#but he still has a sort of muscle memory of her

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvok’s daughter is two things and two things only: 1) Trans 2) Not tired

[luveline]

could you please write something where maybe bombshell!reader hears one of the team members teasing about how she’s torturing spencer and she kinda backs off with the flirting and maybe it’s his turn to hold her hand and call her cute names because even though he always says he doesn’t mind, maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to tell her

tysm for requesting, 1k

Spencer's hair is brown silk in the sun. You bite your tongue to hold in a compliment rearing to come out, saccharine and completely true. Looking sweet, Spence. 

You love to compliment him and especially while Hotch is out of earshot. He and Derek play pairs against two agents from a different unit, their tennis racquets a shiny FBI navy. You start to speak and bite it back —a memory flashes, a shouting stop sign. 

You'd been teasing Spencer as he left the room, something about his indecisive hair. He's cut it shorter but left his curls without product, and you love it. 

Poor guy, Emily'd murmured, lips set against the rim of her coffee cup. 

What's the matter with him? you asked, perplexed. 

Nothing, just that he spins into a total meltdown every time you guys are within ten feet of each other. He must be exhausted.

She was joking and you know that, but something deep down worries she's right. It's not fair for you to keep winding him up… Especially when Spencer might be going along with you because he isn't sure how to say no. 

What if you're forcing yourself on him? 

You're sitting together on a small blanket in the grass with Anderson and a few of the other less competitive BAU agents. You bring your bottled iced tea to your forehead to cool down, condensation wetting your hot skin. The top of your head feels as though it has the full concentration of the sun beating against it. 

Spencer looks up at your movement. He's been reading a book for pleasure, or so he says, so he isn't going a mile a minute but he's still way faster than the average Joe. "Do you want to go find some shade?" he asks. 

"You look comfortable," you say, putting your iced tea aside.

Which is to say, I don't want you to come with me, it would disrupt you. Spencer nods and turns to the brown leather of his familiar satchel, popping the buckle open to dig around inside. 

"Do you think this would be okay?" he asks, bringing out his baseball cap. 

The fabric is starchy and the brim stiff as you accept it and wedge it over your head. You don't immediately cool, but your heart spins strange loops. "Thank you," you say. Thank you, handsome, gorgeous, baby, all beg to be said. 

Spencer stays looking at you for longer than normal. 

"Do I have something on my face?" you ask, swatting self consciously at your cheeks. 

"Nothing. You look really pretty," he says. 

"Thank you." Another loop. You point at his book, fingertip hitting a creamy page with a small thud. "Is this any good?" 

"I think you'd really like it, it feels like that last book I borrowed from you, and you loved that. They're very similar. I can lend it to you when I'm done." 

"Don't rush it for my sake."

Spencer gives you a private smile. "I won't. Just because you could watch a movie at two times speed doesn't mean you should." 

Your returning smile isn't half as nice. No shared lightness, no bright eyes. You're feeling awkward and unhappy —you really like Spencer. Like, you think you could be happy together for a long long time sort of like. He's charming and sweet and no one is ever as kind to him as he deserves, which is why you're trying to be kind now by putting distance between you.

You'll be brash forever. You can't change that, and Spencer doesn't need the stress of dealing with you, not on top of everything else. 

His smile fades as yours does. Quiet, without fuss, he scoots back on the picnic blanket, putting you knee to knee. The subtle muscle of his arm presses to yours and his hand wraps gently around your wrist as he dips his head down, his cheek touching briefly to your shoulder. 

"I know it's nice, but if the heat is getting to you we should go inside," he says, his fingers sliding across your palm to slot between your own. He squeezes your hand. "Heat stroke isn't obvious at first. Do you feel woozy?"

You stare at your twined fingers. He surprises you again, being this soft with you, and being uncharacteristically forward. Or maybe not uncharacteristic at all; Spencer won't let something like timidity stop him from comforting someone that needs it. 

"Spence," you murmur, closing your eyes, face angled down. 

"What?" 

"I'm sorry if I… If I've been messing you around. But I don't think this is a good idea." 

"What's not a good idea?" 

You can't make yourself say it. Instead, you rub the back of his hand, more for your own comfort than his, your tongue like a useless lump in your mouth. 

"You're sorry? Are you sure you're okay?" Spencer asks, no heed to the people sitting with you as he lets go of your hand to put his arm behind your shoulder like a shield. 

"I don't want to torture you," you say. 

Your friends love that word. You torture Spencer with your flirting and your easy affection. 

Spencer makes a face, eyes squinting and nose wrinkled. "They're just kidding when they say that. Emily, Morgan, they like making fun of me, it's like, sibling bonding or something. They don't say it because there's actually something to feel sorry about." He lowers his voice, bashful but sincere at once, "If you're torturing me, I guess I'm a masochist." 

You laugh without thinking, a breathless, girlish sound you'd regret if you had the wherewithal. "You're a masochist?" you ask. 

He takes the brim of your borrowed hat and pushes it up to unobstruct the view of your eyes. 

"If that's what it takes," he says. A hint of wryness creeps into his otherwise smooth tone. 

Despite his brave talk and his steady eye contact, his face has started to blush. A rosy hue kisses the tops of his cheeks and his nose, a dusting of pink splodges stark against his paleness. The curve of his lips seems extra tantalising now. He's very, very pretty. 

And he doesn't mind stepping in to take the reins when you're unsure of things. 

"We really should sit in the shade for a bit," he says. "Let's get drinks from the gazebo. Yeah?" 

You're halfway through a nod when he kisses your cheek too quickly for you to respond. You follow him to the gazebo without any more reluctance, weaselling your hand back into his, and attempt to pull another kiss from him.

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Prologue

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The cupcake is smashed. Pink icing and gaudy star-shaped sprinkles coat the interior of the box, and the pastry itself has devolved into crumbs. You just stare at it. It had cost you seventeen dollars. It was expensive, yeah. But you’d spent the last three months walking past it every morning and afternoon in the bougie cafe’s windows. You’d waited. You’d wanted.

And it was destroyed. Completely. The perfect swirl of the buttercream was no more. The single, delicate flower made of frosting had lost half it’s petals. You weren’t sure how you could eat it. The wrapping had been warped, but maybe a tea spoon would work?

You let your head fall into your hands, a sob wracking your shoulders. And then less than a second later you swallow down the feeling, and stride over to your shitty apartment’s tiny kitchen. You grab a lighter, a plastic wine glass and the bottle of white wine Molly had given you earlier today. You hadn’t told her what happened yet, but she could tell something had. She’d gave you the wine, a hug, and the promise to always be by your side.

Despite today’s circumstances, despite this week’s circumstances, despite this decade’s circumstances, you were going to have a good birthday getting black-out drunk.

You weren’t going to let yourself sink into one of your funks. Even if it was the worst day of the year by far. Even if it was the second worst birthday of your life.

You just don’t. It’s not allowed.

Your phone rings. Sliding it out of your pocket, you stare blankly at the name on the screen. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Malcom. One of George’s friends. You reject the call, block the number, and slide your phone back in your pocket. See? Dealing with things like an adult. Not throwing a temper tantrum, not crying, not… well, destroying your life in an epic meltdown. You’d had a few of those. Still, despite your obvious erraticness, you hadn’t been fired this year. Yay!

You told yourself you were getting better, even as the universe seemingly conspired against your happiness. You were kind of convinced it was.

Turning, you play with the cap on the wine, walking over to your old ratty couch and falling into it. The beast groans at the contact, but you pay it no mind. The thing was probably older than you, and you were celebrating your twenty-first today.

You were an orphan in Gotham, it was not your first time drinking. Molly had dragged you to so many awful parties over the years. But this wine was probably the fanciest you’d ever been given. Scratch that, definitely was. You pour yourself a glass, stick the birthday candle half-hazardly into the largest chunk of cupcake, and grab the remote.

The only true comfort you can get on this day. A woman, a reporter. She speaks, but you can’t really hear what she’s saying. You chug down a glass of the wine, apologising in your head to Molly, and then pour yourself another.

It takes a few minutes, but your muscles relax, and her words tune into focus.

“Today’s memorial, is once again sponsored by the Wayne foundation.”

Yeah, because they’re the only charity organisation in the city. The family of billionaires were debatably the only good ones in existance. Debtable because you weren’t sure if they were good enough themselves. As an orphan who’d known the cruelty of the system yourself, you were a mix of bitter and grateful towards them. Sure, they’d been the only thing that kept you out of true poverty. You were still an awful bitch about it.

You always had been the jealous type. The other kids who got better backpacks or toys or whatever had you seething with fury. The multitude of orphans Bruce Wayne risen out of poverty were not safe from your envy. It didn’t matter if you were… Well, a little bit, just a teeny-tiny-tiddly-little bit… obsessed. Obsessed with them. Kind of manic about it, actually.

You were working on it. Today was a bad day, and you were a little too raw. So, like every little dumb animal on the planet, you went straight to your creature comforts. You pretended you were a roman eating and drinking on their chaise lounge, watching their magnificent entertainment.

Delusional. Your sofa was falling apart at the seems, your cupcake was debris and your entertainment was a memorial service. Wine was good, though.

Gotta focus on the good parts.

You watch the TV screen, the reporter’s voice drifting in and out of focus. There was a family photo of the Waynes and their family friends, all in perfect suits and dresses and pearls and fancy watches. You’d bet that those little accessories were worth more than a year of your rent.

And you lived in fucking Gotham, both the most expensive city to live in, and the worst at the same time. A miracle, truly.

Anyway, they were all stunningly beautiful, even some of the guys. God knows how much the internet went on about Richard Grayson’s long eyelashes. You’d always been enamored with Dick’s good looks. Even Damian Wayne who had only turned nineteen a few months ago and was three years younger than you was already being fawned over by the tabloids.

Gotham’s newest young rich bachelor. Bitterly envious, that was you. You didn’t like that emotion, though, so you turned your attention to others. Namely, delusion.

You let yourself get swept up in daydreams. Of having a rich family, of one so close knit as the Wayne’s. Of having a handsome, loving, kind partner. You don’t let yourself dream about your real family, of a George that was faithful.

You just don’t.

Maybe someone like Tim Drake. Loyal, everyone who knew him described him as loyal. His romances with Bernard Dowd and Stephanie Brown were famous. There were hundreds of papparazzi photos of him with big bundles of roses and a sweet look on his face. You thought someone like Tim Drake would probably be like one of the heroes in your romance novels. Something silly like a meet cute in an airport, or maybe a bookstore or a cafe. He was pretty famous in Gotham’s niche hipster coffee scene, right?

Yeah, you could see it now. Some dumb but cute scene where you get confused and accidentally take his order. You get the same drink, and bond over your shared love of caramel syrup. Like he didn’t live on the opposite side of the city from you, and you probably couldn’t afford whatever fancy shit he drunk. Italian coffee beans versus… well, you didn’t actually know what you bought. You knew it didn’t taste very good, but it was dirt cheap.

What were you doing? Ah, yes, silly daydreams about romance.

But even as you think of Tim, Dick Grayson was so pretty, and he’d had his fair share of partners too. Someone with such an angelic face had to have a personality to match, and the media agreed. Of course you didn’t really know what he was like, this was all just fantasy. Other than numerous tabloid interviews and television, which suggested he had a kind heart and a love for bad jokes you truly knew nothing about the guy. Still, he’d be the golden retriever trope, you think. Or the knight in shining armor, saving his heroine from one of the many disaster’s plaguing Gotham and confessing his love in one big final act. His meet cute would be the airplane one. The blue of his eyes, it makes you think of the sky. You’d take his seat, but he’d be super sweet about it. Like he didn’t have a private jet, and would never be caught on economy.

You think Damian Wayne could play a good romance lead as well. From what you’d seen, he seemed to have a terrible personality, which was perfect for any modern romance. A classic enemies to lovers, with some bickering. Maybe he’d have secretly loved her the entire time, and maybe there’d be a good grovel at the end. So, appreciating his character, he’d have to have a meet ugly. Probably get stuck in an elevator with him or something, and he’d get to display his keen intellect and argumentative nature.

You swirl your wine, nodding your head. Brilliant ideas today, you should talk to Molly more. She’d definitely appreciate your wisdom. She wanted to be a screen writer one day, and all this would be very helpful. She was going to college for it. You couldn’t afford college.

Maybe you were drunk. Maybe you were a genius. It was hard to tell, so you take another sip. That’ll help you figure things out.

“As always, the Wayne families’ faces are morose as they celebrate the late Jason Todd.”

And as always, you felt an odd connection with the dead man. Your lives had both technically ended the same day, in the same grand calamity. Sure, you were still technically alive. Kicking about. But everyone you loved dying in one fell swoop, right in front of your eyes? You felt more like a ghost these days.

Weren’t you supposed to be fighting those sorts of thoughts off? Whatever, it was too much effort anyway.

Your slight obsession with the Wayne family had been initially started by Jason Todd. You hadn’t been thinking about him as much recently with George in your life, but he swung right back into place as soon as George left your life. Like a magnet, or more likely, a compulsion.

But now you were brought right back to the morning after. Seeing the entire city grieving the day after you’d lost your family, your first thought had been ‘Good, I’m not the only one,’ and then you’d stopped being an idiot and realised the city was mourning Jason Todd, heir to the Wayne name. Sure, there’d been hundreds of others who’d died, but that was Gotham. Your family had gotten a plaque filled with tens of other forgotten names, Jason had gotten framed photos hung around the city.

Today, his photo was once again surrounded by thousands of bouquets. Peonies, roses, daffodils, lillies, a rainbow of petals that almost covered his memorial stone. It reminded you of your sad-ass cupcake. When the camera zoomed out, you could see your smaller set of poseys against one of the thirty towering monuments, the tiny names crammed into the rock. Your families name was on line fifty-two, near the bottom. You could only afford the flowers once a year, but you visited once a week at least.

There were other flowers. Other offerings. Other candles. Jason’s dwarfed them all.

You sometimes couldn’t tell if you hated the dead man or were hopelessly in love with him. Obviously it didn’t matter. Even when he was alive he was out of both your league and your tax bracket.

Still, you were absolutely certain of it, Jason Todd would beat up George Lancaster. So fucking bad. To a bloody pulp. He’d be eager to do it, as well. You could hum and haw about how you thought violence was bad but he’d see right to the core of you.

The part of you that wanted George Lancaster to suffer. And he’d do it with a kiss and a promise that he’d make it slow. He’d save you from all your monsters, and he’d do it eagerly. And that was the fantasy of it all, wasn’t it?

You lift your glass, in celebration of your dead parasocial imaginary boyfriend. You hoped he wouldn’t be jealous of your new living parasocial imaginary boyfriends. Hiccuping out a laugh, you swallow down another gulp.

And even then, of course you wanted Bruce Wayne as a father. As someone who has seen the worst of the world, and would protect you from it. As someone who would wipe away the tears, who would save you from your own self. And you wanted Cassandra as a sister, someone to groan over guys with and steal clothes off. You wanted the close relationships they shared with Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown, with Duke who’d only recently come into their fold. You even wanted their dog you’d seen in photos, the cat that Damian posted on his instagram, the fucking cow they kept for god knows reason inside the estate. You wanted everything, every part of their lives. You were a jealous person, but more than that, you were a greedy person.

You glance at the clock.

11:57.

You shakily open the candle packet, picking a green one out. That had been Sam’s last favourite colour, but he switched them so often it was hard to remember. You stab it into the pink frosting. Julie always chose pink for her cake. Chasey loved flowers, particularly poseys. The flowers had looked like posesys before they’d been crushed.

You light the candle. It’s tiny flame flickers in the dark room, the warm light overpowered by the cool from the television. You peek back over to the clock.

11:58.

And Mum always made her wish at midnight, because she believed that was when it was most likely to come true.

What would you wish for? You never did, because you never knew what you wanted to wish for. Everything you wanted, everything you could’ve wanted, was gone. It couldn’t come back, it was impossible.

11:59.

You look at the TV, at the blinding forms of the Wayne family. Of their graveyard, with the manor in the background. It’s as impossible as everything else. But that’s what they represent for you, isn’t it?

Something hopeful. Something impossible.

You wanted impossible.

12:00.

You lean over the messy cupcake, and blow the candle out. It disappears in one blow, and you sink back into the couch. You take a few crumbs from the cupcake and sneak them past your lips. In your drunkenness, you probably get more on the couch than in your mouth.

You let your eyes flutter shut, and because only you can, you give yourself the comfort of lies. You imagine loving embraces, whispered platitudes. You imagine that today was a good day, that you’d find yourself tomorrow happy. That you wouldn’t wake up with a hangover, that you wouldn’t have a shitty job, an evil ex, and mountains of debt.

That you’d have people who loved you, who could ease the pain.

And you don’t even care who they are.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[bcyhoods]

could I please request steve and shy!reader and her first time staying the night at his place? lots of timid cuddling and just overall sweetness? I loved your first steeb drabble!

ohemgee yay i’m so glad you liked it!! thank u for for such a cute req, i hope i did it justice🫡 | 1k fluff, gn!reader

You were going crazy, without a doubt. You’ve already finished showering, but you’ve been locked away in his bathroom for 15 minutes. The pep talk you’re giving yourself in the foggy mirror does nothing to calm flutter in your stomach.

“Everything okay, honey?” You hear Steve call from down the corridor.

“Yes—Yeah, I’m okay!” The words are rushed and clumsy as the nickname runs through your head on repeat. And while you’re about to sleep in his room for the first time, it’s too domestic for your racing heart. You hope he doesn’t notice.

Giving yourself one final nod of scarce confidence, you pull open the door and softly let it close behind you. You’re practically walking on the balls of your feet so as not to make any noise.

When you peek into his room, you see the plain of Steve’s back facing toward you. You let your gaze shamelessly trace through the freckles and moles that grace his skin, then to the muscles that tense in his biceps as he fluffs one of his pillows. He’s mumbling to himself as he punches and pulls at the cushion.

Once you push past the door, he turns like he’s a child caught stealing the last cookie from the jar. He’s doe eyed with flushed cheeks and messy hair.

“Hey, there you are,” he sings with a gentle smile.

“Hi.” You timidly wave with a smile just as sweet.

“I was getting worried,” he starts as he meets you by the door, “Started to think you fell in or something.” Steve laughs it off, but there’s a small twitch in his eyebrows that threatens to expose his nerves.

Because while you were in the bathroom, Steve had been giving himself his own encouraging speech. One which also fell quite short, but he was better at concealing it. At least he thinks he is.

Your clammy hand reaches for his, a reassuring effort to soothe both your worries. “No search party necessary. I’m still standing,” you reply softly. He releases a hefty exhale — a mixture of a shaky laugh and a sigh of relief — and gives your hand a small squeeze.

“I’ll be right back. You can sleep on either side, I don’t mind.”

He’s quick to jog out, leaving you to roam every inch of his bedroom.

You’ve been in Steve’s room countless times before, you probably have every trinket and frame committed to memory. But every detail has somehow become more intimate since the last time you’ve visited. Every knick knack is a window into Steve Harrington’s being and by tomorrow morning, you’d become even more familiar. The thought only further warms your chest once your eyes land on an old love note you’d given him, preserved in a framed picture of you right on his bedside table.

By the time he returns, you’re already under the covers with a cheesy smile and patting the empty space next to you.

He uses some sort of excuse so that he can keep a dim nightlight on: Just so you can see everything in case you need to get up in the middle of the night. And Steve Harrington doesn’t have a secret aversion to the dark.

No, Steve Harrington is a romantic, and he just really wants to see your pretty face.

“Are you okay?” He whispers as he settles beside you. He moves to bring the blanket up to your chin and traces the underside of your jaw with his knuckle.

“Yes, I’m okay, Stevie.” You giggle at his concerned expression and reach up to smooth out the wrinkle in his brow before you convince yourself not to.

“Good. Good…just checking.”

And though you’re both laying face to face, sharing the same sheets, he’s entirely too far away for your liking. All you would have to do is extend your arms just a few inches until they reach his shoulders. But really, it’s a few inches too much.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again lowly, noting the pensive expression on your face.

Your stomach flips and your hand flies to pick at the skin of your lips. Now, you would just need to ask. But it’s so difficult when he’s staring right at you, practically oozing adoration. Now there’s a knot in your mouth where your tongue should be.

“Steve?”

He hums. The knot tightens.

“You don’t have to, but…can you, um—would you want to…” you trail off as the rest of your question dissipates.

“Do you…do you want me to hold you?” He finishes for you. He’s already moving to sit up before you can say ‘please,’ eager to wrap you up in his embrace.

You sit up the slightest bit so that he’s able to slither his arm underneath your head. He’s laying on his back while you’re curled into his side. You rest on his bicep, legs tangled with his own and an arm around his middle as you play with the fingers of his other hand.

“Is this okay? Am I hurting you?” You turn slightly so that you’re peering up at his face, chin resting on his shoulder. It’s an awkward angle and you know it’s going to result in a dull ache in your neck, but you can’t be bothered to care with his lips so close.

“No, no,” he’s quick to rush out, “This feels nice. I like this.”

It’s not until you see his wide smile that you notice the ache in your cheeks thanks to your matching expression. Without giving it a second thought, you push yourself up to kiss him, eliciting a sigh from the boy. It’s lazy, and it doesn’t last for more than a few seconds before you’re drawing back to hide your burning face in his chest.

He pauses to gather his bearings and gives you a kiss to the top of your head. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

“Shut up, please.”

[im-his-druidess]

Can you do something about rz michael taking care of the reader when she's on her perioid?

Absolutely! I've talked a bit of this sort of thing here as well 😘

Michael would have absolutely no idea on how to take care of you. All the knowledge he has are fuzzy memories from Sex Ed he was forced to take in school. So he just follows your lead on most occasions unless something strikes his curiosity and he wants to explore.

You will often grab his hands and place them on your lower abdomen or lower back. The large warm heavy weight like your own personal heating pad. Sometimes, with careful goading of your hands, you'll get him to massage you. This will often lead to you being slumped on his chest as he prods away at your sore muscles. Him watching your face curiously as you wince in pain but whine when he tries to move his hand away. The mix of relief and pain making no sense to him, but it makes you happy and he likes the thought of being needed so he continues.

Most of the time he will just stand aside and watch you. Taking note of the medicine you take and the food you eat. Will have him randomly pressing food/medicine against your chest whenever you are in a bad mood. He knows that they make you feel better so anytime you are sick or grumpy he hunts through the house for the items he's seen you grab even if you aren't on your period.

Being intimate with him during this time is either a hit or miss. You either get satisfied and relaxed or end up crying and exhausted and bent like a pretzel as he ravages you.

Michael, like always, is curious about your reactions like you jumping his bones and clawing at him like a cat in heat. Only to turn around a few days later and swat him away. It confuses him every single time. He doesn't like when you push him away, having already grown obsessed with how sensitive and needy you get, and the sight of you covered in blood leaves him fueled with bloodlust. Which leaves him bending you over and fucking you mercilessly and smearing your blood over your thighs and hips. Michael doesn't care for the mess and would happily lay there in your cuddle puddle to sleep but you get grouchy and restless so he reluctantly follows you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

Despite him being an absolute pussydrunk menace during this time he does try to take care of you in his own way. Allowing you to sleep almost directly on top of him to steal his warmth, massaging you wherever you need him, letting you yell and cry your frustrations out as he sits quietly, and even awkwardly petting your hair as you cuddle into him on the couch while you watch TV.

Cockwarming him is something that he demands even when you aren't menstruating, but on your period the sensations have him pawing at you with greed. You are so much more sensitive and warm and wet. Your gummy walls aching and swollen in a way that feels like heaven around his cock. And the way you whimper and cry out when he throbs inside you leaves him breathless. It's something he grows to crave and becomes the easiest way for you to calm him down. During your period it does help to have him inside you, soothing that deep ache that nearly makes you want to weep, and you will surprise him by tugging his pants down at random times.

Also he absolutely loves fondling your sore breasts. Squishing the swollen flesh, kneading with those criminally strong calloused hands, and tugging or sucking on your nipples until you cry from that same pleasure/pain that leaves him oh-so curious.

He's still mystified by the whole process, but he's willing to learn and be as accommodating as he's able.

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve And Robin Are Stuck in A Timeloop AU 

Steve's lost track of which time loop this is.

Had lost track pretty much instantly, because it turns out when people die repeatedly in front of you, it kinda takes precedence in your memory. 

Besides, Robin has a list in her head, memorized via some kind of musical code, alongside all the dates and times they wake up in. 

(Steve doesn't see what difference it makes if they wake up at 7:15 am the day of the Championship or 8:25 am, but Robin's insistent that even the slightest variations could mean something.) 

He’ll have to ask his soulmate when he finds her though, because presently Steve has determined they're having one of their weirder loops.

Typically, when the two of them get kicked back in time, they wake up the day of the Championship game. Occasionally it will be the day right before or the day after, but sometimes? 

Sometimes they’re sent back someplace, some time, that isn’t related to 1986 at all. 

Thus far, the Starcourt loop had been the worst. 

("If it happens a third time I'm killing myself." Steve had told Robin after they’d failed that one. 

Robin didn’t even look at him, the two of them huddled up together in Steve’s bed. "No you're not Dingus, not without shooting me first."

"How come I have to shoot you!? Is it because I'm a man? That's not very feminist of you."

"No its because you've seen me shoot, I would miss!") 

Steve had even woken up in an odd place. Not his bed or the couch, but the driver's seat of the Beamer, seated in the high school parking lot.  

It made him immediately uneasy. 

The chair is reclined all the way back, the mass of cars indicating it was a school day. Steve struggled to recall when he's ever taken a nap in his car as he got out of it, trying to decide how he wanted to go about things. 

Felt his pocket and was surprised to find it full of a packet of smokes. 

The sheer implication of that had him pulling out a cig and lighting it before the knowledge that he'd officially quit buying his own cigarettes in 1985 sank in.

Panicked and chainsmokes three, before deciding his best course of action was his usual one. 

Find Robin. 

Which of course means that he found Eddie instead. 

xxx

He’d started his first lap, walking out if the parking lot and round to the more shaded, empty parts of the building when a voice he knew yelled. 

The kind of yell he’d grown intimately familiar with, the one Eddie used when he was terrified and using anger to hide it. 

Steve turns automatically, following the taunts and loud, pained breathing until he finds a handful of jocks encircling the metalhead. He's down on one knee, snarling like a wildcat caught in a trap while some guy Steve barely recognizes holds him by the hair, laughing. 

Red coats his vision instantly, and any thoughts Steve had about being stuck in time (sort of) vanish from his mind entirely. 

The world shrinks down, to that white knuckled grip on Eddie's hair, the way it’s pulling the older boy’s face up so that Steve can see the straining muscles in his throat. 

The protective creature that lives in his chest and likes to punch it’s way out of problems awakens, and a thrum goes through Steve as he feels its demand for blood. 

"Hey fellas " Steve calls joyfully, striding directly into the crowd. "What’re we doing?" 

Two part before him like fish seeing a shark,and a faraway inner voice identifies them as members of the swim team. 

Which likely meant the other two were football players, and for all the tackling they did they were surprisingly easy to scare, if you knew how to play it right. 

Steve absolutely knew how to play it right. 

"Fuck off Harrington. This isn't your business." The one holding Eddie's hair spits. 

"Well that would be where you're wrong." Steve was still keeping things conversational as he positioned himself, arms nice and loose at his sides. He lets the thing that lives inside him, who made him turn right back around all those years ago and charge back into the Byers house, out a little more. Feels the need to protect, to save, to destroy the things that are his, fuel him.  "Seeing as all of Eddie's business is my business."

Eddie stares up at him, wide eyed at the declaration. 

Feeling entirely out of control of his body, Steve sends him a wink. 

"Since when!?" The other football player asks. 

"Since now." Steve declares cheerfully--and then smiles. 

It isn’t a nice smile. 

Thoroughly unnerved, his swim team members shrink back. He’ll have words for them later if he has time--Steve can't ever recall the swim team members being dicks but who fucking knows. 

His memory wasn't the best before he and Robin got stuck in time. 

"You fucking into drugs now or wha--" Their ringleader, still holding onto Eddie by the hair, doesn't get to finish his sentence.

Mostly because his mouth is too busy catching Steve's fist. 

Fighting, he knows, is something he does best when it's too the death and he's armed with something. 

Bonus points if his opponent is a horrific monster from another dimension. 

He has gotten better though, and here the rapid pace he sets feels almost too easy. 

The first guy goes down on the ground before the rest pick up on it, giving Eddie time to lurch backwards as Steve turns and torpedoes into the next jock. 

This one gets in a good shot--Steve staggers with a blow to his side but it's not enough to wind him. He keeps to his feet and advances, delivering one more punch before the swim team guys are trying to call him off. 

"Come on man, you're gonna kill them!" 

Steve almost laughs-- he hasn't come close to killing either idiot-- but backs away, keeping himself between them and Eddie. 

They wave their hands, getting ahold of their bloodied friends as they slowly ease between them and Steve. Make apologizes and promises that it was a poor joke, Munson just got to them, hot heads you know? 

Steve snarls at them to fuck off, and glares until they're gone. 

"What the hell just happened?" Eddie asks him, and Steve turns to find him on his feet, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the school. 

As far as he can get away from Steve. 

"Our football quarterback can't hit for shit." Steve informs him, having finally placed an least one of the guys. "It's probably why we always lose." 

Eddie gives him such a freaked out face it almost makes him laugh a second time.

The effect isn't helped by the fact that Eddie's normally long mane is hovering just over his shoulders, the curls somehow poofier than normal. Clearly he’s still trying to grow it out, but it just makes him look like one of those frazzled dogs. 

Adorable. 

On instinct Steve reaches out to playfully pull a few strands, then freezes when Eddie flinches from him. 

"Sorry." He keeps his hands up, as he takes in Munson's face. "Shit dude, he got your nose good." 

There's blood smeared under it, and given the look of the skin surrounding it? 

Eddie's gonna have an impressive bruise soon enough. 

Steve gets a glare sent his way. "Why do you care?" Eddie spits, back very much still up, and-- right. 

Right. 

Time travel. 

"I'm really bad at explaining it." Steve warns, running a hand through his hair. He did this part plenty without Robin (meeting Eddie that was--Robs usually tackled Nancy.) But he also typically did in it 1986, and with at least three of the kids, not whenever they currently were. 

"We usually start with facts only you'd know, but I don't actually know when I am right now." He finishes, and realizes immediately that it doesn’t make a lick of sense. 

"When you are?" Eddie asks, because of course he clocks that part immediately. 

"Ye--eah." Steve says, dragging out the word. 

He looks at Eddie desperately, like the metalhead will tell him the exact information he needs. 

Eddie just stares back. 

"Look, it sounds really stupid when you say it out loud." Steve says finally, because fuck, it does!

"Comparable to all the other times you talk out loud?" Eddie snips, voice full of venom. 

"Shut up.” Steve replies automatically, but his tone holds no heat. He’s too used to trading banter with Eddie that is friendly.  “I'm gonna preface this by saying I can prove it."

"Oh wow preface. Such a big word for you! Did Nancy Wheeler teach you that one?"

"Robin actually." Then, "Nancy?"

The look Eddie gives him could melt steel beams. "Yeah man. Nancy Wheeler. Your girlfriend." 

"Oh--oh god." Steve says, because that means they're way back. Possibly to the beginning. 

Or worse, before he and Nancy had broken up.

"I can’t handle that breakup a second time." He says wide eyed, the panic gripping him for a second. “I could-no, no I could get Robin to tell her!” 

Because that sure would work. 

Steve can just imagine it now. Robin, sauntering up to Nancy and going ‘Hey, we really haven’t met yet but you’re gonna dump Steve, if you haven’t already and to cut through all the drama, I’m here to just tell you on his behalf that it’s over. What was that? A coward? Why yes, he is one!’

You know, provided she didn’t just laugh in his face and then cuff him over the head when she realized he was being serious. 

“Dude.” Eddie says, sinking a world’s worth of judgment into the single syllable. 

“Yeah, you’re right, bad call.” Steve says, and whatever Eddie was expecting it clearly wasn’t that. 

“Are you on drugs right now?” Eddie finally asks when Steve reverts back to looking to him as if he’s going to help. A bad habit, and one Steve knows he needs to stop doing. 

Even if Eddie, in the original timeline and every one after they got him on board, eventually becomes someone Steve can rely on like that. 

“You can tell me if you are, man, you know I won’t judge.” The hateful air around him is fading into something more confused, and then into something else entirely. The persona Eddie pulls when he’s hurt and trying to hide it with jokes and rants. “Unless you and your buddies bought from someone that wasn’t me, in which case I get exclusive rights to judge.” 

He’s shifting as he finally stands up off the wall, and Steve doesn’t miss how he hugs one hand to a rib. 

Shit. 

He needs to get Eddie up to speed and he needs to do it fast.

Steve sighs and just starts listing Eddie Munson Facts like an unprepared kid who was called on in class. 

"Okay, so your uncle collects mugs, right? And--fuck I don't know when you get all the tattoos,” Steve makes a vague gesture around his chest, “but you have bats on your arm and you gave them all names." 

Eddie's eyes pop wide again, jaw slacking as Steve volleys off a few more Munson Facts. 

"You have this weird fear about red ribbon necklaces because of a book you read in third grade, your first guitar has this giant ugly--sorry dude, but you cannot write legibly to save your life, 'This machine slays dragons' quote across it and--oh!"

 He was so fucking stupid. The answer was literally staring at him in the face, dangling around Eddie's neck. 

Steve snapped his fingers excitedly. "The guitar pick on your neck is your moms!"

Eddie’s mouth open and closes like a fish, long enough that the smile slowly slides off of Steve’s face.  

"How the fuck do you know all that?" He manages after a long, tortuous moment, looking like he’d been sucker punched. 

Again. 

With the most pained look his face can manage, Steve finally answers. "Time travel."

Eddie blinks.

Then blinks again. 

 "Time travel." He echoes faintly. 

"Yeah. I'm from 1986, where things kinda got really fucked up."

"No kidding?" Eddie says, right before he erupts into giggles. 

"Did they get you in the head?" Steve asks, abruptly concerned, as Eddie collapses back against the wall in a growing fit of laughter.  

Concussed Eddie was not a road he wanted to go down but Steve knew better than anyone what happens if you ignore such things. 

"I think my weed just hit." Eddie explains as he wipes away a tear, and Steve wants to shake him, but knows it won't get him anywhere. 

"That's great. That's just great."  He grumbles, hands going onto his hips. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To get you a bandage. And then find Robin.” 

Robin, Steve decided, could handle a high, concussed Eddie.

[crguang]

a lover’s goodbye kiss

Are we ever truly done with grief?

angst, gn!reader, ptsd. 6k words of mourning and bitter reunions

A/N: this really got away from me, i also cried while writing it so do with that what you will. not entirely satisfied with it, but it’s okay. hope someone enjoys it regardless

Grief is a part of you. It seeps into your pores, settles in your bloodstream like cancerous chemicals and forces you to live with it, to endure the brunt of it lest memories pull you under permanently. For long-life species, grief is ironically common. The belief that Xianzhou natives are unaccustomed to death is a false one; though it is slow to come, it envelops them regardless, often twice over. The Mara curse is first. Its inevitability leaves an imprint in people’s hearts, a sort of impression they are born with and cannot outgrow. To be a long-life species is to become Mara-struck, a shell of your former self driven by bloodlust and fragmented memories. That, in itself, is death. Your body is no longer your own and neither is your mind, you are a senseless abomination destined to roam the world until someone or something delivers the fatal, long-awaited blow needed to end your misery. Though this heavy subject is not often discussed among the people, accepting that fate is done with bloodied teeth and scorched fingertips, a personal battle with grief from which you come out only somewhat victorious. Knowing that you’ll eventually be stricken by Mara is one thing, accepting that your loved ones will walk the same path is another entirely. No one talks about the worst part. Nobody tells you what you’re supposed to do when the memories fade away, replaced by the acrid smell of sulfur and a chill in your bones that you can never shake.

Hundreds of years of memories— content smiles, sun rays onto sweaty skin, cold hands in pale locks of hair, unspoken devotion— are hidden behind mist requiring immense focus to see through. You are not Mara-struck yet. Your mind is still your own, as much as it can be, and you are still alive. You ask yourself why often. Why it was her, first, and not you. Why you’re stuck living with holes inside of you when maybe you should’ve died along with the hundred Cloud Knights that had the misfortune of crossing her path that night. Loss has made you ashamed, you can’t even speak her name. It’d been erased from history and forbidden after that night, out of social disappointment and shame, but that is not why you can’t bear to utter it. It’s unfair that this is what you remember most of her; the collapsed buildings, the unbearable smell, the frozen corpses… Her beloved blade through your stomach. The way her gaze softened after a few glasses of wine has been replaced by the flash of crimson you caught a glimpse of before her sword buried itself in your guts. You vaguely recall how endearingly tight her muscles always were, how you or Baiheng had to smooth the knots out of her body once in a while. The news of her breaking out of the Shackling Prison, however, along with the screams that followed form a clear image in your treacherous mind. What use are memories if they are so fickle, so easily supplanted by horrors that quicken your heartbeat on thought alone?

If anything, you do not shoulder this immense grief alone. Jing Yuan was a scrawny, eager boy when you first met him, almost half your height and always trailing behind her like the dutiful apprentice he was. His enthusiasm lit up the training yard and his youthful determination quickly earned him a place amongst your most cherished. He would seek you out after hours of conditioning, sweat still clinging to his bushy brows, and request a friendly spar to show you what he’s learned, how fast he was getting, how swift he could slash his sword. Your position as a Lieutenant of the Cloud Knights made him look at you with naked admiration, he’d hang onto your every word with a seriousness unfit of his age and at times offered insight only a boy who had never known war could come up with. You think you remember a figure in the shade of a growing tree standing several feet away from where you and Jing Yuan sparred. Quiet as a golden eagle, diligent gaze making note of every sloppy thrust and slow retreat she would reproach her retainer afterwards, his master only revealed herself when the tip of your blade against his neck announced his defeat.

Jing Yuan was the one to rescue you on the ice. His quick intervention allowed for healers from the Alchemy Commission to reach you in time and tend to your injuries. He was also the one to end her. It had to be him, you know, but you regret your own weakness, your faltering steps and half-hearted parries— it’s a burden you wish he never carried. He bears it with a solemn glint in his eyes and an impeccable posture but he’s not General of the Xianzhou Luofu to you, and so he lets you keep him close whenever he visits your empty home. His appreciation for the comfort goes unsaid, though his shoulders stand inches lower once he sets out the door. After all, he lost her too.

You get déjà vu when Jing Yuan walks across the training yard with a skinny blonde boy in tow and introduces him as his retainer, Yanqing. His apprentice is just as eager and energetic as he was, and it’s easy to fall back into old habits when the boy eventually nags you into sparring with him. He’s talented, determined to achieve his goals, but a little too proud and overconfident. His arrogance reminds you of an old friend who once forged the sword you still wield like an extension of your arm. It’s somewhat endearing, and not entirely unearned. A part of you vaguely recalls the annoyed purse of the Sword Champion’s lips whenever your mutual friend would go on another spiel about mastering the way of the sword. Your fingertips trace the sheath of your blade at the thought.

The Stellaron crisis plunges the Luofu into disarray. It brings destruction and death to the Xianzhou on a scale that reminds you of her, of the illuminated moon in the night sky and the blood on your hands. You can’t allow the memories to paralyze you like they often do, however, so you work with Jing Yuan and the Master Diviner in order to eliminate the internal threat that pose the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus. The Mara-struck fall twice under your steel and the rest of the Abundance’s abominations quickly become light work for someone as experienced as you are. Since the Ambrosial Arbor crisis, they’ve been gathering in Stargazer Navalia the most, forcing an evacuation of all civilians to safer areas of the Luofu.

Though he has plenty of work on his hands, this is where Yanqing likes to disappear for an hour each day— additional training, he says. You trust his abilities, but today he is needed at the Alchemy Commission and is currently unreachable. No one has seen him for a while. You have an idea of his whereabouts, so you offer to look for him and relay the General’s message.

Two Cloud Knights stand guard as you enter Stargazer Navalia. Their posture straightens when they see you and they nod once in greeting.

“Has anyone seen Lieutenant Yanqing come through here, by any chance?”

One of them replies, “He was there an hour ago on an official investigation. Passed through here and went further into the docks.”

You don’t know about any official investigations but you offer a thankful nod anyway before walking past the Knights. The large shipping containers and crates create paths that workers use during the day but you figure it’d be easier to look for Yanqing if you had a better view of the area. You jump on top of a container and carefully skim the place ahead. As expected, abominations and Mara-struck lay on the floor, strewn about like discarded clothing. You follow their trail further inside Stargazer Navalia, between growing starskiffs and through already opened doors. It takes a little over ten minutes to catch up with the freshly cut-down enemies laying about as you hop from container to container. Shards of rock hard ice glimmer in the sun near the bodies, no doubt Yanqing’s doing. Honestly, that boy…

You can see his blonde hair when you advance a little further. He’s turning a corner, so you take a shortcut running above a long, empty container and land on the one behind him with a thud. The sudden noise alerts him and he swirls around with a hand on his sword, ready to attack, but you’re not looking at him. The ghost of a woman long gone stands beside him, her back to you, with a stillness that indicates she’s been aware of you before you made your presence known. The sight of her pale locks burns into your brain. The intricate design of the familiar attire she dons chokes you like firm hands around your throat, and you falter. The blues and whites and reds mix together as you blink to regain your footing.

“Lieutenant!” Yanqing straightens up, sheathing his blade. “What are you doing here?”

You taste ash on the roof of your mouth. Your fingers curl around the handle of your sword. Falling buildings, frozen corpses, sulfur burning your nostrils. Her blade through your stomach. (Hesitant fingertips against your cheeks, implied confessions, oiled palms on tense muscles.) A feeling that has been dormant for centuries stirs in your guts, snakes around your intestines and tightens your stomach. It travels through your ribcage and up your bobbing throat, forcing you to swallow it back down. There’s the slow ascent of the moon behind your eyelids with each blink and the stutter of your chest with each breath— a chill spreads over your limbs and they tense as if frozen in place. It paralyzes you; you feel mocked by the way your feet are glued to the metal under them. You are reminded of your previous weakness, of your blood on the ice and its frigidity seeping into your skin. You grit your teeth.

“Jingliu…” Her name is forced past your lips, evicted after uncomfortably sitting on your tongue for hundreds of years.

She does not move, except for the flicker of recognition that goes through her fingertips. A mirage, she has to be— a nasty trick of your fractured mind because she cannot be here, breathing, when Jing Yuan assured you of her demise.

“Huh? You know her?” Yanqing asks, oblivious to your struggle as he glances back to the woman next to him. His query confirms that she is flesh and blood but leaves no hint as to her state of mind. If she is the same as she was centuries ago, then he and the Luofu are in great danger.

“…Yanqing. The General is looking for you. Alchemy Commission.”

The boy frowns. “Did something happen? There’s something I have to finish up before—“

“Yanqing.”

He stops in his tracks with furrowed brows, displeased at having been interrupted. You finally tear your gaze away from Jingliu’s tense posture to look at him. He sees your hardened eyes and hesitates, turning towards his new acquaintance for a few seconds before clenching his jaw and nodding once. You outrank him, and though it often pains him to do so, Yanqing knows to respect the Cloud Knights hierarchy. He walks away without a word and disappears between the various shipping containers.

You stand above her, a hand on your blade, and breathe in the smell of the docks to loosen the pressure in your guts. It’s the middle of the day, the weather is warm, your skin is uncut. Blurry images of grasping hands sinking into bed sheets and locking lips fill your mind until you can’t see anything but the way her asymmetric bangs frame her face as she hovers over you, breathless. The crimson of her irises are dulled to a lustful cherry and she looks at you like she doesn’t believe you’re real. A fragment of her one-track mind and hateful heart made tangible for one night, to appease the disgusting yearning for closeness that lingers in her bones. She is not a weapon used against the Abundance and you are more than the fellow Cloud Knight that joined the ranks before she was thrusted into them. As her knuckle trails down your cheekbone to the corner of your parted lips, you are a new constant in her future, an immovable force that she cannot plan around, and she is just a woman. Not a survivor, not a fighter, she is a woman who longs for another’s recognition and gentle hands. And as she leans down to graze her bottom lip against your top one, you feel the searing pain of her blade piercing your flesh.

Blood trickles on your tongue and you realize it is from how hard you are biting the inside of your cheek. The visions are gone, replaced by Jingliu turning around to face you, her free hands limp at her sides. Her chin tilts slightly upward. She’s wearing a dark blindfold over her eyes— some part of you is grateful to be hidden from her sight— but you know it wouldn’t alter any of her abilities.

“Lieutenant…” She only says a word, trails off as if it leaves a strange sensation in her mouth. It’s not a question or a tentative statement; she utters your title with an infuriating fondness, like you’re an old friend she hasn’t seen in a while. It makes you sick.

“…You are not dead,” you state blankly.

Jingliu takes a short breath. “Not yet, no.”

There’s a sluggishness to her words and a rasp more prominent than you recall it to be. Her voice is raw and breathy like every sentence comes at a price, and you are reminded of the curse that plagues her. You don’t understand how she’s standing here, seemingly sane, when the Mara had overcome her the last time you laid eyes on her. Still, the hand on your sword tightens its hold. There’s a thousand things you want to ask, a thousand more you wish to convey through touch alone, but you cannot trust her.

You wonder if she remembers almost ending your life. You wonder if she is haunted by regret and grief the same way you are. You wonder if some part of her still clings to that stricken body.

“You can let go of your sword,” Jingliu says, “I mean the Luofu no harm.”

“And me?”

“...You?”

You swallow a lump in your throat. Your toes tingle with sudden restlessness and it thaws the rest of your limbs, allowing you to take a measured step forward. “And me, Jingliu? Will you draw your blade against me once more?”

She is silent for some time, tense, and her fingers slightly curl inward in a momentary loss of composure. You can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t recall ever doing that or because she does and the thought brings her pain. Finally, she shakes her head.

“You are not my enemy.”

“I wasn’t your enemy back then, was I?”

“…Your trust in me is inconsequential. I came to the Luofu to atone for my sins and surrender myself to the Alliance.”

Your jaw clenches. Past the initial confusion, you feel cheated. Angry. Hundreds of years of broken memories, lasting grief and paralyzing terror have eroded you, flayed you until you are nothing but bones and ligaments. You are walking the earth as less than half a person for no other reason than this is the destiny of all long-life species. Your closest friends have either fallen or withered around you, and that loneliness has debilitated you. How utterly unfair. You have dedicated most of your life to the Xianzhou Alliance and its people, you have been selfless, understanding, devoted, and you are rewarded with injustice. The person who you once called your strength has become the main character in your nightmares, and here she stands, ready to give up the pieces that are left of her to the same people who have ostracized her out of shame for centuries. For all the unbearable pain she caused you, she came back for them. You are the one she has a history with, you are the one whose life is intricately woven with hers. You are who she should be seeking atonement from, not the Ten-Lords Commission and the Arbiter Generals.

You don’t notice how pale your knuckles are from the grip on your weapon or the heaviness of your chest quickening your breath. You stare her down with gritted teeth and Jingliu doesn’t shy away from the growing fury in your gaze.

“Inconsequential,” you repeat in disbelief, your voice a little louder. “Inconsequential, me!”

“This is what I have to do. It is bigger than you, bigger than me.”

You jump down the container to land in front of her. She simply adjusts the inclination of her head.

“Do you remember, Jingliu? What you did to me?”

Her lips form a thin line. Her lack of response angers you further. You unsheath your sword and point the tip to her own weapon resting against her hip, then to her chest.

“Draw it.”

Jingliu makes no move to obey. “I will only unsheath my blade against my enemies, and you are not one of them.”

“You are cursed to forget, but I cannot. It is in every blink, in every pause; the destruction you caused, my—” you swallow, features twisting in a pained grimace, “my blood on your sword.”

Jingliu doesn’t reply, though her fingers twitch with restraint. Her chest rises and falls a beat faster, the only indication that your words are getting to her. You know this is unfair, that you’re only contributing to the injustice you have to face as a long-life species, but anger clouds your judgment and incites this hostile behavior.

“Draw it!” You exclaim in frustration. “Unsheath your blade and face me!”

You lunge forward in an instant, your weapon raised in a practiced arc towards her neck, forcing her to move out of the way. Her body instinctively bends into a defensive stance, but she makes no move to use her sword. You repeat the motion, over and over, and Jingliu evades each strike with an expertise only she possesses. She still refuses to fight you, to revert to the mindless abomination she was that night. You force her into a corner and as your blade descends at an angle to make contact with her bare shoulder, she leaps high over your head and lands gracefully behind you.

“Must we do this?” She sounds mentally exhausted, each word is spoken through pursed lips and a quiver goes through her sword-wielding hand.

You swirl around, molars grinding in anger. “Yes! You have haunted every part of me and replaced every cherished memory in my mind! You are what I see when I lay down at night, standing over me as I choke on my own blood!”

Jingliu brings a clawed hand to her temple and utters, “Enough…”

“You are the face of my nightmares, Jingliu.” Your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. “It ends today.”

When your weapon comes down to strike her this time, its steel meets Jingliu’s specially crafted blade. She uses the momentum of her parry and pushes you back with so much force it sends you flying, your back colliding into the side of a shipping container. You rise to your feet with a shaky breath.

The clash of swords rings in the air as you move between incubating starskiffs and metal crates in an emotional dance. Street lamps fall, stationed starskiffs are cut in two, jade wheels are damaged and incubators break. Jets of their liquid explode everywhere Jingliu returns your strikes with stronger ones, and soon you’re crashing into yet another door. Blood trickles down your nose. There’s a nasty cut on your hip that will require medical attention. You stand, unwavering, and pounce towards the other woman once more. Jingliu grits her teeth as her parry brings your face close to hers. The distinct melody of her blade in movement fills her ears and the ground shakes under her feet. All around you structures are falling, narrowly missing you.

Your muscles strain with exertion but with the feeling comes a strange sort of relief that only intensifies when Jingliu has you pinned to the pavement, swords previously discarded some feet away with an experienced flick of her hand. You’re both breathless for a long moment and for the first time since her reappearance in your life, you don’t taste smoke in the back of your throat.

The pink of her parted lips is the same shade it was almost a millennia ago. The world blurs and you see a flash of a moment long passed of the two of you in the same position; Jingliu’s smug smile hides the sun from view and the bustle of the training yard resumes the minute her victory is announced. When you blink your way back to reality, only a few seconds have gone by. You stare up into the blindfold, chest heaving. Your fingers hesitantly lift to graze the apple of her cheek. One of them slides under her veil and her hand wraps around your wrist to stop you from going further.

Her name is a breathy exhale past your lips. Her shoulders suddenly tense and her head tilts away from you. The moment breaks as she separates from you, rises to her feet and takes a couple steps back. Almost immediately, Cloud Knights rush to the scene in formation, followed closely by the General and his retainer. You let out a sigh, gaze raising to the clear sky. You lose yourself in its endless blue, a heaviness in your chest, until Jing Yuan’s outstretched hand appears in your vision. Jingliu is gone when you accept his help and stand with difficulty, along with Yanqing and the squad of Knights. Jing Yuan wraps a strong arm around your shoulders, steadying you, and you make your way back in silence.

He doesn’t leave your side even as you step into your home and make a beeline for the bathroom. His arms are crossed over his chest and he leans on the doorframe as you rummage through your cupboards for bandages and disinfectant. You find what you’re looking for after a couple minutes and sit on the toilet seat, lifting your armor over your head and discarding the bloodied shirt underneath. The cut on your left hip stings when you gently inspect it. It’s deep enough that it won’t be able to close on its own but not life threatening. You softly apply disinfectant so it doesn’t get infected, clenching your jaw at the pain.

“You should let the Dragon Lady take a look,” Jing Yuan finally speaks up, “or the Alchemy Commission have other experienced healers. They’ll treat you in minutes.”

You almost roll your eyes. You’ve been patching up wounds before he could hold a sword.

“Pass me the stitches.”

He complies, tossing you the plastic box on the counter. You catch it with a hand. Another silence settles between you as you sink the needle into your skin and tighten the thread, occasionally sucking in a breath. The space lingers with tension but neither of you acknowledges it until you break the thread of the stitches and apply a large bandage over the wound. You sigh tiredly and raise your head to meet his guarded gaze.

“Why did you lie, Jing Yuan?”

He takes a moment to reply. There’s a hint of guilt in his golden irises. “…I thought it to be the best course of action at the time.”

You don’t blame him. The days following Jingliu’s departure from the Luofu are a blur, hidden behind a smoke screen so thick you might as well have forgotten them. You only recall the sting in your throat, raw from how much you cried, and the darkness of your bedroom. Jing Yuan was there, as much as he was able to, so he must remember those days better than you; how shattered you were, like fractured shards of glass swept under the carpet. You can’t fault him for wanting to bring you closure.

You rise from your seat and put back the supplies in their rightful place. Jing Yuan steps aside as you walk out the door and watches you disappear in the bedroom for a change of clothes. You grab the first top you see and shrug it on. You don’t bother fixing your hair, you just make your way back to the living area to put on your boots and grab your discarded sword near the door. Jingliu should have been brought to the Shackling Prison after her arrest, so this is where you’ll go.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jing Yuan says from behind you, making you pause. “We don’t know how stable she is.”

“She seemed stable enough.”

“For now.”

You turn to face him. “Then, why are you here? We both know bars can’t hold her.”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“...I need to do this.”

Jing Yuan only shuts his eyes in defeat and nods once. He doesn’t follow you when you leave the house and shut the door behind you.

You have no issue getting into the Shackling Prison and acquiring Jingliu’s cell number. It’s not a place you visit often despite your position, the memories it holds have a way of consuming you and leaving you clenching your throbbing head. You navigate its somber hallways and silent cell blocks with an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Your steps are swift, determined. You don’t stop to think about what you’re going to say once you’re face to face with her again. Jingliu is being held in a special containment chamber only used for dangerous criminals, with two Cloud Knights standing guard in front of the reinforced steel door. They look at each other when you plant yourself before them.

“No one gets in, General’s orders,” one of them says.

Your relationship with Jing Yuan is not a secret and often opens a lot of doors for you but encountering soldiers eager to please is a common occurrence. You have a few dozens under your command, they’re usually easy to deal with. However, the day has been long and you’re lacking the required patience to do so.

“Take it up with Jing Yuan, then.”

You push past them and they hesitate to stop you, glancing at each other. They grip their lances tighter when you open the door but don’t move as you enter the cell and close it after you.

The chamber is big enough to hold a single bed and a toilet in the corner, though its grey walls make it seem smaller than it is. The room would be casted in total darkness if not for the dim glow of the singular lightbulb on the ceiling. Jingliu is seated on the untouched mattress, legs crossed and palms flat on her knees. Her back is straight, her blindfold in place even in the low lighting, and you seem to have caught her in the middle of a meditation. She doesn’t speak as you stand awkwardly near the door, a hand curling around the handle of your sword in search of familiarity.

A couple minutes pass in tense silence with only the gentle buzzing of the electricity crackling through the lightbulb. You take that time to observe Jingliu for any sign of Mara. The even movements of her chest indicate her calm state of mind. Apart from the veil, she looks exactly the same as she did centuries ago; there’s no trace of the curse on her, and you are suddenly reminded of the first time you noticed her— you were the previous Lieutenant’s apprentice and she was a thin, pale girl haunted by nightmares of burning planets and suffocating fumes. That day, she crossed the training yard with a limp and cuts over her body, shattered sword held tight in one hand. You hadn’t gone out onto the field yet, your master didn’t think you were ready, but Jingliu had and you remember thinking that despite her poor state, she must be stronger than you. She would walk back at the end of each day with splintered and bruised skin and you would sneak her a glance, wondering what enemy she could have encountered this time. She was forced to survive and grew on the battlefield long before you did.

While you both learned the way of the sword, you did it to protect and she did it to cut down the object of her nightmares. Together, you climbed the ranks of the Cloud Knights and surpassed your masters. The burden of war brought you closer and your relationship transformed over the centuries; from comrades, to friends, to the one she went to whenever she craved peace from the visions plaguing her, to something more. You are deeply embedded in each other, her life story is yours and your mind is hers. The Mara curse might twist your perceived memories of her but it could never erase the affection you hold for her. It’s precisely because she means so much to you that thoughts of her have been tormenting you so.

Jingliu raises her head in acknowledgement and you’re brought back to the present with a blink.

“Sending you to interrogate me,” she says with a short exhale, words slow and raw, “how cruel.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

She doesn’t reply, waiting for you to continue. You swallow the emotion in your throat.

“I’m here for closure.”

You take your eyes off her and turn away, facing the blank wall with a hand in your hair. You take in a slow breath and exhale through your mouth as fatigue begins to take over your limbs.

“You don’t get to come back,” you start. “After all those years, you don’t get to reappear and trail all those memories along with you. You said you were seeking atonement from the Alliance. So you remember, then.”

Jingliu is silent for a moment. Your back makes contact with the wall as you sit on the floor with your legs limp before you. You don’t look at her, instead staring at your covered toes.

“…I remember the voices,” Jingliu says softly, “so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. I remember people, the ice… you.” She takes a breath and shakes her head. “I am aware of the hurt I’ve caused, of the sins that cannot be erased. They will follow me until the end, but I cannot let them hold me back.”

“From what?”

“From cutting the heart of a star.”

The turn of phrase transports you back to a drunken evening and Baiheng’s contagious laughter, to the sweet aftertones of fruit in red wine and the flush in Jingliu’s cheeks as she stares at the setting sun. Flashes of that day appear in your mind; Baiheng’s ridiculous dares, your shared competitiveness, Jingliu’s tipsy kisses as consolation prizes. The unexpected memory warms you.

“Revenge, then. Even stricken with Mara, this is what you hold on to.”

“I was never satisfied with letting our enemies come to us.”

That much is true. Jingliu only ever plays the offensive.

Your head turns to face her. “Do you remember us? Even I only recall bits and pieces, now.”

Jingliu’s pointer finger taps her knee for some time. Then her chin tilts to the left, towards you.

“Bits and pieces, yes…” she repeats pensively. You wish you could see the pinch of her eyebrows. “You used to hate losing to me in duels.”

“Of course you’d remember that.”

There’s a hint of a smile on Jingliu’s lips. A light silence descends between you. It’s strange, being in a confined space with someone who you thought long dead; even stranger conversing with Jingliu after everything that went down with Yingxing and Imbibitor Lunae, with Baiheng, and the Luofu’s growth that she didn’t get to witness. You never thought you’d have a chance to see her again, let alone hear her voice speak back to you. Your fingertips twitch with the desire to hold her close.

“I forgot to ask, earlier,” you say, “about the blindfold.”

“It keeps me from seeing that which pulls me under the influence of the Mara. I have pushed past the limits of my mind a long time ago, but… the reprieve it gives me is welcomed.”

“Your will is admirable. Always was.” You think for a few seconds, then speak up hesitantly, “Will my touch be a trigger?”

Jingliu is slow to respond. You see her lips part to let out a sharp exhale and notice the new tension in her shoulders. You feel selfish for needing a semblance of the intimacy you once shared when her mind is so fractured and fickle. The feeling tightens your throat.

“…It shouldn’t.”

Your emotions threaten to consume you as you stand and wipe your palms on your thighs. You take some steps forward, hesitating when you reach the bed. Her head tilts backward as if staring at you through the cloth over her eyes. With a gentleness that surprises even herself, Jingliu uncrosses her legs and outstretches her hand. Your fingertips touch hers and with a flick of her wrist, slowly lace with hers. She pulls you into her, your knees on each side of her hips and your nose in her shoulder; her freezing hands travel over the expanse of your back and her head dips to breathe in the smell of your hair. You pinch your trembling lips and squeeze your eyes shut to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use when you can feel the empty sockets that loss has dug inside of you over the years fill up with tenderness. A quiver runs through you. You feel Jingliu’s shaky breath near your ear as she pulls you tighter into her. Your arms wrap around her with as much emotion and warm tears roll down your cheeks over her frigid skin. Her touch makes you whole again, if only for a moment— she is tangible against you and not a fragment of the darkest recesses of your mind. It would seem unreal if you couldn’t feel the softness of her flesh beneath your fingertips.

“How lonely you must have been,” Jingliu mutters into your hair. You know she relates.

“I mourned you,” you manage to say, voice tight. “I’ve accepted that you’re gone. I won’t grieve any more.”

“Good. Then allow me a proper goodbye.”

You cry into her for a long time. Jingliu simply holds you closer with a hand on your back and fingers buried in your hair. You won’t see her again, she will be tried and judged on the Xuling and will go back to being a ghost of your past years. You only hope that this time the memories will be softer, full of her touch as she cleans your cuts; the curve of her mouth when you whisper good morning into her shoulder; the exhilarating sensation of her lips on yours after an exhausting day of wielding the sword. She remains your strength even as your tears dampen her clothes, with the scent of her around you and her breath in your ears, you feel strong enough to let her go. You lost her to the curse of the Abundance once, but she won’t slip through your fingers now. Regret and shame fade away, replaced by this new warm memory of you in each other’s arms. Her unnatural coldness expands your heart instead of constricting it and you let go of the collapsed buildings and acrid sulfur in the air; there’s only Jingliu’s lingering fondness and her calloused palms on your body. In this confinement cell, you say goodbye to a part of you.

[aww-canon-no]

Floating

The truth is- Steve hates his pool.  He hates his pool because it was the beginning of the end of a lot of things.  He hates his pool because while he never did get to know Barb the way she deserved to be known, a single drop of blood into that cool water...

Well.

Yeah.

He hates his pool.

Unfortunately for Steve, the pool becomes sort of necessary. After getting the shit kicked out of him by Jonathan Byers, then Billy, then getting his ass handed to him by Russians before they drugged him with some concoction that left him at first with ringing ears, then with dwindling tones, the weird little audiogram from his doctor told him that yeah, he was lucky to still be able to hear airplanes and dogs barking.

In short, Steve was deaf.

He hadn’t ever met anyone like that before so it was just easier to try and ignore it.  To nod and smile a lot and pretend like he had any idea about what was going on.  That’s what his parents wanted him to do.

So.

Why not.

They were never home before, but they’re gone even more now that the upside down had tried (and failed- thank God) to swallow Hawkins and left Steve kind of a fucked-up mess both inside and out.  But they’re all kind of fucked-up inside and out so at least he’s not alone.

Steve’s house was spared and the kids come over all the time and have pool parties.  And Robin sleeps over more than she doesn’t, and her favorite thing ever is a morning swim.  Nancy drops in to do laps when she can, just to get a break from the madness that is her life.  Eddie uses the cool water as a sort of self-created physiotherapy for all the pieces of muscle he lost to demo bats.

Steve wants to not hate it.  He wants to say that it’s all fine and he’s making new memories and while they won’t erase what happened to Barb, something good can come of it.

Vertigo has become Steve’s constant friend, especially on what he calls his bad-ear-days.  The pool, oddly, helps.  Not swimming.  The pressure of water in his ears makes him want to die.  It gives him ear-migraines, which might not be a thing, but it’s totally a thing.

But he’s got an old blow-up raft that’s shaped like a donut and bobbing along the water oddly kind of evens out the spins and makes him not want to hoark his lunch up all over the deck.

So he lays there with his eyes closed, simmering in his new silence sort of feeling everything around him differently now that he can’t hear for shit.  He’s usually alone, but this afternoon Eddie’s there.  Eddie who sees way too much.

And it happens while Steve’s floating and Eddie’s soaking and drinking beer.  His eyes are closed and the sun is hot on his face, and then he feels cool fingers playing with the short hairs by his temple.

Steve feels himself rumble a noise- which is probably the most disconcerting thing about his deafness.  It’s not losing the sound of other people- it’s losing the sound of himself.

He as no idea if the sounds he’s making are audible because Eddie doesn’t react.  He just keeps touching.  And God he does that a lot.  Steve’s not used to it.  Touch always had some sort of end game.  Like with Nancy, it used to mean at least making out, if not more.  With the kids, it’s to comfort.  With Robin it’s mostly to get on her nerves because even when he annoys her, he still makes her smile.

But Eddie’s so free with it- without expectations.  He just gives and gives and rarely expects anything back.  Lord, though, Steve wants to give him something.  and he has for a while now.

Steve’s come to realize in the past months that his attraction might not be so...focused on one gender?  He watched Robin struggle with existing as herself, but also so unabashed about it when she felt safe that Steve realized maybe he was just not looking in the right places.  Because he wants to feel that and noticing Eddie’s pretty mouth and clever fingers has made him look a little deeper.

So opening his eyes and staring upside down at Eddie’s grin and his big doe-eyes and feeling his hands in his hair as Eddie scratches along his scalp...it seems important.

Like a Moment- with a capital M.

He sighs, and Eddie tracks the rise and fall of Steve’s chest.

Eddie leans forward and knocks their foreheads together, and Steve breathes him in.  He smells like cigarettes, chlorine, and sunshine.  And he just stays there.  At some point he rumbles out a contented hum which Steve feels rattling around his head, and it makes the dizzies a little worse, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He still doesn’t love his pool, but when he’s like this, he doesn’t hate it nearly as much as he used to.

[saradika]

— BLEED FOR ME | part iv

[masterlist]

mand’alor!vampire!din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 4k

haunted hoedown: vampire!au + “i would burn the world for you.” + vampire has a taste for specific blood + revenge + (one-sided) enemies to lovers (+2 secrets!)

tags: vampire!au, drinking blood, reader has scar on shoulder, shared memories, light angst, din is dracula (castlevania)-coded, realizations and confessions, flash-backs/multiple pov, canon-typical violence and death, revenge

a/n: a massive and heartfelt thank you to @friskynotebook and @againstacecilia who beta’d this chapter and helped me out - you are the best! 🥺💕

It's all white noise. Her voice fading out to nothing, as the word repeats in your mind.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

You think you mumble an excuse. Her hand outstretched, expression worried as you turn - dazed. A tightness in your chest, leaving her sitting as the panic rises, as you all but flee the room.

It's muscle memory that gets you to your room. Your back pressing against the heavy wooden door, as if that alone could keep you safe.

You couldn't be his mate. His soulmate.

There wasn't a mark. The skin on your wrist is bare - that spot of first contact. Where he had touched the night you had arrived, before pulling you to his mouth.

You'd have noticed if his palm bore marks when it had curled around, for they would be reflected on yours, too.

This much you know, at least.

Soulmates were an ancient magic that even the humans knew. Growing more rare, as the years passed. As wars raged and couples were split before they were ever joined.

Your grandparents were soulmates. A chance meeting at a market. Fingers clasped in greeting - the shock when they came back different. Changed, forever.

You used to pull their hands into your laps - to trace the matching, mirrored marks on their skin, when you were a child. Filled with silent thoughts about how lucky they were, to have found each other.

They had been happy.

But how could you be, after everything?

Fennec must be wrong. Perhaps vampire mates were different.

Perhaps it was just the name of your partnership. Perhaps the time that had passed had made you mates of some kind, enough of your blood shared to forge some sort of lasting connection.

You cling to this denial like it's some form of salvation. Of protection.

Time passes, and your breathing slows. You lean into these thoughts. How would Fennec know, if even you didn't? Yes, it had to be no more than a misunderstanding.

If he was really your mate, there'd be a sign. He never would have wanted to hurt you.

But deep, deep down - you know that there's something.

A reason you hadn't felt that urge to flee, when you first saw him. How your hand has stayed, when you could have finished things. Why you can't keep him out of your thoughts and mind.

Why you've softened. It had felt so natural, like winter changing into spring. Something tender blooming in your chest, in spite of the frost.

It frightens you.

There's not much time to contemplate further, before you hear the sounds of boots on stairs. The gait one you've come to know - something sharp and acidic spiking in your chest as you push yourself up.

Rushing across the room to wrench the drawer open - the scrolls scattering across the floor as you rip the hidden dagger and stake free. Holding them defensively against your chest, just as the door opens.

He's there.

It's as if he only just arrived - boots still splattered with mud. His armor streaked with weathered grime and a weariness in the way his forearm braces against the doorframe.

"Cyar'ika." Din rasps, "I'm sorry, I didn't want-"

The words peter off. He seems unsurprised to see you armed, as if his only thoughts are of you. Not what you hold, what you've been hiding.

A long second as he considers something - before his hands are lifting to his helmet. Palms pressing against the curved metal, until it's lifting from his head.

You can't look away, in spite of your distress.

He's achingly handsome, beneath. A puzzle, finally completed with the full curve of his nose. The shape of his cheekbones, where dark hair curls above. And his eyes.

Eyes that seem familiar, eyes that you've seen before-

Finishing his thought, his gaze a heavy weight, "I didn't want you to find out like this."

Your head shakes, "You can't be. We haven't, there isn't a mark-"

He takes a cautious step forward, and you take a large one back. Your hip colliding painfully on the edge of the desk, the chair scraping against the floor as you try to move away from him.

"There is a mark." Din's fingers lift, finding the fastenings of his armor - those maroon eyes still fixed on your face.

Removing his gloves, his gauntlets. Unlatching his shoulder plate, leaving them to rest on the ottoman. Pulling at the knots that attach his sleeves to the tunic beneath.

Baring his shoulder.

He wears a scar like yours. The one that you had gotten that day - when you had thought it had been from when you fell. Patched up with magic, before you had awoken.

It’s a reflection from what you're used to looking down and seeing, curving up his bicep. A smaller, splotchy shape next to it.

It's familiar. You've seen the shape before, etched into the silver pauldron he wears. The design is stylized, but it’s there - you’re not sure how you missed it, before.

"When?" You whisper, eyes fixed on the curve of muscle and skin.

"That morning you've been thinking of." He answers. His voice is different without his mask. Softer, still rich in tone, "When I feed. You go back to it so often."

It twists your stomach, turning you stone-still.

It was real, it was real, it was real-

"Why did you do it?" Your voice breaks over the words, "That town. My home-"

He takes another step closer, and you react like a feral cat. Spitting and hissing to keep away from him, that dagger brandished like a sword. His face is all angles and shadows, sorrow and confusion and so matching yours.

"I was there to help. I was there for you."

Your head shakes, not understanding, "No. You started the fire in the inn. They told me you killed all those people, that vampires ripped apart the houses-"

Nothing was making sense.

"I am strong, but not that strong cyare." His head shakes, "If I wanted to, I could have hurt the townspeople. But there's no reason for me to. I’d never-”

His expression changes into something that tips towards self-loathing, as his words halt. The next comes more slowly.

"I was there, looking for you. I had sensed something when I was nearby-" Din's head shakes, "Your heart. I could hear it. I wanted to see what you were."

Your grip on the stake loosens, drawn in by his words. Another proof of your connection.

"I stayed in the village for two days." He sighs, "And then, I saw you in the marketplace. You were so beautiful and so happy, and it became so clear that this was your home. So I left, instead."

As he moves, there's a clear shot through the doorway. A few minutes ago you would have bolted, but now - now, you find yourself sinking into the chair. Back where this all began.

Remembering that prickle, the hairs on your neck rising, those days before. That feeling of being watched. Nothing more than a brushed-aside moment.

"I left that night. But then, I found myself called back." His eyes fix on yours then - bright, in spite of the long hours away, the days without eating, "I heard your fear and I came."

It feels like you're seeing, for the first time. Bits and pieces through a filtered lens, slowly coming together. But still blurry, enough out of focus that you still can't see the subject.

But how could his story be true? They had warned you not to trust him, didn't they?

You had spent a year fighting with your anger and your grief. You had braved the journey here and lived among the vampires for weeks. All with one goal in mind, and to hear that you've had it wrong is-

It leaves you adrift. A moment where you're more unsure that ever, even though you know more than you ever did.

But deep down, you realize you want to trust him. To believe that he was as good as he seemed. As just - a true ruler, that the way he’s treated you wasn’t simply a ruse.

That he hasn't been playing with you, feigning that kindness for all these weeks.

But where did that leave you? Who could you believe?

"I wish that was true." Your head shakes, voice no more than a whisper, "I really do, Din."

He's silent for a long moment. The creak of his gloves as they curl into fists, as you're both left to your own thoughts. Yours tug at you - curling around your legs, threatening to pull you under and into the abyss.

"I could show you." Din offers, then.

“I could show you what I remember."

His hand extends then, palm facing upright. Reaching out for you to take.

You stare at it for a long moment. Gaze flitting to his shoulder. Across the mark, up the curve of his shoulder, to his face.

"You can see for yourself." He coaxes, and you're able to look into his eyes this time.

To truly see, like you had tried to, so many times before. They're clear, and sorrow swims in them.

Not a monster. Not lying.

You can see for yourself.

Your eyes drop back down to his outstretched hand. And after a long moment… you reach out and take it.

With a jerk of his arm, he pulls you close.

And then - he's biting down.

There's a hunger. A deep ache that gnaws at your bones. You don't know how someone can live like this. Your limited vision filtered through shades of greys and reds and browns.

A flinch as you shield away from the rising sun, even through your layers. It curls into your joints, searing the thin sliver of skin at your neck as you crouch.

Something like an echo rattling through you, as the ground flickers beneath your feet. Faster than you've moved before, the smoke and the buildings and the flames distorting as they suddenly loom into view.

The growl that rips from your throat comes from deep in your chest. It's jagged against your teeth as your senses heighten, as you move through the streets on pure instinct.

Ducking into the shadows as they pass by, in their leathers and the dark cloaks and the strings of garlic that you can smell from here.

If there wasn't such a tugging in your chest you'd wonder at their appearance. The pure coincidence of this convergence. But there's no time, not now.

Time skips, and then you're crouching down. The human that you had watched, now slumped against the low stone fence.

Rubble strewn around her, scattered beneath the collapsed overhand she had tried to dart beneath - just barely making it to the other side.

Skin sticky and red at the temple and the sight of it makes your stomach clench. An urge to catch the drip with your finger, to bring it between your lips and see if it tastes as sweet as you know it does, deep down.

Instead, your hand reaches out - curling around her bare shoulder. Your touch like a brand, as your body flushes with heat.

So strange, with how cold your skin has become. For a second you almost feel as you used to - watching as the the shade of her skin changes before your eyes.

As the small curls of thought in your mind suddenly flourish. That reason you can been drawn, why her pulse had seemed to call to you.

Your chest aches. Again, you wish for more time.

There's none right now. It's easy to lift them, with the strength that came with your transformation. Her head lolling against your shoulder, cheek pressing to the beskar of your chestplate.

Right above your still heart.

Shoulders curl inwards to shield her from the heat as you move through the wooden arch, the beams above in flame.

It licks at you, almost causing you to stumble. Only determination keeps you afoot. Just enough to get you out - down the path again, and into the forest.

You've become fiercely protective.

Something had lingered after your eyes had first landed, but that small spark is nothing compared to the inferno that rages, now.

It takes all your strength to leave her there, in the grove. Where she's safe - the trees so old and twisting and the weeping branches so thick that surely, she'd be undetected.

But it's not all you must do.

Another flicker of images, passing so quickly you can’t catch them.

Bodies in the streets. Homes collapsed, caved in as if struck by a canon. Left shattered, in ruins.

There’s an echoing shout, a shadow as you flit back in between buildings, looking for any survivors.

A weight in your chest at this sight, repeated far too often. Your heart was too tender before now to tear this thorn bush out at the root.

But town is small, and there are none left. Everyone who could had already fled, and those behind were now gone. Left to linger as ghosts, or to move on.

Another flicker, another small leap in time.

A shadow that you don't see, as you move through down the main road. A pain like you've never known erupting in the small space between your pauldron and the curve of your gauntlet.

So close to your new mark that you're striking out, snarling. Your arm weighed down from the slice from the silver dagger - if you had blood to spill your clothes would be stained with crimson.

A stranger looms in front of you now. Flanked by another. Torches in their hand - the glint of the dagger catching in the light, stained with a black ichor from where it bit into your skin.

The second, smaller - hands wrapped around an ancient, gnarled staff.

Vampire Slayers. You can smell their stench. The acrid taste of magic on your tongue, something you ignored in your search.

“We knew you'd come."

The whisper is low, taunting.

“You always do.”

Fury licks at you. Giving you the strength to draw your blade, the black sword a heavy weigh in your hand. A growl in your throat as you lunge at the first - the dagger held in two hands as it collides with your downward swing.

Another, and then another.

The ache is ignored with your dance, the slow circling of footsteps. The second Slayer murmurs an incantation, but is battered away by the first.

“I shall do this." She hisses, with the turn of her head.

The distraction is all you need - a hand fisting in her robes, the sound of ripping cloth. A burst of strength to pull them forward, as your blade pushes in, and then sweeps.

With a rattling gasp, her cloven body crumples.

Your vision swims then - blooming with a light that arcs across the cobbled street, all but blinding you.

Flames burn against your chest, with the collision of the blast. Your armor takes the brunt, as you shake it off. The tilt of your helmet as you face the witch - a step as your blade rises, ready to strike again.

She flees, then. With another swoop of her hand as words slip from her tongue. Bringing the building down, blocking the path with fallen stone and wooden beams.

Trapping you on the other side of the town. Amongst the ruins and the lives that had been ripped apart, in their quest to hunt you down.

Your thoughts swirl, as the edges of your vision go hazy.

It's calculated. It's too much.

There's too many - their footsteps overlapping as they circle around to box you in.

At your full strength you'd survive a battle like this - but even as your grip adjusts on the hilt, you know you can't last under the rising sun and with the burn of the silver.

You can't save them all, but you can save her. Your mate, someone you never thought existed, and now. And now-

You have to.

It's a promise, an sworn oath that sears into your skin. You'll come back-

But when you do... she's gone.

The stake and the dagger clatter to the floor.

It's more than you've ever processed. It leaves you weak, wobbly-limbed when he pulls back. An arm curls around your waist as he holds you against his chest, your fingers clinging onto his armor for support.

You see him in a new light. It’s clear now, you had watched that mark bloom across your own skin.

Captured by the swirl of emotions at the end, that desperation - the way it courses through you like an echo. There had been no animosity towards you, in his thoughts. Only... only...

But something eclipses this tender realization - another repetition, a tightness in your chest as you piece things together. Dread creeping in as the last missing piece clicks into place.

Because you knew those whispers. The tones had been in your own ears, those weeks ago. You knew the faces, the ones that flickered in and out of frame as Din had slipped from the city.

The witch. She had trained you. Had told you she passed down all she knew about the monster that had slain their sister.

"It was them," You breathe. "All along."

"Yes." He answers, simply.

Your eyes drop to the mark on his shoulder. Fingers tracing the edge, before they tug at where the fabric pools - revealing the edge of the swooping scar above his elbow. A deep mark, carved into knitted flesh. A final assurance.

"They told me..." The weight grows heavier, the words hard to speak, "They told me it was you. For over a year they told me all the awful things you did."

The fury that courses through you has you trembling - a firm hand guides you to the edge of the bed, letting you collapse against it.

They had been wrong. They had lied.

It leaves you wondering - just how far did those lies go? Your chest is tight as you suck in a breath, preparing to ask the question with an answer you’re afraid to know.

But you must.

“They said they knew you’d come.” You try to make your voice sound firm. It comes out quiet, in the silent room, “Do you think they knew I was your mate?”

Did they know, and yet still they convinced you? Twisting you, when it became clear you didn’t remember? The thought was cruel, something truly vile.

“No. We are more alike than you know.” His voice is hard, a grit of his jaw, “I am a foundling. I lost my parents to raiders when I was young. Brought up by the Mandalorians, before I was changed.”

You breathe out a sound of sympathy, some of your anger waning at his words. The thought of his loss, how it still so clings to him.

“I wasn’t always a good man, but swore that I would protect others when I became the Mand’alor.”

His words grow quiet, “They used that against me. They must have known I was there, and tried to draw me out. You were just caught in the middle. I am sorry.”

Your head shakes.

It’s not his fault. It’s not yours, either.

“We were both manipulated.”

His head turns, his eyes meetings yours for a long moment. There’s a slow nod of his head, the creak of leather and armor as he shifts, as you make room on the bed next to you.

He close now, enough that you can see the fan of his dark lashes as his eyes shut. A deep inhale, taken by instinct and habit, before they open again.

"I searched for you. For a long time. I just needed to know that you were safe.” Din’s jaw works, lost in thought, “But I wasn't able to track you down.”

Before he’s exhaling that sharp breath - coming back, “It was Fennec’s idea to announce that I was looking for a Companion. She picked people from the area, trying to find out news. I never realized-"

Never realized you had been with them, until your memories flickered in his mind.

"We were hidden." Your words are hollow - remembering the days spent travelling.

They had told you that it was for safety. Incantations murmured to keep the caves and abandoned houses near invisible. Always on the move, never staying for too long.

Sacrifices made for the greater good. They had told you, knowingly. You had thought it meant their lifestyle. The crushing weight of revenge, the awareness of what you must do.

Never telling you just how deep that went. How far they were willing to go to rid the world of their own perceived evil.

Unnatural and vile creatures of the undead, in their eyes. The sacrifice of a few was worth it, to take down a creature with infinite lifetimes. But with their obsession, their hands had become soaked in red. Swimming in it. Drowning.

They'd tried to make you kill the other half of your soul.

And you would have destroyed others with it. Ones that had treated you with nothing but kindness, Boba and Fennec and-

"Din." Your eyes are bright, meeting his. Tears of anger pricking at the betrayal - the force of their actions finally sinking in, "They told me to kill you. I almost did, I wanted to-"

He makes a soothing sound, "It wasn't your fault."

"But what if I had? You're my mate, what if-" The full force of the lies are hitting you now, panic rising in your chest at the thought of the loss.

He had looked for you. He had saved you. Din was your soulmate, and in your anger you had almost-

"Cyare," His voice grows firm, "Your thoughts are so open. I could not make sense of your memories until recently, but I could always feel your doubt."

He absolves you, as he reaches for your hand. Your own fingers curling around, entwining in a perfect fit.

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

His words, his touch, brings comfort. Your grip tightens in his and he meets it with the sweeping of his thumb over your skin. Soothing you, like he always had.

Leaving you both to your thoughts, for a moment longer. For you to focus on the weight in your heart, with just how deeply you have been fooled. As the anger begins to fester, in your long-opened wound. Poisoned down to the marrow.

He had known the beginning, but you knew the end. And together, as the pieces weave together - you think you finally understand.

That picture of deception, now crystal clear.

And you finally believe.

“What happens now?” You hear yourself ask.

Where do you go, from here? Is it too late to start again?

His hand slips from yours, as he stands. The look he gives you is long and solemn, as if he’s committing every detail of your face to memory.

“Now?” Din rasps, a sharp edge to his voice, “Now, I keep you safe. I should have left already.”

He looms above you now, as your hands press against the bedspread. The tilt of his head as his hands brace on his hips, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword.

His anger finally unmasked, with your final realization. Those feelings of protection breaking their way to the surface, sinking it’s claws into his skin.

“Left?” You echo - and you can see it, then - the change in his eyes.

The way your blood, your lifeforce, had infused him - the warm maroon shade shifting towards a bright, blazing crimson.

His lips part in a snarl, baring the points of his sharp canines. As an energy emanates, the room seeming to darken and close in around you.

As he sinks to a knee, all but swearing fealty. Bringing himself down to your level, as his voice drops, each world coming slowly.

“I want to rip them apart. Do you understand? I would burn the world for you, ner runi.”

It’s a confession, his voice so low and so sure. Like this was the only thing that matters, the thudding echo of his emotions jolting through you as you remember his grief at finding you gone.

In this moment, he is the Mand'alor. Beautiful and terrible, and you suddenly understand that fear that the name brings.

And for a second - it thrills you.

Because he is yours.

Because you are his and you never have to be afraid, again.

You nod mutely, and he softens. The ferocity still lingers but the snarl fades - fingers reaching out. Gentle against your skin as he cradles your jaw, mapping the curve of your cheek.

"Tell me that is what you want." His thumb brushes against your skin, achingly gentle. Asking for the permission to protect you, like he had promised.

You know he’d struggle, if you said no. Swallowing down the bloodlust, the guilt at turning a blind eye until it was almost too late.

But he would, for you.

If that is what you wanted. But your anger now has a conduit now, and it burns in your veins.

You know they won't stop, for how many times have they told you that exact thing? Twisted into monsters by their own obsession.

Your chin tips up, as you answer.

“Yes."

Sorry I mixed up the posting dates on this! I was so sure that today was the 28th! 😵‍💫 The finale (and the smut - thank you for your patience!) will be out on Thurs the 31st! Thank you for reading and I hope you liked the reveal! 💖

cyar’ika - darling/sweetheart | cyare - beloved/loved

ner runi - my soul

(Tags: @dameron-grant-spector, @sugadolly, @writingsofestella, @spaceydragons, @-ohsolovely-, @survivingandenduring, @queenquazar, @alitaar, @dindjarinsslut, @creatureoftheunderworldd, @margowritesthings, @your-slutty-gf, @dindjarins-brown-eyed-girl, @lovers-liability )

[spookyquill]

The Thorns in My Heart are For You

Description: a Hanahaki Disease AU, Reader is in love with Dazai and has been for a long while. They were in the port mafia but they left with Dazai

Word Count: 2800

Part 2

Previous Part | Next Part (link)

TW: Blood, mentions of sickness, coughing up stomach contents, head over the toilet, passing out, alcohol

~~~~~~~~

Atsushi brought a different kind of light to Dazai. You watched him as he began hovering around Atsushi, teaching him all sorts of random things and dragging him to witness his events. A kid who should’ve held no mercy for the world, gave such kindness to everyone around him. Maybe he was an influence for Dazai, an ambition for him to follow. Whatever it was, it gave Dazai a different kind of glint in his eyes. 

You watch from your desk as Dazai laughs manically, having just thought up of another plan for an attempt. Atsushi walks gloomily over to you. “Hey (Y/n). Is there anyway you can convince Dazai to stop doing…” He gestures over to the man.

With a sigh, you reply. “Unfortunately no. I can talk to him as much as I can but it won’t stop him from wanting to. As long as someone is always around to help him out afterwards, he’ll be fine.”

Atsushi groans and takes a seat at his desk across from you. “Ranpo mentioned the other day that you and Dazai joined at the same time. Is that true?”

“Yeah.” You smile back at the memory. “We’ve been through a lot for sure, honestly I didn’t even think we’d make it far. But we’re here now, and I’m glad we are.” You look at Atsushi fondly. “You’ve saved him.”

Atsushi tilts his head. “Yeah. Didn’t he tell you how we met?”

You shake your head. “That's not what I mean. I mean that you gave him a new purpose.”

“Oh.” Atsushi looks to Dazai, who has now moved to poking Kunikida, literally. “I have?”

“Yeah. He’s gotten much happier since being here. He still acts the same but it’s… more. Like his smile is bigger, his laugh is more genuine. He seems to have found his purpose. And it’s been ever since he’s taken you in.” 

You hear Atsushi mumble, and barely catch his words. “I don’t think I make that much of a difference.”

You mentally slap him. “Atsushi. You saved him. Literally and figuratively. You are worth more than you think. Besides, everyone here has basically accepted that he’s your father.” You take a sip of your coffee as Atsushi sputters. “Don’t try to deny it.”

Before he can try to form a sentence of rebuttal, Yosano comes up to you. “I’ve been requested for a job nearby. Did you want to accompany me? We could go shopping afterwards if you’d like.”

You nod. “Sure! I’d love that. It’s been a while since we’ve shopped together.”

“Alright. We’ll head off then.” She walks away, her bag hanging from her shoulder. 

As you stand, you feel a familiar tickle at your throat. “Yosano, I’ll meet you downstairs. I’m just going to go to the bathroom.”

Yosano waves, signalling her acknowledgment. You pass Atsushi a kind smile, waving him a quick farewell before you speed walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. 

You barely make it to the toilet before you’re spewing up your stomach's contents. Your lungs heave in pain, adding their own contribution to the mix. Your abdomen pulses in pain at having its muscles involuntarily clenched. It lasts for another minute before you can take a deep breath. 

Despite your arguments against it, you peek into the toilet bowl. 

Flower buds. Some half bloomed. 

“Great.”

~~ Time Skip a few days ~~~

It had been a quiet day. In fact, you had just finished your lunch break and were on your way back to your desk for even more paperwork to file. But something seemed different as you ascend the stairs.

You begin to wheeze about halfway up the stairs, your lungs feeling tighter than usual. It was confusing, normally you’d be able to jog a few flights of stairs before feeling even a little short of breath, but now it was halfway up one flight of stairs and your lungs were heaving. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You seem out of breath. Did you go for a run?” Dazai asks as you reach the office. 

You decide to go with the lie. “Yep! Sure did.”

Dazai hums. “It’s not a good idea to go running before or after food, you know.” 

You take a seat at your desk, taking in as much air as your lungs allow you to before exhaling in a sigh. “I know. But I had energy.”

Dazai is silent for a little while, and you think he drops the topic. But he speaks up once again. “You should let Yosano check you out. You don’t look that good.”

This time, you let out a sigh of annoyance. “She will probably just tell me that I need rest.”

“Maybe you should listen.” Dazai stands up from his desk, grabbing some things off his desk and heading for the door. “Take some days off to recuperate. You’ve been working a lot lately.” He smiles at you before he takes his leave. 

You felt conflicted. In one way you felt that he was discreetly calling you weak for needing a break. But on the other hand you felt that your hard work was being noticed. Strange. 

Before you can think much more about it, your phone chimes with a message. Looking at it, it surprises you who the messenger is. Regardless, you smile.

The rest of the day goes by smoothly. You finish off your paperwork with some spare time left over, so you begrudgingly take yourself to Yosano's office. She of course told you exactly what you thought she would. 

Once you left work, you went home, got changed into a more casual relaxed fit, and headed downtown. It doesn’t take you long before finding the restaurant. You enter, immediately being greeted by a server. 

“Hi! Reservation for Nakahara?”

The server nods and directs you through to the back of the restaurant where a few open booths line up against the wall. 

“Right on time.” Chuuya says as you reach his booth. 

You smile. “Chuuya! It’s been so long.”

Chuuya nods in agreement, sliding over to allow you space to sit next to him. You take the seat, using the position to give your friend a quick hug, relishing in the reunion. 

“How have you been?” He asks as he sets his fedora down on the table. You also take this moment to notice that his mafia coat isnt with him. 

“I’ve been alright. Work was quiet today.” You can feel your lungs heave with uncomfortable familiarity.

“Can imagine it would be. Lot of you working on cases and all that shit. Plus they have a hardworker like you on the team.” He bumps your shoulder, sending you a grin. 

A server quickly drops by a bottle of wine as well as two glasses before bowing and leaving the two of you alone again. Chuuya makes work with pouring the wine. 

“Yeah, but it gets quite boring pretty quickly-” You choke on a cough, phlegm rising up along with the too familiar tang of metal. You’ve been holding it back for so long today, refusing to let out even a small cough into your hand. It’s all been building up, and now your lungs about to force it all out.

Blood splatters over the table at the first cough. You cover your mouth, eyes going wide at the feeling of pressure at your lungs. You can’t even look at Chuuya at the moment. You jerk up from your seat, holding back coughs behind your hand as you stumble haphazardly to the bathroom.

You know you’re disturbing the entire restaurant, probably scaring everyone, but you couldnt give a fuck at that moment. All that mattered was making it to the toilet. 

You barely make it, dropping to the floor and skidding to the bowl, ejecting your body’s contents into it, both from your stomach and your lungs. 

It’s painful, the most painful thing you have ever experienced. Nothing trumps this. It feels like your body is on fire, exploding in white hot pain. Your muscles are too tense, it feels like they’re so tight that a breath of air could break them. You can’t breathe, can’t get oxygen. You feel light headed, it makes your head pound. Your stomach feels like its being squeezed of everything it has in one go, your lungs feel worse. It’s as if there are multiple hands inside your body wringing them of any and all moisture.

It feels like it's been hours by the time you can take a breath of air. You gulp the air, feeling much needed relief for a moment before your body forces another wave of ejection, thankfully this one doesn't last as long.

You feel someone behind you, hands caressing your hair out of your face and rubbing your back. A cascade of voices can be heard as well, one closer to you sounding louder and more aggressive than the rest. 

Chuuya.

You lift your head away from the toilet, opening your mouth wide to let as much air as possible in. Your head leans back, tears dripping down your face. You feel Chuuya pull your head gently to his chest, fingers threading through your hair. The feeling of nausea doesn’t feel so empowering now, so you let your body slump against Chuuyas. 

Time seems to slip by, your mind fading in and out of consciousness. One moment you open your eyes to being held in Chuuya’s arms, some servers surrounding the two of you. Another time you open your eyes to him walking outside with you. Another moment he’s tangling your body to piggy back his on his bike. Another moment passes and your pressed up against him by an invisible force which makes sense once you comprehend the red glow surrounding your body. You feel the wind whipping against your body, your head feeling cushioned by what you can only guess is a helmet. You close your eyes again for a bit longer.

When you open them again, you’re in a warm bed, a lamp dimly lighting up the room, not too harsh for your head. It’s warm, and the bed beneath you is soft, softer then your own. This isn’t your room. 

Chuuya comes into view, placing a damp wash cloth on your forehead. The cold cloth drowns you in relief, your head finally managing to connect with all five senses. Your mouth still tastes horrible, but it seems manageable for the moment. Your ears are ringing and sounds seem to be slightly muffled. The smell of warm chocolate brings to your a pang of hunger, your body desperately needing something to sustain it again. 

You groan, reaching up to Chuuya. “What happened?” Your voice is raw and only brings back the taste of what seems like minutes prior.

“You threw up is what happened. Scared the shit out of me, I nearly took you to the hospital.” He sits next to you, the bed dipping slightly with his weight. 

Carefully, he helps you sit up, situating you so you’re leaning against the headboard. “Why didn’t you?”

He grabs a small bowl of rice and some chopsticks on his bedside table, handing them to you. “You need to eat something, let your body recover what it lost.”

You take the bowl graciously, taking in small bites of rice before repeating your question. “Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?” 

Chuuya stares at you. “Well for one, I’m part of the mafia. Not exactly a place I’m allowed to be at without bringing the place down in fear. And you know the second reason.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“How long have you had hanahaki disease?” He’s blunt, leaving you no room to sneak around it.

You sigh, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to escape him. “Just after I left the mafia.”

“Have you told anyone?” Chuuya asks.

“I’m telling you now.” You cringe slightly, watching his expression go from neutral to shock.

“You’ve been living with it for years and only now are you talking about it?!” He stands up. 

“Only because it’s starting to affect my daily life.” Your voice is but a whisper.

“Oh so you’d prefer no one knows about it? What would you have done if I didn’t find out? Would you disappear and never return?!”

“No I wouldn’t! I just…” You can feel tears start to well up in your eyes. “I just didn’t know how to talk about it. Because everyone would make a fuss over it and try to get the other person to like me. But I don’t want to force it on anyone.”

Chuuya sighs, pacing his room while running his hand down his face. 

“Are you mad at me?” You ask quietly, not daring to look towards him.

You hear him let out a soft groan before he approaches you, gently placing his hand atop your head. 

“I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated that you didn’t at least tell me before you started coughing up your literal lung. But I’m not mad. Which is a surprise for even me.” He says.

You look up at him, tears welling up in your eyes. Chuuya stares at you with compassion, taking his seat by your side once again.

“So. Have you told him yet?” 

You let out a breath of laughter. “Who said I loved a man?”

Chuuya hums. “Well last I checked, Dazai wasn’t a woman. Unless he transitioned last time I saw him. And I’m telling you now, it’s impossible to transition within a week.”

You sigh. “How did you know it was Dazai?”

“You were quite an obvious crusher 7 years ago, and that part of you hasn’t changed. I’m surprised the smartass hasn’t caught onto it himself.” 

“Probably because he doesn’t love me and he doesn’t want to confront me about it.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Or he’s a pussy.”

You fiddle with your fingers as you speak. “Are you going to tell him?”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “Fuck no. That job is for you to do. And I swear to god if you leave it to the last minute I will slap you with your own flower.”

“I won’t. I’ll tell him tomorrow… I guess.” You say, your nerves spiking at the thought of telling him. 

“Good. Now what do you say we order in and bitch about work?” 

The rest of the night is spent in Chuuya’s room, drinking wine and eating takeout until you both end up passing out on the bed.

~~~

This is it. This is the day! Today will be the day you confess your feelings to Dazai. You had a plan and everything. Neither him or you had assigned jobs for the week, it was quiet, most of the agency was off on their own tasks or in their personal office. It would be secluded enough that only the two of you would be in the main room. 

It was perfect. You had been gathering up the nerves to confront him for the better part of 24 hours. Now was the time.

You approach Dazai, a confident smile on your face.

“(Y/n)! I hope you’ve been well. How about you take a week off in tokyo?” He hands you a train ticket.

…

“What?”

Dazai smiles, closing his eyes. “You’ve been working really hard lately. You deserve a break. So I went ahead and organised a luxury trip for you! You get a five star hotel with breakfast in bed. And you get a daily massage for free!”

You honestly didn’t know how to react, a mix of emotions coursing through you. Confusion, shock, disappointment, shame, utter bewilderment. Where do you even begin?

“See! You’re so excited you don’t know what to say!” Dazai cheers as he slings an arm around your shoulder. “Now, you don’t need to worry about anything. I’ve already organised it with Fukuzawa, and I even took the liberty of packing your things for you! All you have to do is take this ticket here and get to that train station!!!” He shuffles you towards the door, manoeuvring you in a way that leaves you no escape from him. 

“I’ll see you in a few days!” And he shuts the door in front of you, leaving you, and Atsushi who just so happened to walk up the stairs at that moment, completely baffled.

Was he mad at you?

~~

He was in fact, not mad at you. He had one of his predictions brewing, and this came clear to you as you exited the hotel bathroom, the toilet flushing away the bloodied petals.

The TV flashed with the news, a reporter standing in front of a green screen which showcases pictures of every single ADA member, including yours, in a wanted poster design.

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

Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated!

[homelanderbutbig]

An Angel Waiting For Him (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1946 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Beginnings of a relationship.

When you first learned about Homelander's weakness to head scratches.

Homelander's been inviting you up to his penthouse more often lately. He's never really had friends before, let alone someone he can trust like you, so you figure he appreciates the company. As Homelander prefers to keep a tight schedule, your near daily visits happen at a regular time. It's become an enjoyable ritual of sorts, getting to see him and talk about your days together.

Truth be told, Homelander isn't sure what to make of you. You are so nice to him, but he's skeptical if he should let you get this close. The only humans he's been attached to are horrible people that he can't bring himself to kill… outside of Madelyn. Even though he loved her like a mother, she not only lied to him but she had been afraid of him throughout their whole relationship. Their entire bond was built on fraud… but he can never remove her entirely from his thoughts. He misses the way she provided him comfort, the way she let him lay his head on her lap… even if it was all just a lie.

During your afternoon break, you decide to spend some quiet time away from your co-workers in Homelander's penthouse. Although he isn't inside, he has given you permission to go there whenever you want. Walking into the tranquil silence of the penthouse, you make your way to the living room to lounge on his oversized couch. You tuck yourself into the corner of the couch, with your back on the armrest for the perfect view to watch the clouds pass by the window.

Just as you begin to feel at ease, you hear Homelander storming into the penthouse. His footsteps are louder than normal, a telltale sign that someone has pissed him off. He plunks himself on the couch next to you, with such a hefty thud that you are shocked his landing didn't catapult you across the room. Tilting his head back, he lets out an exasperated huff as he massages the bridge of his nose.

"Rough day?" you ask, sighing as you sit upright. Whatever uneventful break you intended to have is clearly not going to happen now.

"I can't believe I have to work with such idiots," Homelander grumbles, dropping his hand heavily into his lap. "These fuckers have no idea what I do for them, and yet they think they can treat me like I'm not the one in charge of my team."

"That must be difficult, feeling so used," you say, attempting to console him.

"Yes! Thank you!" he shouts as he raises his hands into the air, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than he intended. "It's like nobody here understands how much I sacrifice for them. I'm just here to say my lines and make them money. I'm a real fucking person! I'm still the captain of The Seven, not them!"

After ending his rant, he looks down at you expectantly, like he is waiting for you to stroke his ego some more. It's what you've come to anticipate from Homelander, the one sure-fire way to bring him out of a sour mood. However, today you came up here for some peace and quiet. Possibly, you think a different tactic can help him unwind too.

"I'm sorry Homelander. I know how frustrating it can be to be treated like that," you say, looking up at him while you scoot a bit closer to place your hand on his thigh. "If there's anything I can do to help, let me know, alright?"

Homelander gawks at you, blindsided by your abrupt changing of the routine. You were supposed to tell him how great he is and how everyone else is wrong, so he could go about his merry way. Instead, your words are bringing up memories of Madelyn, and a thought pops into his head. One that he is uncertain that you would let him do with you.

With a wave of nervousness overcoming him, Homelander averts his eyes from you while clenching his fists and tensing the muscles in his jaw. He's terrible at hiding his feelings; you know there's something tumbling around that big head of his.

"You look like you want to say something else," you remark, giving his leg a gentle pat. "You know you can tell me anything, I won't judge."

"I, um…" he mutters, eye darting frantically before he closes them, trying to steady himself with a deep breath. "I… want to try something… if you, uh… if you'll let me."

"Sure, go ahead," you respond, nodding your head. You aren't quite sure what Homelander is asking for, but your curiosity is piqued.

"O-okay…" he stutters, keeping his eyes planted on the floor. "Just… please… please don't move."

Just as you wonder if you've made a mistake, you watch as Homelander shifts his body lengthwise across the couch to lie on his back. Slowly, he lowers his head into your lap. You're taken aback by the sheer size and weight of his head, which is so large it's practically overflowing on your thighs. It almost feels like you have a big fat cat lying on you, if not for the incredible anxiety you feel emanating from him. He looks like he's scared out of his mind, completely regretting this decision and just wanting to get up and leave. And yet, at the same time he is still like a statue, waiting for you to make the first move.

Trying to comprehend what he wants, you absent-mindedly start petting Homelander's hair, as if your brain is on auto-pilot and it believes the giant head in your lap really is just a fluffy cat. Lo and behold, you begin to understand what he was asking for as his stress evaporates from your delicate touches, his eyes fluttering shut as he sinks further into your lap. He lets go of a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, and further nuzzles himself into your hand.

From your first moment alone with him, you've learned how affected he is from simple touches. How he practically bulldozed you when he tried to lean his full body weight into your hands, like he was chasing after something he had missed his entire life. It was something that bewildered you; you've only ever heard Homelander speak of this perfect childhood and family he had, why would he crave affection so heavily?

When you start running your nails along his undercut, you are surprised to hear Homelander start keening, albeit very inaudibly. He's clearly enjoying your attention, but it's obvious to you he's fighting to stay quiet. Unexpectedly, one particular scratch along his scalp causes him to loudly whimper from the pleasure. He immediately freezes, and stares at you with the widest eyes you've ever seen. 

"I-I'm sorry…" he stutters, tears forming as he attempts to hide his face in your chest. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm s-sorry," he continues to repeat, eyes squeezed shut like he is terrified that he will be punished. Madelyn forbade him to make such pathetic noises on her lap, and she would only allow these 'sessions' when he obeyed her every word. He expects you will be the same.

"Hey, it's okay Homelander," you reassure him, still petting his hair. You hate seeing him so upset, especially when he hasn't done anything wrong. "That just felt good, right?"

Sheepishly, he nods as he turns slightly to peak at you with one timid eye, as if his entire existence is hanging in the balance of your next words.

"You don't have to apologize for enjoying that," you soothe him, using your thumb to wipe away his tears. "I'm happy that you're happy."

Homelander can't believe what he is hearing. Nobody has ever truly cared about his welfare before, and wanted him to just be content. Even Madelyn was only playing with his emotions to use him for her own personal gain. She never really cared, she just wanted to control him. It almost makes him feel stupid, placing Madelyn on such a high pedestal when there was an angel waiting for him this entire time.

He practically purrs as you resume scratching his scalp as you were before, except without this cloud of dread that was hanging over him. The fear Madelyn instilled in him to hide his satisfaction has miraculously dissipated, purely because of you. You, and your enchanted fingers, somehow adept at locating all of the sweet spots that he can't help but mewl at. Homelander nearly becomes overwhelmed by you, gripping at the couch's wooden frame so strongly you swear you can hear it splintering. There is something amazing about having a godlike superhuman giant whimpering in your lap, exclusively from the affection you give him.

Eventually, your fingers start to tire from the force you used in your scratches. As you go back to lightly petting his hair, Homelander opens his eyes to see you looking down at him with such care. The way you smile so sweetly at him is intoxicating, unlike how anyone has ever looked at him before. You are special. He wonders if you even realize that you are so far above the rest of the mudpeople.

Homelander rubs his head lightly into your chest, still keeping his vision focused on you. Compared to how frustrated he appeared when he first sat down, he now looks so serene, totally calmed by your tenderness. As you observe him, you begin to wonder something.

"Say, Homelander…" you start. He gives a light hum, noting that you have his attention. "How did you know I was up here by myself?"

"I could hear your heartbeat," he explains simply, still nudging at your chest. "It's the only one I listen for… It's… it's nice."

You aren't sure how to take that. Nobody has ever complimented you on the sound of your heart before. In a weird way, you are grateful that at least someone at Vought is keeping an eye out for you.

"When you were mad earlier… did you come up here just to see me?" you question, hoping to break through his real intentions of meeting you alone outside of your regular ritual.

Even though Homelander doesn't answer you, the ashamed way he avoids your gaze is enough for you to figure out his response. Somehow, you've become more than a friend to him; you're someone he wants to help him feel better, someone he trusts to take his hurt away. It's so sweet you can't stop yourself from smiling.

"Thank you," you say, caressing his cheek. When Homelander shoots you a confused look, you gently laugh.

"For trusting me, you goof," you grin, leaning down a bit nearer to his speechless face. "I'm happy that you're comfortable with me to talk about stuff that bothers you. I know how hard it can be to feel so alone."

"And if you want me to help you relax like this again," you remark, as you boop his nose with your finger. "I don't mind. I'm just glad to help."

Confounded by your genuine kindness, Homelander can feel himself start to cry again. He wishes he could hug you right now, but his whole body feels like it's been cemented in place, unwilling to move from this blissful position. All he can muster is to bury his face into your warm chest, relishing the comforting sounds of your pulse. Not even Madelyn's lap felt this welcoming, it's like your entire being is perfection.

"You're welcome Homelander," you tell him, bending down a bit further to give his head an awkward hug. "As long as you let me, I'll be there for you."

[matchavellichor]

Warm Blood on Cool Marble

dark!Sebastian Sallow x f!MC - Angst - 2.2k words - ao3

A/N: I saw this lovely artwork by @tamayula-hl SO long ago and it's been living in my head rent-free ever since. Enjoy the terribly dark word vomit!!!

Summary: Casting an Unforgivable on his friend one fateful night in Slytherin's Scriptorium awakens something ravenous inside of Sebastian.

Tags: !!Violence!!, Sadism, Cruelty, Sebastian is not Nice, Dark Magic, Blood Rituals, Rough Kissing, Deliberate Use of Crucio, Minor NSFW

Pain spreads in tendrils under her skin. White-hot. Burning scorch marks into her bones, then underneath—into the very marrow, until it seems as much a part of her as the fibers of her soul. It swallows her whole with the intention to devour. 

Time easily escapes her under the influence of the curse, seemingly eternal. Only when it abruptly lets up is she distantly aware that it must have only been a few seconds. 

Despite this, her nerves ache with the memory—muscles twitching, breath coming in heavy pants against the flagstone floor she’s bracing herself against. 

Ominis has just enough time to kneel beside her before she’s retching onto the stone, agony still a broiling mess in her stomach. He holds her hair back and she can feel the anxiety in his clammy hands, in his hushed words she can barely make out over the ringing in her ears.

Sebastian is deadly silent.

She composes herself enough to blink back the stars dancing behind her vision and glances up to find he’s deadly still, as well. Frozen in place. Staring.

His wand is held loosely in his hand, his lips parted just enough to suggest surprise, as if a revelation of some sort has been made. A revelation of what she isn’t sure, as she’s certain it isn’t his first time experimenting with this specific Unforgivable.

Ominis is still fretting over her condition right beside her, his hands squeezing hers as if he can wring the trembling out of them, siphon the pain out. Her focus is drawn elsewhere. Magnetized to the expression Sebastian’s features are pulled into.

There’s a glint in his eyes, dark and pooling like warm blood on cool marble. A look that’s somehow familiar, that she tries to press down on with her thumb. Keep still long enough to decipher.

He takes a sharp breath, his irises catching the dim light of the wall torches, and it’s like they flash scarlet for a brief moment. Amber morphs into garnet right before her very eyes, gone as quick as she catches it. 

She does catch it though.

Right there, is a vicious kind of yearning. Violent, greedy desire. Something grasping, clawing, gnawing. Avarice, in all its sheer, ugly inhumanity. 

It burns bright in his eyes and knocks all of the wind out of her lungs. She staggers back and dry heaves and Ominis is on her again, blanched with worry. 

“I’m taking her back,” he says as helps her to her feet, and his tone is clipped, angry. Infuriated with Sebastian’s apparent indifference. “Explore your dearly coveted scriptorium alone. I hope it was worth it.” 

She wishes she could tell him that Sebastian is anything but indifferent at the moment, but her throat can’t get any words out. The clarification wouldn’t do him any good, anyway. She knows that apathy would be worlds more comforting than the rapacity that burns in his eyes now.  

She lets Ominis sling her arm around his neck and help her out of the chamber. When she glances over her shoulder, Sebastian has moved already, disappearing into the opened vault. He doesn’t turn to look back at her. 

//

She isn’t sure who is avoiding who. If it’s the simmering fear inside her that instinctively keeps her away from him or if it’s he who intentionally hides himself. His absence shouldn’t eat away at her as much as it does, and yet it tears her apart from the inside out, swallows her whole.

Ominis is more livid than she is, holding a bitterness that causes him to push Sebastian away just as ardently as the brunette isolates himself. It’s unhealthy, especially as she considers what he must be spending his time doing now that he’s had access to Salazar’s writings. Either Ominis lacks the foresight or simply the energy to try to dissuade him any further.

Concern wracks her nerves. Despite her efforts, she’s only afforded brief glimpses. Any time she approaches him working in the desolate corners of the library, he tucks his notes away quickly, refuses to meet her eyes. 

She wishes she could pretend his aversion to her is a product of remorse. She can’t. Rejection digs sharply in her chest, until it hurts more than the fear she still subconsciously harbors for him. 

Only then, does she follow him.

//

The Feldcroft Catacombs are dark and frigid. She stumbles through scattered bones with the faint light of her lumos, picks her way through cobwebs and corridors. Nearly impales herself with a snapped femur she falls on top of. She wipes off her scraped palms and continues on, determined. 

Eventually, pain-stakingly, she reaches the chamber he’s in. It’s barren, save for the glowing light of his wand and the stone dolmen in the center of the room. 

The stench of dark magic is so heavy she nearly gags from it. It permeates her senses and she can almost feel it sink into her very being, wear down her soul just from proximity. He stands hunched over the stone table, back turned to her, working fervently. 

Her shoes scuff against the stone floor and he turns quick as lightning, wand outstretched, a curse on the tip of his tongue.

His eyes burn when he catches sight of her. She ignores the instinctive, primal, screaming urge inside of her to run. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” There’s more desperation in his voice than she would’ve anticipated, and if she stretches it, hazes her perception, she could almost pretend he sounds remorseful.

Her eyes comb over the runes drawn in scarlet on the table, the glowing artifact in his hands. There’s blood dripping down his forearm, oozing from the cut on his palm. Blood magic, she catalogs briefly. Something obscure and archaic.

Her heart seizes violently in her chest when she lets her eyes drift up to meet his again. “What have you done?”

“What I had to,” he whispers, and his tone is resigned. “There’s no use in trying to stop me. It’s already completed.” 

She takes a step closer and he reciprocates a step back, presses himself against the stone mantle. It’s ironic, how he almost seems scared of her. Jarring. She tilts her head and studies him. 

“Leave,” he seethes, so vicious it’s startling. The words bitten out through clenched teeth. Still, she notices the lilt buried deep beneath it. The waver in his voice. The tremor in his hands. She’s never seen Sebastian so terrified.  

“You know I won’t,” she says, and takes another step closer. He tries to inch away again, but there’s nowhere for him to go so he only glares at her, tightens his grip around his wand, stiffens his position. 

She stalks towards him until his wand digs into her chest and he’s staring down at her with widened eyes. She turns her gaze to the artifact in his hands. 

“Let it go, Sebastian,” she says, gentle, like she’s cornering a scared animal. With blood dripping down his palm and his eyes round saucers, he truly looks like something savage. Unfettered. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? Please. We’ll destroy it together.”

He shakes his head fervently and holds it farther out of her reach. “Don’t you dare. Don’t come near it.”

There’s a moment frozen in the air between them. Caught in the live-wire tension, swirling in their shared panting breaths. She isn’t certain of anything other than the fact that she needs to put an end to this.

She lunges for the relic. 

It tumbles out of his hand with a dull clatter, and she immediately dives for it, sinking to the floor. He doesn’t follow her down. 

Her fingers are barely able to brush the jagged edge of it before debilitating pain sears up her nerves and white explodes behind her eyes. 

Immediately, she jerks back sharply, her body curling into itself as she writhes. She’s distantly aware of the fact she’s screaming herself hoarse. 

This… this is different than before. 

Infinitely more intense, more intentional. If she had ever known passion before—by any definition of the word—it pales miserably in comparison to the zealous onslaught she feels now.

She can feel the way the darkness around them feeds into it, entwines itself with his magic, stokes the flickering flames of his cruelty until it’s all-consuming. Until she’s certain she’ll be reduced to ash when he’s done with her. 

When he finally relents, he’s hovering over her. His eyes are fixed on her face, and she catches that glint there again. How voracious he is, utterly starved. She tries to move her muscles but they feel like they’ve been flayed, tendons and sinew cut away for him to prod and gawk at.

“How did it feel?” he whispers, voice feverish with fascination. There’s an unrestrained quality to it, something deranged seeping through the cracks. 

He moves over her when she tries to squirm away, straddles her hips. His eyes are still drinking in every drop of her, trained on her face, on the faint twitching in her arms. She takes too long to blink back to full lucidity and he squeezes her cheeks in his hand, gives her a shake. Blood streaks her chin and she nearly becomes sick from it.

“Get yourself together,” he grits, tone dripping with appetent impatience. “Tell me. Tell me how it felt. Or has it already escaped you? Do you need a reminder?”

“No, no, please—”

He grins then, teeth bone-white and all knives.

“You don’t have a clue, do you?” he murmurs. “How beautiful you sounded screaming for me. Writhing under my wand. My magic.”

He’s close. She feels his breath on her lips and it smells like copper, makes her gut twist violently.

“It was even better than in the scriptorium. God, how I despised myself for enjoying it so much then,” he leans in until his lips ghost the shell of her ear, voice lowered to a whisper. “For touching myself to the thought afterward.”

He shifts his hips against hers and she feels it— the stiffness pressed to her stomach, equal parts dizzying as it is nauseating. His hunger for her is in every possible meaning of the word, wolfish, insatiable. 

His breath is hot at her temples, words scorching. “Tell me, did you feel me then? Feel me inside of you, as strongly as you did just now?” The fervor in his voice is thick, palpable, so much so it’s a miracle she doesn’t choke on all the vigor of it. “Through the searing pain, did you feel nothing but me?”

Tears burn a path down her cheeks before she can stop herself, but she’s too sore to feel properly mortified by them. Just as quickly as they marr her skin, they’re swiped away. 

Replaced with the wet drag of a tongue. 

She whimpers, squirms away, but he holds her steadfast. Rambles more insanities, voice scathing against heat-flushed, saliva-slick skin.

“You know, I thought that once I saved Anne, I would be done. I would leave this all behind. But now,” he chuckles, rasping deep in his chest, something maniacal. “There’s so much overwhelming beauty in it all. So much rapture. How could I ever give it up? How could I ever let this go?”

She forces herself to blink away the stickiness in her lashes, to meet his eyes, see him for what he really is. The glowing relic fallen just out of reach casts his face in an incandescent indigo, portent and foreboding. 

Through the deep blue, his eyes glint blood-red. 

Not a flicker, but something permanently changed, something intrinsic to him now. The sight nerves her to her core, sends a shudder up her spine. 

He surges forward and swallows whatever gasp she intended to let out.

His lips on hers are vicious, punishing—and she wonders if he’ll ever be able to be anything but. He licks into her mouth with long, hungry strokes, runs his tongue along her teeth, bites mercilessly until he tastes metal. Her mouth pools with scarlet and he doesn’t bother soothing it, instead groaning deeply in triumph. 

The shock of it all dislocates something in her, makes it so easy for her to offer up whimpers against his mouth, for her to let him brutalize her so wholly. He takes it as permission to tear her open, grope bruises into her skin with his wandering hands.

He squeezes her chest so roughly she chokes on a sob, rakes her nails down his forearms. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as if the sound makes something heavy inside of him twist. Ache. 

When he finally breaks away from her he’s grinning. Lips kiss-bruised and swollen, pink-tinged saliva on his chin. He stares for a drawn out moment, as if committing the way she looks to memory. 

As he unmolds his body from hers, she struggles desperately to catch her breath. She’s still dizzy, even after he’s collected himself, even after he’s on his feet tucking his notes back into his satchel and the relic’s safely back in his hands. 

He watches her for another long moment and she’d almost mistake the look in his eyes for fondness. She catches herself. There’s too much voracity behind his gaze for it to be anything remotely tender. 

His breaths are just as ragged as hers as he leaves her there, on the floor, tremors still wracking her body. Before he slips out of the chamber, he stills. Turns to look back at her one last time. 

Strangely enough, it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. 

[bonny-kookoo]

Bonnie can we maybe have a Heart Shot drabble of OC having glimpses of her past (maybe as a nightmare) and loveboy and pink haired boy comfort her (◕ᴗ◕✿)

First drabble ever omg 🥺

When Jimin walks into the apartment of Jungkook, he's greeted by the lights still on, and both you and the younger male still very much awake.

Surprising, because it's 2 AM.

"Why are you two still up?" Jimin asks as he finally let's his guard down for once, setting his gun down on the table near the door before he slips out of his shoes and jacket.

"She can't sleep." Jungkook says before you can argue against revealing it, making Jimin sit down next to you on the other side on the slightly worn down sofa.

"Why's that?" Jimin wonders, watching the way you hold your almost empty mug of what he assumes must be tea. Jungkook hoards all kinds of tea in his home for every ache and pain- from muscle ache to stomach cramps or sleeplessness, he always has some sort of remedy on hand it feels like. "And don't hit me with some 'I couldn't sleep without you' bullshit babe, we all know that you love naps." He chuckles, trying to ease the clear tension in your body.

It doesn't work, and that alone makes him more serious.

"I just.. don't want to." You mumble down into your mug almost, Jungkook running a comforting hand up and down your back. He doesn't know either why you refuse to rest, having almost fallen asleep standing upright today because you apparently didn't sleep last night either.

"I don't buy that." Jimin denies. "Spill it. We can't help you if you don't tell us." He presses, and it takes a good moment of silence before you quietly speak up.

"I'm having.. nightmares." You reveal. "But.. they feel too real to just be.. imagination."

"Oh.." jungkook hums towards you in empathy, knowing full well what you must be talking about. "I can.. I'm not sure actually what to do.." he says defeated, looking over at the older male in search of help.

Even yoongi can't just delete the memories for you, because your brain is painfully human and biological. You'll have to accept and work through those memories at some point, one way or another.

"You're safe, no matter what you might dream of." Jimin urges surprisingly gently this time around. "I know it's hard, but from now on, whenever you dream, and you're scared- remember one thing;" He tells you, turning your face a but so you look up.

"When you wake up, we'll be here." He says, and at that, you nod, tearfully, but a little reassured.

And they both keep their promise, because no matter how often you wake up startled by whatever memory has decided to infiltrate your dreams-

They're there.

Always.

[ptergwen]

could you maybe do one where peter accidentally climbs into the readers window after a long night of being spiderman but then watched the reader sleep and immediately falls in love?

ask box  |  taglist  |  blurb masterlist  |  main masterlist

w/c: 615

warnings: literally just one mild swear

a/n: aw pls i can so see him doing thisssss and y’all have been killing it with these requests lately so thank you sm and happy reading <3

peter can hardly keep his eyes open as he climbs the wall of his apartment building. he’s just finished spider-manning for the night, and he’s exhausted. patrol has been busy lately. a long and loud yawn escapes him, his eyes beginning to droop closed. he can’t even be bothered to keep them open as he crawls up the wall.

relying solely on his muscle memory, which is enhanced thanks to his spider abilities, peter stops when he reaches his bedroom window. or, what he guesses is his bedroom window. he pushes it up, then the screen, then squeezes himself inside and lands on the floor with a thud.

peter pulls off his mask and makes a beeline to his bed, only to find that someone is already in it. he can’t see who because they’re facing the other way. his tired mind must be playing tricks on him. he rubs the sleepiness out of his eyes, but when he opens them, they’re still there.

“what the hell?”

he takes a look around his room to make sure everything else is still in order. his confusion only grows upon doing so. none of his furniture or decor is here, it’s all been replaced by someone else’s.

the logical part of peter’s mind then kicks in. this isn’t his room, it’s yours. he must have stopped a window too early… or too late. either way, he’s in the wrong apartment. so much for his enhanced senses.

peter slaps his forehead with a gloved hand, mumbling to himself.

“stupid, so stupid. why would you-“

you start to stir. you switch to your other side, smushing your face into your pillow. the sight of you instantly melts peter’s heart. even though he can only see part of your face, you’re so pretty. his eyes become doe-like, lips parting in awe of you.

peter comes closer and crouches down in front of you. he tries to make out every detail of your face in the darkness of your room. he knows it’s wrong, and sort of creepy. he shouldn’t even be here. he can’t help himself, though. and, it was an honest mistake.

the best mistake.

you hum in your sleep, and the sound of your voice is music to peter’s ears. he coos quietly.

“gosh, you’re cute.”

peter wonders how he hasn’t seen you around the building before. he would definitely remember if he had. he needs to meet you, has to, but preferably when you aren’t asleep. the only problem is he doesn’t know who you are, or anything about you for that matter. he doesn’t even know your name.

but karen might.

peter puts his mask back on and awakes his artificial intelligence.

“karen?”

“yes, peter?”

“could you identify her?”

“yes, peter. stand by for biometric scan.”

karen uses the identification software built into peter’s spider suit.

“individual identified. y/n y/l/n, no known aliases. her information should be displayed above.”

your name, a photo of you, and the rest of your basics are assembled into a profile for peter to access.

“thanks, karen. you’re the best.”

“you’re welcome, peter.”

peter makes sure to save your profile. he yawns again, and it’s then that he remembers how tired he is. he should go before he wakes you, anyway. he’d hate to disturb your sleep.

he slowly rises to his feet and starts to back away from your bed, heading to the window. he jumps up onto the windowsill, grabbing at the window frame to balance himself and turning back to take one last look at you. you’re still fast asleep, and absolutely angelic, cuddled into your covers. peter can’t wait to meet you properly.

“see you later, y/n.”

tags: @mystic-writings @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lnmp89 @jenoslov @crvshnburnn @yourlocalomlette @starlight-starks @belovasheart @liltimmyst @eviewriites @hollandsangel @parkerctrl @eichenhouseproperty @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @varshhyy @ellebutnotwoods

(join my new taglist!)

[lazaruspiss]

Do you know what side effects of the pit are actually canon

Typically it's safer to assume no on most pit side effects. Or ask yourself "do people also say this about Talia, Ra's, etc or is this just a Jason fan thing"

Red Hood: Lost Days is your best bet for clearing up what's canon vs fanon in terms of Jason's resurrection, but I'll try and summarize the important bits.

1) The pit is not what brought Jason back. A superman from an alternate timeline punched the timeline itself so hard that it accidentally revived Jason.

2) Jason ended up in a hospital for a while before he escaped and wandered the streets for five months. He doesn't have any memories aside from his muscle memory, so he can fight but not much else. He can't communicate at all and only reacts to things to defend himself or to manage physical needs.

(Side note. Talia cares so much about him it makes me wanna cry.)

3) Ra's tells Talia this is over. He thinks Talia's attempts to save Jason are part of a desperate attempt to make Bruce love her, and tells her it's over. This is when Talia resorts to using the pit. Jason is alive, mute, doesn't seem to remember much, but still showed extremely small signs of recognition. I do think Jason could have eventually recovered naturally under Talia's care. He would have still been disabled to some extent and his progress would be excruciatingly slow, but it does seem like it would have been possible if Ra's hadn't cut it off.

4) After bringing Jason to the pit Talia guides him to make a break for it. She has him take a survival kit and run into the river in order to escape Ra's' anger. Ra's is the first instance of anyone implying the pit made Jason mad, and Talia immediately shoots him down and says it has had no such affect. Ra's is also speaking out of anger and giving Talia a hard time. I wouldn't take his words about it seriously.

5) Jason does not go "mad". He is mad. Because his murderer is alive. He is not irrational. His reactions are not disproportionate or unusual. After the pit restores his brain functions he is incredibly strategic. Even through the grief he is thinking and planning. He never acts on blind rage, pit induced or otherwise.

But that's just the New Earth timeline. Prime Earth/N52 gave him magic resistance or something. Unrelated to the pit he also seems to have just learned some magic. He can do a magic punch and summon swords that can only be used on beings of pure evil.

Gotham Knights is the funniest one. They needed a fast travel method for him for gameplay reasons and gave him magical bunny hops. GK has the most shit going on with the lazarus pits:

1) repeated use gradually drives you nuts. Jason is fine, Talia is a bit wacky, and Ra's is completely off the deep end before the game even starts.

2) the fast travel abilities are still funny. Talia can turn into mist and Jason can do magic jumps.

3) Jason got magic punches and Talia can do all sorts of fun magic attacks.

4) the pit magic reacts to Jason's trauma/panic attacks, but still doesn't seem to cause them or any other emotional reactions. Even the fanon pile that is GK doesn't have pit rage.

[swords-of-a-soilder]

“And, what are you Philza?”

Missa had heard from his own son that a deity Name Rose has been watching over them, He then hears from Phil that he was reached out to another God before. That sparks the question "what are you?"

Missa rocked his legs back and forth as he sat on the edge of the tree house, with an anxious face he stared down at the Structure below him.

A kizbo of sorts surrounded by pilers, literal with roses. Mainly he focused on the floating chest in the center, that aperrantly served as a communication route.

He hadn't spoken to the deity yet, he was terrified of accidental offending her, he much rather thought his words out before Putting anything in the chest.

He would soon take note of Phil's approaching footsteps, though he wouldn't turn to meet him; Phil soon seated himself next to Missa, observing the worry look on his partner's face.

"So, this is probably a lot right now." Phil started, "If you have any questions I'd be more than happy to assist!"

Missa keep his gaze on the chest, in regards to questions he had many; he honestly wasn't even sure where to start but feared his silence would worry Phil.

Thus upon hearing Phil let out an patience sigh, he felt compelled to say something. "Who.. Who is she?" He finally asked

"Right, I'm going to simplify this for you." Phill began

"ok?"

"Rose is my Spawn entity, I was reincarnated into that world after I died in my previous one." He leaned forward clasping his hands as he too stared down at the chest. "And I wasn't sure if it was real to be honest; I thought those spaces in-between were just dreams, but her and the um end king found me so.."

"And the End king is another deity?"

"Not a good one."

"oh?!" Phil would regret mention the End kings name, once he noticed the fear in his partners voice.

"But you don't have to worry about that," he clearifided, "Rose will protect us."

"Ok.. and what did you mean by in-between spaces?"

"in-between worlds..the..where I..where Rose spawned me, they were different layers that lead between different worlds and.. how do I break this down.."

Missa finally looked up at Phil, he'd observed him seemingly rock his brain for a quick explanation. Eventually Phil pulled his backpack closer and ramaished through it, he then pulled out a tres leches cake.

"Ok, so." He pointed to the top of the cake, "imagine this is where I spawned, even though I exist up here I can still go," he moved his finger back and forth between the other layers, "between the other layers through void rips and the entities they can go wherever they want basically."

"Mm si.." Missa agreed, "and how did you get there?"

"Missa, Rose spawned me in."

Missa regret his choice in words once he picked up on the slight annoyance in Phil's tone, he didn't mean to make him repeat himself, it was just difficult to find the right words.

"I mean, why, for what reason did Rose put you there?"

"oh," he relaxed his muscle, "well I died in my old world, I guess she wanted to give me a second chance, it wasn't the first time something like that happen." Phil broke of a layer of the tres leches cake then hand it off to Missa, whom appected it grateful.

Phil tilled his head as he thought briefly to himself, "that's not that strange right? We respawn here."

"yes but, you come back as yourself in the same world you died in and they're circumstances where you just won't come back." Missa explained.

He then broke a piece of the cake which he popped in his mouth, "Sólo estoy tratando de entender las reglas". He explained with a full mouth.

Phil shurgged his shoulders, then processed to pick at the remainder of the cake. "It's pretty much the same, just over different worlds."

"you don't even have any childhood memories, Cellbit Y bagi Crecieron en esta isla, ¿Qué pasa contigo?"

"I don't really have any childhood memories." Phil explain, his eyes slowly swing to the opposite direction, it was clear he was uncomfortable with the direction of the questions.

Missa had half a mind to drop the conversation all together, but as much as he loved his husband he knew nothing of him, where he came from, why he came here; If he was allowing questions this would be the best time to ask right?

"Philza, please take no offense to the question I'm going to ask." Missa requested

Phil released a nervous chuckle, "um..ok?"

"What excalty are you?"

"What do you mean..?" He adjusted his position to sit upright, "I'm a bird mate, birdman, crow Father whatever those fuckers." He pointed to the crows seated in the branches about him. "Call me."

Missa stared at the crows briefly before turning his attention back to Phil; annoyance now painted Phil face, yup he was certainly sleeping in the petting zoo this time. "I think what I meant to ask was, Where did you originally come from?"

Phil's face went through a sequences of emotions, from annoyance to curiosity, then to confusion and horror as he became awear of one painful fact.

"You don't have to answer, don't worry about it. Lo siento, fue una pregunta extraña."

"I don't know..." Phil finally answered, "I've just always existed, I've never thought about it.."

'Ay dios mío, I married a God', Missa thought to himself as he processed Phil statement, of course Phil called it reincarnation but to have no memory of a childhood and just existed in different times, then he was more akin to a God than someone who just happened to remember his past lives.

A rather tragic God at that, if he couldn't remember his origins, but no normal being just exist without any memory of where they came from.

"is that unusual?" Phil inquired

"Ah, I just wanted to know." Missa successful dodge the question, "we're married and I don't know anything about you, it's not fair you know haha.."

Phil stared at his partner, it was true he knew very little of him and even after Missa had told him so much about himself, why he frequently went on journeys who he was before that.

Yet the only explaination Phil had for himself was, he always existed; he couldn't help but feel awful for his unsatisfactory answer. He leaned forward letting he arms rest in his lap, he himself then glared at the floating chest below them.

"You should talk to Rose, I want you to meet her." Phil attempted to change the subject.

"ha, I'm really worried I'm gonna offend her." Missa admitted, he couldn't help but feel this was like meeting the parents, and if that's true then he really didn't want to fuck up.

"Nah mate, Rose is really hard to offend, she'll love you.. I'm sure of it." Phil ended with a sad smile.

They sat there a little longer, feeling the cool wind as well as Indulging on the sweet smell of roses; perhaps he'd ask Rose for advice on how to communicate better with his husband.