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reiven2017 · 3 years

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Delicate steel.

Chapter 2.

Raven wondered for a long time when this happened.

Her morning started quite early, but all she remembered was how, having discovered the opportunity, she immediately slipped out of the house and was about to walk, as at the most inopportune moment she was overtaken by a panic attack.

As if this is the right time.

She remembered only how at one moment it became dark in her eyes, and oxygen stopped flowing into her lungs. It was happening so violently and swiftly that Raven felt like she was dying. Fear slowly settled in the very center of her chest and that's it. One slightest fear filled her entire body. She remembered how she sank onto the wet asphalt, her body, legs, arms, head ceased to obey her and she was unable to stand on her feet. The breathless fit continued and seemed not going to stop and Rachel lost hope for a split second. She did not remember how much time had passed and how long she was already on the side of the road, when she caught the movement next to her, and then she was smoothly put on the curb. Raven was still tossing between panic and reality, but she could feel how all this time someone was carefully giving her water. The stranger seemed not for the first time to see such a development in front of him, his actions were clear and careful, just what Raven needed. And then, when she came to her senses and the stranger was still trying to offer her help and take her to the hospital, the girl thanked him dryly, but completely withdrew from persuasion. All Raven remembered was the man's pale blue eyes before he disappeared around the corner.

Rachel winced and remembered another attack without much enthusiasm. This shit was repeated to her without any schedule or even warning and Rei sometimes felt that her body was demanding her death. She could not control the work of her brain at such moments and it was quite irritating and problematic. It made her ... vulnerable. And that's exactly what Raven hated the most.

She had a rather bad habit of switching off and thinking for too long, so she was not embarrassed when a floating hand appeared in front of her eyes.

“Hey, if you’re not going to hang around here forever, I advise you to go home. - Raven dismissed the remarks of her classmate and he grunted in response, left the class.

She blinked a couple of times, returning to reality, and then her face took on her usual sullen expression and Rachel glanced at her watch. 8:30. The last lesson ended 40 minutes ago, which means that she was passed out all this time and Rachel moaned pitifully, dropping her head in her hands. She is confident that her mom is going to arrange an execution at home for another curfew violation.

Excellent.

She took the phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and turned it on and off. A couple of missed calls and threatening sms from my mother were highlighted on the screen of her mobile phone and Rachel decided that she would somehow sort it out later and, taking her bag with her, left the empty audience. In the school corridor she met only a couple of cleaners and two students, but they immediately disappeared into one of the school toilets and Raven had little interest in what they were going to do there. In the front, huge doors appeared and, wrapping herself tighter in her kurta, thrusting her hands into her pockets, Rei greeted the cold autumn wind with a shiver. It was late autumn outside and in Day, a fairly northern city, it felt a few degrees colder. Rachel let out a breath, mentally wondering if it was as cold in New York this time of year, and a warm cloud of steam began to billow from her lips. She followed this short journey of warm air and caught herself with a soft smile on her lips. It was strangely calm. Even though she still has a problem with her mother, Rachel continued to stand on the school porch, inhaling and exhaling air. Everything in this city was strangely calm and quiet, but Rachel didn't mind that much. She had been here for about two weeks and was satisfied with everything, and deep down Raven was ready to admit that she even liked Date. It was a small town, abandoned in the thicket of the forest, with its legends about heri and about the brave discoverers. It was not as famous as Las Vegas and not as densely populated as New York, but that was its sweet charm.

Raven rubbed her hands, trying to rid her body of the approaching cold. She frowned, increasing the friction between her palms, but she was still cold and Raven wasn't sure if it was the weather. There was a short whistle and Rachel reflexively paid attention to it, lifting her head and fixing her gaze on the forest in front of her. Dusk had already fallen on the street, so the huge tundra and the trees in front of it were several shades darker, but it did not look frightening, one could say that Raven liked just such a forest more. Dark but quiet and calm. Maybe her gothic nature was played out in her, but in Raven there flashed a fleeting desire to walk there, but ... she was sure that the sound came from there. Rachel shivered chilly and rolled around in place, looking around.

Several minutes passed before Raven's phone rang again and the girl frowned in resignation. If she continues to be here and not at home, Raven is not entirely sure that she will have a home at all. She threw a last glance at the night forest, saying goodbye to him for today and ... froze in indecision. If it was a stupid game of her sick mind, then she gave her brain minus 10 points for a bad joke and asked to bake it in the hospital. In the very center of the forest, where a huge black hole gaped and it seemed that all objects in it were disappearing, there were two glowing lights. They did not move, did not move, even when a gust of strong wind blew and Raven grabbed the bag on her shoulder more tightly, they did not flinch, continuing to loom in the very center. Rachel frowned, a fine line on her forehead, but in her mind she felt a lump of fear slowly creep down her throat. As if even the air froze in tension, afraid to move in front of this devilry and deathly silence fell, Raven literally felt how life had stopped, and her heart was pounding anxiously. Part of her analytical and rational brain insisted that this was some kind of misunderstanding, but something was wrong in these lights. They shone with a bright, yellow light and they seemed to be conscious, as if someone, or something, was looking at her from there. Rachel narrowed her eyes, swallowing nervously and mentally urging herself to calm down.

Of course, we did not have enough to make friends with the Martians Rachel Roth.

It was the first thing that flashed through her thoughts, before Raven's eyes involuntarily widened with horror and instantly enveloped in a wave of fear. The blood in her veins became a lump and Rachel was sure that she had stopped feeling the pounding of her heart. The lights moved and after a split second, it seemed a huge, black spot, dimly resembling a muzzle, half hidden in shadow with eyes glowing with a bright yellow light and looking directly at her.

Hell…

Rachel blinked, unable to really accept in front of her and when she opened them, neither the eerie glowing lights, nor the unknown creature was already gone. In the blink of an eye, the air became alive again, the sounds returned, in the distance there was the noise of passing cars and the dead silence evaporated.

Raven swallowed hard, looked around the darkening forest and turned sharply, walked as far from this place as possible. She did not turn around, but with each step she took, she increased her speed, remaining with the only thought in her head - to bring down.

When some ass happens, it's never too late to dump Rachel Roth.

===========

Damian sat back wearily in his desk chair, massaging his face with his hands, hoping to get the paperwork out of the way as soon as possible. Unfortunately, questions from the pack were not resolved by themselves and for a long time hung over the younger Wayne as a heavy pendulum of danger and the guy ditched the whole evening for this. Sometimes Damian began to regret that he lived in the modern century, and not in the Middle Ages, where all questions and reflections were solved alone by the menacing growl of the alpha.

He frowned again at another piece of paper with numbers, as his ears caught on the first floor the joyful exclamations of his mother and Damian mentally whined knowing perfectly well who could deserve such a warm welcome. Grayson. The happiest ass in the world and also his older brother. He was aware of his arrival ... well, of course, his entire family and some members of the pack kept buzzing about it throughout the week, causing more and more irritation in Damian. Not that he hated Richard, he was as unbearable as his brothers ... well, he had some advantages over Jason, but several rather stupid personalities once said that they were not happy to see the gloomy cloud of the younger Wayne at the head of their pack, and would gladly replace him with the sunny boy Richard Grayson. After that, Damian was completely furious. He himself did not understand how his older brother manages to be so liked by people, but even to some extent he envied Grayson ... although, on his deathbed, he would not dare to admit it even to himself. So, now he wanted to feel like a 17-year-old teenager and lock himself in his office, gloomily ignoring what was happening. So he did, and even when he heard how his whole family spilled out on the first floor and Talia displeased asking about where Damian had gone, the guy stayed where he was.

It didn't take long before his secret hideout was discovered and loud footsteps were heard, and the next minute Grayson's pretty face appeared in the doorway.

Ugh you.

Damian wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t said it out loud.

- And I'm glad to see you too, brother. Richard opened his bear hug and a smug grin spread across his face.

“Don't be like Jason, Grayson, degradation doesn't suit you. Dick ignored Damian's disgruntled grumbling as he brushed him off and walked over to the table.

- And you become like the old grumpy wolf Demi.

“Forgive me for upsetting your hopes. Wayne was going to continue to ignore Dick, but as the man approached his desk, Damian didn’t consciously stiffen. Either Grayson had successfully changed his perfume, or some strange, but rather disturbing, smell appeared in the room. Wayne looked up from the pile of papers and sucked in air through his nose with all his might. The pupils of his eyes dilated as if after a strong rush of adrenaline into the blood, and his brain slowly floated. Smell. A subtle, almost imperceptible scent made Damian's blood burn hot as fire, and his wolf whined inwardly.

Dick watched the change in his brother's face with a mixed expression and stepped back reflexively as Damian rose abruptly from his seat, never ceasing to sniff. All the same, he is a young alpha ... what can get into his head Richard had no purpose to know. But when Damian seemed unable to find anything within a radius of a meter, approached Dick and began to sniff with the same eagerness, the man could not help laughing.

- Wow, take it easy, I understand that you missed me, but can we limit ourselves to hugs? - but Damian obviously did not listen to him and did not hear. He, like an instinct, walked around Grayson's circle, sucking in air and seemed not to notice what was happening while in his world. He eagerly grabbed his brother's hands, sniffing and froze for a moment in that position. Several seconds passed before he returned to the starting position and without opening his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists, he firmly asked and was surprised at how unfamiliar his voice sounded. His question turned more into a kind of command and a rude uterine growl, which are on the verge of little politeness.

“Now Grayson, you’ll tell me in detail about your day. - a mute question arose between them in the air, when Dick raised an eyebrow inquiringly, being in confusion from his brother's rudeness and strangeness, he wanted to joke about the change in the mood of the young alpha, but stopped ... Damian finally looked up at Richard ... eyes bright and burning with green flame ... Grayson swallowed involuntarily and tensed, mentally preparing for something bad.

#damirae #demonbirds #ravenrot #raven #damian wayne #fanfic

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bookwyrminspiration · 3 years

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Shattered Upside Down

A kotlc wings au: masterpost here

Chapter 8: The Regretted Reflection

word count: 8.9k

chapter summary: Sophie made multiple impulsive decisions in a panic, but now she has to deal with the consequences and face the people she left behind.

warnings: picking at skin, panicking, fighting, a brief section that's slightly surreal/like rolling a nat 20 perception check but there's nothing to see/uses second person, blood, swearing, intentional misuse of grammar, I think that's everything but please let me know if there's more /g

taglist: I’ll reblog with it. let me know if you want to be added or removed!

This chapter is 8,932 words. Why do I do these things? I don't know. But! That means even more content for you so I hope you enjoy! Definitely enjoyed this one and the twists even I wasn't expecting. Damn this au is getting long

ao3 link here or read below

Sophie Foster felt nothing.

The imparter buzzed in her hand, tickled her skin. This should alarm her, the incoming message and whatever it might say. What could the council possibly want with them? What could Oralie want with her? They’d fallen out of contact weeks, maybe even months ago. All those useless meetings, unproductive decisions and orders, watching as they fell down and down, deeper and deeper indebted to every other goddamned species on the planet.

She had no interest conversing with them, engaging in pleasantries, the idea even less appealing with sleep crusting her eyes and clogging her throat, with the uncomfortable rub of her dry, damaged skin against the very air.

Everyone was looking at her, glancing between her and their own ringing imparters, seeming to wait for her judgement on this situation. Right. Because she was the one who’d isolated them in the first place.

The thought jerked her, tugged her into consciousness, and all that nothing shattered into something. Her muscles tensed and she leaned out of Keefe’s grip, shakily running a hand through her hair, steeling herself.

She answered the hail.

Every other imparter in the room fell silent.

“Sophie, there you--” her pristine voice was so so irritating, unwanted.

“What do you want.” The demand fell flat, dropping from her tongue like a stone. She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, trying to breath the exhaustion away, still not fully awake. She’d set the imparter down, angled it towards the ceiling so they could all see the perfectly curled ringlets and pink tourmaline, but no one on the other end could see them.

“Sophie, you need to listen carefully. We need you to--”

“That is no way to speak to your rulers, Miss Foster.” She glanced back at the screen. That hadn’t been Oralie. No, she’d been cut off. Councillor Emery's face now filled the screen, warped with disdain, jaw clenched.

Ah.

Who were your hails from, she asked, the words slurred but urgent. Different friends chimed back different names, each one a different councilor. No one said Emery.

“If you so desperately wanted to contact me, Ruler, you could’ve hailed yourself.” She was being unpleasant, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

His mouth tensed, something flashing across his features before he spoke. “As cooperative as ever, I see. I’ll make this brief. We, as your councilors, order you to return to your underground. Whatever has given you this disposition that you are above the protocols set in place to protect our people must cease immediately.”

“Hmm. No.” Keefe turned to her in disbelief, a slightly worried grin cracking his face. She wasn’t normally this vocally indifferent, this casually opposed to authority. Little did they know she could feel each individual blister lining the skin of her stomach rubbing against the threads of her shirt, hear the trickle of water from Linh’s bath, smell the cold of Tam’s skin and the heat of Marella’s.

This conversation was a waste of energy.

“You seem to think this is a request. It is not. You are expected to comply and have 24 hours to return, or we will set out to find you and bring you back by force if necessary. You not only disrespect our authority with your blatant disregard for the protocols, you also insult the dwarves who have so graciously opened their homes to us all. We will not say it again.”

That’s not good, Dex whispered into their minds, voice unnaturally light.

Maruca shifted her stance. I don’t think that’s all there is to this.

Things rarely are that easy, Sophie breathed, pressing her hands together against her chin. She’d love to go back to that nap, please. Deal with whatever this was later. Just push it off.

She glanced at Dex, and something he’d said to her flickered in the back of her mind. Fuck it, go for it, deal with the consequences later. Holding eye contact, she spoke. “We’re not coming back. If you’re having issues with the dwarves, figure it out. Maintaining the peace between our species does not fall to ten teenagers. Well, mostly teenagers.” She inclined her head towards Wylie. She could see the confusion flashing around the circle, watched each of them try to connect the dots he hadn’t meant to hint at. “We will, however--”

What are you agreeing to, Fitz demanded, waving his hands around to get her attention. She didn’t stop watching Dex.

She continued talking like he hadn’t interrupted. “--meet with our parents in a neutral location. We’ll work the details out with them so you can stop playing messenger. We will not compromise further.”

Then Sophie leaned forward and ended the hail.

Sophie didn’t dream. Her limbs were leaden, sinking sinking sinking into the ground, leaving a sullen impression as moss and decay and rot crept over her body. She did not move. She did not toss nor turn. Anyone who saw her might mistake her for a statue, a corpse, a freakish conglomeration of flesh, something to be ripped apart and studied.

Hell knew what they’d find.

There was no one occupying her mind, not even herself. Time became thick and lucid, a block of stone dropped into a stagnant puddle. All there, all at once, all the time.

And yet, she existed. Somewhere.

She wouldn’t remember this when she woke. Memory was curious like that, picking and choosing seemingly at random, so little control over what lingers. So many moments we’ve left behind, that only existed as they occurred.

It’s the little moments, the ones you don’t even realize you’ve forgotten. The few minutes right before you fall asleep, the thirty seconds it takes for your essay to print as you watch with impatience.

The dreams you know you’ll forget.

There are some who are more in tune with their existence, who can recognize something that will fade as it happens. But for the most part, we don’t remember those moments.

And Sophie wouldn’t remember this.

Wouldn’t remember seeing herself in the mirror.

Someone was doing an absolutely terrible job at keeping quiet. Bare skin scuffed against the wood floor, approaching from behind, stopping in place as something creaked, hesitantly moving once more, a weight lowering itself onto her bed.

Sophie didn’t move, unwilling to give up these few seconds she had left with her eyes closed. Fabric pressed against her skin in a way that told her she hadn’t moved in quite a while, had sunk sunk sunk into the sheets. Did she have the energy it would take to face what moving would bring, the world she needed to return to?

The person was breathing, exhaling slightly, as if unsure of themself.

“I know you’re there,” she said, so quiet no one else in the world would hear besides the two of them, whoever the two of them would turn out to be.

“Are you awake for real this time?” Maruca. That was Maruca sitting beside her, fiddling with the thin blanket tossed over her body and clenched beneath her chin.

Sophie took a moment to respond, slowly opening her eyes, taking in the dust motes and pollen floating around, exhaling and watching the air disturb their fall.

There was a steadiness, a clearness to her mind that she hadn’t had in days, maybe weeks. Yes. Sophie Foster was awake.

“Yeah,” she breathed, still unmoving. She slid her line of sight to Maruca, taking in the lines of her face, the tight purse of her lips, the downturn cast of her brows. The exhaustion. The determination.

Slowly, she pressed her hands to her face, rubbing away the fading fog of sleep. The skin of her cheeks was surprisingly chilly against the warmth of her hands, and she held her head between her palms, feeling as they reached equilibrium.

Muscles dead, Sophie pulled herself into a sitting position, Maruca watching with a sort of detached glaze over her face. She tracked every movement, but made no move as if to do anything. Not even readjust herself as the bed shifted under Sophie’s fiddling.

“Why are you here?” she asked, rubbing her hands down her thighs, trying to work some life back into her body. She must’ve slept hard. The time had vanished in her mind, the last thing she remembered was overwhelming exhaustion as she’d been dragged from unconsciousness, so so desperate to disappear into it once more.

And now she was here. Everything else was blank.

“Making sure you’re not dead, mostly” she smiled slightly as that, hands curled tight in her lap. “One of us has been checking in every hour or so, just to make sure you’re still breathing.”

Sophie stretched out her neck, which rewarded her with several pops. “Well, surprise surprise. I’m alive.” Which meant she’d have to deal with whatever shitstorm she’d stirred up that had Maruca so tense. Her knuckles paled as her hands remained clenched in her lap, her lips pressed firmly together.

“Where do you need me?” she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. There was always something to be done, a place she could be useful even if it wasn’t as a leader. As groggy as she was, she’d follow Maruca’s directions, anything anyone needed.

Sophie stood, fighting the head rush that came with the change in blood pressure, glancing back at Maruca. She hadn’t had time to speak with her lately, and something tugged at the back of her mind, a memory of some sort...oh well. It faded.

“You need to coordinate that meeting you randomly proposed. And include us in the process.” The last part had some bite that should’ve had her flinching with guilt, but her mind hadn’t moved past that first sentence. That meeting. That meeting she’d proposed.

To see their parents again.

“How long was I asleep,” she asked, already heading for the door, panic pushing against her chest and constricting her heart. Depending on how long--

Maruca was somehow just behind her. “I’d guess around ten to twelve hours since your little excursion with Tam, six or seven since the council called.” Sophie turned, looking her up and down. There was something about her manner of speaking, something about the way she conducted herself that felt...off. She couldn’t put a finger on it, hadn’t spent enough time with Maruca before to know what was different now. She had to fix that.

“Thank you,” she said, inclining her head. “For checking on me. I’m sorry I haven’t done the same.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Maruca shrugged, hands still in tight fists. “It’s not your job, but don’t forget to include the rest of us. We’re all in the same situation.”

Sophie nodded. She was right. She’d been so focused on just her her her fixing herself and holding everyone together and trying to solve the world for them that she’d somehow forgotten they wanted to fix the world too. She’d grown up so alone.

It made it even harder to remember she wasn’t anymore, even if it sometimes felt like it. Even if she acted like it. Even if she wandered into the forest and told nobody.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and pushed open the door.

Hours. It had been hours since that hail. She needed to figure out what had happened since. Surely the council had notified their parents of the possible arrangement, maybe they’d even tried to reach out.

As far as she knew they hadn’t tried to contact them since that first day they’d left, had realized they wouldn’t respond and had turned to other measures. Maybe their parents had sent the council after them, desperate for any contact.

The thought churned her stomach. No matter how distraught she was by her situation, how confused and doubtful of her own morals and mind, she didn’t know if she’d be able to forgive herself for leaving her parents so hurt.

She’d just...pushed them aside. It had felt as if she ignored them for long enough, she’d never have to face them, never have to explain...whatever was happening to her. The strange feelings and senses, the inexplicable urges to just walk off into the woods. She’d been careless at times before, yes, but never so thoughtless.

And that was why she’d left. Whatever was making her so scatterbrained and impulsive, even if it was mostly harmless right now, could become a much bigger problem very quickly. She’d wandered into the woods, she’d flown into a lightning storm, what was next?

Wait. The lightning storm. She’d never learned what happened to the dragons, had been too tired to ask. But was that most pressing right now?

She’d ask, Sophie decided. Just briefly think about it, to get ready to return to that issue when its time came. The creatures flitting in and out of her life, appearing for brief moments and vanishing into the sky--literally, two out of three of the times.

Why weren’t they bothering her, tearing her to shreds?

“She’s awake!” Someone called out, and Sophie was reminded of her goal, snapping back into reality.

Fitz was waving from just up ahead, Keefe grinning beside him. He turned to whisper something to Fitz, who promptly rolled his eyes and shoved him away. He nearly toppled over, his wings shifting with the movement and flapping slightly to steady his balance.

“What’s going on?” she asked, reaching the two of them. Fitz was sat upon what looked almost like a beanbag chair, hand propped behind his head as he looked off into the sky with that unnerving stare.

He didn’t look at her as he answered. “Waiting for you. The next step requires you, so we couldn’t exactly do anything while you were...sleeping.” Sleeping was a generous way to put it. The red indentations along her arm from the sheets indicated it had been much more...dead than normal sleep.

“Right,” she exhaled, absentmindedly patting at her clothes, any place she might’ve--

“I have your imparter,” Keefe interrupted, pulling it from one of his own pockets and handing it to her. “Y’know, cause you couldn’t answer it and all those fucking adults wanted to contact you.” She nodded, turning it on.

She scrolled through some of the messages. Both Bronte and Oralie had sent her private messages. She didn’t open them. She’d regret that later. It seemed Keefe had only sent one to everyone in return, ignoring everything they’d said.

Foster is absolutely passed out right now. She’ll see your messages when she wakes up.

Right. And now she was awake. And had to deal with this.

So why couldn’t she get her fingers to press the buttons?

She sank down to the floor, crossing her legs and leaning against the railing, looking off into the sky like Fitz. It was just eating eating eating at her.

Keefe hesitantly lowered himself next to her, one of them now on either side. Fitz turned to look at her.

“What happened to the dragons?”

She had to know. It just kept clawing away at her mind, her sanity, something so big so large so catastrophic and she couldn’t stop the petrifying thought that if she kept pushing it off it would eventually become too big a problem and she’d never be able to fix it.

Fitz glanced away towards some movement in the distance before looking back at her. “We don’t know.”

She waited for him to say more, but he just stared off.

Keefe continued for him. “There really isn’t more to it right now.” He fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt, pulling at it again and again, betraying the anxiety they were so carefully trying to keep from her.

It was weighing on them too. All of them. They just didn’t want her to know it.

“After Marella...exploded,” Keefe continued, seeming to sense her blooming revelation. “They both fell; she blasted them back. Lit up the entire sky. We don’t know where they went or what happened to them. Or if they’ll come back.”

Sophie just nodded as he talked. Okay. She’d asked her question. Time to move on. There were other people, other things waiting to be dealt with. As long as those dragons weren’t an immediate threat, she could set that aside. She had to.

She didn't want to.

She did it anyway.

Okay. Everyone to the...me. Wherever I am. I’m going to hail my parents.

“To the me,” Keefe snorted, settling back against the railing, the portrait of faux ease. The wings at his back readjusted themselves against the wood, the grey fading imperceptibly--but undeniably--darker and darker as they waited.

It took a few minutes, but one by one her friends found their ways to her--good thing she’d been out in the open; she had no way to direct them otherwise. They took up places around the circle, similar to how they’d been just a night or two ago, before the dragons had flooded the sky.

Actually, looking around, she could see evidence of that night strewn all over the place. She’d been so focused on everything else, she hadn’t even noticed the destruction. Shredded petals and vines littered the wooden planks, streaks of dried dirt washed across the ground. Branches hung crooked from trunks, bridges had snapped, dangling precariously into a sudden drop.

Inexplicably, a lump rose in her throat. All the work put into this place, all the love and hopes and tentative dreams just disintegrating, deteriorating more and more each day. And they were no better. They were leeching off this place until they could figure out what to do next.

“Do you actually have any plan for what you’re about to do,” Wylie asked, helping lower Linh and himself to the ground across from her. Linh leaned against his arm, expression wan. She must’ve woken up while Sophie was still asleep. Marella sat on her other side, looking like she was itching itching itching to help but just couldn’t bring herself to make initial contact. Her lips were pressed thin, fist pressed against her sides beneath crossed arms. Like she was restraining herself.

“I have...an idea,” she answered, realizing everybody had gathered. And were looking at her.

“An idea?”

“An idea,” she repeated.

Biana looked for a place to sit as she spoke. “Do we get to know this idea, or is this some plan you’ll pull out of nowhere without consulting anyone first?” Finding only dirt on the ground, she remained standing.

Sophie grimaced, glancing towards Dex, who stood beside Biana. “Not my idea, actually. I’m just...modifying it. And none of you have to go along with it.” Several of them rolled their eyes at that. They were going to follow her, likely no matter what. She loved them for it, even if it was foolish.

“Take it away, Foster,” Keefe said, gesturing towards her dramatically. This next step fell solely on her shoulders.

She glanced to her lap, where her imparter lay, picking it up. Which person to hail? They were likely all in similar places, or would be as soon as they saw the incoming call from her. So who?

Sophie took a deep breath, curling her knees into her chest. Glancing over her shoulder, she made sure the wings were hidden, hearing a slight buzz in response. Tam smiled at her slightly, as if to say he was glad it wasn’t him making the call.

“Show me Edaline Ruewen.”

It didn’t even take a full second before the hail was answered.

Her mother’s face filled the screen, circles beneath her eyes and stray hair falling from it’s style. The expression hid nothing, not the fear or worry or confusion or...hurt. Plain hurt.

“Sophie,” she exhaled, shoulders drooping.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her fingers tightened around the imparter, voice indescribably thick in her throat.

Another voice sounded from off-screen. “You okay, kiddo?” Edaline moved, setting her imparter down so multiple people could be seen at once.

“Hey Dad,” she said, watching as he scooted on screen, clothing rumpled and stained, a crease between his brow. “I’ve...We’ve been better.”

She shouldn’t have done this. She shouldn’t have called, shouldn’t have let herself see them again. It hurt so fucking much.

Their weary, worn faces clawed through her with guilt, overwhelming guilt. They were like this because of her.

Hey. Focus. You can get through this. Fitz. His voice whispered into her mind, entirely separate from the others, just the two of them in this space in this brief moment of peace before she’d have to do something she hated.

Her fingers skimmed over the rough skin of her thighs, finding the edge of something peeling and picking at it absentmindedly. Gently. She didn’t want to make it worse. But she couldn’t help it.

Another figure appeared behind her parents, all pudgy and wrinkled. She’d known they’d probably all be together, and anyone away from their group was likely rushing to be part of the call, but still. There were so many of them. And just her on this call. The rest of her friends watching her, letting her take this step.

“Miss Foster, are all of you together?” His voice was unnaturally grave, even for him.

She nodded, looking around the group. A few of them waved at her and she almost smiled. “Everyone’s right here.”

“Are you fucking outside? What the hell do you think you’re doing on the surface? You idiots are going to get yourselves killed like this.”

A few people around the group flinched. Ah. Lovely. Ro. Keefe drawled, voice dry as he ran a hand down his face.

Several sounds erupted on the other end of the hail and Sophie tilted her head back, looking towards the sky like Fitz. A pair of birds flitted by overhead, swerving downwards and rustling the leaves, the sound so much louder than it should’ve been.

She looked back to the hail. Might as well put that hearing to good use. Multiple conversations conducted themselves at once, the sound of a door opening and more voices joining the fray--Alden and Della, Tiergan, Juline. Elwin. Rapid conversation amongst themselves, trying to decide the best way to find them, to talk to them, the questions to ask, how to make them cooperate, catching each other up on information, what could have possibly driven them away in the first place, how much danger they might be in.

Sandor stepped in front of the screen finally, Sophie and her friends having just sat there in disbelief at the cacophony, and her unable to stop them. They wouldn’t have listened anyways, so she hadn’t bothered trying. This was her punishment for running away without leaving a proper note. Now she’d have to live with it, endure it.

“You--all of you--must return immediately. You aren’t safe outside.” There was no room for compromise in his voice.

And he was right. They weren’t safe out here, exposed. They’d, well...she’d had multiple encounters with several creatures in the last few days. But...they hadn’t killed her yet. And she had a growing suspicion as to why. But she wasn’t ready to face that yet.

“No, thank you. We’re not coming back.”

Edaline cut in, impatience and panic clear on her face. “Where are you? If you can tell us--”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she grimaced.

Grady held up his hands placatingly, like he knew his justified anger wouldn’t make her cooperate. Like he cared about her. “Kiddo, I don’t know why you all ran away. But you’re not safe. We just want to help you. So please just tell us where you are so we can come get you. We know you took a pathfinder, so just tell us where you went and we can follow. We’ve been checking around the different undergrounds, the old Black Swan hideouts; we’re worried sick. ”

She sighed, rubbing at her face with her free hand. “I literally cannot tell you. Even if I wanted to. I actually do not know where we are.” She hadn’t realized they would try to follow. It would’ve worked too, if their pathfinder hadn’t broken and sent them wherever here was. This dilapidated little grave.

“If we wanted to come back, we would’ve. Sophie could teleport us back,” Fitz cut in, turning slightly to face her, holding eye contact for a moment before he glanced down at the screen, focusing on the faces displayed.

“Fitz?” Della's voice came through the phone and he scrunched his nose up, like it pained him or he didn’t want to hear her.

You wanna talk to them? She asked, to which he shook his head fervently, gesturing to the wings protruding from his back, clearly visible over his shoulders. Right. Her own shivered slightly in response. They couldn’t tell them.

She turned back to the imparter. “Yes. That was Fitz. He’s here. Everyone is.”

“Hi, Mom,” Biana said, appearing behind Sophie, the wings carefully tucked beneath a cape draped across her shoulders. The same ones they’d worn when they’d run. How long ago that seemed.

Look. Now you’re not on the hail alone, she whispered into the mindbubble, squeezing Sophie’s shoulder slightly.

“Are you alright, Biana,” Grady asked, attention laser focused on the two of them. If he couldn’t get information from Sophie, maybe he could get it from her. It was...endearing. How hard he was trying, how desperate he was to find them. Neither of them would give in, though.

She shrugged. “Like she said, could be better. We’re not coming back to the underground though. Don’t know how many times we need to say it before you’ll get it. Now correct me if I’m wrong, which I'm not, but wasn’t the purpose of this call to figure out a meeting or something? Not for you to try and convince us to come back, something we’re capable of and clearly aren’t doing. You’re wasting your energy. Maybe we won’t meet at all if you keep this up.”

Silence echoed for a moment. Whispers erupted on their end, more debating and bargaining and she didn’t even bother to listen.

Thanks, she said, resting her free hand atop Biana’s, still on her shoulder. She gave a reassuring squeeze. There were just so many people it was hard to deal with on her own. But she wasn’t on her own. She could let other’s step in when she faltered.

Brrr.

Her attention snapped away, eyes darting from side to side. The others sat forward slightly. No no no no no. Why now?

Not now. Please please please.

Brrr.

Shit.

She sat forward. Fuck it. “I’m only going to say this once.” It went quiet on the other end, a few meager conversations lingering between people she couldn’t see. She found Dex, holding his gaze, speaking to him. “Tomorrow morning we will be in the Lost Cities, in Mysterium. Meet us there if you want. This is not up for debate. If any of you are going to come, bring Elwin. We have to go. Bye. I love you.” The last part was almost a whisper, but she could see their lips start to form the response when she ended the call.

“The Lost Cities?!” Marella asked in disbelief, looking at Sophie like she was worried something had happened to her head in that explosion. Maybe something had.

Keefe cut in. “That’s reckless even for me, Foster.” She just shrugged. She couldn’t stop herself. She just kept making rash decision after rash decision, impulse her sole motivation.

It terrified her. But she couldn’t stop it.

“I was going to go with Dex anyways.” He shifted his weight under the attention now directed at him. She hadn’t realized she’d made that choice, had intended to indulge his request until she said it out loud.

What had happened to her? Where were her worries, everything about her that made her cautious and prepared and her?

Brrr.

“You guys hear that too, right?” Biana asked, looking around. They nodded, and Sophie just hoped hoped hoped it wouldn’t show up. She didn’t want to lie to them, didn’t want to pretend not to know and wander confused just like them.

The leaves rustled somewhere, and she watched the shift in her friends’ postures, something...strange...taking over them. Biana’s movements became jerky but coordinated, seeming to move in unnaturally quick bursts. Marella began to lower herself to the ground, veins glowing.

Brrr.

So close. So so close. It was so close. No no no. She wasn’t--she couldn’t--

A weight appeared atop her shoulder, right where Biana’s hand had been just a few moments ago.

Brrr. It whispered in her ear, so close it nearly set the world spinning. She’d never been this close to it before. It kneaded it’s paws against the skin of her shoulder, readjusting itself as it perched there.

“Don’t move,” Marella whispered, inching forward with eyes set on the little echo, a hand outstretched. Everyone’s eyes were on her, the thing on her shoulder, creeping forward.

Sophie held up her hands reflexively, taking a step back. “Wait. Don’t.”

They paused, bewildered. What was she doing? She didn’t know.

All she knew was the thought of anything happening to this tiny creature, this little thing that had found her and brought her to something earth-shattering twice before, was enough to set her stomach rocking, terror slicing through her veins.

Why was she so defensive of it? She didn’t even know what it was.

And then it was gone. Blipping away as if it’d never even been there in the first place.

“That one’s fine,” she whispered, refusing to meet anyone’s eye, to see the confusion littering their faces.

“What do you mean it’s fine? It’s clearly one of those creatures!” Fitz exclaimed, bewildered, waving his hands about. There was too much happening all at once. All the sounds were too clear, the sun was too bright, her clothes were too itchy. She needed a moment, needed a single second, just wait hang on back up--

“They’re not all bad,” she argued back, not even thinking about what she was saying. She just needed them to stop looking at her and give her a moment she needed to get away right now.

The wings at her back buzzed and shivered, rhythmically pounding out a beat. No no no not that too. They couldn’t know she’d been using them. That they responded to her so easily that she could work beside them--what would they think of her?

Were they right?

Her breaths came too quickly so she began to rub at her skin, pressing against the cracks and peeling flakes and hating the feeling but it was something. Keep it under control.

“Foster...are you alright?” Keefe asked, stepping forward hesitantly, rubbing a hand against his chest. Shit. He could feel her spiraling. “You’re…” he trailed off, shaking his head, as if trying to clear his mind.

“Mmhmm,” she responded, starting to bounce one of her legs. Keep it under control.

So much extra energy with nowhere to go. It was accumulating beneath her skin, this panic, this need to run to get away to just be alone. To find someone else.

Wait. What? Who--

“Sophie is there...something you've been keeping from us?” Biana asked, blinking into place beside her, apprehension marring the scars on her face. No no no no no. They couldn’t find out like this. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t thought it over and she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it out loud in front of them. She loved them loved them loved them so much but this was not something she could do. Keep it under control.

They’d judge her. They wouldn’t understand they’d try to convince her otherwise and it would hurt so much because she knew they were right and she was wrong and it was all a misunderstanding anyways and she didn’t really know what she was doing and

Biana’s hand brushed against her arm, reaching out for her in comfort.

And

Sophie

lost

control.

It wasn’t a conscious decision to bring her arm up, to whirl around to wrap her fingers around Biana’s forearm, the skin so rough and supple, to clench and flinch and shove her away, to tear her fingernails along the length of the skin as she let go, wings flaring as she stumbled back, crouching down, eyes only on that threat. That touch. That--

No.

Someone snarled, crashing into her and she was so caught off guard by her own behavior that she stopped thinking. Someone’s hands were on her wrists, pinning her back and tearing her away from the situation.

Wings buzzing, she shoved them too, breaking one of her hands out of their grip, the other tightening as she thrashed. Out out out out out she needed to get out. They used her disarray against her, pressing forward and collapsing atop her, pinning her to the ground.

“Sophie--STOP!” Maruca. It was Maruca. She was propped above her, eyes wide as she held her down. Restrained her. She searched her face, seeming to see something--someone--there and letting her go, falling back, panting.

Red slipped down Maruca’s hands, and Sophie looked to her own to find tears, slices down her skin. Sharp and neat. She glanced back to Maruca, to the inhumanly sharp nails that were more like talons gracing her fingertips. Solid and cutting.

It hit her then and Sophie gasped, muscles trembling and convulsing, coughing as her body gave out, falling from her strain forward to sitting back on the wood, eyes widening in absolute horror. She whirled around.

Biana held her arm close to her chest, tears tracking their way down her face as she bit at her lip, grimacing, trying to stay quiet. Linh was by her side, reaching out and trying to pry the limb away so she could take a closer look.

Everyone was quiet. Expressions wide and everywhere and shocked and afraid.

Afraid of her.

Sophie’s hands flew to her mouth, clamping over her face as she breathed.

“I’m sorry--I didn’t--I don’t--” she couldn’t get the words out. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, backing away, pushing to her feet and stumbling back back back. She couldn't take it, the looks on their faces. The way they looked at themselves. Like they might be next.

She’d been first to grow wings, first to wake up, first to fly. She’d be first to lose it.

But she just kept stepping back, walking away again and again and again she was alone alone alone.

Keefe made as if to reach out for her, arm darting forward as his eyes widened in panic and she didn’t understand why.

Her foot met the edge of the platform.

And Sophie Foster walked off the edge of the world.

The ground was damp, sticking to her feet. The lingering cool rain soaking the dirt, the roots, the scent mingling with the fragrance of the pollen sticking to her skin. Absentmindedly, she brushed her thumb against her skin, a faint poof of powder showering onto the soil. The speckles of flowers against the ground were too bright, seemingly glowing with color she knew they shouldn’t possess.

She didn’t know where she was.

Her back was pressed gently against a tree, wings spread slightly to keep them from rubbing too harshly against the bark.

Her arms stung. The blood had dried in rivers down her skin, nails raked through her forearms down to her wrists. It was nothing next to the constant dull ache of her burned skin. Which still didn’t hurt as much as it should have. An explosion in the sky, even with a last-minute forcefield--it didn’t add up. It shouldn’t have equaled just sore skin and a few blisters and flaking, surface-level burns.

What was it? She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know, was sure she’d regret learning the answer if she sought it out.

Brrr. It appeared a few feet away, paws dainty in the damp grass.

Not again. It pranced through the foliage, jumping over exposed roots and avoiding a mushroom dripping dew, walking right up to her and brushing its head against her legs, which she’d pulled in close to her chest.

She let out a sigh, hesitantly reaching down to run her fingers through its fur. It was oh so soft, so delicate, her fingertips ghosting through the texture like it wasn’t even there. A faint rumble originated in it’s chest as it propped one of its paws against her leg, so she dropped them down.

It lifted itself into her lap, damp little paws pressing gently against her ruined skin, seeming to move at a glacial pace, carefully lowering its weight as it settled itself. Like it didn’t want to hurt her.

Her hand came to rest on its back as it laid down atop her, rubbing its cheek against her leg the same way it had against that monster in the vines. Her heart dropped.

It saw her as one of them.

Oh. Her jaw slackened and her shoulders dropped. Oh.

It hit her then. The things she’d done. The secrets she’d kept. She didn’t recognize herself, those actions. Who was that?

Who was the girl who’d run away from home, run off into the forest when one of her friends was hurt, freed a creature she didn’t know and then kept it secret, flown into a lightning storm to find dragons with no plan. Who’d stolen from a store and talked back to the council and ignored her parents.

Who’d attacked Biana, torn into her skin and shoved her away.

That wasn’t supposed to be Sophie.

So why did she keep doing it?

She released a shuddering breath, rhythmically running her fingers through the little creature's fur as the first tear fell. Then another. Then she couldn’t see anything but splotchy colors and the vague outline of the world around her, shrouded by the fog in her min.

She leaned back, head hitting the tree with a thunk as she pressed her eyes closed, feeling those tears squeeze out and track their way across her skin, down her neck.

“Dammit,” she hissed, gritting her teeth, hands forming fists at her side. They trembled for a moment before she released them. That was exactly the problem. The violence. She didn’t need it here, too.

The little echo kneaded at her thighs as she suffered, rubbing against like it was none the wiser but she knew it was too smart not to sense what was happening within her mind. The hollow hallways and dark corridors coming to life and stacks upon stacks of memories rearranging themselves as she tried desperately to find herself.

The sun moved across the sky but she couldn’t see it, hidden beneath the thick foliage that maintained the damp atmosphere. But eventually, she could hear branches cracking, something else approaching, coming to find her. She didn’t care. Could only see Biana’s wide eyes and mouth agape, that shredded arm held close to her chest as she backed away. Maruca collapsed on the ground beside her, backing away as she looked down at her own nails with disgust and trepidation.

“Hey, you.” Dex’s voice was so quiet as he lowered himself next to her. At least, she thought that’s what he was doing. Her eyes were still closed against the world. “Biana’s okay. So is Maruca. They’ll heal.”

Her arms loosened, her muscles giving way to relief. At least she hadn’t done any permanent damage. Well, not to their bodies.

Their friendship was an entirely different battlefield.

“How did you find me,” she asked, voice gravelly and thick. So slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking into the sudden light dripping through the foliage from above. Turning, she saw Dex fiddling with a piece of wire in his hands, curling knots and kinks into it then smoothing it as best he could.

He shrugged. “I just did.” She huffed a humorless laugh. Of course.

“How bad was it?” she whispered, fingers curling in the echos fur. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking.

Dex tucked the wire back into his pocket. “Bad. But...not for the reason you’re thinking. We could all guess how you felt about that,” he explained, seeing her scrunched brows. “You’re an open book sometimes. It was bad because we were--and are--worried about you. Just like you’re worried about us. Because that wasn’t like you. Biana knows you didn’t want to hurt her, and that you feel awful about it. She actually wanted to find you herself, but…” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That part doesn’t matter.

“The point is...it’s bad for all of us right now, you know? So, I guess I found you so...you wouldn’t be all alone. That’s what best friends do, right?” He half-smiled at the last part, and she half-smiled back, trying to mean it.

She exhaled, the expression dropping with it. “Thanks.” She scooted over slightly, leaning to the side to press up against him, cheek to his shoulder. He readjusted slightly, leaning against her too.

Brrr. Her fingers had stopped their rhythmic stroking, and the little thing was making it known it wanted more attention. She resumed petting.

“So, it’s really just...fine like that?” He asked, looking down at the creature with hesitation, but leaning forward nonetheless. He chewed at his lip, reaching down to grab that wire from his pocket once more, playing with it.

She nodded. “Yeah, it’s never hurt me before. It kept showing up, making that noise. But it never did anything threatening. It’s just like...a funky cat. But it’s not a cat. Either that or I really don’t know what cats are like.”

Dex hummed his agreement, and she just sat there a moment, feeling the movement of his chest as he breathed. Waiting here until she’d face what she’d done.

Wire coiled over itself again and again in his hands, forming shapes she couldn’t even begin to understand. It was soothing to watch him fiddling, to see the method and reasoning in his brain. Until--

“Is that a feather?” She didn’t even mean to ask, and he paused, setting the wire down.

“Kind of.”

She looked towards his face, then back at the intentional tangle of wire in his palms, lines overlapping to form the outline of something like a feather.

“Elaborate?”

He seemed confused, looking at her for a moment. “Really? You sure? It’s a lot of ‘techy jumble’ or whatever Keefe calls it.”

She nodded. “Yep. Go for it. I like listening to you talk.”

He flushed slightly, then lifted his hand to show her the wire. “I’m just in the planning stages right now. I don’t know what exactly I’ll need or how I’ll go about doing it or even what supplies I’ll be able to find. But…” He looked away for a moment. “I want to fix my wings. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Dex glanced at her like he was waiting for her to interrupt, to tell him what a stupid idea that was, but she just stayed silent. He continued, bolstered. “You haven’t seen them, but there’s still a lot of the natural base there. Just..missing feathers and weakened muscles. And I figured...if they’re there, might as well fix them, you know?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “Makes sense.”

“Right! So I’m using this wire to try and map out a good shape based on the feathers I do have left, mimic what it tried to be and then make it even better.”

He continued his spiel, running through his thought process, the mechanisms he would create. He lost her several times but she didn’t care. It was...peaceful. They sat there for well over an hour, Sophie just listening to Dex talk through his ideas, the little echo in her lap, brushing dried tears from her skin. Until she could breathe easily and her smile was genuine.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed him.

She almost would’ve preferred it if the floorboards would creak. Acknowledgement that she was there, announcing her presence so she didn’t have to do it herself. She carefully avoided the splinters and petals littering the wood, remnants left untouched after that mighty storm--the dragons they hadn’t seen since.

For a faint moment, Sophie wondered if she’d imagined them. She’d seen them, but had they been there? Or had her mind created something so spectacular, so impossible, just to give herself something to focus on that brought her away from her personal troubles?

Dex had told her this was Biana’s residence, the gnomish house she’d chosen to inhabit bulging and bursting with flowers, leaking petals from the windowsills and a door painted with colors swirling together into symbols she didn’t recognize--she didn’t even think they were an alphabet.

She watched her feet as she crossed the final bridge, closing that distance one step at a time. This was necessary. She couldn’t stand to live in her own skin if she didn’t make this right, verbally and in person.

And then the door was right in front of her and she didn’t know how to knock. Didn’t know how to open herself up to this. This vulnerability and willingness to connect.

She heard someone shift inside. Biana knew she was here. But she didn’t open the door, was waiting for Sophie to cross that threshold herself.

Sophie took a deep breath, bracing both hands on the back of her neck. She surveyed the area, anything to ground herself. The flowers in the windowsill were vibrant and alive and loud, unnaturally so in a way she’d never seen before.

Something sparked in her mind, and she dropped her hands, approaching the windowsill--the window.

On purpose. She wouldn’t rush in before she had the chance to think. She would do this intentionally or not at all.

She knocked on the window.

Biana appeared behind it, suddenly there. She pulled open the window, no screen so they were facing each other with nothing but open space between them and a wall that hid nothing.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked, throat suddenly so so dry, so thick. Biana looked her up and down for a moment, seeming to see something and nodding, moving back and gesturing for her to follow.

“Why the window?” she asked as Sophie climbed through. She shrugged in response, gesturing to Biana’s face.

“To see you smile.” Biana paused, realizing she was indeed smiling slightly, the expression growing wider and more bold as she realized what Sophie had done. It faded as they both stood there in that room, the faint scent of cherries and wood permeating the space.

Biana sank into a worn cushion against the wall, nodding her head in the direction of another beside it. Sophie sat, dreading this silence she’d have to break. Biana only watched her, seemingly content to wait for her to say whatever she needed to say.

Sophie surveyed the room, but her eyes couldn’t stay off Biana. The haphazard bun she’d thrown her hair into, the flickering of the butterfly wings on her back, the embroidered sleeves of her tunic that left her arms fully exposed.

The bandages wrapped around her forearms. The blood stains seeping through.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. It would never be enough. She could never say enough to express just how much she wanted to fix this, how much she hadn’t meant those scratches.

“I know.”

There were too many words in her mind, too many things to say and not nearly enough ways to say it. “I didn’t mean to attack you. I don’t know why I did--I can’t, I don’t--” she cut off, interrupting herself. Maybe it was best she just stopped talking.

Biana was uncharacteristically quiet, just watching her, those wings fluttering slightly behind her as she readjusted herself, fiddling with her nails in her lap.

“I forgive you, Sophie.”

“Uh--you--I--you what? Wait.” Sophie shook her head trying to collect herself as she rubbed her temples. “I haven’t even apologized properly.”

Biana looked away, rubbing at the bandages on her arms. Seeing it felt like being stabbed in the stomach, the blade slowly drawn through her flesh. “I know. But I think I know what you’re trying to say. Even if you don’t know how to say it, I understand. And I know. And I forgive you. Just...don’t push me away because of this. Please?” She met Sophie’s eyes, something raw and vulnerable shining through as she searched her face for something, only for a brief moment before it was hidden once more.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She didn’t deserve this. This easy forgiveness for something that could never be made right. “Wait, what do you mean push you away?”

Biana rolled her eyes with a slightly exasperated smile. “I know you, Sophie. You'll take your time to figure out the right thing to say; when you do, you can come and apologize to me properly. But until then, don’t try and protect me from you or any of that bullshit. Keep me involved. Include me in plans--tell me what’s happening. Just spend time with me. Don’t leave because you’re scared. That’s just as unfair to you as it is to me. Got it?”

Sophie nodded automatically, still trying to process everything she’d said, it was so...official. “When did you get so smart? Where. What? Where is this coming from?”

Biana actually laughed at that one. “I had time to think this over, dumbass. When you were coming down from that…” She trailed off. “Frenzy. Panic. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Sophie winced, lacing her fingers together and squeezing them tightly.

“I just hope it doesn’t happen again,” she admitted. “Especially not tomorrow.”

Biana ran her hands through her hair as best she could with the bun. “Yeah. Tomorrow. We’re really doing that, aren’t we? Seeing them.”

Sophie nodded. “If they decide to come. I kind of hung up before all the details could be worked out.”

Biana snorted. “Oh, they’ll come alright.” She leaned back, yawning as her eyelids drooped slightly.

“Oh, sorry. It’s late. I should go.” Sophie began to lift herself from the chair, deciding to take the door this time.

Biana’s fingers closed around her wrist. “No!” She flushed. “I mean...stay. If you’d like. I don’t mind.”

She looked down at where their skin met, the cool touch of her fingertips. She glanced at Biana’s face only once before nodding. Her shoulders relaxed as she stood, pulling Sophie along into an adjacent space, a small bedroom with a plethora of blossoms cascading down tilted shelves lined with tiny carvings and figurines. The cherry scent was even stronger here.

Biana stumbled slightly as she pulled Sophie into the bed, already half-asleep. Rest was more elusive for her, and as Biana settled into the cradle of her chest, arm wrapping around her, Sophie was content to just hold her for as long as she could.

Sophie Foster was fourteen thinking she was thirteen years old and she’d just run away from home and her pajamas were fuzzy and Biana was so anxious she’d sought her out. Had asked to lay beside her. They had slept in a bed in a hut built by gnomes, a bridge connecting them to a meeting center and one reaching from there to another structured filled with all the other people she loved.

It was funny how time worked in circles.

And once more, they slept.

At some point during the night it had rained. Not the chaotic, destructive downpour of dragons, but more a light misting. To keep everything cool.

Too cool if you asked Sophie, shivering slightly despite the temperature regulation. Biana was the same beside her, Wylie and Linh too.

Everyone stood in a huddle, save for Dex and Fitz who had run off to grab one last thing before they departed. Sophie had her new, stolen backpack slung over her shoulder, the others dutifully not commenting on how she’d gotten it. Or the embroidered design.

No one made small talk, content to just wait there until those approaching footsteps reached them.

“Okay. We’re back. I’m good,” Dex called out, rounding a corner. A cloth-bound notebook was clutched in his hands, the thing he’d gone to retrieve. Fitz was just a moment behind him, having forgotten his cloak.

Speaking of which. “We all set, then? Capes on?” Fabric rustled as everyone pulled them on, some wings better hidden than others. Biana, Sophie, Linh, and Wylie didn’t appear to have anything unusual going on at all--aside from Linh’s...iridescent skin.

“Everyone remembers what we’re doing?” They’d talked it over briefly this morning, snacking on fruit bars and juices. Affirmations sounded out alongside nods.

Sophie took Biana’s hand, who took Tam’s, who took Linh’s, until they were all connected into a chain. As one, they raised themselves into the sky. It would be easier this way, she’d decided. Dropping instead of trying to haul them all behind her as she ran. They didn’t have the space for that amongst the trees.

Once they were high enough, they let go.

Falling falling falling from the sky as the ground rushed up to meet them, beckoning them to make contact and break their bones, fracture their spines and tear their nerves apart as their bodies deconstructed themselves.

But Sophie Foster was immune to heights.

And they slipped into the void. To the Lost Cities.

#so 9000 words and we're still not done with the story #nice cliffhanger tho--#i am not sorry #also formatting might be a little weird but I don't know why #i also can't tell if it is weird or not or if im making it up #alright cool now that we've got this thiqq chapter out of the way #i'm going to scream about the au some more #y'all i have many things planned #i don't know what will end up happening but things are planned #kotlc #kotlc wings au #shattered upside down #shattered upside down chapter #kotlc fic #kotlc fanfic #kotlc chaptered fic #quil's quill #is that all the tags i need?#who knows

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write-a-bad-romance · 3 years

Text

Two Hares Running Side by Side [Final]

Part I & Part II

Characters: Jean d’Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte, Sebastian, Comte de Saint-Germain, minor characters adapted from historical figures

Pairings: Napoleon x MC, Napoleon x Jean, Sebastian x Saint-Germain (main)

Words: 2803

Warning: Some sexual content (MxM)

Leon was soon kept busy with work. Although it didn't keep him from trying to enter the infirmary after twilight.

But he was discouraged by the suspicious looks the head nurse threw him, and Leon finally resigned to loitering in the courtyards of the infirmary.

It was a full moon outside. Leon stared at his own shadow and thought it had never looked so gaunt and pathetic.

Even the chirp of cricket failed to distract him from meandering thoughts.

The thought of killing and being killed was no stranger to seasoned officers like Leon and Sebastian. Overcoming regret and fear was natural to them. And so was the assurance that they'd always see each other after the gunshots ceased.

But, they were both human, in the end. Sebastian was made of fragile bones and flesh, and Leon wasn't free from the emotions that threatened to engulf him.

Leon sat back and let the breeze sweep through his hair. The sky was starless, a pitch-black void looming over the earth.

The grass crunched underneath the boots of an approaching figure.

"Sergeant-Major," Leon greeted. "Here on a visit? It's already late."

It didn't matter if it was d'Arc. Just like back then, all he needed was another's presence. An anchor, though he loathed marking d'Arc as such.

At least it made him less guilty than the alternative.

Leon scooted over the stone bench to give d'Arc some space. As Leon's sight adjusted better, he could see bandages crisscrossing on the right side of d'Arc's face.

"I didn't know you were injured," Leon cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't check on you immediately—"

"Don't be," d'Arc replied with a hoarse voice. "You were preoccupied with the adjutant, after all."

"How did you know?" Was d'Arc observing him as well?

"I heard it from d'Alencon, who heard it from the nurses in Gilles' ward," he explained. "Some of them... fancied him, apparently. I understand why they'd fawn over such a gentleman, but still."

D'Arc coughed. He's a dying man, d'Arc failed to say.

"I will be praying for the Second Adjutant," d'Arc breathed. "As I've been praying for Gilles, I mean de Rais."

Another gust of wind billowed, scattering dead leaves on a stone walkway not too far away.

"How is de Rais?" Leon asked, if only for the sake of politeness. "I understand how you feel, but don't forget to mind your own condition, at least for your own sake."

Or my sake. Because I'm worried about Sebastian and now won't stop worrying about everything else. Leon thought to himself.

D'Arc slowly stretched his long legs and sighed.

"They needed to remove an arm. And there were some complications during the extraction of some bullet shells."

Leon wondered if nothing could shake the man. Even his voice was calm as he described de Rais' condition. Leon couldn't expect less from the stoic man.

He gazed at d'Arc's profile.

What did it take to be the perfect soldier that d'Arc was? How does one retain such a mask, even after leaving the front lines?

Underneath all that invisible armor, was there a man as secretly vulnerable as Leon?

Dark eyes mirrored bright emerald eyes.

"Second Lieutenant," d'Arc called softly. "Would you like some time to yourself?"

Yes, please. Words resonated in Leon's head, or No, don't. This is only a momentary lapse, you see? We won't speak of this ever again, and you would forget I cried all over you.

Did he want to cry?

Leon, unknowingly, had lunged for d'Arc's static wrist. He was so thin and easy to yank forward.

Into his embrace

But it was foolish. D'Arc wasn't Sebastian. He'd only push him away if Leon insisted that the other hug him. That he wanted another warm body to ease him into containing the grief, the feeling of uselessness that was crawling from his stomach and clawing at his throat.

A cold hand rested on top of his own.

"If you want to cry," d'Arc whispered. "By all means, cry to your heart's content."

Leon loosened his grip on d'Arc's sleeve.

"Don't force yourself to keep a straight face. No need to pretend," D'Arc's murmur was distant. "Not while we're alone."

Your secret is safe with me, always.

"You're too strong for your own good," D'Arc murmured, even as Leon slotted his face into the crook of his neck. "Even when you're at your weakest, you're still a worthy officer. You always are."

A tender hand found its way to the back of Leon's head.

"No, Monsieur Bonaparte," d'Arc rumbled. "You're only human."

Leon pulled his waist closer.

"Therefore," another arm circled below Leon's shoulders. "Think of nothing, and let yourself go."

The dark fabric of d'Arc's coat masked tear tracks left behind by Leon. And like their meeting in the café, tonight, too, will just be another memory.

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"Win this war for me, Bonaparte." Sebastian clasped Leon's hands before they carried him home. "We'll meet again in Paris when this is all over."

Leon promised to write to him often. He wasn't sure about the doctor; Saint-Germain was quiet when he informed Leon of Sebastian's potential discharge.

"At least, back home, he won't have to worry about losing his life," The doctor had murmured with a thin smile.

Leon found d'Arc outside the hospital not much later, and he was holding several stalks of lilies to his chest.

"He was finally freed from this pain this morning," d'Arc stuttered. "Will you accompany me?"

Both men stepped out into the stale air of morning side by side.

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The following nights brought forth desires within Leon he’d never expected.

Long before their parting, Leon would dream of a soft mouth trailing kisses down his chest before finally enveloping his member.

Hazel eyes would gaze at him with adoration, with love. And his fingers would tangle between imaginary light brown locks as she swallows.

Such dreams were no more, as the form beneath him shifts into something else. Soft curves turned into muscles and hard planes no different than his.

He'd dream of a broad chest on his back, supporting him as lean, nimble hands (sometimes gloved) wrung him dry. He'd seize the sturdy neck to claim thin lips as he hungered for air.

And sometimes, he'd be the one taken on silk sheets, his dark, steely eyes coming to life as he rutted into Leon, hard and fast.

Leon quietly cried Jehanne's name as he finished.

Then, the next morning, he'd wake up to soaked trousers, embarrassed, before he reached down to start all over again.

He didn't mention it in his letters to Sebastian.

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The months turned to years, and the years turned into a full decade. Another two, and Leon was almost a general.

And so was d'Arc, who, by some good fortune, nearly matched him in rank.

People changed too. Leon's teenage sweetheart was now following her husband to concerts in Vienna, a proud mother of two.

Meanwhile, Sebastian and the good doctor had parted ways. He went on to Firenze with an up-and-coming painter (as Sebastian begrudgingly wrote in his letters). Sebastian remained content in Paris to continue studying History, his long-life pursuit before the draft.

Like her, Sebastian settled and soon grew a family.

Meanwhile, Leon remained faithful to the Grande Armée, politely declining marriage offers and claiming he'd sworn his heart for the service of the motherland.

It wasn't so. Leon knew it deep in his heart.

The prolonged war never took away d'Arc from his side. Even as duty beckoned them from opposite sides of the country.

But there was always time to rendezvous during the holidays. Leon loved being at home among his siblings and mother, but he had also learned to cherish the few precious moments he shared with the colonel.

And it was on this chilly January evening where they sat by a hearth in their current base. Leon had learned not to offer the other wine to avoid repeating that one night almost a dozen seasons ago.

Leon chuckled. It seemed only yesterday that d'Arc was moaning about his brother and sister-in-law. Now, it was a secret they both shared in the open.

Reminding him about the event was a joy to Leon. The colonel would cough and look away, while his ivory skin would be tinted a delicate pink.

"Your hard work will soon be rewarded, d'Arc." Leon sipped his drink. "Soon, they're going to promote your rank to general."

His companion silently pondered Leon's word as a hand covered his eyepatch. Even with a black cloth obscuring half his face, d'Arc was still as stunning as the day he rode into camp.

"I think," he finally spoke. "It's time for me to return home."

Leon jolted and nearly dropped his wine glass. Thankfully, d'Arc didn't notice, and Leon encouraged himself to ask:

"Are you sure about this?" Leon tried to mask the trembling in his voice. "There's still time to think. You don't want to regret your decision later."

Can't I convince you to stay?

But the rare gleam in d'Arc's orb was resolute.

"I'm certain," he answered. "I've been away from my family for too long."

Napoleon nodded in silence. He grasped the velvet of his coat until his knuckles turned white.

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This time, it was Sebastian who sat across him in a homely Parisian café. It wasn't too far away from the university where Sebastian studied (and now taught).

Leon had invited him out to talk, and without commenting on his sullen face, Sebastian passed him a black, palm-sized notebook.

There were names and addresses, as well as a piece of paper sticking between the pages.

Leon's hands trembled as he laid the damn thing on the table.

"But, Sebastian, this is—" He stammered. "How did you find this?"

"They kept me around for a while after they fitted my prosthetic leg," Sebastian tapped on his left knee. "Got some names and all sorts of blackmail material. That, right there, could have gotten our friend killed if I hadn't collected all those conscript letters."

Sebastian reached to pour Leon's cup more coffee as the latter flipped through the notebook.

"Unbelievable how the war made our bureaucracy so lenient," he commented, "Then again, the army has been benefitting of these loopholes,"

"Hmmm," Sebastian stirred his cup without purpose. "I don't think that's the right question to ponder at this very moment."

"What do you mean?" Leon stared at Sebastian, his thumb involuntarily brushing the page beside which he found the paper.

"Go and see D'Arc, now that you've got the address," his gaze challenged Leon. "Wouldn't you like to see for yourself?"

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Cold was the morning she rode her father's horse from the stables. The frigid air of Domremy followed her to the training camp, to the battlefield, to the cities. It stayed with her as she sat at the loom, in a lonely spot by the window.

Jeanne silently caressed the cloth she'd abandoned before donning her father's gear. Her sister had finished it for her, and all that's left was to adorn it with gold needlework.

Embroidery had been one of her stronger suits, but now her calloused fingers were struggling to reacquaint herself with the needle's flow. It frustrated her immensely how things that were once familiar to her now felt foreign.

Like the dress she had exchanged for her decorated colonel's uniform.

But shedding her uniform was easy. Returning to her old, long-retired 'self' wasn’t. Jeanne couldn't abandon the way she used to walk at camp, her stern way of talking from when she was still barking commands, and the way she loomed imposingly over nervous neighbors.

Her armor had become one with her skin.

Her family, surprisingly, was welcoming as she entered the threshold in her uniform. In the kitchen sat her father, whom she had never spoken a sentence to even through her letters.

And then he embraced her tightly, before weakly chiding her for riding to her supposed death. Then came her beloved Pierre, with his lovely children and comely wife.

Her sister noted how handsome she looked, even after she slipped into a newly bought linen gown. Her old smocks no longer fit her sinewy frame, and her new garb made Jeanne feel wrong looking at her own reflection.

These things took time to settle, as her first months in the military had taught her.

And then the shrill voice of Jeanne's sister pierced through the silence. She was tempted to rise and come out to scold her but refrained when she heard a male voice alongside Catherine's.

Jeanne recognized his voice, and her fingers curled tightly against the cloth in her lap.

It didn't take long before the footsteps reached her, and she kept herself from turning away to the window.

Still, a part of her urged Jeanne to stand and salute.

"At ease," the voice commanded. "I'm not here to arrest you."

Ah yes, she almost forgot. It was an offense that she'd done, wasn't it? The thought seeped into her dreams as she slept from inn to inn. But it disappeared the night she returned to bed, exhausted after such a long masquerade.

So, Jeanne looked at her hands, no longer looking like a woman's. She could hear Leon approaching, sensed him even as he dragged a seat to sit by her side.

Jeanne could no longer let the silence drape over them.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I fooled you. Have lied to you all these years...All for keeping my father and brother away from the war, if possible—"

But her general just burst laughing, alleviating and worsening her nerves at the same time.

"Sorry," he managed in between laughs. "I didn't expect it to be your natural voice."

Jeanne scowled, and for the first time, she looked at his face. Just as tired, but still very much the handsome captain who trained her years ago.

"Then again," Leon's laugh abated, and he was now looking at her properly for the first time. "You don't change much, do you?"

Jeanne hated how his eyes seemed to drill into her. She never felt this way when they were together in the army.

"I suppose not," she muttered. "I can't quite return to the girl who snuck out of the village on a mere whim."

"On a whim?"

"I had no confidence that I could survive the war," Jeanne confessed. "Let alone maintain the charade for nearly a decade. It was only by God's grace that I came along thus far."

Leon hummed.

"But you did it anyhow," he countered. "I don't think I've ever seen a braver soldier than you. You got more than you bargained for, and you breezed through it like it was nothing."

No.

There was the hollow socket where her right eye should have been and Gilles's bones, now resting in his family's mausoleum.

The medals and achievements were no compensation for the comrades she lost, for the times her courage faltered. And neither did they take away the emptiness that now settled in her heart.

Then Leon suddenly came, hopefully with answers to the questions remaining in Jeanne's mind every night before she finally dozed.

Napoleon watched as Jeanne gazed out the window. Beyond it was vast empty soil, ready to be tilled by the returning men.

They ask Daughter who's in her heart.

They ask Daughter who's in her mind.

But her mind was clean as a slate. 'Jean' was now resting, and the long slumbering 'Jeanne' was awake, taking his place. But she was the same Jehanne who wrestled with Pierre when they were little and eventually took up arms when he couldn't replace their father.

She chuckled. Perhaps for the first time in decades.

"What's so funny?" Leon asked. Oh right, he was still here.

"Ah, it's nothing. Forgive me," Jeanne turned to look back at Leon. "And you, Monsieur? You're blushing."

Jeanne only said that to get back at him and catch him off guard. But her cheeks, too, heated at the sight of him reddening. Bantering felt less...complicated when they had been brother-in-arms.

Some things did change, after all.

Leon cleared his throat. "Ah, zut." he cursed. "Sorry. This isn't going as I expected."

Jeanne smiled. So she wasn't treading into new territory alone.

"Will you accompany me, General?" She slowly moved from her seat. "We can stroll through the village as we talk."

"You don't have to call me General, uh—" he responded uneasily. "Mademoiselle d'Arc?"

"It's Jehanne," her one dark eye glinted. "Please call me Jehanne."

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Damn, I didn’t expect to take this long to finish. Hhhh @batteryrose this is absolute pain.

#ikevam fanfic #jeanpoleon #ikemen vampire jean #ikemen vampire napoleon #ikevam jean #ikevam napoleon #riri tries ikevam

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oingo233 · 4 years

Text

By The Lake*Part Six

Summary: A family friend offers you a place to stay to get away from an abusive past. Her home is a place that you are familiar with, an old town with a large lake you spent many days in. You went there years ago for one full summer, where you became close friends with a very young Daryl Dixon. You two were inseparable until you had to leave. But now you’re back, escaping from a past much like his. You will need to weave your way through the town’s problematic people, your own problems, and above all the confusing Dixon. Will you two find your way back to each other again? Or will he push you further away? And above all, will your past cease to haunt you?

MasterList

Pairing: Young Daryl Dixon X Reader

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and violence(potential triggers), cussing, more mature themes(not smut or anything tho), slow burn romance, described wounds and injuries

Authors note: I don’t own the character Daryl Dixon, he belongs to the creators of The Walking Dead. This fic talks about abuse, and the terrible reality involved to spread awareness about the matter, not to romanticize it.

Word Count: 4.4k

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I woke up with Daryl sprawled out next to me, his back looks stiff and painful, but his hand was still holding on tightly to mine. His hair shadowed his face, and his legs were spread wide apart, one dangling over mine. If it weren’t for all the cuts, and bruises that littered his body, he would look like a normal teenager. One that chases girls, and all the highs of life. Sometimes, I forget that he is a teenage boy at all, he seems to always carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. I go over each of his wounds, to check for infection or any changes. All seems to be healing well so far.

I planned on letting him sleep for as long as he could, but Cherry had other plans.

“(Y/N)?” She knocked at the door and I saw the door handle jiggle. She was trying to get in. But she would see Daryl! “How’s your hand?” I hear her ask. “If you’re even awake...” She mumbles to herself. More knocking follows. My heart is caught in my throat. My hand is fine, and that is the problem.

The bed shifts next to me, and I notice Daryl now wide awake. He lets go of my hand with a slight blush, and runs his now free hand through his hair, wincing from the movement. Cherry knocks again and he stops moving, we stare at each other with wide eyes. Cherry’s knocking gets louder and she tries the door again, yelling my name. Daryl and I remain frozen till he lightly hits my leg with his. Letting me know I should do something. He was glancing around at all the windows and I rolled my eyes.

“You are not jumping out a window Daryl.” I whisper-yell, he narrows his eyes at me.

“Then what the hell else are we gonna do?” He whisper yells right back at me, his hand flying from his hair to the air.

“Let me handle this.” I say, eliciting a look from him.

“Oh great...”He mumbles. I hide my laughter from his comment, along with my sassy remark, and head to the first aide kit.

“Sorry Cherry, just woke up. Let me-” I yell through the door, I look down at myself, thinking of what to say. But then I die inside, glancing back at Daryl only to catch him with his eyes trailing down my butt, my legs, and then his eyes roam back to mine and he blushes a deep red. His hand rubbing the back of his neck as he avoids looking at me anymore. “-get dressed.” I finish my sentence, pulling my over sized shirt a little more down my butt and undies. Faster than I ever have, I put on shorts, and wrapped my hand in gauze to further sell my lie. The thought made me shrivel up with guilt. “Coming.” I say, breathlessly.

I swing the door open, step out of it, and slam it shut behind me. Making sure Daryl won’t be seen. He didn’t want anyone to know, and quite frankly, I didn’t want Cherry and Mark to know either. I just kept him in my room overnight, and lied to them. Plus, I want to ask Daryl something but that will have to wait.

She quirks her eyebrows up at me in question, and I shrug. Ready to spit out another lie but she cuts me off, fingers in the air.

“I don’t want to know.” I nod along with her. We walk back to the house together, making casual conversation. She asked me about how I slept, and how my hand is doing. She even offered to check it for me, which I quickly declined.

We were all sitting down at the table when Rosie started to cry. We all stopped everything, the loud clashing of metal on ceramic plates filled the room along with her sobs. She ignored our questions and cooeing, as she lifted a shaky finger to me.

“B-b-blood.” She blubbered out, words trapped in sobs. I glance down at myself and see splotches of red staining all across my left side, in patches from my arm to leg, and finally to where Rosie was pointing, my face. All on the side I was sleeping on, I suddenly remember the bloody sheets Daryl and I slept on; both of us too tired to care. I cringe at my own stupidity, as Mark quietly excuses himself from the table with a slight gag.

“Oh my...here.” Cherry gives me a wet cloth she dipped in her water glass, and swipes it across my face, catching the red stains. I take it from her and rush to the bathroom. I don’t emerge until Rosie stops crying so hard, and I’m fully clean.

“I’m okay sweetie.” I coo, approaching her slowly and letting her see my clean skin. She gives me a tight hug while Cherry rubs her back.

“How?” She asks, eyebrows knotted. I shrug, my cheeks heating as I think of a bloody, shirtless Daryl in my bed.

“Hand, I guess.” I say, not looking her in the eyes. She nods stiffly. I grab an extra plate of food, telling Cherry I was super hungry because of my cravings, and she excused my off behavior. Truth was, I don’t think Daryl wanted rabbit from the woods as breakfast while he was this hurt. I was almost out the door when she stopped me.

“Hey (Y/N)?” I turn around and give her a warm smile, it drops quickly at the sullen expression she wears. “Lets talk later. Come early for dinner, yeah?” I swallow thickly, and reassure her I’ll be early. I rush out of there, thoughts racing with what she could possibly want to talk to be about. My stomach lurched and I wanted to cry. She knows...she knows about Daryl. She’ll scare him off and he’ll never come to me for help. His family will be shamed, and he’ll never be safe there again. She was going to yell at me for lying, and she was going to kick me out. The plate feels heavy in my arms and I set it on the table on the cabin porch, not even remembering how I got there so quickly.

I miss the way the door opened slowly, to reveal Daryl as he hobbles over to me. He set a rough hand softly on my shoulder, and rubbed it.

“Ya goin’ to be okay? Ya look sick.” He whispers, turning me to face and hug him, he seems stiff with all this contact but I sink into anyway. “I got ya, doll. It’s okay.” He held me until my breathing evened out, and I can now hear his steady but pained breathing, over my racing heart. I don’t know what happened between us, or what will, but this felt right. My question from earlier came rushing out before I could stop it.

“Stay.” I murmur into his chest. His arms drop from around me and twitch by his side. A nervous habit of his. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, eyes wide on me.

“What?” He asks. I swallow the lump in my throat and push the words out like vomit. He could react terribly to this.

“I want you to stay here with me. Cherry won’t and doesn’t have to know. They rarely come by here anyway.” He sits down by the food and stares in the direction of their white house. Silently, he picks up the fork and starts to eat. I sit opposite of him. “You aren’t safe at your house. Obviously...” I motion to his wounded body. “...we both know that to be a fact. You’re safe here. I’d never hurt you.” The words echo in our mind, all too familiar. “Stay.” and “would never hurt you.” We’ve said those things to each other before. I glance at the lake, the flat rock and remember the brush of his fingers on my face from last night. the familiarity of it all overwhelmed me as my mind drifted to that one summer many years ago.

****FlashBack****

It was raining, hard. The enforced wood of the cabin made the raindrops sound like bullets. It fogged my sleep, I dream of war. Bullets firing in the air, explosions. I was shot. I woke up with a jump. Feeling my torso for the ghost wound. I exhale deeply, trying to calm myself. My mother is sound asleep next to be on the bed. Over the loud rage of the weather I heard another sound. Something was running. A sob broke through the air and I froze. It was a person running.

I was petrified, all I could do was listen to the crashing of footsteps in puddles, and loud cries. Who was here? After my nightmare, it was easy for me to imagine the worst. A murder? A stalker? An intruder? My mother snored softly beside me and a sense of calm washed over me. I must protect us, I realized. The sounds faded away and soon there was just rain. But I knew the person still had to be around. Daryl taught me how to throw a good punch, “the old one, two” he called it. He also taught me how to shoot the crossbow, but that was safe with him at the moment.

On shaky legs I peeked out the window to see where this person was. I looked across the whole area but couldn’t see anyone. Until a shadow moved off in the distance. It was hard to see in the night, let alone in the middle of the storm. The figure was dark, but I saw as it sat at the edge of Daryl and I’s rock. Head in their hands. Crying. Why would a murder cry? They wouldn’t, I thought. Maybe someone needs my help.

Without a second thought I grab my blanket to shield myself from the cold, and I unlock the door. I rush out using the blanket over my head as I stepped over twigs and mud puddles to reach the side of the lake the person was on. I reached the person in a couple of minutes. My legs were shaking like the ground during a quake, and all I could think of was if this person would hurt me or not. I push forward every ounce of courage I have as I shout over the rain a few feet from the person.

“Who are you! What the hell you doing here!” I yell. The figure nearly jumps out of the air, I swear I heard a deep sob before it was muffled by a false chuckle. “Ya always check in on strangers in the middle of the night alone?” Silence engulfed us as I wondered why he sounded so familiar.

“N-no.” I stutter out. “That’s smart.” Daryl's voice echoes into the night sarcastically. Relief nearly knocks me over, but my frown only deepens. I scowl, sitting down next to him. “Only when they cry like a baby.” I joke, but it was badly taken. He stiffened by my side, puffing his chest out. He dragged a hand roughly down his face, wiping his nose and giving me a deadly glare. “I ain’t crying. It’s raining smart ass” I don’t push it further, I just nod my head and stare off at the water when I notice Daryl finding it harder to compose himself.

“You never answered my question.” I say softly, watching his eyes fill up with tears. He scoffs.

“Don’t ‘ave to. You ain’t the boss of me.” He was grumpier than usual. A thick silence took over the conversation. The rain was letting up slightly, just a slight drizzle now. The crickets were creating beautiful music, as the droplets created ripples on the lake. It was straight out of a movie, peaceful and calm--a sob broke through the chorus of forest animals. Daryl’s head was in his hand.

“He beat me (Y/N). He really beat me.” He cried, tugging at his hair. Under the moonlight I could see bruises and little cuts sprinkled along his arms. His cheek swollen large, he has a black eye. I wiped a tear from my face and tried not to focus on the sense of dread and anxiety welling up in my chest.

I wrapped the soggy blanket around both of us, Daryl laid his head on my shoulder as he cried quietly. I could tell he was struggling to calm down, my heart ached at the thought of how afraid he must be. He was just a boy, and he would have to return to all this pain and fear in the morning. And everyday after. With my arm across his back for the blanket, I wrap my hand softly around his arm and rub up and down, humming a song softly in his ear. He choked on his breath a couple times before his breathing evened out and he was relaxed into my side. Never have I seen him like this, so vulnerable and terrified. My song ended and I look down. Daryl was sound asleep. I chuckle to myself. Only he could sleep outside when it was pissing rain.

Hair was falling onto his face. I wipe it from his forehead and nearly cry out at the clot of blood it revealed. There was a large gash coming from his hairline, the rain beat on it and I winced at the water ran red and fell down his face. Panic swelled within me and I carefully removed him from me. My mother would know what to do. She could help.

I was nearly off the rock completely when I heard a sharp intake of air behind me, and Daryl yelling.

“Wait-” He stood up and ran towards me. We stared at each other for a long time. My eyes kept following the blood down his face, but he was staring right into my eyes. Pained breaths left him, but he looked frantic. My eyes found his only to see a pool of blue fear. Vulnerably.

“Stay.” He whispered. He reached for my arm gently, the blanket fell to the floor as he ran to me. I stared at it, then the cabin, then back to his bleeding head. I pull away carefully and he looked panicked. “Please, stay.” His voice shook. After a few seconds I made up my mind. I take his hand and walk him towards the woods, where the trees can offer us safety against the attacking weather. He follows like a lost dog. I leave him there for a second to get the blanket, then I throw it to the floor, making it just right.

I took his wet hand and held it in mine carefully as I sat us down on the mushy blanket, better than the hard rock we were used to. I was frustrated to say the least. I was mad at his dad, who beat Daryl and did this to him. Made him run alone, in the rain and dark, to the only safe place he knows. I was angry that I couldn't help him. I was angry he wouldn't let me, and I was angry that I felt so damn emotional right now. But my feelings must have shown because when I reached to touch his swollen cheek he flinched backwards, eyes shut.

I quickly retracted and held my hand to my chest. “Oh Daryl...I’d never hurt you.” Everything was frozen for a few breathless seconds. His face scrunches up with agony and then he falls apart. Laying his head on my chest he sobs. Through his cries he tells me how scared he is. But he didn’t have to tell me, he was trembling under my hands.

“I’m here Daryl. I’m not leaving.” I repeat myself until he calms down. My eyes burn with tears as I feel the lumps and welts on his skin, I keep my eyes on the water and try to think of when things will get better.

We woke up to birds chirping away, not the sound of rain. The sun peeked through the clouds and gave everything a blue shade to it, it must have been around 5 in the morning. I was soaked through to the bone,and my mind took a moment to collect all the memories from last night. My eyes pop open, searching for Daryl. I didn’t have to look long.

Daryl was gazing at me with a soft smile on his face. When our eyes met he dropped his and blushed a heavy red.

“m’ sorry.” He mumbled under his breath. I grab his hand.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” I look around us, taking in how drastically the weather has changed, it pulls a chuckle from my lips. The sound draws Daryl’s eyes back up to me, he chuckles too, although neither of us are sure why. I sit up all the way and my hair tumbles into my eye.

“Ouch.” I gasp, trying to get it out of my eyes. Embarrassment crawling up my neck at the thought of how bad I looked with my face scrunched up and my hands slapping at my face. Daryl only smiled warmly, reaching a hand out he lightly replaced my own with his. Within seconds my eyes felt better as his hand grazed my cheek, pulling the strand of hair behind my ear. It was so simple, yet the very air around us shifted. Emotions from last night, and a new sense of closeness engulfed us. His hand cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing across my cheek bone, to my ear, and finally it pulls my lip out from beneath my teeth. Every touch as soft as a feather.

His eyes were staring into mine, a sparkling blue I’ve never seen on him before. It was quick, but noticeable when I glanced down at his pink lips. I often dreamed about the way they could feel. Were they soft? Would they fit with mine? He smiled, looking down at my lips and suddenly he was leaning in. Everything was fading away, and as if on instinct our eyes fluttered shut. Our lashes tickling one another.

His lips were soft. And I swear to god nothing would ever fit as perfectly as our lips together. We moved in sync, our lips and emotions dancing with one another as we gave into our feelings. Our bond. My lips nearly kissed his teeth as his face spread out into the biggest smile I have ever seen. He gave me no time to stare at his beauty before he dove down for another kiss. Maybe we were too young. Maybe this was a bad idea. But I never felt those doubts with him before, and certainly not when he was kissing me like this. Daryl was it for me, that much I was sure of. If the eruptions of giddiness and calm were anything to go by, then it was that.

“You better take those lips off of her boy!” The sound was shocking in the silence of the early morning, and the peace of our sweet moment. We jumped back from one another to see Mr.Hendersons face bright red with rage. He was standing out on his porch in plain, navy pajamas. A steaming cup of what I assume to be coffee in his hand as he stares at the two of us in shock and anger. Without breaking eye contact his head shifts slightly to the side and he is yelling again. “Sharron! That Dixon boy is all over (Y/N)! He’s poisoning our sweet girl!”

Daryl was stiff at my side, I glance at him only to notice the familiar marks of shame on his expression, it was one he wore often. But this time he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I went to tell the Hendersons off when a soft call of my name came from the direction of Big Green.

“(Y/N)? Honey!” It was mother. I could make out her figure, pulling her hands through a dress robe. I was mortified to say the least. My mother made me swear off of boys till I was 16. Now she caught me kissing one with angry neighbors in the early morning, both of us soaking wet from the rain. I stood up abruptly on shaky legs.

“Mom!” I called, voice shaking and eyes watering as she put two and two together eyeing me up and down. Before I could speak Mrs.Henderson came rushing out, hair in rollers.

“What! (Y/N) did he force you! Come here darling, I have a bath running.” I take a step back from their direction, despite them being far away. Both Daryl and I were speechless. I knew my mom liked Daryl but what would she think now. I shook me head fervently.

“N-no! We wer-”

“Come back here (Y/N)! We need to pack for tomorrow. Thank you for your concern Sharron, but Daryl would never do such a thing.” Mom said, I was beyond relieved.

“You approve of this! They’re too young!” Mr.Henderson roared. I was sure Cherry was going to hear and that’s the last thing I need.

“No.” Mother set her glare on me, and I just about shriveled up under the heat of it. “I don’t.” Her word was final, I rushed across the lake into Big Green. My hands were shaking as I wiped at my tears, face hot against my palms, lips still burning. Guilt sat like hot stones in my gut as I realized I never once looked back at Daryl. To let him know it was okay. The last thing he saw, was me running away. Ashamed.

****End of Flashback****

The memory slightly shocked me, although it was never something I forgot, I never did look back on it often. I found it to be too painful. But now, right now, here with him under the exact same set of circumstances, I’ve decided not to make the same mistake. His words from last night echoed in my mind. I left him too. I refuse to leave him now.

“We can stay here together.” I say softly, resting my hand on his forearm, he all but licked the plate clean. He stares deep into my eyes, searching for any hints of uncertainty, or a joke. He clears his throat and stares at the lake. Nodding, he visibly relaxes.

“We’ll need to clean those sheets.” He says. My heart soars and I laugh.

“Of course, no one is sleeping on those. Rosie freaked when she saw me this morning.” I laugh even harder, he chuckles eyeing me up and down.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell ya. You never did look good in the mornings anyway though.” He jokes, I lightly push at his shoulder, giggling.

“You’re one to talk, droolface.” He swipes at the dry drool on his chin, reaching over he rubs it on me. I run away from him into the cabin. He puts the plate in a little sink and sits down on a chair inside, watching me strip the sheets off the bed.

“I can help ya.” He states, already getting up.

“Don’t. You’re hurt now, treasure it because once you’re well I’ll have ya doing everything. I hate chores.” He scoffs under his breath, leaning back.

“Oh, I remember. Miss princess.” We both laugh, recalling all the times I’d have him do some of my chores that summer. Folding laundry, and other things. I told him it would give us more time together if we finished it together, but I’d leave him to it halfway through. He never once complained. It was in those times we had our deepest conversations, this time is no different.

“When did it start?” He ask out of the blue. I pretended not to understand, but I did. My stomach dropped, I was just waiting for him to bring it up.

“What?” He takes a deep breath, as if it hurt him as much as it hurt me to even talk about it.

“When did Carter...start hurting you?” I take a deep breath, and fold the bloody sheets putting them off to the corner. I take my time, sitting on the bed, getting comfortable, and then facing him. Although I didn’t meet his eyes. But my mothers words echoed in my head “What happened ain’t you’re fault. You’ve been nothing but strong and deserving of love. Don’t carry this shame with ya sweetheart.” I meet his soft blue eyes.

“A year or two after us being together, three if you count being friends. How do I just cut someone loose after that long?” I take a shaky breath, he doesn’t speak, he knows I like to have my time. “Love, it’s blinding sometimes. A bruise here and there became a normal occurrence. But so did apologies, and dinner dates, and promises that seemed more sincere than the last. Months would go by where we were perfect, happy...then one wrong move on my part, or one bad day and...” I didn’t even notice him come to sit next to me. He grabbed my hand and kissed it. A simple kiss at that, it gave me comfort, but the rest of my story will come another day. Daryl could see it in my eyes, he gives my hand a squeeze and starts to talk himself.

“Home ain’t good for me. I know it ain’t the same, but I know in some ways...it is. I came ‘ere last night cause I didn’t feel safe nowhere but uh...” His face blushes red and he clears his throat. “Ya only ever been kind with me.” I knew what he meant, I squeeze his hand.

“You feel like my safe place too, Daryl.” His ears now turn a bright red and he gives me a small smile. Nodding his head he awkwardly drops my hand.

“Let’s get these clean, huh?” Daryl says, picking up the sheets and carrying them outside, holding the door for me with his foot. Hours later the sheets were clean and neatly laid. Daryl and I talked for a while, reconnecting. It felt nice being on fresh sheets, and starting fresh with Daryl. For a while, everything was good. But the next week would change everything. Cherry’s news would drop a bomb in the small town by the lake, one that would leave it’s mark forever.

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#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader #young daryl dixon #Young Norman Reedus #twd #twd fanfiction #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fanfiction #angst #romance #abuse #DarylDixon

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404fmdhaon · 3 years

Text

creative claims verification — maestro

summary: a song written in 2016. an angry boy says fuck you to the people that doubted his talents, again. warnings: none wc: 1820 (not including lyrics)

he touches a real piano for the first time in years.

the set of ivory keys lined up, sparse increments of black filling the void. eighty-eight keys, fifty two white thirty six black. he’s always favored the b and e from first glance when he realized the onyx keys weren’t the only casualty of a flat or sharp. it takes him all but three seconds to line up the technical keys — first the octave progressions that start with basic fingering. four fingers, spanning eight keys. it starts at octave one, breaches to octave seven.

he remembers the first time he played a piano.

five years old at the mercy of his mother — pianos make pretty hands, and my son will have pretty hands. in hindsight, he doesn’t know what the fuck she meant then, and still doesn’t know when he’s twenty-seven severed ties from a family long gone. yet, he remembers the prosperious beginnings of a formidable boy at age eight — playing along the tunes of chopin, schubert and mendelsson.

for old times sake, he plays the etudes. and like muscle memory, schubert and the hours invested into each tick on the clock and mark against the practice sheet take its toll — it plays smoothly, and the smirk curved on his face tells otherwise of the distaste that subsides inside his stomach.

he leaves, places his hand on the side arm before folding himself ninety degrees (muscle memory takes him there too).

the taste of a grand piano becomes addicting on his fingers like an insatiable itch by the time it’s three days pass. he waits another two.

addiction doesn’t pass, and impulsitivity ensues. his name marked on the reservation sheet placed in the recording room with the grand piano, he marches straight through combatted for war with the lingering ties of his past.

it starts when he mimics the beginnings of beethoven and mozart — the first names he learns when he’s sitting on edge scrawled across the piano with the sheet music at bay. it’s the first of two pieces juxtaposed together, inside the minor keys (he remembers, he hated the minors. too many damn sharps to account for). it starts with a two note combination — flits past two octaves. it’s here it becomes an ode, a death march to the things he’s buried under.

but his creativity ceases when he’s struck at a standstill.

no beethoven or bach — there’s nothing that budges past the iteration of the same baseline he’s concocted. no codas composing one break into the next — instead, it’s a repeat measure when he finds solace inside. clicks of the mouth amassing it, only to string it out past the span of three minutes.

it’s the ode to classics and the greatest: the bare standard he manages when he’s thrown the years of promising futures to a life underground and the classics washed away into the easy floating beats of hip hop and rap. yet, he never loses respect — the morsel of respect left for the era that kept him afloat all those years. and he suspects, it must be an effect of music. the keys that leave him jarred and marred with years of memories he can’t forget nor bury. call him a hypocrite — he doesn’t fall out of love with the classics. not when he’s eight and not when he’s twenty-two on the verge of relenting adulthood.

he takes the notes for what it’s worth — the repetition on loop in the background. and if he’s had to guess, he gives it to his favorite period: the romantic era where chopin and brahms take him by storm.

yet, the contrast takes him when the black screen reflects his own image — the contours of his face, sullen and pulled empty by the ties of schedules. stretched to his core where music no longer hovers along lonely bodies and disassociations. a scandal a dozen, and he’s stripped bare void of any creative freedom or outlet. (this becomes his outlet).

when his pen mars the empty pages, and he’s left with telling the story untold. a history he’s never spoken — the question looms: who is chung gyujeong. like a nightmare, he can’t give the answer. instead, what he knows is that the piano became a life hold when he was five. fawns over his small frame and sways to the movement of his fingers — talent encompassing. now, he makes bodies sway to the shitty rhymes and pop-drenched beats of a sell-out inundating him heavy.

sunbaes, and he has to fold himself over. speak the formalities to same fucking round of people trapped in the vicious cycle. it’s here, he understands. his escape started at fourteen, inside late nights with nothing more than a side lamp and the tawdry note pad — lyrics. sounds of his mother shaking her head, yanking him into obedience inside the four walls of hakwons saying the carbon-printed sayings of ‘there’s no future in lyrics. time for piano.’

he shakes his head, laughs. the ripple effect coming inside a wash of memories when he tells her to look at him now — a lost son, cut and tied with a cold shoulder faced to his family inside a marble house. “call me maestro.” his voice whispers out loud.

i played the piano since i was 5, i was a musical genius beethoven, mozart, bach and chopin were my predecessors however at 14, i put them aside and started writing lyrics i quite like this, you can’t make money that way — they all can shove it unlimited refills of versace drink — that was my first movement maserati car, white marble house — that was my second. the mic is my baton, call me maestro

there’s parallelisms he sees in clear sight, visceral and vibrant. the sounds of people telling him that he’d fuck up the second he cut his money string in family roots in tune with the rancid talks of idols pinpointing an inflated ego with no talent. gyujeong huffs a laugh, raises a middle finger in lieu of the words held down without a punch. there’s no gentleness here, no. not when the world opens into clarity — the divide between him and them. he’s not a fucking sell out, not when he’s still put his art on the line. traded in the suit pants of the events for his distressed pants and the years of lessons into amassing his own small empire.

he flicks a middle finger at his family — fuck you all for never seeing me for my work. and fuck you to the underground facades guising themselves as a temporary home only to rip out the benefits the second he stepped onto a big stage. this song becomes his mic drop — a fuck you to everyone because it’s chung gyujeong against the world. a twenty something with his pride tattered, he salvages the remains and puts them right here.

truthfully, distressed pants are way better than suit pants i can’t be gentle, i just scream and the money piles up the wealthy are all on the gentle side mr. geonhee give up your ceo title to me mr. nochang should give me his “genius name”* (천재노창 / genius nochang is a real rapper, but i’m using it as a npc point for gyu for the sake of verifications)

there’s stares inside every hallway he walks across. the scowl permanently engraved along his face when he passes by the hopefuls with innocence drowning their eyes in starry-wide visions. then, the whispers back stage of crude avoidance (he hears them all. hears all the shit, sees all the shit they say). a no-good nothing, spoiled and satiated by the fame handed to him on a silver platter — a talentless nothing, starved by nothing. they call him fucked, he calls them pathetic.

you listen to my line just now and say i’m fucked up.

his family’s pathetic when their on their last lifeline. a stern warning coming in volatile shouts, repeating in steps — you’ll never make it, so stop the act now. teenage rebellion stopped at fourteen, and that’s when he takes a plunge into the risks. by then, he’d been a boy with high hopes and higher expectations, a cesspool of goals and the ambition bursting the seams of his heart. an image with the name ‘haon’, a gentle rich boy nestled inside the heart of han-nam (he tells the underground kids, choke on your words when we’re on different levels).

but rather than being locked up by life i’d rather plunge right into the risks i knew my voice would be my moneymaker i dug a huge pit in the neighborhood ground with music and declared that my confidence was my classic image “to me, a sonata is just a car.” i’ll never think anything like that.

no expectations now, he tells it all to eat the shit he’s sowed. choke on their sacred words and cheap laughs, mocking his state. a sell-out, maybe — but he doesn’t take that to his grave. not when his pen still flows against the paper inside each verse and rhyme matching clear. it’s not da capo, and never the beginning. from here, he crawls his way out — fingers pressed and clawing for the taste of his name for everyone to choke on.

he writes the last few statements in a farewell to the harrowing thoughts that kept him restless for so many nights. the pen, dwindling on the last remains of ink — he stops caring, and lets the imprints carry the words he’ll take to heart.

fuck da capo, ill never go back to the beginning no applause, no, play the second movement, hallelujah the normal kids can fuck off but i don’t give a fuck son here is your tombstone with your name written on it. my art hall is the club, call me maestro.

the loop plays in the back, and he repeats the words written back. it flows, uncertain and heady when he doesn’t get it straight the first time.

frustration comes when he grabs onto his hair, pacing back and forth inside an echoing studio booming only the same chords from the start — beethoven’s madness, he thinks to himself. it’s a taste of mirroring an art form, and here, he must be doing something right.

headphones solidified back into his ears, he goes fueled this time. fueled by each memory and word shot back at him like weaponry, aimed straight for his gut. it comes in the billows of his voice, blaring when he shouts and places a piece of his soul into the chords played. there’s no repercussions here, not when it’s just him and the keys in a dead-eye match of past, present and future.

(he takes this, keeps it till the eighth take fulfills).

and what lacks, he sees when his ears perk up the void that lays subtle inside the track. he doesn’t want the hollowness of the piano — not when he sits upon as a maestro of an orchestra.

the keyboard comes out — this time fine tuned settings poised towards the deep cellos coming in at the two minute mark. it sets the baseline once more for the breach into the bridge. he sits there, doesn’t want it to linger longer than it’s enough to get the punch of meaning into frame. because he’s no longer the classist perched against the walls of a lonely room with no windows and the piano’s not the only voice he speaks to. instead, it’s the frame of a closing in on an attack he’s ready to dig deep in.

no longer a pianist, he picks up friend through the loose mic. the traverse into hip hop where the kick drum and reverbs become solace (he adds those too). adds in each of beat at the end of each iteration. the chords become hugged by the bellowing arches of the reverb, and he finds — this becomes his new sound of home. the one replayed at the hands of his martyrdom. except, he doesn’t fall at the hands of so many loose words. fragility, it doesn’t exist when he’s built himself a skin of armor like a shell encasing a boy no longer molded or mangled.

he’s been strung thin long enough. heard enough empty words. it’s a lesson learned — fuck everyone who’s ever doubted him.

#fmdverification

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andburning · 5 years

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On Being a Paint By Numbers Slut and the Profound Loneliness of Fucking Around by Rob Matthews

When I look back to when I was twenty one all I can recall, for the most part, is the crippling and unending loneliness of living by myself in a city of seven million people. I remember running the numbers, roughly, trying to work out the percentage chance of meeting someone I could form a deep personal connection with. Number of people in the city, then number of men, then number of gay or bisexual men, then number of people who I would be attracted to sexually or emotionally, then the number of those who would reciprocate those feelings. A pointless exercise and one I think I engaged in primarily to convince myself that the problem was not with me and my inability to find a boyfriend, but simply that the numbers were against me. I remember this vividly, but I also remember the men I fucked, or allowed to fuck me. I remember the cocks I sucked, and the lies I told, and the wedding rings on fingers I ignored. I remember this vividly. I remember feeling ashamed of my desires, and ashamed of what felt like an addiction. I remember thinking many times ‘this will be the last one.’ But of course it never was. There was always another man standing outside my door at two o’clock in the morning, in an awful jacket, and terrible shoes. They never have nice shoes. Ushered inside quickly, speaking in hushed whispers, furtive glances into the dark of the street, and then the inevitable conversation. The exchanges rarely varied, call-and-response, like a cant spoken between members of a cult. “How was your day?” I often asked. “How was your journey?” “Did you find me okay?”. Nonsense really. Mostly I asked questions to fill the silence as we ascended the staircase. Once inside the small talk would continue, awkward and stilted. He would remove those ugly shoes. Sometimes I would help. Most of the time the small talk would continue, even there, with my knees pressed against the cold floor, as I unbuttoned his jeans, or pulled down his tracksuit, and would continue until I put his cock in my mouth.

Once we had finished with the ritual, the small talk would continue, sometimes with implicit acknowledgement of the act, sometimes without. “So do you do this often?” “Would you like to do this again?”. Often as we are putting on our clothes a conversation would occur that would not be out of place on a first date: “What do you do for a living?” “How long have you lived here?” “What are your plans for the future?”. I have had profoundly moving conversations with men I have met once, and could not even begin to put names to, as I wiped their semen from my cheeks. But then, they would leave. I would delete their phone number, and wave goodbye to a faceless icon in my contacts screen next to whatever awful screen name they had provided online. I would then, most of the time, masturbate, drink something hard and not at all good for me, and go to bed. I would lie there, nestled in various fluids, staring into the depths of the ceiling, and wonder what had happened, and where the intense and powerful loneliness had come from. Sometimes, rarely, I would find cause to see the same man more than once, for whatever reason. Usually it was logistics. They were often free, they lived close by, they didn’t seem to mind the sight of me. I often mistook familiarity for fondness, and I still suffer from that today, nearly ten years later.

I will be thirty one next month, and I am still in a lot of ways, dealing with the emotional ramifications of the hours I spent chasing the cum of anyone who would be willing to provide it. I have had two major relationships since then, and several minor ones. Dozens of flings. All of which, without exception, ended because of me. Either I was bored, or couldn’t make myself emotionally available, or I simply failed to hold up my end of the bargain. I have, in between these, sought after the same alienating and morally exhausting encounters as I had done previously. Now with diminishing returns, but I pressed on regardless. It still felt like a ritual, but these days the mystique is gone. No longer a naïve initiate into a dark and exciting new world, I am now a seasoned veteran; I know all the moves, but I very rarely have the heart. I am a paint-by-numbers slut. On more than one occasion I have been in the middle of the act, and my mind has lost interest. I’ve ceased to care sometimes even before I begin. Once or twice I have ended the charade and forced a man back into the street, and one time I grabbed my clothes and ran out naked into the street and got dressed quickly behind a hedge. But other times I have just carried on, dutifully, hoping for it to end, just hoping he’ll cum soon so that I can get on with my day.

I am, still, to this day, deeply, and endlessly lonely. It is a feeling that has lived with me for as long as I can remember. A shadow looming in the corner of my mind, always. Sometimes it can be pushed deep into the recesses of my consciousness and for a morning, or an evening, or sometimes a day or a weekend, I can feel wanted and loved and happy. But it always returns, sometimes at night. Mostly at night. But sometimes even when my lover has left the room, perhaps to answer the door, or take a shower, or change, but worst of all when they are sat next to me, pressed into my chest, their warm breath against my skin, or lying soundly asleep next to me in the darkness and silence of the early hours of the morning. It is the great betrayer, my Judas. The loneliness inside me tells me, always, that there is something else out there - someone else out there - that can make me feel whole, and happy, and content. It is a liar. But still I believe it. And then, months later, after I’ve written some sloppy breakup letter, or had an agonising phone call where I pretend I know why I do any of the things I do, I am returning once again to the old ceremony, and remaining deeply, profoundly unhappy. I spend hours staring at disembodied cocks, and torsos, and sending messages, and responding to messages while actually hoping secretly that I won’t have to go through with it. I hope secretly that they will leave me alone, and never speak to me, and certainly not show up at two o’clock in the morning, and ask me the same tired old questions. All this I do while yearning and hoping for genuine affection, or at least a simulacrum of one. I am always looking in the wrong places. I invariably perform this act with older men, and always have. But it never dawned on me until recently how unbearably sad it makes me that for so many people, being older and queer manifests as bizarre rituals, and brief, fleeting sexual encounters, lined with genuine emotional curiosity. There is always a sullen, unspoken acknowledgment that these encounters will never bear the fruit of an emotional commitment, no matter how open and honest, how vulnerable those conversations after the fact can be.

Many of us, queer men, gay men, bisexual men, have grown up not knowing what a healthy gay relationship looks like. No one talked about them. No one showed us. We didn’t exist on television, or films, in a way that meant something to us as teenagers. But we had so many questions, and we looked for answers in the only place we could - late night risqué gay lifestyle shows on some long lost satellite channel, or the internet. Invariably gay life was framed around sex, and sexuality, and as a young queer boy in a small rural town, that’s all I had to go on. Pornography and innuendo. That was the advice. It was lonely and awful. In hindsight I internalised so many awful stereotypes about what it meant to be a gay person. This was reinforced throughout the culture. When I moved away to university, I joined the LGBT society thinking I was about to learn the secrets of what it meant to be gay and happy, what it meant to have gay friends who were loving and supportive and open. Instead I spent a few nights sat in the corner of a club, or a bar, not understanding anything, not feeling at home, and most of all feeling like I was not welcome. The lack of a real sense of what it meant to be queer and forming real emotional connections, to be queer and in love with someone who loved you back had a devastating effect on me. I had crushes on straight boys, as we all did, I was probably in love with one of them. The yearning to be loved back, to kiss them, to fuck them, to hold them afterwards, naked in the sheets, the longing and the loneliness is what is ultimately what led me to look in increasingly more desperate places. I can’t remember when I lost my virginity, or to whom, and that fills me with deep regret. I hope the past is not my future. I hope for a life for myself, ten years from now, where I won’t still be looking for meaning in a stilted conversation at two o’clock in the morning, with men older than me still, wedding rings on their fingers, or poking out of the pocket of their jeans laying on the floor beside the bed, as we perform the task at hand.

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chibimonkeyhouse · 6 years

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Update

I don’t know if any of you follow my main @chibimonkey but if you don’t, then the sudden lack of content probably doesn’t make any sense.

I’ve been growing increasingly depressed since my father forced me to rehome my fish under threat of killing them. I have no motivation to do anything I enjoy (play DS, draw, write), no car still (though that will hopefully be done this week), no job still, and I’m slowly going no contact with my family over the events that happened this summer. I sleep a lot and am always tired but suffer awful insomnia at random points during the night. The animals are being taken care of though, never fear, and this update is about them.

NYMH the crested gecko is doing very well. She’s getting very tame and very big and had her first weighing session last week: she weighs 24g and is right on track for a gecko her age.

LEIA and BOLIN the firebelly toads seem to officially be mature, at least for their dietary needs. They’ve gotten very chunky and we will now start the switch from feeding every day to feeding once or twice a week. Bolin is very shy but Leia has enough curiosity and friendliness for the both of them.

BERNIE the Syrian hamster is starting to show his age. He’s almost two and that’s getting toward the end of middle age. He sleeps later and goes to bed earlier (no more 8pm-8am nights for him!) but he eats and potties well and is still very active when he’s awake. He’s also still an attention hog.

EDGAR the shy Chinese hamster is doing well, health-wise. He’s six months younger than Bernie so not quite as old, but he’s still getting middle aged. He sleeps more than Bernie. Unfortunately we had another backslide in his bravery training, and due to his age and his fear of everything, I’ve decided to cease taming. I always knew he’d never be tame the way Bernie is but I was hoping I could get him out of his shell a bit. Edgar is best approached very slowly and quietly, and he rarely makes an appareance while I’m awake. Cage cleaning is stressful for both of us, because I’m afraid of scaring him more and he’s already freaked out.

POE, QUEENIE, and MEROPE the axolotls received a chiller over the summer in addition to a worm farm. Poe has become a teenager with all its sullen perks, while Queenie and Merope are still nosy. Merope’s tail bites from earlier have healed beautifully; and they all have healthy appetites. I’m glad I got the worm farm, since literally two weeks later my pet store informed me of a national worm shortage. Queenie is battling a gill infection she’s had on and off all year.

LUNA and APOLLO the cats are, well, cats. They’re nosy and crazy and full of zoomies. Luna is currently in a “I’ll love you only at bedtime” phase but Apollo is full of love.

#text post #update

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lupienne · 6 years

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Who’s Number 1?

I realized I never put this older fic up on here. *reads it over* No wonder… Heh. Well, anyway… It’s Sherry x Negan smut. 7,261 words. (Why the fuck is this so long? Editing is your friend, you long-winded idiot.) Possessive Sherry/ switchy Negan. (and comic-based as per usual for me. It’s also set in my ‘Days of his Wives’ timeline but you don’t need to read that.)

And yeah…my smut is about as clunky and unsexy as a pair of granny panties.

Sherry’s hair was tousled and she’d thrown on a wrinkled t-shirt and a short skirt with sneakers. She wasn’t meeting her polished Negan’s wife standard, and she didn’t care.

Negan gave her a disapproving look as she descended the stairs to Sanctuary’s main level. But he kept his mouth shut and loudly drew a few random Saviors over to watch him play ping-pong.

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, what a great pass,” she said sarcastically as Negan missed and the ball hit the ground inches from her feet.

“Lucky shot,” he mumbled.

She crossed her arms tighter. Shit, it was cold down here. Outside, the snow was flying. She could barely see the fence through the factory windows, and the chained walkers were unmoving blobs. The cold slowed them down, made them sluggish.

It’d been cold in her bed last night too. She’d been about to tuck in for the night, dragging another blanket from Negan’s closet. He followed her into the girl’s room.

“Something you want?” She flopped down the blanket, giving him a sour look.

He was peering at the sixth bed in the room, which Nova had turned into a junk pile. “You girls…uh…don’t use that bed…do you?”

She looked up from making her bed, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking-”

“No.”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking, Negan. And the answer is no.”

“But I didn’t even say anything…”

“I know what you’re going to say!” Her voice rose. “You are not bringing another woman in here!”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” He tried playing the innocent card. It backfired, as always. He was the polar opposite of innocent.

“Who?” she said. It didn’t matter. She was just laying out her kindling all around him. Ready to strike a match and burn him down.

“No one…” He shrugged, picking at the hem of his shirt. He sent her a doleful smile. “Well. I had a conversation with one of the new chicks. Charlotte-”

“That red-headed slag? I should have fucking known.”

She’d seen the new Savior girl come in last week. Been a witness to Carson passing her off to old Molly to show her the ins-and-outs of Sanctuary. And Sherry knew Charlotte was just the sort of girl Negan would want to have ins-and-outs with. Long red hair, freckles dappled on her face and arms like a little wild pony for him to tame.

“I wouldn’t describe her like that…” His lips quirked. “She-”

“Conversation, huh?” She sneered. “How ever did she manage to speak when her mouth was full of your cock?”

“Heh. I wish…” Negan shut up in mid-chuckle and backed away from her. His hands up as she came at him with clenched fists. “Whoa, whoa…wait a minute.” He deflected a blow to the crotch. “You crazy bitch, watch where you’re fucking aiming!”

“I am watching!” She kicked him in the shin.

“C'mon, Sherry.”

“Don’t ‘cmon, Sherry’ me!” She screamed. “You think this shit is funny?! We have to devote ourselves to you, and yet, you’re out sleeping around, bringing home who-knows-what goddamn diseases.. and you just fucking brought Amber in!”

And that was it, most of all. She was pushed back to fifth place. Bumped out of her throne by Shanda and Jazzi and teenage jailbait and little Miss Can’t-Do-Wrong Amber…and now? He wanted to shove her into sixth.

Her throat burned with bile.

Negan gave her puppy-eyes. “I’m just fucking with you! Look, I’m not adding any more. Seriously! Sherry, it’s just a joke…”

“You’re always going on about how you want to fuck a redhead.”

“I didn’t sleep with her. I’m not going to. I think she wants me to…but I’m not gonna do that shit! I fuckin’ promise!”

“She wants you to…” She forcefully fluffed her pillow. “You are so goddamn full of yourself. You fucking pig. Get the hell out of my room.”

“Yeah, get out.” Nova’s voice came from behind Negan’s bulk. “You’re in my way. Dickhead.”

The girl shoved past him, her face sullen. She must’ve overheard.

“Fine…” He snorted. “And I fucking mean it. Last thing I need is more goddamn nagging harpies on my ass. In fact, maybe I ought to downsize.”

“Get out.”

He remained rigid. “Get out? This is my fucking house, Sherry, and I don’t have to ask your fucking permission on who’s going to live in it-”

“Get out!”

He slammed their door behind him. Nova and Sherry exchanged a disgusted look, before each retiring to their beds for the night.

He was already gone when she got up in the morning. She had a feeling he’d crash in one of his men’s room that night or make an excuse to hit the road for a few days.

Fucking weak-ass douchebag.

She was even more annoyed that, despite the cold, Negan had taken off his leather coat. His white shirt clinging to his muscles, leather gloves crinkling around the racket. It wasn’t just her eye that was being taken by his attractiveness.

Charlotte was standing on the other side of the table, sandwiched between two elder Saviors who were frequent observers of ping-pong matches. The old man, Orson, was also their door sentry. Charlotte’s long hair was buffeting him in the face repeatedly throughout the match. For every time Negan glanced in her direction, her hair would toss, her lip bit between seductive teeth. Then she would coyly flit her eyes away, flush spreading across her freckles.

A dimple showed in Negan’s cheek every fucking time.

Sherry’s eyes were dark. She knew that smile of his. That look. ‘I’m going to bend you over and fuck you raw, honey.’

Another hair toss. Orson finally stepped away. Charlotte was definitely down for that. She clapped along with the elders when the predictable end of the match came. Negan set down the racket and gave a little curtsy to the weak applause.

“Thank you, thank you. You may resume your daily scheduled tasks.” Such a gracious leader, for letting them stop work just to watch him prance about, feeding his already bloated ego.

How fucking generous.

The crowd broke up as he strutted away. Her vision was blocked by Saviors going this way and that, but she swore she saw a flash of red hair…heading down the same hallway Negan had taken.

You fucking scag. You’d better not even try it.

She was already playing the scene in her mind. Charlotte telling him how great he was at ping-pong! Him pulling her into a storage room and pushing her to her knees. Fisting her red hair, making her choke on him. Telling her he always loved a little fucking ginger.

Firecracker. That’s what’d he call her. Mmm…little firecracker, taking my cock like a pro. Don’t tell my wives…

She growled, but inwardly berated herself. Charlotte was an opportunistic tart, surely, but Negan was no saint in the matter. He encouraged it. It was silly to lay blame solely on the girl. And yet. Her fingernails turned to claws, as her possessive heart disregarded reason, as it filled with rage. Her territory was being breached.

She followed the trespasser, and Charlotte followed Negan. The bitch was tailing him, moving down all the same corridors. Sherry kept back at a discreet distance, letting the beacon of the fiery hair guide her. When he stopped, so did Charlotte, and so too did Sherry. The girl made pathetic attempts to look busy when he chatted up fellow Saviors. Waiting for the opportunity to pounce when he was alone.

Sherry ducked behind a large pipe as Negan stopped towards the entryway of one of the foundry’s many vast rooms. There was a storage closest on the far wall she was quite familiar with, and the sight of its rusted door never failed to get her juices literally flowing. It was a place she and Negan had met in her days prior to becoming his first wife. Trembling with the thrill of discovery, savoring the secrecy of it.

You gonna start another tryst in there today, Neegs?

Charlotte squared her shoulders and approached him. Closer…closer…and then Tara came through the doorway and nearly collided with him. He shoved her lightly, she shoved him back, and they engaged in their typical vulgar banter. Charlotte’s shoulders slumped…mistaking their verbal jabs for flirtation. She quickly turned and headed back down the hallway towards Sherry, trying to look nonchalant.

You dumb bitch.

Sherry slid into the shadows behind the pipe, her fingers trailing it. They came away coated with soot. She frowned and rubbed them off on her wrist…it looked like a bruise in the dim light. Charlotte was getting closer, her feet scraping the ground. Sherry held up her dirt-stained wrist, a sudden idea sparking.

Negan and Tara disappeared through the doorway, still yammering at each other. Charlotte ceased her casual walk and let out a sigh.

“Psst,” Sherry said, peering out from around the pipe.

“Oh! You scared me.”

“Come over here…”

“Um…is something wrong?”

“You don’t know me.” Sherry scrunched her neck into her shoulders, her green eyes wide and flitting fearfully about. “But…I noticed you were following Negan.” She swallowed hard.

“Oh…” Charlotte shook her head. “I wasn’t-”

“I’d stay away from him. He’s bad news.”

“I’m not following him. I was just…walking in the same direction.”

“Yeah. You were.” She sniffled. “I’ve seen it before. Lots of girls want to be a quick side fling. Think they’ll get favors or extra points.”

“What I do is none of your beeswax. And I wasn’t going to-”

Sherry talked right over her. “He’ll fuck you, sure, but that’ll be it. He won’t give you anything else. Might rough you up a little. He uh…tries to go easy on us…because we’re his wives.”

Charlotte stared at her.

“Doesn’t want it to come out how he hurts us. Our ‘husband’…wants to come across as generous and loving. It’s an 'honor’ to be with him. So…he holds back. Girls like you? You don’t mean shit to him and none of you will ever speak out against him.”

The redhead glanced back to the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re…a wife?”

“Yeah. Worst mistake of my life.” She peered out from around the pipe, gnawing at her lip. “But uh…I didn’t say that.”

“…You guys look like you have it so good.” Charlotte’s eyes dropped to Sherry’s wrist, where it was clutched tightly across the brunette’s chest. “And Negan seems… nice.”

Sherry laughed. “Nice? He just wants to fuck you. Use you.” She shifted her arms, faking a wince of pain. “Please. Just stay away from him.”

The girl’s eyes were still on her faux bruise, and then they trailed along the sooty pipe. Her chin suddenly jutted out. “That…that’s just dirt. And I saw you earlier… your arm wasn’t like that.”

Sherry smirked, stepping out from behind the pipe. “Well. Aren’t you the observant little bitch. You fucking got me.”

The corridor was abandoned. She reached out, grabbing Charlotte’s collar with both hands, and twirled her about, slamming her into the wall behind the pipe. Charlotte gasped.

“Hey!”

Sherry bared her teeth. “I’ll admit it. I got a little theatrical.” She drew the girl away from the wall, slammed her back again. Charlotte grunted, smacking her in the face. Sherry returned the blow, but it was with a closed fist. The redhead yelped.

“But believe me when I tell you…you fuck with Negan…and you will be fucked up.”

“By who? You?” Charlotte panted, her hand curling into a fist.

“Ah-ah-ah… don’t even. You know what happens to people who touch one of Negan’s wives? I say the word and half of your face is gonna be char-broiled.”

Charlotte’s lip quivered as Sherry smiled, a slow cruel spread of the lips.

“Just look at Dwight. You’ve seen him around, yeah? Guy with a burnt face?” Her stomach twisted guiltily, but she ignored it. “He used to be my husband.”

The girl’s fist loosened.

“That’s right. You be a good girl and keep your slutty hands away from my man…and your life will be fucking splendid.” She patted Charlotte’s flushed cheek. “Got it?”

“Y-y-yeah…” The girl fled as soon as she was released. Sherry waited until she was gone until she bent double, stifling laughter in her hand.

Oh my God. That was awesome. That is probably the bitchiest thing I’ve ever done!

She straightened up, shifting her thighs together. Something hot and heavy was curling in her stomach, and it wasn’t her earlier guilt. Oh no…it was something much different…gripping the entirety of her body and darkening her eyes.

Time to mark my fucking territory.

She tracked Negan down. He wasn’t far from the doorway, still bantering with Tara. When he saw her, he dismissed his female lieutenant.

“Next time I see you, you’re gonna be walking with a limp…” Tara smirked, giving Sherry a nod. Negan grunted.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Tara mock-bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll be sure to add a bag of ice to my scavenging list.”

“Bitch.” He grunted as Tara made her exit. He heaved a sigh and turned his eyes on Sherry. “Ice. Right. Because that’s what you’re fuckin’ here for, right? To bust my goddamn balls?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, fuck me sideways – don’t say that. You know how much I dread those four fucking words?”

“In private.” She grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Come along, mister.”

“Sherry, I’m fucking busy.”

“Walk.”

He grunted again, following her back into the hallway.

“Get in there.”

“What the shit, Sherry. Can’t you wait until later? When I’m home?”

“You aren’t coming home. You’re gonna hide tonight.”

“Yeah…and you know why. I don’t want to be walking with a limp.”

“I promise I won’t touch your balls.” That was a lie. But he didn’t have to know that.

Once he was in the storage closet, and the door shut, she turned to give him a severe look. There was a small casement window that let in dim, dusty light. Dust motes floated above their heads. Memories of stifled moans and sweat flooded back to her.

Negan shifted his weight. “Heh. Isn’t this our closet…?”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” He looked away from her. “You brought me in here to fucking tell me you’re leaving, right? Like, where we started is where you’re gonna end it-”

“That Charlotte chick was following you.”

“She was?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, you big fucker.”

“I didn’t see her, and fuck this bush-beating shit, Sherry. Just get to your fucking point.”

“Yeah. Sure, Negan.” She drew closer to him; and his eyebrows raised in apprehension. She noticed his hand was creeping around towards his belt, poised to protect his fragile cojones from her. He yelped as grabbed his lapels with both hands, yanking him down to her.

“Sherry, what the- mpph!”

His words were cut off by her vicious mouth. She batted away the hand at his belt, and began to unbuckle it.

“Mmmph…” He said through her kiss. His eyes went wide as she pulled on his bottom lip with her teeth. She growled, yanking his opened pants down, exposing the curve of his hip. Another yank, and there was his delicious happy trail.

“Sherry…?” He was stock-still, even as she gave another hard yank, leaving him standing with his boxers around his thighs and his junk hanging out. “What…”

“I need your dick in me. Now.”

“Uh…” He grinned like a moron. He took a step back, hiking his pants up. “…this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, Negan!”

“You’re mad at me. I don’t want you near my dick.” He started to button up, and she flew at him, shoving him to the wall. Her hand thrust down into his boxers, gripping him in her first. Sliding up, down, her thumb rubbing under the head of his cock.

He shuddered, his hands fluttering in the air, unsure of what to do.

“Sure, I’m mad at you,” she hissed. “When am I not? So, how about we fuck and make up? Extra hard, so I can get all this irritation out of my system.”

He bit his lip, his eyebrows flinching as she continued to rub at his sensitive spot. She knew it was a bit too much stimulation out of the gate. But he was definitely starting to stiffen up. He pried her wrist away.

He nodded towards the door. “People will hear us.”

“Then keep your mouth shut.”

“It ain’t my mouth I’m worried about.”

She pulled off her wrinkled t-shirt and threw it at him. “Gag me, then.”

His eyebrows shot sky-high. His dick was definitely coming to life now. She saw it stir under the denim fabric. She came towards him, eyes glinting. Fuck, she was wet, and she shifted her hips. Swollen, aching.

He took a bandanna out of his pocket, discarding her shirt. “This really isn’t a trick, Sherry? You’re not gonna rip my balls off? Please say you’re not fucking with me.”

“I won’t be fucking with you if you don’t shut up!”

He just stood there like an idiot. She took his hand and pulled it up under her skirt. His breathing quickened when he felt her panties, when he crept one finger inside her slick wetness. She gasped slightly, pressing his hand more firmly against her. “Still think I’m lying to you…?”

“Ok. Ok. Fuck… Shit.” He fumbled to pull the bandanna around her mouth, tying it in a loose knot behind her head.

There was a table against one wall. She remembered that table well. It was solid and sturdy and didn’t make a lot of racket when two people were doing indecent things upon its metal surface. She gasped as Negan suddenly turned her, bending her over it with a rough motion. Equally rough, he yanked her panties and skirt down to her knees. His voice a growl in her ear. “How am I gonna know if it’s too rough for you…?” Her body jolting as he entered in one hard, deep stroke, and she cried into the gag. “Guess I won’t…”

“Mmmmpphh!” Her knees bent inward, her legs quivering. Her hand clawed ineffectively at the metal table. Pain sparked as he stretched her with his thick girth, as he filled her to the hilt.

“Ohhh…you’re so angry at me, Sherry.” He nipped her ear. “I’m gonna really have to fuck this animosity out of you.” He gave her a few, slow easy thrusts to start, letting her adjust – but not for long. Moments later, he had one hand wrapped her throat, her toes nearly leaving the ground with each hard thrust. His thighs connecting with her ass, the smack-smack of his balls against her. She saw stars.

And he was right – she was still filled with animosity. Because this could be Charlotte right now.

“I like you like this…” That deep voice, rumbling through his chest and into her. “Your fucking mouth shut? You should wear this fucking thing all the time.”

Asshole!

“Yeah. You talk way too fucking much. You don’t know your goddamn place. But you know it now, huh, Sher? Bent over and taking my fucking cock!”

You fucking asshole! She screamed through the gag, and he laughed. His hand came down with a loud smack on one of her ass cheeks. She jolted in surprise, screeching into the gag. Another slap to the other side. She shook her head, yelling reprimands into the bandanna.

“Stpphht!”

“Huh? Shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Sher-Bear. That’s bad manners.” *Whack*. That big hand was gonna leave an imprint.

“Nggggnn!” She writhed under him. He leaned forward, pinning her with the weight of his body. She could hardly breathe.

“Don’t think I’ve gotten all that aggression out of you yet, babe.” He smacked her ass mercilessly. She writhed and struggled, her skin burning. Tears rose in her eyes, and she whimpered.

“Ngggn…stph…stphhh!”

“You gonna be a good girl?” He cooed into her ear, and she nodded. “Huh?” His teeth grazed her neck.

“Y-yessssh.”

He chuckled, leaning back to allow her space. She breathed in hard through her nose. He took her breath away again as he renewed his aggressive thrusts, his arms wrapping her torso and holding her to him. She moaned, the gag wet with spit. Her insides thrumming as his cock hammered into all the right spots. Her eyes rolled back. Fuck! This was heaven.

Ok…maybe I won’t bust his balls. She nearly laughed.

“Good girl,” He groaned. “There’s no need to get so fuckin’ riled up, babe, but fuck me if it ain’t flattering. I ain’t ever gonna risk losing this pussy.”

And… back to wanting to bust his balls again. He was such a scoundrel. Yeah. She liked that. Scoundrel. He’d get a kick out that endearment.

“You like that?” He cooed into her ear before licking tenderly along the column of her neck. She nodded.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Feels so good, huh?”

“Mmhmmm.”

“Yeah. You wanted my cock so bad you fuckin’ tracked me down. You know how fucking hard that makes me? You feel it?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t you?”

She snorted. His attempts at dirty talk were always laughable. She didn’t have any spare breath to chuckle. She delved a hand between her legs, rubbing two fingers on her clit. Sparks of pleasure travelled her spine. She wouldn’t last long at this rate.

He roughly grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

So much for marking my territory. Her damn territory was marking her! She growled and wrested her hand away. He let it go, but only so he could punish her ass with another stinging slap. She squealed. He grabbed both ass cheeks, digging his nails in and pounding her so hard the table slid several inches across the floor. He let out a deep groan.

She gasped under the onslaught, arching her back, wiggling her hips, squirming to get him in just the right spot to -

“Mmm. Sherry. Your fucking ass is so hot! Can I switch holes?”

She shook her head.

“What was that? Speak up, I didn’t hear a fucking thing you said!”

Another frantic head shake.

“Oh…I think I’m gonna,” he rasped. “I want to hear you screaming through that thing. But just think…no one else will be able to hear you…”

His finger teased her backdoor. She whimpered and tried to rip the gag off. “Nggn! Nnnn!”

He patted her butt with a laugh. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, babe. I ain’t ever gonna sneak in there without express permission. Well… not my dick anyway. I might still give you a little surprise…”

She jolted as his spit-slicked thumb pushed inside her rear. Then he was fucking her again, using the buried thumb as a goddamn handhold. Her head tilted sideways, as she moaned around the strip of cloth in her mouth.

He groped her breasts, gripped onto her thigh. Smack, smack, their bodies collided loudly. Gag or no gag, people would know exactly what was occurring in here. She hoped Charlotte was nearby. Listening, with an ear at the door. Her face as red as her hair with sheer jealousy.

“Hrrddrr,” She groaned through the gag. The metal table was slippery with her sweat. He took hold of her hip and obeyed; her body shunted back and forth.

“Fuck yeah,” he hissed. “You like it rough, huh, you jealous little bitch? I know that’s what this is allll about.”

She growled.

He took hold of her hand and roughly guided it between her legs. “Now you can touch yourself. I want you cumming before this fucking minute is up.”

Who the fuck is in charge here?

Well, it obviously wasn’t her. Her legs quivered as her fingers twisted between her legs. Fuck! His thick finger in her ass…his thrusts rocking her, her swollen nub twitching under her touch…

“You don’t cum soon, and I’m gonna start fucking your ass, Sherry. You want that? I fucking want it, so believe me, I ain’t got shit to lose.”

That thick cock sinking into her ass! Her insides twisted in dread, and anticipation… Her clit twitched under her fingers. Even with the gag, her whimpering cries rang off the walls.

“You’re running out of time, baby.” He bucked against her hard, his breaths ragged. The big motherfucker wouldn’t last long enough to fuck her ass anyway!

She pulled the gag down. “…this ain’t… hard enough…”

“Hey…” He tried to wrest the gag back in place, but it was too much effort. “Alright, babe. How’s this?”

The metal table ground against the floor as it slid forward several inches. She braced herself against it with both hands. Her bones rattled from the impact. He fisted her hair in one hand, yanking her head back, leaving his mark on her neck.

Yes. Give that bitch something to look at!

“Yes…yes…Negan…” She praised him in whimpering moans, and he responded with even more effort to please her.

Pressure built in her core, and she writhed on the table, her hands clenching onto the edge with white knuckles. His balls slapping her, loud delightful smacks, oh, how she loved that sound! The wet sloppy sounds of their sex. His deep, breathy grunts. His fingers leaving bruises. “Fuck, Negan! Right there…” A sobbing cry left her. “Right there, baby, right-” She couldn’t speak any more.

Her climax hit, hard and merciless, taking her breath away. Her walls clenching around him, her clit pulsing under her fingers. Negan chuckled in smug satisfaction.

“Holy shit…” She sprawled slack on the table, struggling to regain her breath. Every cell in her body was flooded with warmth, a firefly glow. Wetness oozed down her thighs. Negan was still grinding away, his breath laboured…he was only a few thrusts away from flooding her further. “Negan…” she said, through her heavy breaths. “Stop.”

“I’m almost there, babe,” He grunted. “…just…a little longer.”

She reached back and shoved at his thigh. “I said stop!”

He grunted again, a slight whine squeaking through his teeth. His thrusts slowed slightly, but he still wasn’t stopping. She clenched a fist and punched him in the hip. “Get off me, Negan! NOW!”

“Fuckin’ fine!” He yelped, and she was left empty on the table as he jolted backwards. She turned to see his face torn between annoyance and desperation.

“You did come in here to fuck with me,” he whined accusingly. “…and I’m so stupid I fell for it-”

“Yeah, you’re stupid,” she said, “but don’t pout just yet, you big fucking baby.”

“I don’t have time for this…” He reached down to grip himself, but she slapped his hand away.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” She pulled the bandanna from off her neck. “Put this on. You stay quiet like a good little boy…and ole Sher-Bear will make you feel real good.”

He looked doubtfully at the gag.

She leaned back against the table, running a hand seductively between her breasts. “Put it on, Neegs.”

“It’s all… fucking… spitty.”

She licked her lips. “You want my spit on your dick? Then put the fucking thing on.”

It was a wicked delight to watch him tie the gag around his obnoxious mouth. His eyes followed her movements as she folded her t-shirt on the floor… a nice cushion as she sank to her knees. Her cheek pressed alongside his thigh, a sly look thrown. She wasn’t going to tell him…but he was adorable. His brown eyes wide, his big stupid mouth shut.

If only he could be like this all the time… She chuckled aloud.

“Now, you’re going to listen to me, Negan, or I’m going to leave you here with blue balls. You got me?”

He nodded.

“Touch yourself.”

He closed his big hand around his cock and stroked. Groaning through the gag. His hand picking up speed, his hips rocking into his closed fist. Thumb rubbing under the swollen head, circling the slit, smearing his arousal shiny and wet over the tip.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

He breathed harder through the gag, his eyebrows knitting together. His eyes squeezed shut.

“Stop. Don’t you fucking cum yet.”

She smacked his hand when he didn’t listen. He moaned and reluctantly released himself.

She breathed gently on the head of his dick, watching it twitch. Her hands crept up his inner thighs, then cradled his sack in her hand. “I lied…” she said. “I’m touching your balls.”

He laughed.

She rolled his sack in her hand, gently massaging and his shoulders lifted in a sigh. She leaned forward, sucking one ball into her mouth, her tongue caressing the tender flesh. He sighed again, and she felt him shiver. Her hand pressed his dick to his belly and she trailed her tongue along the underside, until she reached a particular spot. A sensitive little gem where his foreskin connected to his shaft – a spot that drove him fucking crazy. She licked upon it, and he jolted in his boots. The gag was no match for his loud groan.

“Mmmm, yeah.” Her tongue slathered all over his head, then back to that spot. He breathed hard, his hands kneading into her hair. His dick twitched against her lips, the salty taste of his arousal was on her tongue. “You like that, Negan?”

He nodded. Oh, he more than liked it.

She smiled, placing a sweet kiss on his tip. “I got a question for you, Neegs. Did you jerk it thinking about her?”

He shook his head, but she knew that was a lie. She could picture him in the bathroom, bracing one hand against the wall while he stroked himself, thinking about Charlotte’s red hair, thinking about how he had plenty of fluids to douse that 'firecrotch’ of hers!

She frowned, placing a finger on the tip of his dick and moving it in slow circles, his cock moving with it. “Now, now. You know what good boys don’t do, Negan? Good boys…”

She drew her hand back. “Don’t! Tell! Fibs!” Each word was punctuated with a sharp, stinging smack to the head of his cock.

He yelped and stepped away from her. Swiftly, she grabbed hold of his balls. He froze in place, his eyes wide.

He pulled down the corner of the gag. “You…you fuckin’ said you weren’t gonna hurt my balls-”

“I never said that.” She stroked a thumb along his scrotum, still keeping a firm hold. “I said I wouldn’t touch them, and well… I already broke that promise, didn’t I?”

“Sherry-”

“Shut up, and put that thing back on.” She tightened her grip, and he flinched. His fingers touched her wrist, and she hissed. “Get your fucking hands off me, Negan.”

“Bitch, you hurt me and-”

She gripped even harder, and his shoulders cringed, a breathy whine of pain came through his teeth. “Don’t you threaten me. You do what I say and your boys will be just fine. Put the gag on.”

He did.

“Tell me the fucking truth this time. You blow your load thinking about her?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. I knew it! How many times?”

He raised a finger.

“You are full of shit!” She tightened her hand, and he hastily put up two more fingers.

She stood up slowly, still clasping his sack in a tightening grip. Her lips pressed to his chin, and she purred. “You are such a lying motherfucker.”

“Ididnkeepcount-” he spoke through the gag.

“That’s a more honest answer, you goddamn pervert. I almost believe you. Well, you can wrestle little Negan all you want over her… but if you put one finger on that little slut…” She tightened her hand, and he shook his head frantically.

She chuckled and slowly slid back down to her knees, releasing her tight grip on his balls and gently rubbing the affronted flesh. Another chuckle. “Oh Neegs…you love getting your balls busted, don’t you?” His dick was dripping precum like a leaky faucet.

He didn’t answer that one. She touched her tongue to his tip, lapping up the dripping arousal, and pulling away to stretch it between tongue and head. Her green eyes peering up at him. The string broke, splattering wet on her chin. She wiped it away, and dipped her head to take him as deep as she could. Just brushing the threshold of her gag reflex.

He moaned. She couldn’t take his entire length like Shanda, and she rarely tolerated face fuckery the way Nova or Amber did. A hand slid under his tshirt, her fingers curling on his belly. Fuck! His deep groans, muffled… his muscles tensing under her fingers, the gag pulled taut between his perfect teeth. She couldn’t blame Charlotte for trying. Her man was hot as fuck.

She set her hand on his thigh while she bobbed her head, feeling the quivers go through him. He wanted to thrust, she could tell, and his hand was trembling too as he clenched it onto the back of her head. She drew back, cooing, “You’re being such a good, good boy, Neegsy…”

“Mmmmhmmm,” he agreed through the gag.

“You wanna cum so bad, don’t you?”

“Mmmhmm!”

“Heh.” Slowly, she circled her tongue around his head. Kneading his balls in both hands. His muffled sounds were making her throb, and she drew a hand down to curl two fingers into her wetness. They were a poor substitute for his cock, but it felt good anyway. His breathing was getting heavier and heavier. His hips jerking in sporadic, twitchy motions. He was close, and she teased him right to the edge before pulling back. His hand went iron-rigid in her hair, trying to hold her against him, and she gave a sharp, startling nip to his foreskin.

A yelp was muffled into the gag, and his hand sprang away from her. She laughed as she leaned back to catch her breath. “Bad boy!”

“Sowwy,” he mumbled.

She smiled cruelly. “Awww. You were so close, huh? Poor Neegs, he wants to blow his load sooo bad. I wonder how long you would’ve lasted with ole Charlotte in here? Thirty seconds before you were painting her face?”

He scowled, then shuddered as she blew a stream of warm air against his aching cock. “We wouldn’t want to get cum all in that pretty red hair of hers, would we?”

She chuckled as his look of annoyance deepened. She withdrew her fingers from herself, slick from her arousal. Her eyes on his, she sucked them into her mouth.

“Take that gag off,” she whispered as she plied her fingers into her lower lip. “I want to hear you when you blow.”

He pushed the bandanna down. “You better start fucking sucking then…”

“I didn’t say you could talk.” One wet finger trailed feather-light up the underside of his dick, and she scraped her fingernail ever-so-lightly across his frenulum. He shivered, gritting his teeth.

Her other hand was delving between her legs again, her fingers slick and wet and warm, and then feeling their way up the back of his thigh and to his ass.

He yelped as she pressed one finger inside him. “S-s-shit!”

His cock twitched and his ass clenched around her finger. She chuckled. “Oh my.”

“Fuck, that hurt, you goddamn bitch! Maybe warn me next-fucking-time?”

“Ok. I’m warning you.” She grinned evilly, before working another finger in alongside the first. He jumped like a lit firecracker.

“Shit! Dammit, Sherry…oh…ohhh. Fuck!”

Her finger curled inside him, finding that treasured spot, stroking upon his prostate. And her mouth, hot and wet, latching onto his swollen head, tongue flitting against the underside. Her hand gripping him and stroking as she worked her mouth up and down.

“Fuck…fuck yeah…” he moaned. Panting, his head tilting back.

“How’s that feel, big boy?”

“Feels fuckin’ amazing…” He grit his teeth, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Er… but don’t tell the other girls. Um.. about the fingers in the butt thing and all.”

“Gimmie a break, I know Nova and Shanda have stuck bigger things than a finger in your poop chute.”

His cheeks went red, and she snorted in laughter.

“Just…just suck my dick. I got shit to do.”

She ignored him, thrusting her fingers harder inside him. Her hot breath a tease on the swollen head, which had turned a dark, desperate red.

“C'mon… put that dick in your mouth!”

She merely teased him with light touches of tongue. Little licks and taps here and there. His dick was like granite, the veins standing out rigid. “You wanna cum? You want ole Sher-Bear to suck your balls dry?”

“Uh huh, Sher. I wanna cum.” He grit his teeth. “Please…”

Oh, she loved when he begged. She sucked on his sack, leaving a round stinging mark. He jolted and moaned, and his ass tightened around her thrusting fingers.

“Fuck!”

She narrowed her eyes up at him, her grin devilish. Her lips dragged slowly along the side of his dick. Nipping gently at each rigid vein.

“Sherry, Sher-Bear…c'mon.” He whimpered, and activated his most epic set of puppy-dog eyes, his lip jutting out in a pout. “Please…please…I need your goddamn mouth on me.”

She snickered. He was so pathetic she almost wanted to get up and leave, letting him jerk himself to an unsatisfying end. She pressed a finger hard into his prostate and he shuddered, a whine in his throat. Grinding himself into her fingers, his hips thrusting in weird, sporadic jerks, like he’d get some kind of friction from the very air.

“Oh, big boy is so desperate, isn’t he?” She cradled his cock alongside her cheek. “Ok. Since you asked nicely…”

“Yeah…fuck yeah…” He shuddered and kneaded at her hair as her mouth encased his dick, slurping and bobbing along the hard length. She didn’t protest when he gripped harder, rocking himself into the depths of her mouth. She gagged slightly, drawing back.

“Shit. Sorry…”

She ignored him, swallowing his tip again, her hand pumping his shaft in time to her hard suckling. Driving her fingers more aggressively into him. His moans were raining down on her. If Charlotte was outside, she was surely rooted to the spot, her ears ringing with his ecstasy… the ecstasy Sherry was bringing him.

Negan’s hand tightened in her hair, and she felt his dick getting harder in her mouth. Quickly, she pulled back, leaving his cock quivering in mid-air. He whimpered through panting breaths. “S-Sherry…f-f-fuck…don’t stop…not now!”

She leaned back, stilling her fingers inside him. Her gaze locking on his. He was sweating, his eyes panicked. Locked right on the edge of orgasm, every nerve twinging like a live wire.

“You think that hussy can do you like I do?” She hissed. “You want to run around, fucking every pussy you see?”

He bit his lip, afraid to answer, and she hissed again. “You gonna bring that bitch home?”

“No! I already said I fuckin’ wasn’t!” He tried to wrest her head back to his cock. She jerked her head away and he released her hair.

“No? You gonna fuck her? You gonna bring her in here and hump her dirty little mouth?”

“Fuck no. Look, I ain’t-”

“Tell me, Negan,” she purred. Leaning forward, enclosing her lips softly around his cock head. Tongue flitting over salty, silky smooth skin. Her finger stroking inside him.

He moaned low in his throat, his dick twitching upwards several times.

“Careful, Neegs. You’re gonna cum and it’s not going to be any good…” She smiled, and the motion of her lips made his cock twitch again. His entire body tensed.

“Sherry, please…”

“I want to hear you say it. Tell me. Who’s your number one?”

“You.”

“Louder.”

“You are!”

She pulled his cock up, tapping her tongue on his sensitive underside. He shuddered, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly, his teeth grit. A whimper squeaking out between his teeth.

“Fuck…fuck…I’m gonna cum…!”

“Who’s your number fucking one, Negan? Who’s the one who makes you cum the best? Huh? That fucking slut…?”

“You, Sherry!” He moaned. “You’re my number one!”

“If I asked, you’d get rid of all of them, wouldn’t you?”

He nodded. “Uh-huh. Yeah!”

“Right…” She snorted and tightened her hand around his base. A tight squeeze. Fitting the silken head into her mouth. And then she bombarded him with fierce pleasure – sharp, smooth strokes to his cock, her mouth caressing him, taking him deep. Her fingers dug into his ass and fucking him relentlessly.

“Fuck!” he cried. He gripped a fistful of hair, his hips rocking feverishly against her face. She let him, let him breach her gag reflex, let him choke her, his sweaty stomach smearing her forehead, his body quivering under her, his scent overwhelming, and then hot, relentless gushes of fluid flooding down her throat.

Tears were running down her face when he stumbled back, her fingers pulled from him. He flopped back-first onto the table in a big, sweaty, panting pile of man.

“Oh s-s-shit!” He gasped. One of his big hands flopped onto his heaving chest. She stood up, her legs quivering. Coughing into her hand, the taste of him in her mouth. Her throat felt a bit sore, but overall, there was a wicked glow all throughout her. Seeing him sprawled out like that, spent and red-faced and his dick turning into a limp noodle… and knowing she was the cause of all that exhaustion?

She stepped forward, running her hand up his thigh, and took hold of his softening cock. Her thumb traced circles on the head, still wet from her mouth. He flinched, his hand pushing on her wrist.

“Fuck! You know it’s too sensitive right now, Sher.”

She grinned, pushing his hand away. “You seem to be mistaken about who owns this dick, Negan.”

He sat up, frowning down at her. Her other hand came up and rubbed at his well-spent balls.

“Who owns it?” She gave a light squeeze, and he grunted.

“Easy on the balls, huh?” He tried to pry her wrist away, but she tightened her grip. “Come on, Sher! You know Tara isn’t going to find any fuckin’ ice out there!”

She laughed. “Fucking answer me!”

“You do, babe. You got my dick thoroughly pussy-whipped.”

“Yeah, that’s right, you scoundrel.”

He started to laugh, and she pressed a finger to his lips. “And don’t you forget that. You remember that when you’re jerking yourself over that red-haired hussy. You remember the woman who’s going to put up with you and your shit. When everyone else would just leave you alone to keep jerking it forever.”

She let go of his junk, and he slid off the table to put himself together. Her tshirt was even more wrinkled than before. She slid it on, pulling up her disheveled skirt and panties. She walked out of the closet knowing she smelled like sex, and knowing the glow was all upon her. She didn’t come out like the old days, furtively peeking and scurrying out of the sight of prying eyes.

“Well… guess I should get back to work.” He looked as well-fucked as she did.

She smirked. “Yeah. Guess so. You coming home tonight?”

“…only if I’m forgiven. I’m fuckin’ forgiven, right?”

“You’re fucking forgiven.”

“See you tonight, then.”

They went their separate ways. Sherry headed back the way she’d came. And as she passed the pipe along the wall, she noticed a quick movement.

Charlotte, hiding back there. Her face as red as her hair.

#negan #comic negan #comicnegan>#sherry #lups writing

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halfway-happyyy · 7 years

Text

A Little Light

Disclaimer: This isn’t a request, but an idea that came to me a while ago, and I felt I needed to complete it. Fighting and fluffy smut ensues, enjoy 💙

It’s a silence that takes shape around you like a fog, thick and unforgiving. It causes you to think, your mind utterly wild and roiling like a tsunami tide. “This is it Y/n. I can feel it.” Bill never says the same thing twice but every single time it’s a variation of the same sentence.

You’d been to fertility clinics all over the country and it was always the exact same story: “I am incredibly sorry to tell you this,” The doctors sullen voice cuts through the stillness like a shrill bell. “But it is virtually impossible for you to conceive children.” Bill squeezes your hand under the mahogany table like a vice grip, as if his strength will lend itself to your irreparable uterus and the next day a baby will be found there. You watch, bleary-eyed as the doctor leans back in his leather chair, pushing his wire rimmed glasses farther up the bridge if his nose. “There are other options…” He drones on, over and over, a broken record playing in the background of your mind like a dismal soundtrack.

You think you’re all cried out until you’re stopped at a red light and Bill turns to you to say, “He’s right love, there are other options.” You knew there were; you weren’t blind to the notion that there were plenty of adoptable children, plenty of women willing to home your baby in their belly for nine months… you just couldn’t comprehend the fact that you couldn’t give Bill the one thing he had pined for from the moment you said I do. They are silent, wracking tears. Rivers of saltwater cascading down your face and before you know it, your nose is running without pause, you can’t breathe and you’re hyperventilating. Bill is silent, he’s been down this road time and time again and he’s been turned away at the chance of being a father too many times to count. The anguish in that revelation itself is visceral.

When you have composed yourself enough that you can halfheartedly get a breath of air in, you simply say that you’re sorry.

There was a time when you literally couldn’t wait to feel Bill inside of you; the prospect of feeling him hard and wanting and ready for you was always much more than you could take… and you constantly found yourself wanting more. It was never enough. It was only after he had slid the cool, silver band onto your left hand ring finger that the flow just kind of… dissipated. Bill wanted a baby as badly as you did, but unlike your husband, the sheer want had manifested into a manic obsession. You tried… god knows you both tried to give yourselves a baby, but eventually that got tiring too. You began having sex for the sake of having sex; the spontaneity that had once lit the spark so brightly for you had been extinguished without notice. Every attempt at creating life within you had been rebuffed until eventually Bill consumed himself with coffee-stained scripts and you consumed yourself with exciting ideas of what your neutrally painted nursery could be. It didn’t help that he would be gone for months at a time and even though you wanted to sometimes, you never held that fact against him.

The admission had been a quiet, three o'clock in the morning confession. Bill had rolled onto your side of the bed, wrapped his strong arms around you and whispered, “I think we should try for a baby.” You hadn’t replied to him but you knew he was awake. He felt you flinch against him the second the word ‘baby’ fell from his lips. Bill had been drinking that night as well, not heavily, and certainly not enough to be incapacitated, but that was one of the reasons you refused to put a whole lot of stock into the sudden suggestion. However, morning came quick and the first thing out of that beautiful, sleep-labored voice of his was, “I was serious about what I said to you this morning, love. I think we should try for our very own little.” You couldn’t deny him; you did not posses the strength to say no to him.

Looking back on it now, it was the way his exquisitely green eyes lit up at the mere mention of a baby. It was the way a concrete smile would bloom across his face permanently whenever a baby was around. So try you did; Bill physically watched you drain away the last ten tablets of birth control, you tossed out the condoms and you had sex with careless abandon. You two were like teenagers again; every countertop, every shower, every table, every inch of your leather sofa had been recklessly fucked on. The first one hit you hard though; after the three-month sexcapade between you and Bill, and no sign of a baby whatsoever, you had decided to see a doctor together. They ran tests; Bill had to ejaculate into a miniscule cup, (which you found embarrassingly funny… not so much the three times that had followed afterward). You had to be poked at and prodded with and extracted from, and then the fatal blow came: “We’re sorry to have to tell you this, but our tests have concluded that your ability to conceive children is extremely low. There is a thin film of cartilage over the cervix that if it were to be operated on, would decrease your chances of conceiving children even further. However, there are other options…”

Not for you though. No sir, there simply weren’t any other options. Bill’s little three AM suggestion had grown like a tumor in the back of your mind; it was all you thought about. It had consumed every inch of you with a vengeance you never knew you had. You poured through books and attended courses and all it seemed to do was to alienate your husband. You weren’t outspokenly miserable, but definitely unhappy; something was missing.

“Y/n, I’m home.” You startle against the counter at the sound of Bill’s voice, the knife you’re using to chop vegetables nearly slips out of your grasp. You listen tentatively for the sound of his keys in the glass dish in the living room, the precise thud of his leather boots against the wall in the hall closet. “Y/n?” He calls out again.

“In the kitchen Bill.”

He pads down the hallway, stopping just in the threshold in the kitchen, arms braced on either side of the door. “Good evening, my love.”

“Evening Bill.” You smile and continue chopping away at the bell peppers beneath your knife. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour.” Bill is still stood in the hallway; you can feel his gaze boring a hole into the middle of your chest. “You going to stand there staring or are you going to pull up a chair and tell me about your day?” You quirk an eyebrow in amusement. Bill only grins in return and pushes himself from his stance at the door frame, moving to take position behind you. His hands travel up and down the expanse of your sides, finally stopping at the hem of the shirt you’ve got on. It’s his second last night at home before he’s off for at least a month on a brand new movie set.

“I’ve missed you so much today baby.” You know that tone all too well; the way the inflection of his voice switches from normal to lusty in 0.5 seconds will never cease to amaze you.

“I’ve missed you as well love.” You murmur, trying to ease your way out of his hold.

Bill chuckles against the warmth of your neck, shaking his head. “Not as much as I have…”

You don’t think you’ve ever been less in the mood to have Bill. You haven’t been in the mood to be with him sexually in what feels like months… the thought of doing it just for the sake of doing it just turns you off of the idea completely. Bill starts leaving sloppy trails of kisses along the length of your neck, he’s got his hands an inch from your breasts before you’re shaking your head and gently easing him off of you.

“Y/n… Come on love,” Bill sighs frustratedly, running a hand through his brunette hair. “We haven’t had sex in weeks I’m literally dying here.”

You shrug your shoulders, your gaze trained anywhere but on his. “I don’t know what to tell you Bill.”

“Tell me why we haven’t been intimate with each other for weeks. Tell me why you’ve clearly given up-”

Your fold your arms tight under your chest. “I swear to god if you’re about to tell me that I’ve given up on the baby thing, if that’s what’s about to come from your mouth… I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Bill’s eyes widen and it’s his turn to shrug his shoulders. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to call it. I don’t know what I’m supposed to label this particular brand of hell as, but we literally don’t even touch each other anymore, Y/n. We hug, we peck each other on the lips, we ask each other how our days have gone and then we fall asleep. You won’t even let me touch you anymore! How is that supposed to make me feel?”

Your eyes are downcast, the knife drops to cutting board with a dull thud. You brace your hands on either side of the counter, letting your head drop. “I can’t do this anymore, Bill. I just… I can’t do it.” It’s gotten so quiet in the kitchen you can hear a pin drop.

“Can’t do what?” Bill asks, eyes still as wide as ever. You let the question hang in the air before you continue. “Can’t do what, Y/n?” Bill yells this last part at you.

“I can’t sleep next to you every fucking night, can’t look at the wedding band on my left hand without coming to the immediate conclusion that I cannot give you what you want; what you’ve always fucking wanted! Why do we even try anymore Bill? What is the point?” Your tone has matched his, your voice coming out rawer by the second.

Bill slams his fist against the wooden table causing you to flinch against the noise. “So that’s it then huh? Just like that? You’re done?” Bill’s voice is reaching a breaking point; tears aren’t far off for either of you. “After over five years together, all the shit you and I have slogged through, you’re finished?” The last part falls from Bill’s mouth as a hushed whisper, you barely even catch it.

“All of this is my fault, Bill.” You breathe out, sliding down the length of the cupboard to the hardwood floor for support. You hug your knees up tight to your chest and hang your head, tears pouring freely down your cheeks. “I’m fucking broken Bill- something important inside of me just doesn’t work the way it should and you married me-” You can’t continue your train of thought, the sobs are wracking your body so hard you can barely hear the sniffles come from Bill on the other side of the kitchen. You watch as he slides to the floor himself, shoulders shaking in a slow, scary way.

Bill inhales heavily after a while and slowly crawls over to where you’re seated on the floor. Wordlessly, he wraps his arms around your shoulders and drops his head to the crook of your neck. Your first instinct, and it causes you to cringe, is to push him as far away from you as you can. The thought does cross your mind but you hold back. You hold back because you don’t remember the last time someone held you whilst you cried. You also don’t remember the last time the person holding you was in as much pain as you were, if not more so. Bill rocks you into a soft lull, lips pressed gently to the side of your temple. “You are not broken, Y/n. You are entirely who you’re supposed to be. You are my lover, the half to my whole.” He inhales a shaky breath but stays seated beside you. “Look at me, Y/n.” Bill’s fingertips are under your chin, nudging you forward. “This is our reality at the moment, love.” His green eyes search yours intently and he brushes a few stray tears from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “This is the hand we’ve been dealt with… and we can either go with it or go against it. I’d personally prefer the latter.”

You turn to Bill, placing your hands on either sides of his face and pulling him in for a kiss. It’s passionate and frenetic and you don’t think you can get enough of it. His hands are roaming everywhere, restless and desperate to feel any inch of you that he can. “Need you now,” You whimper breathlessly into the crook of his neck.

Bill simply nods against you. “I know baby.”

He stands up and you follow suit, watching the erection rise in the crotch of his denim jeans. He backs you against the edge of the kitchen table, slapping it twice as a signal for you to hop on, which you do. You watch under a hooded gaze as Bill’s six foot four stature towers over you; it causes you to shiver involuntarily against the cool smoothness of the table. Bill’s nimble fingers travel to the fly of his darkened denim jeans, the breath catches in your throat as he slowly pulls it down. “Touch yourself for me, love.” It’s just above a whisper, but you still manage to hear it.

Your fingers travel to the zipper of your own jeans and you shuck them as far as you can down your hips. Bill pulls the rest of the fabric from your legs in one swift motion, eyeing the lacey underwear you had on beneath your clothing. “Pull those to the side,” Bill murmurs quietly and you do as you’re told. You’re completely enraptured as you watch him pull his cock from his boxers and spit into the palm of his hand. He starts slow at first, deliberately trying to tease you because he knows that watching him get himself off has always been your favorite form of foreplay. He does it so well too; nice slow strokes around the length of his shaft and when his palm breeches the head, he swirls the precum around it and throws his head back to elicit a low, throaty moan.

You couldn’t stop yourself if you tried; watching Bill get himself off will undo you every single time. You feel his gaze on you as your finger travels tantalizingly slow to your clit. You press hard circles into it, causing you to buck involuntarily into your own hand. “Fuck,” You gasp out, tossing your head back against the wooden table.

“That’s a good girl,” Bill whispers, he’s got one hand centered on the table for support and the other one sliding hard up and down the length of his cock. “Fuck,” He curses loudly, dropping his head forward as he watches you insert a second finger. “I can’t do it anymore,” Bill kicks the pants from his legs and climbs on top of the table above you. His lips find their way to the spot just beneath your earlobe and this action literally has you writhing beneath him. His fingers dance along the expanse of your naked torso, finally taking the place of where yours just were. “Jesus Christ,” he drops his head to the dip of your clavicle. “You’re fucking soaked, baby.” He sets his fingers to work at a frenzied and rhythmic pace inside of you and you’re falling apart fast.

“Fuck Bill,” You gasp, rolling into him has hard as you can. You feel him remove his fingers and it’s almost enough to have you cry out for more but the moment passes and his fingers are replaced by his cock.

“Too fucking good,” Bill groans against the damp skin of your chest. He’s rolling his hips into you hard and fast and you’ve got your legs wrapped firmly around his middle. Bill pulls out suddenly to lie on his back, and you wordlessly mount him, sinking onto his cock with ease. You ride him without any regard for a few minutes, trying extremely hard not to come to the sounds that Bill is making. “You’re close aren’t you baby?” Bill asks breathlessly. You can only nod your heard in response, the pleasure mounting tenfold with every single thrust. Bill snakes his hand between your bodies, stopping only when he reaches your now, overly sensitive clit. “Have you missed this cock baby?” You nod your head wordlessly, the feeling of his fingertip gingerly pressing over the swollen bundle of nerves has rendered you virtually speechless. “I need to hear you it. I’m not going to finish you off until you tell me, love.”

“Yes I’ve missed it Bill,” You whimper loudly, gripping his broad shoulders for support. “I’ve missed it so fucking much.” And it’s enough; Bill rolls his fingertip hard against your clit and you’re screaming his name into thin air, spasming hard and continuously around the cock buried deep to the hilt inside of you.

“You’re going to make me-” Bill falters off his sentence, rocking himself vigorously hard against you. “Going to make come so fucking hard,” He warns, and this causes you bring two of his fingers to your mouth, suckling hard on them. You repeat this motion as you fuck Bill senselessly and the combination sends him reeling over the edge, coming harder into you than he ever has before.

Bill joins you in the shower the next morning, two and a half hours before he’s scheduled to catch his flight. He shifts the hair away from your neck to get a better vantage point for washing your back. He presses his lips to crest of your shoulder and places a hand over your belly. “You and I are going to get through this… all we need is a little light.”

Bill arrives home today; after a month and a half away from you, he is literally on route to your house as you speak. You finish wrapping the silver ribbon carefully around the miniscule parcel in your hand and place it square in the centre of the kitchen table. You wait on baited breath for him to get home, and when you hear the distinctly familiar sound of the key in the lock of the front door, your heart hammers wildly in your chest. Bill swings open the door and when he spots you off in the corner, he drops his luggage down beside him in the front hall and opens his arms wide. You can’t really explain it; the feeling of being back in his arms again after so long apart. He holds you to him tightly, hands pressed firmly into your back, rubbing continuous reassuring circles there. “Its so good to see you.” You smile and wrap your arms tighter around his middle.

“And you as well, my love.” Bill bends his head to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. You follow him into the kitchen but falter when he catches sight of the gift in the middle of the table. He turns to you, eyebrow cocked in confusion.

You fold your arms across your chest and gesture to it with a grin. “Open it.”

Bill shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the back of the wooden chair. He rolls up his sleeves and reaches for the package, eyeing it amusedly. You’re not aware that you’re holding your breath until Bill actually has the silver ribbon undone. He rips the wrapping from the box and lifts the lid, pulling out a pair of pink baby socks. Bill peers down at the box then back to you; he repeats the motion a few more times before quietly asking, “Baby, what is this?”

You shrug as nonchalantly as you can muster. “We uh… we have a little light.” You beam and despite yourself, a tear falls from your eye and cascades down your cheek.

Bill’s green eyes are wide and wet, and he’s shaking his head. “You don’t mean…” His voice falters, and he clears his throat. “Are we having a baby?”

You close the gap between you, cradling his head between your hands. You kiss tip of his nose and simply whisper, “You’re going to be a daddy.”

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the sound out of Bill’s mouth, the moment that you utter those words. You won’t forget the way he clutches the miniature socks to his heart, or the way the happy tears roll down his face in silent waves. He had it right from the very beginning; all you needed was a little light.

#bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgard smut #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgard oneshot #writing #fluffy smut #woop woop

714 notes · View notes

cecesf06 · 7 years

Text

Oblivious~ Liam Dunbar

Anon: 126. with Liam Y/N (stiles little sister) loves Liam but he's dating Hayden so she avoids him but somvething happens and they're fogrced to talk and Y/N admits her feelings for him and you can decide if they get together in the end

A/N: here you go, long as usual sorry! Thanks for requesting it, I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

(GIFS NOT MINE)

126. "I think about you all the time, it's freaking annoying."

Warnings: brief descriptions of claustrophobia, depression, sorta. people freezing to death.

Word count: like 3k oml

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It had been 7 months, 3 weeks, 4 days and some loose change since you had realized you were in love with Liam Dunbar.

But who's counting?

The problem with being in love with Liam Dunbar was nothing more than one seemingly simple reason.

Liam was oblivious.

As one of Liam's closest friends since childhood, this was not very shocking to you- Liam has always been clueless from the days when girls would twirl their pigtails hoping he'd ask them to the Valentine's Day dance, to the girls biting their lips or giggling whenever he passed in the halls.

Who could blame them? Liam was what said girls' grandmother's would call "a catch." One of the star lacrosse players, baby blue eyes, tanned skin, defined muscles, and the innocence and good nature of any girl's heartthrob. Contrary to teenage boys popular belief, assholes are not desirable. It's the cute and sweet ones like Liam Dunbar, or your older brother's best friend, Scott McCall. Cute, fit, and sweet.

Must be a werewolf thing. Even Brett was sweet past the snark, and Derek was obviously just a big puppy.

The thing about these perfect boys was their unbelievably ill conception of actual girls having feelings for them.

"Oh no, Sophie wasn't flirting, she just needs help on the math homework. The Pythagorean theorem is pretty difficult."

"Oh Victoria? She's just a friend. She wanted to know what time our game is tonight. It's so great she wants to support the team."

"I can't do anything Friday, I promised Lilly I'd go to her soccer game. She wants to get as much support as possible. The boys team always gets all of the attention, I'd hate to disappoint."

Dim, dense, dim, dim.

Now while these poor boys pass up plenty of potential girlfriends, there's the occasional one or two who manages to snag them.

For Scott it was Allison, and now Kira.

For Derek it was Paige, then Braeden.

For Brett, it was once you (never to be spoken of- it got real awkward real fast, especially with your overprotective brother Stiles..) until it became clear he wasn't into girls, and sniffed after Mason.

For Liam it was Hayden.

In fact, it still is Hayden.

Hayden, who is pretty and funny without even trying. Hayden, who is sweet to everyone, even you despite your attitude towards her. Hayden, who manages to bond with everyone she meets, except you of course, hit by the brick wall that is your stubbornness. Hayden who is perfect, and especially perfect for Liam who deserves the world.

They were great for one another. So great, you couldn't even compare.

You stayed away after that, unwilling to let your feelings for him possibly get in the way. You had to avoid him.

He'd try to speak to you, and you'd deflect the conversation to someone else. He'd try to make plans with you, you'd make up an excuse. You'd be partnered with him for something, whether it be supernatural or school, and you'd get out of it. (Being Y/N Stilinski, daughter of the Sheriff, and sister of Stiles Stilinski, this was a simple task.) He'd sit next to you, you'd move somewhere else.

You could tell it was hurting him, but you couldn't stop. You couldn't get in the way.

Soon, he stopped trying. Hayden became a permanent fixture in the pack, of course she was. Everyone loved her. She fit into the pack like a glove.

Scott, Stiles, and Lydia knew of your feelings, and while they didn't approve of how you were handling the situation, they didn't try to stop you, or talk to you about it. That kind of hurt.

Soon, your whole dynamic changed. You were no longer Y/N Stilinski, the bubbly, charismatic, sarcastic, sweet daughter of the sheriff, you were Y/N Stilinski, the pessimistic, sullen, heartless werewolf. Nothing phased you, or excited you, or interested you.

You weren't you.

It was during a pack meeting at Scott's house that things were about the change. Snow had begun to fall, something rare in Beacon Hills. It became known fast that the cause of it was some kind of snow monster. Beacon Hills never ceases to amaze.

"Okay, someone should be patrolling all night, every night. We could divide into days, and be in pairs so one could sleep while the other searches."

A collective nod occurs, while you glare at Hayden and Liam's entwined fingers.

"Okay, Malia and Hayden, Lydia and Kira.."

Liam whispers something in Hayden's ear, and she giggles sweetly, the noise like music notes, causing you to glower and sink back farther against the wall you leaned on.

"... Y/N and Liam. Alright, tonight will be Y/N and Liam. Everyone be safe, call if needed.,"

Everyone was gone before you could protest. Liam stood, speaking to Scott with harsh whispers you couldn't bother to listen to.

In the end, the alpha only shrugged. "You're pack mates. You have to speak at some point." His voice dropped a few octaves as if for you not to hear. "It will be okay, look, she doesn't hate you. Besides, you're both my strongest bitten betas- I need you both together. Howl if you need me."

With that he was up the stairs, and Liam and I were alone.

Liam shifted his weight between his feet awkwardly while I stood, fumbling with his keys.

"You're driving." It was the first you had spoken to him in months, and he was shocked to say the least, and you could sense that he was maybe a little hurt when you brushed by him without so much as a glance.

He didn't understand, and you couldn't tell him. Not without giving your feelings away. And you couldn't get in the way- you just can't.

You fiddled with the heat in the car throughout the awkward silence, but despite that it was snowing, neither of you were cold. Werewolves tend to run warmer than the average human. But it gave you something to do and focus on past the awkward tension between the two of you.

And that sucked. It used to be so easy to talk and laugh and just be you with Liam, but you ruined it all, and now he's a stranger, and so are you.

Liam was taking several impatient deep breaths as the night wore on, seemingly frustrated, and I don't blame him. We'd been out here paroling for hours, and there wasn't so much as a whisper of this stupid Abdominal Snowman.

Finally, it seemed like Liam had enough, because he slammed his foot on the break petal, jerking you both with the stop, and you pushed the hair that flew into your face away, fuming.

"What the hell, Liam?" you snapped, and the other beta clenched his jaw.

"No, Y/N- you what the hell!" he spit back, and you scrunched your face up with confusion.

"That doesn't even make se- whatever. Just drive. We have four more hours of this, and then we can go to bed." You crossed your arms over your chest, deliberately not looking at him.

Liam didn't drive though, in fact he didn't move a muscle, instead turning to glower at you, hurt hinting in those blue eyes. "What did I ever do to you for you to just cut me off like that?"

Blunt, yet to the point, and it hurt. And it hurt even more that you couldn't answer him. "Liam, just drive." you whispered, but the other werewolf didn't do so.

"No, Y/N, just tell me why you're acting like we've never met- like we're strangers!" he's shouting now, all of the frustration and hurt he's kept inside over these past months surfacing, drowning you both in the small space between you. "Like these past two years of friendship was just.. just nothing to you."

Y/N bit her lip, trying to keep those tears brimming her eyes from falling, trying to keep the reasons, and rebuttals to his claims to herself. "Liam. Drive."

Liam slammed his fist onto the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk, making you jump as he eyes burned amber. "No, Y/N, tell me!"

"NO." you roared, the single word having so much effect. The word brought silence around them, it brought your tears to cascade down your cheeks, and for matching ones to build up in his now blue eyes. It brought silence, it did, but this silence was tainted with tension and hurt, and it burned.

Liam opens his mouth to speak, but there's movement behind him, out the drivers side window in the snow clad trees and road, and you open your own mouth to warn him, but neither of you get the first words past your lips before an almost cartoon- like snow fist slams into the window, sending the car tumbling to the side with the force, and you both scream as the car rolls into the trees and cascades down a trench, collecting snow as it goes like a boulder, and you're not sure how long it goes, or how many times you hit your head during the process, or even where you are, but you do know that when it stops, you can't stop the dark black abyss that threatens to swallow you into unconsciousness.

You only get one last glimpse- one tiny picture snapped into your mind, one frame of an endless video- before the darkness swallows you, and it's of Liam, slumped against the steering wheel, dead to the world.

_______

"Y/N!"

Cold. That's the only thing you can focus on- the only thing to focus on is the cold chill- no freezing air- surrounding you, and you can barely shiver your muscles are so cramped and weak.

"Y/N!"

Despite that is your skin is freezing at the moment, there are hands rubbing your arms, and the contrast between your icy skin and the fiercely warm hands rubbing it was pure bliss.

"Y/N!"

You could almost ignore the voice, mumbling, well, actually more like muffled shouting, your name, and drift off again to the soothing touch.

"Y/N, pl-please-e."

Whoever was speaking, their teeth were chattering, and their voice was weak, as if freezing to death themselves, and you make the connection between the hands rubbing your skin, and the shaky voice, and their presence, and it all comes back.

Your eyes snap open with a start, and you make to sit up, only to be pushed back down by the person curled up against your side, and you can barely feel their body heat despite the close proximity, and it worries you.

Your eyes travel from the hands, to the cut up, pale, goose- bumped arms, matching your own, to the face inches in front of you, and you gasp.

Liam's face was as white as the snow surrounding the two of you, save for the slow healing cuts around his face. His eyes were wide, and bloodshot, and blue, his lips almost the same color.

"L-Liam-m, oh my G-God, what-t happen-ened-d?" You could almost forget your little spat in the car, too focused on his horrid state, well aware yours was the same. There was the fist, the tumbling, the banging, then nothing.

Liam licked his blue lips, wincing as he does so. "W-Well, the sn-snow thing-g bu-buried us unde-er some sn-snow, we hav-ve no cell ser-service, I-I tr-tried to howl-l hour-s ago, we're b-both hypothe-er-m-mic, and y-you've-e been ou-out for hour-rs now." Liam licks his lips again, a nervous habit of his. "I was st-starting-g to g-get worr-ied."

You smiled weakly, noticing that even though you were pressed together for warmth, it wasn't doing either of you much good. And Liam said he's been awake for hours- who knows how long he's been out, how long we've been exposed. Considering the fact that you felt the urge to fall back asleep, which is a definite Do Not Do when near hypothermia, you didn't think you both had much time left before you're ice statues.

Liam's alarmed as he looks at your face. "Y-Y/N, d-don't cry-y, the pa-pack is probably on th-their w-way now-w.." How could you not worry when his voice was practically dying?

"L-Liam, be-before we die-" your voice was weak and croaky, Liam having to use his wolf hearing to understand you.

"N-no. We're not g-goin-g to d-die-" he tries to reassure you, but you grab his hand, giving him a wane smile, and his voice chokes off with a whimper.

"Be-before we die-e, I ne-need to t-tell you.." You took a deep breath, fighting the fatigue that threatened to pull you under. "I nee-d-d to tell-l you I.."

Liam's eyes were drooping, but he managed to give you an encouraging nod.

You tried to focus on what you needed to say, on everything you've been dying (ironically) to say to him since he started dating Hayden. Everything- every reason you ignored him, every reason you avoided him all of these months, everything you never wanted to say, too scared you'd mess everything up. That you'd ruin everything for him and Hayden, and yourself, because there's no way Liam Dunbar loves you like you love him.

You planned to tell him all of that and more, but the thoughts were drifting as they formed, and you were getting confused. Liam was barely conscious next to you, and your blinks started to get farther and farther apart.

You did manage to tell him one thing before sleep took you both, one thing he heard, and haunted him as he spiraled into unconsciousness.

"I l-love you, Li-Liam."

_____

He was next to you when you fell asleep, and he was next to you when you woke up, and while that's a miracle in itself, being awake was an even greater one.

Peering beside you, you took in his peaceful face, still striking despite almost dying, of course, from the fan of his eyelashes on his cheekbones, the curve of his ridiculously sharp jawline, the tan of his skin now that it's regained color, and mess of brown hair. The bright azure blue of his eyes- your favorite of his many likeable features- were hidden behind his eyelids, until they weren't.

You jumped, turning away quickly, cheeks burning red at being caught, and now that he's awake you're suddenly all too aware at how close you both are- inches to be exact.

Liam blinked a few times, squinting at his surroundings before those baby blues landed on you, and then he couldn't look away.

"Y/N?" he breathed, and his voice was hoarse and croaky, but still the most beautiful thing you've ever heard, damn him. "Are we dead?"

You snort, finally turning to face him, your y/e/c eyes taking in his endless pools of blue. "No, we're not dead, you idiot." you laugh, and his face lights up at the sight.

"It's been a while since I've heard you laugh." he mumbles softly, adverting his eyes shyly, and you do too.

"Yeah.." It's been a while since anyone has heard you laugh.

Liam takes a deep breath, eyebrows pinched together. "Y/N, I'm not sure if I was imagining this, but in the car.. when we were freezing and probably dying.. you, you said.." he trails off swallowing hard, risking a glance at your face, which was carefully and strategically stony and expressionless. "You said.. you love me.."

Your face burns with embarrassment. You had been hoping he'd forget that.

"Y/N?" he prompts, and you sigh impatiently.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" you snap. "Is it true? Yes. Does it matter? N-"

"Yes." he cuts you off firmly, shifting a little closer to you. "It does matter."

You scoff. "No it doesn't- it shouldn't. And you should probably forget about it." you advise, and he flinches. "Just forget it because you're with Hayden and-"

"Y/N-" he tries, but you hold up a hand.

"No, Liam, let me finish- you're with her, and I didn't want to get in the way of that, so I just.. I just got completely out of the way, and tried to forget about you and my feelings. But I can't because I think about you all the time, it's freaking annoying!" Liam smiles at that. "So just forget I said anything, okay?"

He shakes his head, expression disconcertingly calm and content. "I can't." he states.

Your eyes narrow at the other beta. "And why is that?"

He smiles. "Because I love you too." And then his lips are on yours, and it's an explosion of emotion and something that can’t be described, only best compared with the feeling you get when taking a warm shower after being in a cold rain, and you melt into it, only to pull away after a second.

"Liam, Liam, we can't do this." you insist, shaking your head rapidly, and his expression morphs into one of hurt. "You're with Hayden, and-"

He laughs. The stupid beta actually laughs, and your eyes narrow indignantly.

"How is that funny- I'm not going to be the other woman, Liam-" you begin, and he's grinning, shaking his head, and finally you cave. "Why the hell are you looking at me like that?"

"Because Hayden and I broke up two weeks ago." he grins at your shocked expression, and you can't wipe it off your face because okay, what, and he laughs again. "Yeah, she cheated on me with Brett, but it's not like I minded, and now we're friends."

"You... oh.." you trail off, then squint at him. "Wait, you didn't mind? Your girlfriend cheated on you with your arch nemesis, and you're telling me you didn't explode on him?"

Liam nods. "Yeah. I didn't mind because I was in love with someone else too. You."

You're speechless then, and then you're leaning in, connecting your lips to his, melting you, and the bitterness, and cold detached facade you've built up these past few months melts with it, until you're back to the same Y/N Stilinski you've always been.

Someone clears their throat by the door, and you break apart from him quickly, almost falling off of the metal table you're both on, (probably because you were both frozen to one another), and would've if it hadn't been for Liam's arm around you. The whole pack- Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Malia, Mason, and Hayden stand there, grinning at the two of you.

"Hey, you're both alive!" Mason breaks the silence and you can't help but laugh, shocking them all.

"And you're both together." Hayden adds, and you suddenly freeze, almost afraid she's not okay with it until her face breaks into a grin. "Finally."

The room is filled with "congratulations", and "about time" and "use protection" and you hide your face in Liam's chest, which is only covered by a blanket, making it even worse.

Stiles was the only one not bursting from the seams with joy. "Alright, alright, they're both naked on a table, we should probably give them some privacy." Your face turns red when you realize your brother was correct, the only thing covering you both were blankets, fresh clothes folded on the table next to you.

The pack files out of the room, sending you both winks and kissing noises, and Stiles growls at Liam, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "And no peeking, you little runt!" And then he's slamming the door behind him.

You turn back to Liam, grinning, and he grins back. "Hey, you know how we can piss him off even more?" you suggest to break the awkwardness.

He shakes his head.

"We could just make out some more instead." you shrug, and he laughs.

"I love you."

And you kiss him, ignoring Stiles's shouts when he enters the room fifteen minutes later.

Hope you liked it! More Liam imagines to come..

#teen wolf #liam dunbar imagine #liam dunbar x reader #liam dunbar imagines #liam dunbar #liam x reader #teen wolf imagine #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #lydia martin #malia tate #hayden romero #mason hewitt

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