me slightly.

I furrowed my brow in confusion. “S-screaming?” my fingers came up to hold my throat, as a slow, burning sensation like the beginnings of a cough settled there.

“You were screaming for ages, we were going to get a doctor and then,” she paused, pushing a great swathe of red hair over her shoulder “Then you woke up, what on earth were you dreaming about?” 

“I dreamt that Bo came back” I glanced at the look in her questioning eyes “the-the father was here and we-” I flushed, most likely noticeable to her in the already hot dormitory “I-I think I was miscarrying” I sobbed, no tears came but my voice thickened all the same.

Wendy tossed back my sheets as if to reassure me, showing me my pristine white sheets and nightgown. “Well darling, looks like you’re alright for now” she rubbed up and down my back in an effort to soothe me, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever be calm again. “Please, Em, try and get some sleep, and this time, no more nightmares, eh?” 

I settled into my bed, as she did hers, and I felt her eyes on me for the first part of the night, before she eventually drifted off. I stayed stock still, doing my best impression of a sleeping person, trying my best not to quiver with the horror of what I’d dreamt - how it had all seemed so real, the good parts and the bad.

Late upon a hot July’s afternoon I sat, book in hand, content for my eyes to flit between the poetry laid out before me and Lucy, sat atop the bedsheets, papers surrounding her in every direction as far as the bed would go. Daubs of charcoal dotted her alabaster skin, the grey making the hue of her body less sickly, in comparison. Amongst the dread that lay acrid in my stomach from last night’s dream, and the hot sun that beat on the brick - the unease seeped into the building, into all of us. Both patient and worker were covered in a thin layer of sweat, a restlessness that wasn’t just skin deep, but burrowed beneath the surface of all. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lucy, she sighed loudly and placed the stubs of charcoal neatly onto her bedside cabinet, gathering her papers into neat piles, and rising up on her knees unsteadily, mindful of all her tubes, as she shuffled on her knees toward me.

“Miss Emily, may we go outside?” I smiled at her from behind the pages, and took a glance out one of the large, white paned windows that looked out over the grounds. While the heat of the day had largely subsided, the far off London skyline hummed in the distance. The periwinkle sky didn’t have a cloud to speak of, and the bricks held in the heat of the city, breathing it back out into the evening air as the day cooled.

“Yes of course, Lucy, I could get one of the orderlies…” I went to put my copy of Poe’s poems down, to stand up, but Lucy’s stern voice stopped me where I stood.

“No Miss Emily, I want you to take me” her tiny hand came out to wrap around half of my wrist, and my stomach, still sour from last night, bloomed with a pure kind of warmth that travelled all the way to my toes. The feeling of being so thoroughly needed.

“I suppose, oh-oh alright” I smiled, gathering her slippers and gown. “Are you alright to walk?”

Lucy looked up at me with all the wonder of the universe, and twice the amount of certainty. “Yes, today Miss Emily, I feel like I could take on anything” Although she was almost ten years of age, Lucy’s body had stayed as small as a toddlers'. To look at her you would put her at about six, maybe seven at a push. All the drugs she had over the years had stunted her growth, any and all attempts at stemming the tumours, at halting the cancer, had only stopped her growing, instead. All in vain. Her clammy hand came up to clasp around mine, how tiny it was in my already small hand, and my sleep deprived mind could only wonder how small my baby’s hands would be, if she had hands at all at this point.

The sweet scent of primrose, lavender and daisies filled the heated air as we ventured out of the hospital walls. The bright sun-like yellow of the evening primrose and the sweet green and violet of the lavender caught Lucy’s eye as she trundled toward them, faster than I would have imagined for a child so sick, with me in tow, giggling behind her. The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the skyline, dipped beneath the tallest uppermost points of the hospital, leaving most of it in pleasant shade, a welcome reprieve from the sweltering heat. The hospital gardens were abuzz with activity, now cool enough for patients to enjoy the outdoors, many were left to their own devices - some were pushed along in their wheelchairs, and some of the other children played with abandon amongst the wildflowers.

Lucy and I paused in front of a particularly large clump of wild lavender, spikes of bright purple shot out from the green fronds. “I love seeing the flowers” she half whispered next to me, like it was a secret I needed to keep. What seemed like dozens of winged things; butterflies, bees and cabbage whites whirled all around us, balancing precariously on the buds as they suckled from them. Us, all our complexities and troubles merely background noise to their pilgrimage, their endless fight for survival.

“They are stunning, aren’t they?” I replied in that same half whisper, turning back to admire the flowers before us.

“Do you like the flowers Miss Emily?” she asked after some time, her sweaty little palm still holding fast to my own. “Oh I love the flowers, I-” I paused, lifting my gaze skyward for a second and smiling as the past broke through the thin veil. “back at home I had an entire farm of them, some so beautiful and colourful you wouldn’t even believe” A pang reverberated around my chest at the loss of it all. Of Tommy, of his parents, of the farm, of everything.

“What do you mean, back home, isn’t this your home now?” with all the innocence of a small child, her question only meant in pure wonderment, not a single thread of spite was woven into it.

“I suppose it is, Lucy, I suppose this is my home now, you’re right” I agreed with a quiet sorrow. I suppose helping people was my only true home, the sacrifice, the endless surrender.

“I’m glad it’s your home, because it’s also my home” - this young girl, this hospital. A hollow kind of despair filled me up from the shoes upward, knowing that this was the only home she had ever known. Her parents too heartbroken to even visit their child here anymore, this place was all that she had. Perhaps she was all that I had too, and I, the same for her.

Once the sun had gone down, but the heat remained, it was all of the nurses' task to settle the children who were too young to realise why it was so hot, and to supply cold compresses to those with a fever, amidst the soaring night time temperatures. “Miss Emily?” the small girl coughed, reaching out for me, and only me, even in the room full of staff.

“Yes, Lucy?” I put down my clipboard and pencil and was by her side in an instant.

“I’m so sleepy, Miss Emily, but-but will you read to me? Peter Rabbit? I love him so” she set down her various art materials by her bedside, and snuggled further into her bed covers. 

“Oh, alright I suppose, but just a little bit, it is getting late, after all.” I gave in, pulling up a chair to sit next to her, the quiet hubbub of other children around us getting steadily quieter as one by one, they succumbed to sleep. Lucy gave a triumphant, gummy smile and patted the dog eared paperback next to her papers. “Now let’s see…where were we?” I muttered, thumbing through the well loved book. “Ah, here we are”

“Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries; But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden and squeezed under the gate!”

Lucy’s eyes were just about lulling shut - how she loved Peter Rabbit, and his fluffy tail. She had asked me plenty of times to take her out on a day trip, to places where we could see bunny rabbits. I had explained to her how in London, the wildest of animals around were bedraggled old foxes by the outskirts, or a couple of mouldy pigeons or two. No, rabbits frequented the countryside, the fields back at home. I knew of them based on how often Charlie had attempted to eat them for dinner, but had never succeeded - they were far too fast for him.

In the distance, the whining sound of the air raid siren sounded, and Lucy was jolted from her shallow slumber. Panic shining from her eyes as she looked at me, fear stricken.

“M-Miss Emily” she whispered, terror lacing her sleepy words. Orderlies rushed into the room, children were scooped from beds and wailing babes started up a cacophony of anguish.

“Lucy, we must go” I placed the book in my apron, struggling to keep my head as I scooped Lucy out of her bed, carefully disconnecting her from the web of tubes that were keeping her alive - but if a bomb were to drop on us, they wouldn’t count for much, anyway.

She held onto me tight - like she knew that her life depended on me, as much as mine did on her. The connection we had forged in the last week so strong, now felt so fragile, had the potential for it to be blasted apart in moments. Lucy could walk somewhat, but, weakened by her medication she couldn’t go far, nowhere near as far as we would need.

“Miss Emily, I’m scared” she whimpered against my neck and I held in my own fear as we walked through the hospital - heading for the exits. My eyes darted to the private wards, spying through a cracked door, looking at some of the people we couldn’t save. Their bodies so thoroughly torn, busted and broken, so dependant on the machines, the drugs of the hospital - that all they could do was wait - wait for the bombs to drop. Their lives ever hanging in a perilous balance. The dichotomy between life and death throws their lives into a permanent state of limbo.

Our footfalls couldn’t be fast enough as we herded, wheeled and carried the children out of the hospital doors - the siren bleeding through to my brain, but I couldn’t falter in this moment - couldn’t let my fragile mind succumb to the fear, the blinding terror. Orderlies and doctors surrounded me, pointing down the road to the nearest tube station entrance. Stepney Green, the sign drew closer as we, and as many patients as could walk in tow, filed down into the dark, dingy tube station. We filled the narrow stairwell, struggling in our wave not to trip and fall down the undoubtedly steep tunnel. Bodies thick with worry weaved and pressed against us. Children crying, adults weeping - a raw, outpouring of emotion at the terror that seeped through every ounce of our blood, the struggle, the strive to stay alive, was it strong enough to survive the night?

Twenty minutes had passed since the sirens silenced, ten since we had all settled in that dark, dank station. Water dripped from the ceilings to an unknown destiny, surprising us with every drop. Children quietly wailed, while their mothers or nurses soothed them with fragile, husky song. The siren wailed on above the surface, feeling so very far away now, so far away that it almost didn’t feel real.

“M-Miss Emily, I’m scared” Lucy whispered into my ear, her eyes wide in the darkness - trying to draw in every small facet of light.

“M-me too, Lucy” I replied, my heart still hammering at my ribs, almost painful now. My hand went into my apron, and I felt the torn edges of Peter Rabbit. “Do you-” I swallowed “Do you remember where we were up to with Peter?” I said, lifting the book out of my apron and beginning to leaf through the first few pages. 

“Peter’s here!” she grinned, pawing at the book. I showed it to her, and while she couldn’t really read, not properly, she could identify some words - especially in her favourite book.

“Hmmm” her finger trailed along the writing, looking for something she recognised “Gate!” she pressed at the word with a stubby finger “Peter just went underneath the gate in Mr McGreggor’s garden” she said proudly.

“That’s right,” I nodded, taking a moment to glance around our dark surroundings. This was anything but story time, but from the look in her eye and the pit in my own chest, I knew we both needed a bit of a distraction. I cleared my throat, and continued reading. “But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr McGregor's garden and squeezed under the gate! First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes; And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.” I paused, looking up at Lucy’s rapidly closing eyelids, it was working, she was falling asleep. “But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!” 

Lucy let out a sleepy “Noo!”, as quiet as a mouse even in this echoey, cavernous station, and I knew I wouldn’t have to continue on for much longer. 

“Mr McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, "Stop thief!” Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.” It was at that moment I heard her small snores, gentle and nasal, I looked up from the page to see her snoozing against the wall of the station - wrapped in several blankets, but asleep nonetheless. 

I breathed in a deep sigh, placing the book between us. I was careful not to wake Lucy as I nestled down next to her in the mess of blankets. Eventually, amidst the gentle hum of bodies surrounding us, and the far off sound of bombs dropping, I fell into a restless slumber, my body needing every ounce of sleep I could afford it, now I was growing another.

The light sleep I had latched onto was ripped away from me. I had awoken on the floor of the station, as we all had, the quiet early morning pitter patter of everyone slowly getting to their feet and exiting the station. Lucy was next to me, cradling her much beloved Peter Rabbit book, her face serene in sleep, and I wished her pleasant dreams as we fell asleep, hoping her mind to be whisked away to that of a watercolour fantasy land, bereft of the daunting terror of an evening spent in Stepney Green station.

I rose on to my palms, seeing a few of my fellow nurses scooping children up, helping elderly patients to their feet and herding them over to the stairs - to the relative freedom of the streets that lay above us. Yawning, what little sleep I did get, and the knowledge we had all made it through the night soothed me just a little, before my heart was plunged into the icy depths of despair once more.

“L-Lucy?” I whispered, shaking the tiny child’s shoulder, the ambling from all around us surely enough to wake her. The material was cold, icy. I gathered myself, leaning in close to her. But I did not feel the shallow breath on my face, nor see the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Lucy!” I shouted, shaking her even more, as she failed to respond, her body stiff as a board, and cool to the touch. “No-no-no” I muttered, trying to pick up her body, her limbs frozen in place against her chest, holding that precious book of hers close to her heart.

My fellow nurses looked on at me in fear at what I’d discovered. What we had all known for the longest time was coming, and yet, with Lucy’s smile and endless zest for life, we had all let it slip into the background, let ourselves ignore the inevitability of it all. As I held her close, I sobbed into her hair, so fair it looked like spun gold, and as we all gathered around her tiny body, something delicate broke inside of me, and I said farewell to it, as I did this little girl. This little girl that had captured my heart in such a short time, and despite yet another piece of myself that I had let go of, I somehow had never felt stronger.