#cracking under it. blood under his fingernails. he's bleeding from so many places.

[meowww-ffxiv]

Mordred never did understand Zenos, even to the end. An existence like that was unfathomable to him. To clearly be capable of a kind of consummate love that it drove you to the far edge of the universe in pursuit of that spark of light you saw once, and only once -- the Warrior of Light, your adversary, the only one you feel enough of a connection to that you call him "friend" -- yet to feel nothing but dreary emptiness?

Still, he recognized what it was that Zenos offered him, what he meant by everything he did. Like yeah dude got no inhibitions and no reason to live so it wasn't like he gotta deal with his own fear etc. etc. to spaceship-fly himself to Ultima Thule. But that which drove him. Mordred understood.

It had driven Haurchefant to put himself between Mordred and a spear. It had driven G'raha across time and space to refute a future where Mordred would not survive. It had summoned Emet-Selch back, when Mordred faced Elidibus and was cast into the void. Something almost too raw and frightening to be called "love" but there it was.

Shattering the illusion of nihilism and despair. Transmuting a fated defeat to an absurd victory.

"At the end of everything I find you, my friend."

[thegnomelord]

For the prompt game, maybe 7 with price and m!reader. Price gets pissed off that reader almost got themselves killed on a mission to protect him. Just some lovely old man angst

Tumblr's acting up again and it's deleted my draft like 3 times so fingers crossed this works else I will cry😓 . I saw the old man angst and immediately thought of Rodolfoparras work and this so yeah. Play the game HERE.

Prompt: “Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.” “You… What?”

CW: SFW-ish, Omega John Price, Alpha Male reader, mentions of gore, kissing, angst, omegaverse.

When your file had landed on his desk he had contemplated refusing; you were a stereotypical alpha — a loudmouthed meathead with little regard for your own health, headstrong and stupidly stubborn over the dumbest shit, and with a long list of incident reports dating back to the first day you joined the army. TF141 was your last chance before a dishonorable discharge and Price, stupidly, had taken you in like the stray you were.

Safe to say you turned out to be the leading cause of his grey hairs with all the shit you pulled. . . but. . . not to the extent he expected.

Unlike most alphas, you were surprisingly receptive to taking orders from an omega like Price, and carried yourself around the others without attempting to establish the dated hierarchy. After giving you guidance, and learning how you thought, Price had been seeing serious improvement.

'Course, all of that went down the drain when you decided to charge head first into a group of enemies when Price had gotten stabbed.

"What the fuck were you thinking lad?" Price hisses harshly under his breath, eyes boring a hole between your brows. He's standing at the foot of the medical bed, watching your chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. "What the fuck were you thinking?" You better not die so he can kill you himself.

He doesn't expect you to answer, knocked out as you are with your chest wrapped in fresh bandages after the docs fished out who knows how many bullets from your torso— 16, his inner omega reminds him, 16 bullets he took for You.

He sighs, "You're a lucky muppet." Walking around the bed he places a hand on your thigh, slowly inching up to rest on your lower abdomen, dark red spots denoting where bullet wounds lie. "But a stupid alpha." He growls. It's a good thing military alphas are like walking tanks of fat and muscle, you can take a few hits, though the thought does little to soothe his omega when you lay unconscious.

He doesn't even notice he's making a small distressed sound in his chest until your eyes flutter open, squinting from the harshness of artificial lights before you notice him looming over you; something between a guardian angel and death itself.

"Price?" Your nose twitches, lungs expanding despite the ache in your chest to catch his scent, your alpha noticing the sharp acrid taste hiding his usual pine smell. "What happened?" You ask, achy as you are you manage to tilt your head enough to let out a low chest vibrating purr, seeking to calm your omega.

"What happened, it that you dumb muppet almost died!" He hisses, anger making his scent even harsher, hating himself how his omega swoons at the purr, at how you put him before yourself even when you're knocking on death's door. "Were you trying to get killed?"

You hand your head and look away. You can scarcely recall what happened, the drugs and adrenaline muddling your mind so any memory comes out like an abstract painting, but one detail remains — Rage.

A Deep.

—bleeding flesh neath your fingernails, painfilled screams silenced by your snarls—

Dark.

—the 'crack' of bone against stone as the strength behind your hands forced the skull to shatter, blood and brains splashing against your face—

Animalistic.

—desperate hands scrambling against your head, the frantic pulse beneath your tongue rapidly dwindling once your teeth dug deep enough to tear through the jugular—

Rage.

You don't remember ever being as angry as you'd been when you'd seen Price clutching his side, the bloodied blade of a knife clenched between his fingers, unknown hostiles encroaching towards him. Your omega had been injured. Your omega had been injured. And you didn't think twice, vision turned as red as his blood with a singular thought of Kill Kill Kill banging on your skull you didn't even notice you were bleeding.

Like a proper animal. Like something you've been trying to prove you're not.

"I'm-" You swallow, though cleaned, you can still taste the blood of the enemy whose throat you'd torn out, your teeth still stained red. "-sorry. I'm sorry."

"'I'm sorry' he says, is'at the best you've got?" Price presses on, coming closer and bracing a hand on your chest, his limb vibrating from your purr. It's hard to stay mad at you when you're doing this, his omega wanting nothing more but curl next to you, to share warmth and protect you while you recover. "What was going through your thick skull? Wait, let me guess: Nothing." Still he persists, not showing what he's feeling.

You hang your shoulders low and head lower still, chewing on your lip as you listen him chew you out. Something sits heavy in your chest, growing bigger with every word he says like a snowball, his anger leaving your alpha —dumb creature that it is— confused and hurt; why is your omega angry, when you protected him? When you nearly died for him? When you love him—

“Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay?" You snap, rough and angry, your gaze fixed on his. You stop purring, leaving the room too cold and silent without it. "But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.”

“You… What?”

You flinch and suck in a breath as pain flares across your body. You expected a lot of different responses, from anger to indifference to being told you're out of the taskforce. . . not that.

"Lad." Price's voice is unnervingly calm, one hand on your scruff, the other holding your chin, the sudden contact of his skin on yours fooling your alpha into letting him tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Repeat that. Slowly."

You gaze into his eyes, so many things swirling in the blue yet you're unable to tell any of it. Slowly you breathe in, "I. . . I love you." You say, open and honest and too vulnerable for an old omega like him.

". . .oh, you stupid alpha." Price almost laughs, dimples around his mouth as he smiles. Like puzzle pieces something clicks in his head.

Before his words can feel like a slap to your face he leans in, your foreheads bonking together before you find the right angle for his lips to meet yours. He tastes like his cigars and black coffee and everything you thought he would, your body melting into his, your nose full of his scent, your brain full of him.

"Could have told me without nearly dying." You separate to catch your breaths, foreheads resting against each other, breathing the same air and only now do you notice Price is purring. It's not the same bone rattling purr alphas can produce, but just as soothing, and you can't help but giggle when your own purr causes his to become louder.

You think, maybe, everything will be alright—

"After you get better." He whispers against your lips, soft and sweet, saccharine pine scent sticking to your nose like amber. "You and I will have a long talk about safety."

Maybe not.

[lefarte]

Hallo, may I make a soft Levi funger x reader request? 💜

So polite heheh yes of course. My first request, is it cause he’s my profile picture 👀 ? You didn’t specify if you wanted headcanons or more of a ficlet (is that a word?) so I just sort of did my best I hope this is decent 🩷

Under the cut ^_^ no content warnings, just fluff, gender neutral reader

When Levi got clingy (which is often) it rarely manifested through physical touch. He’s hardly willing to do any more than tug on your sleeve to get your attention, and even this is a very small action that you could easily miss. More than anything, he liked to watch and guard you. Even if you kept telling him it wasn’t necessary, you always found him awake at the small hours of the morning over your bed.

“…I… I was awake anyway, so…”

He muttered something like that and then turn away. What would he do if not watch over you? Oil his gun? Count the windows in the building, count the entrance and exit points, think about his life up until this point? Since the war, even his mind became something of a problem. Always rearing its head at inopportune moments.

When he looked at you and the way your hair is fussed up first thing in the morning, he could almost imagine… domesticity. Something like this; he wakes up, and your hands are entangled from the night before, and you yawn and rub your eyes. You would eat breakfast together and talk.

“…How long have you been up?” You pulled the blankets off. “Did you sleep at all?”

Levi nodded. “I did…”

“You’re getting tremors in your hands again.”

He looked at his hands, cracked and dirty and covered in dry blood, bitten and shaky. A telltale sign. Within a few hours, maybe less, the nausea would come, and then the cravings, the sweat and the migraine. He shrugged.

You rolled out of bed. The bed squealed as you got off. To his surprise, you came to him.

“Don’t bite it,” You said, looking at his hands.

He blinked.

“You bit so hard you’re bleeding,” You reiterated, touching his fingernails.

He cocked his head, much like a dog. “S…Sometimes I wonder if you’re a… real… person.”

…Or a figment of his imagination. The first time he saw you, he ran away. You must have been some ghost of his past, one of the many dead faces brought animate by the withdrawals. And you kept pursuing. He thought for sure you wanted to kill him for what he did. Instead of that, you gave him heroin. And then you gave him food, and took him in, for absolutely no cost.

He decided that you must not know, and you should never know.

“Don’t be silly.”

You put a bandaid over his finger.

“…No…really… you shouldn’t be here…” Not in Prehevil. It’s a rotten place, for bad people. “And… um… I don’t need a bandage… you should save that.”

“You say weird things sometimes. It makes me want to squeeze you.”

He couldn’t respond to that. “Huh.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“Stay here...” He croaked.

He had to admit that you were being sensible. The lack of sleep had been getting to him. He was saying things he shouldn’t say. The sun hadn’t fully risen, so… he could afford himself to rest for maybe another 20 minutes. Being generous.

It felt pathetic to beg.

“I’ll keep watch.” You promised.

Swallowing his shame, he slipped under the covers. It was still warm from your body heat. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt the warmth of a human, even if it was just the lingering traces from your pillow. He almost felt excited like a little kid. Its like an indirect hug, he thought.

You sat at the foot of the bed. You had no rifle to polish or any way to keep yourself occupied, except to listen to the soft breathing of Levi next to you. The way he curled up was soft, never like how a soldier should sleep. He left his rifle.

“Sleep well,” you said softly.

“….yeah….”

[alwerakoo]

wildfires and weeds

Tales of the TMNT Leo & Raph word count: 2k (aka: Raph does NOT get into a fight - the fic)

AO3

---

“You ran into a pole?”

“It was a basketball hoop,” Raph clarifies.

It probably doesn't make him look much better now that he thinks about it.

He shifts on the cot, the paper under him crinkling slightly. He winces at the sound. There's still a drumming headache, pulsing right behind his eyes, and a slight ring in his ears.

Mrs. O'Neil tilts her head, her tongue making a 'tsks' sound that reminds Raph of April in an almost unsettling way.

“Right.”

She has a right to be harsh, he supposes, after all the times he was sent right to her doorstep with a bloody face and bruised knuckles. Although, maybe she holds more of a grudge for all the people he sends her way.

Even if it's unfair.

Raph doesn't start fights. He doesn't.

Or at least – he doesn't when they're not Purple Dragons, or killer robots, or crazy mutants with an agenda, or any other thing that's trying to kill them at any given moment.

But he doesn't take shit from people either, which was a harsh and a very hands-on lesson some of his classmates had to learn. Not that any of his teachers ever appreciated his bright future in education.

Raph doesn't start fights. He finishes them.

But it's been a while since he got into a proper one – not since the principle snapped and dangled a suspension right above his head.

Or that's the reason he tells his brothers anyway.

“The teacher was right there,” he murmurs, a little defeated.

“So you just ran into a pole? And you're sure you don't need any glasses?” Mrs. O'Neil asks him again, eyebrow raised.

“I got distracted,” Raph says, face suddenly hot.

It's stupid, because he's not even lying about it. It's a half-truth at worst.

He did get distracted, and Mrs. O'Neil doesn't need to know that he was busy looking at a girl.

He's sure she's heard worse, but he grew up with three brothers and if there's one thing it taught him, it's that some secrets are better kept in his own head, and that 'safe spaces' are a very relative term.

And he would know – he's the one who never let Mikey forget about any of his cartoon-character crushes.

“If you say so.”

Raph bites down on his own words, swallowing down something bitter and petty.

She leaves him for a moment, rummaging through the cabinets in the other, bigger part of the office.

Raph pulls away the tissue he was holding up to his snout. His nose has mostly stopped bleeding, but there's still some leftover blood stuck under his fingernails. He picks at it, absentmindedly.

He takes the moment to fiddle with his pockets, fishing out his phone – now adorned with one more crack running down the display.

His fingers hover over their family group chat (the one without Dad and a lot of messages that would likely give him a heart attack), and his mind races for a way to phrase his current situation in a way that will result in the least amount of subsequent ridicule.

He mulls the words over in his head, like tough gum, till his whole mind feels sticky and tacky.

>>Got hurt in PE. Will prolly go home. At nurses rn

His fingers barely leave the display before his phone buzzes, lighting up with a new, private message. He's almost certain Donnie should be in class right now, but his brother's phone has been glued to the inside of his wrist since they were ten.

<<You got into a fight?

Raph's mouth thins, and he lets his phone go dark, staring back at his own, cracked reflection on the black screen. His fingers tighten, so hard that he feels a prickle of a glass shard in one of his fingers.

He blinks a few times, feelings his own stomach churn, and he realizes with a momentary delay that it's one of those moments, moments he keeps drilling over with the school counselor.

The counselor's office is one of the places Raph regularly visits nowadays. Or rather – gets trapped in twice a week after one trip to the principal’s office too many.

Personally, Raph thinks that Mr. Honeycutt is a proper dunce (he asked him to call him by his first name on their first meeting, which Raph still refuses to do, just to be a little more annoying). Too eager, bright-eyed and in love with his job for his liking.

He says a lot of things like 'radical' and 'groovy', which always make Raph snicker with cringe.

He also says things like 'anger issues' and 'trauma', which make Raph dig his nails into the chair and say things that would make any other adult gasp in sheer outrage, and then cry in the parking lot behind the school, where it stinks of old cigarettes and weed.

(It only makes Mr. Honeycutt write faster in his notepad.)

But some of the advice he gives isn't half as bad as his other stuff.

(Some of it makes him want to finish fights a little less.)

He takes a deep breath, letting his mind split in half, all of his thoughts spilling out into a mess of a pile.

Picking it apart is the hard part. He's not like Donnie, who works with the left side of his brain only, or Leo, who gets so easily tangled up within his own mind. Nor Mikey, who rarely seems to have any thoughts at all.

He unlocks his phone, rereading Donnie's text.

In the time he wasn't looking, his brother managed to follow it up with a swarm of emojis and question marks, and question mark emojis.

It's one thing, he realizes, for strangers, his classmates, or even Mrs. O'Neil to assume these things about him. Expected, even. To them, it never mattered why or how, just that he did.

It's another thing for it to be one of his brothers.

He knows Donnie had the right to assume. Maybe he'd do the same in his place, even. And he can appreciate that he texted him outside of the chat; that made it feel more like a question and less like a confrontation.

But there's something hurt inside his chest now, something that stings like a bitch and sounds suspiciously like: 'you can shape yourself however you want, but this outline will always be here'.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to encompass the messy tangle of his thoughts, the 'you didn't really do anything wrong, but I'm still angry with you', the things he wishes were different.

He types out:

>>Go suck a dick.

Mrs. O'Neil shows up again, holding out an ice pack, and Raph quickly locks his phone. Not that she would try to ready any of it, at least judging by the thickness of her glasses.

“Hold that to your face,” she says. Raph takes it from her hand, sighing when the ice cools his stiff face. “I'll keep you in here for a few more minutes, just to be safe. You can go home then, I don't want you walking around the school looking like this.”

“Oh, wow, thanks,” he huffs, maybe a little too blunt.

Mrs. O'Neil nods, but doesn't get the chance to say anything more.

They both flinch when the door slams open, hitting the wall with a force that suddenly makes Raph realize why the wall paint around that part always seems to be chipping away.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Mrs. O'Neil straightens, her face suddenly tight and cold. “Were all of you raised in a barn?”

She always had that sort of clipped, no-nonsense energy about her.

April liked to complain about the trials and horrors of attending the same school her mother worked at. But she was always alright in Raph's book – especially since she let Leo and Donnie come into the office whenever they needed a quiet moment.

Mrs. O'Neil has a soft spot for his brothers, and as far as Raph is concerned, that was all she needed to earn his begrudging respect.

So now, when it's Leo's flushed face that peeks from around the corner, both her and Raph soften, just a little.

“I'm sorry,” Leo says, all frantic energy, but he's not looking at her. “Raph, are you okay?”

He's at his side in a second, his hands on Raph's shoulders, eyes scanning his face.

Raph blinks.

“Aren't you supposed to be in a class?” He asks.

He knows he should be, and he knows that Leo doesn't pull out his phone during lessons, because he's the least fun person Raph has ever met.

His brother meets his gaze, and he hesitates for a moment, like it takes a bit for his mind to fully take it all in, and Raph already knows what this is.

Leo's hands on his arms are shaky, his eyes unfocused, and his knee twitches, like he's always just a strain away from bolting.

“I was just checking the time,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Man, you know I can't read those big clocks.”

“... You can't?”

Leo doesn't answer. He puts his palms against Raph's cheek; his skin cold to the touch.

Mrs. O'Neil looks at Raph.

Raph looks at her.

“Leo, dear, why don't you sit down?” She says, rather softly, pointing to the chair propped up against the wall.

Leo looks in its direction, but to Raph's relief, doesn't follow. Instead, he plops down on the cot, right next to his brother, with a quiet sigh. Raph puts down his ice pack.

“Is it me or is it hot in here?” He laughs, a nervous and high-pitched thing.

Mrs. O'Neil's mouth thins, but she nods to Raph, leaving them alone in the little sideroom.

The privacy is only relative – he doesn't even think the door would close if he wanted it to, judging by the layer of rust creeping up on its hinges. But it does make Raph feel a bit better.

Leo fidgets with his hands, twisting his own fingers.

“What happened?” He finally asks, not looking up.

“Nothing. Just an accident,” Raph says. Then: “You thought I got into a fight again, didn't you? That's why you're all shaky.”

Leo watches him for a moment.

There's some anger simmering slowly in Raph's chest, something heavy and hot. But Leo's eyes are big and blue, like a deer in the headlights, and Raph rarely finds the strength to not hit the brakes.

“Well.” Leo drums his fingers against his thighs. “A little. But you know I worry.”

He does, too much for his own good.

Raph huffs.

“And you know I don't do that shit anymore,” he says.

And there might be something a little too honest, a little too open, leaking into his words, because Leo's face melts into something softer, and he leans to bump his arm against Raph's.

“Well, I think it's like...”

He quiets for a moment.

He's breathing a little slower now, but still leans his back against the wall, sighing.

“You know, last month when I opened the kitchen cabinet, a can fell out and hit me over the head.”

Raph snorts despite himself.

“That's why you were wearing your mask like that?” He asks.

Leo shrugs, a little sheepish.

The bell rings outside, the muffled rush of a lunch break slipping into the office, but Mrs. O'Neil leaves them to it.

“Well, now when I open it, I do it slower, just in case.” He shifts a little to look at Raph again. “Like, it's not the can's fault, but I can still kind of feel the bruise. So I just gotta make sure. For me.”

Raph stands suddenly: to stretch his bruised knee, and to quiet the weird humming inside his chest that sounds suspiciously like understanding.

“Well,” he says, mimicking Leo's tone. “I'm not a fucking can.”

“Sure you're not,” Leo answers without hesitation. He can't reach Raph with his hands, but he straightens his leg to tap the back of his thigh. “But I'd still love you if you were.”

Raph flexes his hands.

He's always quick to act, quick to judge, but quick to forgive – at least when it comes to his brothers. And he supposes he can't blame them for watching the lines he's crossed over and over again a little more carefully. Not yet, at least.

They can have a fight about it in a few months. He'd like that. Fighting for things is how he cares.

For now, he only watches as Leo moves on the cot, practically lying down on it, his hands a little less shifty now.

He reaches for the ice pack, tossing it to his brother. Leo sends him a grateful smile, placing the cool ice under his chin.

“I ran into a basketball hoop,” Raph says, suddenly, because he needs to say something. “That's what happened.”

Leo's face lights up with something like bewilderment and amusement, but before he has a chance to say anything, the door to the office slams open.

“Oh, for-”

Raph can hear a chair scraping against the floor, which probably means Mrs. O'Neil is ready to kick all of them out of her office, and he can't even really blame her for it.

Donnie and Mikey don't even have the courtesy to look apologetic.

“Yo, you look like you tried to make out with a wall,” is the first thing Mikey tells him, his voice light and on the verge of a laugh.

Donnie squints, his eyes shifting from Raph to Leo, still laid out on the cot.

He crosses his arm over his chest, elbow resting in his palm when he points at Raph.

“Aren't you supposed to be the injured one?”

Raph looks at Leo. Their eyes meet, and the corner of Raph's mouth twitches into something like a smile.

He should probably tell Mr. Honeycutt about this. Maybe. He'll get around to it.

For now he reaches out to help Leo sit up, and holds his hand just a little longer than necessary, giving it a light squeeze.

Some of the things Mr. Honeycutt says make Raph want to finish fights a little less.

Some of the things Leo says sound like a promise.

[liminal-storage]

#13: Quirks and Mishaps (Check)

Prompt: Check

Characters: Abel Imbertain, Kuni Muinvel

Content Warnings: Minor mentions of blood.

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

Abel Imbertain wasn't entirely convinced that his boss' means of doing business was completely above board.

Scratch that, he knew that was the case.

In all his years of working for the woman, he'd seen all manner of people coming and going from the office. He'd assisted Kuni more than once with questioning people using methods which were certainly not very ethical. And he'd broken into enough locales looking for evidence that he was fairly certain someone, somewhere, at random, would simply pull him aside and slit his throat for crimes against their person. Many good, honest investigators existed. Those who operated strictly by the book.

Kuni Muinvel was not one of those.

From the sheer number of occult-related cases she took on, to some cases in which she simply turned a blind eye, Abel was fairly certain one wouldn't be too far off in calling the boss-lady "mildly corrupt."

He preferred "morally grey." Not only because Kuni preferred it, but because he was technically complicit in everything, and if something were to happen to her it'd happen to him too. Besides, it seemed to him that her code of conduct was necessary most of the time, meant to protect the interests of many of the clients coming to her doorstep. Plus, she signed his paychecks generously, and he very much wanted to keep things that way.

He could certainly tolerate whatever quirks and mishaps came with the job. Weird occult shit? Got it. Potentially angering the Elementals during a job? He'd have done that for free. The greatest benefit to being Shroud-born was that you got used to the bizarre and sometimes terrifying things in the world.

What he would not get used to was the way Kuni blacked out earlier. They were just talking. Having a lunch break, sipping a cup of tea. Then boss-lady had to go and faint and bash her head on the edge of the table as she slid from her seat. She'd gone horrifyingly still for a moment and he actually started to fear the worst. Then she'd suddenly picked herself up in the strangest way, limbs moving jerkily like she was a puppet on strings. Her hands grasped the sides of her face and her neck made a terrible crack as she popped it to the side and then back into its proper place.

Abel wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with...you know, all of that. Nor was he certain of the proper protocol for when your boss licked the blood trickling down her face, then looked at you and said "you'll do" before bodily attacking you.

Kuni was small. Fast. Wily. It was enough of a combination that he'd actually had to fight her off, gaining the upper hand only because of his height advantage. A quick cast of Repose later, and she crumpled into a heap. Still bleeding from her forehead but definitely still alive. He'd heal her once the adrenaline rush quit threatening to kill him and he could do something about the myriad of cuts from her claws and teeth.

He'd just...not ask her about all of that. So long as she didn't ask why she had blood under her fingernails.

[luxmaeastra]

It tilted its head watching the feral thing hiss at them.

"That one is dying."

It stepped into the cave gesturing to the back. It slammed the thing against the wall.

"You're keeping her from the Void -"

"She is mine!"

It stilled, something in it waking. It leaned toward him. Its mouth inches from his lips.

"So what will you do to save her?"

His eyes went wide, sweeping over its form. A youth now, knives strapped to its back. He raised his eyes to its own inhaling sharply.

"Anything. Anything you wish for -"

"Bite me, make me bleed."

He did, biting down hard. It instructed him to drink. It's magic worming it's way through him. It gripped the back of his neck and pried his hand away.

"Give her some, kiss her."

He paused looking to it.

"Why are you - why are you helping us? Don't you hate us?"

"Because I changed my mind. Now hurry up before I change it again."

He kissed her, holding tightly as Acaeja gasped and sat up. She clung to him sobbing into his arms. It rolled its eyes and snapped its fingers.

"Get out this is my cave now."

--------

Kajmar watched Acaeja and Silba clung to each other. He could finally think the fog in his head gone. He watched the way life sparkled in her eyes again.

All the bridges burned was worth it for this one moment again. Lumas nudged their shoulders together. He rose an eyebrow at him.

"So what unholy deal did you make? Do you need a body for it?"

He snorted and held his hand up. The Wyrd ring seemed to suck the light from the room. Even Lumas looked paler against it.

"I cannot say but you can guess."

"You met Cennan? Why aren't you in rapturous awe?"

He opened his mouth to respond. To say he didn't feel much right now beyond shock...right?

But Acaeja turned to him. Gripping his hand hard. He could feel the pressure but the blood welling under her fingernails didn't feel like anything.

"Why can't I feel you?!"

The fae servant who had been tending to them jerked. Her plates toppled and she twisted to look at them.

Her smile was too wide her lips cracking with the force of it. Her eyes were dull as if she had no soul.

"How does it feel to a taste of what you denied her?"

He should feel anger, fear - something. But he simply stared. Acaeja snarled reaching for a blade to slam into the fae servant.

The maid only laughed and tisked. Her visage flickered. Her horror and terror filling the room before Cennan retook her.

"I wouldn't kill the poor vessel. I wonder who I'll take then hmm? But since you're so....vibrant now Acaeja. Let's play a game. Who does your life belong to?"

Kajmar realized without emotion what he'd said. He'd implied his claim on her had superceded a god. In all the texts that Cennan spoke it denied being their God. It was merely the final dwelling place.

Apparently that had changed.

What unholy deal did you make? The question that came from Lumas drew her attention away from Acaeja, the question that seemed to hover in the air and would not just leave. It was one which she had honestly considered, but in her happiness of seeing Acaejashe had honestly chosen to ignore it.

Her eyes widened slightly, even from where she was she could sense the shift suddenly. The ring upon his hand, the price of what he had paid was clear. Many had whispered about Cennan, those lucky few who had been lucky enough to be in their presence.

Silba was startled when Acaeja turned, as she moved towards him. The weight of the scene soon filled the room, the sudden shift and change in the environment made her stand as she moved close to Lumas.

They had invited the Void into their home, they had brought the one who was deemed their god. Her fingers gripped her mate's arm, her eyes transfixed upon the scene that was unfolding before her.

"What has happened to them?"

[luveline]

baby fever, part 3 [remus lupin x reader]

"You like that?"

“I like it,” you practically babbled.

“I know you do, baby.”

tags: marauders era, smut, nsft, friends with benefits with feelings, she/her pronouns used for reader, fem reader, 18+ only please [12k]

chapter list

It was Marlene's birthday this weekend.

You and Marlene weren’t especially close as cousins go. You liked each other, looked out for each other when you could and told each other the gossip when you had it, but you didn’t hang out or plan to go places together, so you weren’t sure what to get her as a gift.

You were in James' kitchen. Lily took Harry for a day out with her mother and Sirius was busy at the farmer's market. You had no idea where Remus was and felt as though asking James would be enough for him to crack you open.

He'd invited you over on the pretense of needing "smaller hands" for the frog Palace. You didn't think your hands were all that small, but it was only an excuse, so far. You hadn't even seen the Palace yet, and you'd been there for two hours.

He had a radio screeching away in the other room, muggle rock, Sirius' doing. The day was brisk and bright, the Potter kitchen shining a blinding white despite how homely and welcoming it was. James was suggesting gift ideas.

"Is she in need of a pet? I know a guy who owns upwards of 11 frogs."

"I can't regift her one of Harry's frogs."

James flopped back in his chair, long hand braced against his forehead in stress. "Good lord. I can't do this anymore, Y/N. It's just too many frogs."

You leaned your elbow on the table, chin in your hand.  "You're not very grateful."

"Be careful of your next words, love."

"It can't be that hard. Surely they just live in your garden and eat grass and swim a bit."

"It can't be that hard! You won't mind taking one home then?" he said, kicking his heel against the floor.

You hesitated. "As much as I would love to say yes, I'm sure one jump towards me would do my nerves in."

"Yes, you are rather flighty."

You grumbled at him. "That's not the word I would use."

"What word would you use?"

You were silent.

"Jumpy?" he supplied.

"I don't want to speak to you anymore."

"Suits me."

You giggled, bringing your drink to your mouth in an effort to hide it.

"Flinch-prone?"

"That's terrible," you criticised, swallowing.

He flashed a brilliant grin at you, pushing out of his chair. "Come on, let's sort these frogs out before Lily's back."

It was an easy task that he had for you. The frog Palace was smart, a little wooden home filled with leaf litter and a swimming pool. You were almost in awe, not having expected such a fuss. Your job was to fit the window-shaped holes with tiny plastic windows.

It was punishing on your hands. Within half an hour you were bleeding under one of your fingernails, full of splinters and slightly agitated.

"This is ridiculously fiddly," you complained.

James was searching for frog number 7. "But what an excellent grade you'll get on your assignment, Miss McKinnon."

You pushed a window into the little frame, tugging and pushing and tugging so it fit just right. He must've measured and cut each on with care as they fit so snugly. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, feeling fond. What an excellent father he had turned out to be.

You gasped. Where you hadn't been looking, hadn't been careful, you'd forced the thick plastic on both sides and it had snapped down the middle, catching the meat of your palm unforgivingly.

You pulled a sharp edge from your hand, watching in surprise as a big bead of blood came with it. The bloody trail traveled down your hand and soiled the cuff of your jumper.

"Flighty," James said again pointedly. He trudged over from his search to assess the damage. "Need to clean that for sure. Quick, no! Leave the windows. We'll fix it after. Get inside."

You felt immeasurably guilty. "Sorry, James. I wasn't looking, I'll-"

"Shush, would you? They were easy to make."

He led you back into the kitchen with your wet shoes, pouring hydrogen peroxide over the small wound. You hissed, eyes burning with unshed tears.

"That hurt more than the cut itself," you whined.

James laughed at you. "I bet it did."

"Don't laugh, I'll never help you out again."

He put a much too small plaster over the cut and tapped it with his finger. "Boom, fixed. You're welcome."

The front door pushes open, a voice calls down the hallway. "Prongs, do you have any - Y/N?"

"Hi, Remus," you said, tucking your injured hand out of sight.

He looked as handsome as ever despite ashen face, leaning against the kitchen doorway. You hadn't seen him in almost two weeks, though he'd phoned you a few times, as you'd been busy making final changes for your book.

"Hi yourself. Finally escaped?"

"Yeah, no work for me for a few days."

"Oh, brilliant. I was thinking we could-"

"Is this the royal 'we'?" James asked, raising his eyebrows.

Both you and Remus made eye contact and burst out laughing.

James was immensely testy from that moment on. “I hate you both. I wish I never let you mess around. Now I get ganged up on by literally everyone in my life.”

“You didn’t let us do anything, Prongs. Y/N’s a big girl, she makes her own decisions.”

“Totally,” you said, enjoying how the further tag-teaming was distressing James. “We’re all grown up, Dad. Stop ruining our lives.”

James threw his hands up in the air and stomped off up the stairs.

“Shall we follow him?” you asked.

“No, he’s alright. What’s with the hand?”

“Oh, this?” you asked, holding your hand up. “Toad palace.”

“Fucking toad palace,” Remus said under his breath. He took your hand in his, turning it left and right. “He’s ruined your lovely hands.”

Your hands were battered. “I have splinters,” you said unhappily.

Remus turned to look through the first aid kit James had left open by the sink. He procured a pair of steel tweezers.

He took your hand in his with the delicate touch you’d come to expect from him. Your eyes drifted to the skin stretched taut over his knuckles. He had nice hands, and it was hard to forget what they’d done to you the last time you’d been intimate. You shifted from foot to foot.

“Will it hurt?”

He looked up from examining your hand. “What? Maybe a little. Don’t worry, dove, I’ll be gentle.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

He stood so close you could see the smallest squint of his eyes, the barest of smiles. “I thought you liked it like that.”

He pulled a tiny splinter from your index finger, then another.

“This can’t possibly be safe for the frogs,” he murmured.

James stomped all the way downstairs. “For you, Sir Moony, my finest pepper-up. Bon appetit.”

He was still focused on your hands, but he managed a distracted thanks out the side of his mouth. James was pleased enough, flicking the kettle on with a wave of his wand. The kettle began to whistle obediently.

Remus must’ve managed to remove tens of splinters by the time James had made tea. Your hands felt worse for it, and your nails were still ragged and chipping. You’d have to take special care of them for weeks now. Still, anything for friendship.

Remus was discreet in taking the pepper-up potion. He looked a little better quickly, color coming back into his face.

“Rough night?” you asked.

“Just tired,” he said softly. He looked more than tired, like the energy had been stolen from him completely. You felt yourself soften, wanting to offer some comfort but not knowing how. Whatever it was that was ailing him, he could handle it. He’d done so for years now before you knew him. He was a tough dude.

Your eyebrows pinched together in sympathy despite yourself. James jostled your shoulder.

“He’s fine. Stop worrying so much, Y/N. He’ll be right as rain to knock your socks off in a few days.”

You felt your mouth open of its own accord. “I don’t care if he’s alright to fuck me, dickhead. I care how he is, he’s my friend.”

“Friend who can’t stop having sex with you at my house.”

“Technically, last time wasn’t here,” Remus piped up, stretching. “Only the seduction.”

“Brilliant,” James said. “That makes me feel much more clean.”

You wanted to say something witty, funny, impress them, but all you could think of was Remus. You blushed, putting your face in your hands. They’d be the end of you.

-

“You’ll be at Marlene’s this weekend?” you asked Remus, struggling with the zip on your coat with your hurting nails.

He frowned, reaching forward to do it for you. “No, I… I have some things to do.”

The way he’d hesitated, like he’d gone to say something else, gave you pause. You picked stray hairs off your skirt, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s alright. I’ll miss you there. I mean - not that I miss you. Or that I don’t!” you panicked. “Just that it will be boring without you.”

He still looked poorly. He placed both hands on your shoulders, eyes warm. “I’ll miss you too. Next weekend?”

“Okay,” you said, voice high.

“Good,” he said. You waited for a kiss goodbye that never came, watching him walk down to the disapparation point sullenly.

“You’re in trouble,” James said.

“Tell me about it,” you murmured under your breath.

-

You didn’t look as nice the night of Marlene’s party as you had at other parties. You knew exactly what it meant when you couldn’t be bothered to dress up. You’d been on nail repair for days, trying to salvage them. They were shorter than before and the skin a-of your hands was still battered but you’d repainted them to a nice shiny, blushy pink to stay natural.

You wore simple beige trousers, a desaturated blue vest top with lace trim and a darker blue shirt over the top, unbuttoned. You did your hair with little care for perfection.

You’d decided to get Marlene a bottle of her favourite alcoholic drink in the end, feeling like a bad cousin.

There weren’t many familiar faces to be seen that night. Lily had stayed home with Harry, James and Sirius were similarly absent along with Remus. You entertained small talk with the Longbottom’s for an hour and then went home, unhappy with the realisation you came to.

You didn’t really seem to have many friends.

School friends weren’t the same anymore. You knew each other, but now that you didn’t see each other every day of the week, there was nothing to say.

Remus had a life, a big one, outside of you, and of course you knew that without any malicious force. But you felt sad that you didn’t have that yourself.

You called him the next morning, feeling lonely but not wanting to show it, craving his attentions.

He sounded like he’d been dragged through the wringer.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine," he said, sounding like he didn't believe it himself.

You could hear a voice in the background, manly, not familiar. You squeezed your eyes closed. You knew he had other lovers. You knew that ever since the first time. Still you hadn't expected him to answer the phone while a guy was still there.

"Are you, are you busy?"

"No, Y/N. Is something wrong?"

"No, I just wanted to hear your voice." Admitting that, knowing he wasn't alone, made you feel as though you might throw up.

You pushed the hard pretzels you'd been snacking on away, abruptly as your appetite fled you.

"Are you sure? Do you want to come over?"

"Now?" you asked, flabbergasted.

"Sure. My dad's going home soon."

Your hand flew to your mouth. You leaned your head against the wall, hitting your forehead repeatedly.

"What's that sound?"

"It's nothing. Nothing. Are you sure you're well enough for visitors?"

"Visitors," he repeated, laughing to himself. You didn't understand why. "Come over."

"Yeah, okay."

"See you soon." Click.

You rubbed the red spot on your head and a manic laugh bubbled out of you. Godric, you'd drive yourself to madness over this boy. His father of all people.

You thought about how you felt as you got dressed. It wasn't fair for you to be upset over his sex life, was it? You'd never agreed to any exclusivity. Especially when he wasn't even having sex to begin with, he was just sick. Flaring up while you gnaw yourself to the bone from envy.

You felt so guilty and embarrassed about being jealous that you had to lean over the railing by his flat and breathe through your nose until your heartbeat regulated.

It took you a long time to remember what floor he lived on and longer for him to open the door.

It was a fascinating sight. He was tired, leaning against the wall. Soft t-shirt full of holes and two day stubble.

You dropped your bag on the floor, wrapping your arms around him lightly. He hugged you back with one arm.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you pulled away quickly. "Nothing, I'm sorry."

You encouraged him to get back into bed, and he did, although he refused to lie down. "I can sit, Y/N. I'm not that ill."

He was bleeding through his shirt. You didn't know whether to mention it. He didn't even look like he had enough energy to get hurt, so why was he?

You'd seen his naked chest. He had all types of scars, all lengths, no part of him untouched. You looked at him, thinking. Sick all the time, covered in scars like claws.

It clicked so suddenly you had to turn your head to look away from him.

Remus Lupin was a werewolf. Last night had been the full moon.

Oh, Remus, you thought. You were overpowered by the ache to hug him, but you settled for sitting by his side, throwing one leg over his. Moony, you thought. ‘It's a long story.’

"Is there anything I can do?" you asked him, staring up into his face.

He assessed your expression. "I'm alright. I promise you."

"You just look so tired," you said weakly, chuckling. You lifted a hand to push the hair from his face though you knew you shouldn't.

"I'll be okay in a few days."

"Until the next time."

"Until next time," he agreed. He took your hand into his. "I wish you'd tell me what's wrong."

"You're half bed-ridden bugging me about how I am," you laughed, squeezing his hand. "Sort out your priorities."

"I like my priorities."

“Whatever,” you mumbled, sliding down so you were flat on your back.

“Forgive me, but you seem cranky today.”

“I’m not cranky, I’m worried about you.”

Remus laid down too, hissing. He moaned when he finally came to a stop, turning his head so you were face to face. You frowned at him again. The little bleeding spot on his shirt hadn’t gotten any bigger so you left him alone on that front.

“Why’d you ask me over?” you asked, searching for a truth you didn’t actually want.

“I like your company,” he said, smirking. “Why’d you think?”

“Guess.”

“As much as I’d like to, I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t keep my eyes open,” he said lowly.

You left his bed in search of a book, intending to read aloud to cover your racing thoughts. He made a sound at your hands coming apart that he had no right to make. You picked up his roughed up cover of A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

It felt like something so special, you held it like a new born baby, despite evidence that suggested he might not be so kind to it. You sat down next to him again, flicking it open to the first page. He pressed his forehead against your knee.

You didn’t start reading immediately, content to scan through his annotation. He protested. “Read out loud, dove.”

You sighed like this was a great inconvenience to you.

“Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun…”

As you spoke, his hand crept up so that it was resting on your ankle, then your calf. His head fell, and not too long after he was asleep. You read aloud anyways until your voice cracked and your mouth tasted funny, too worried he might wake up.

Your back ached. You didn’t dare to move in case you jostled Remus. Plus, you liked watching him sleep. He was handsome even if he looked a bit peaky.

You suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad. Remus was a werewolf, you were almost sure of it. Why else could he be so sick and so injured at the same time now that he lived alone? And the full moon couldn’t just be a coincidence, could it?

You thought back to that conversation you had at the Potter Christmas party about puppies, laughing wetly. God, he probably thought you were so stupid.

You did really want his puppies, though. In the future.

He flinched in his sleep. You brought a hand to his face to rub his hair backwards, a repetitive motion, hand soft against his skin, pleased when he stilled again.

It must be so hard to be a werewolf. Because of people, but because it was your own body working against you, stealing your choice and your mind. You never felt as sad as you did at that time, not for yourself or anyone else in the world. The pain rippled in your chest. You thought back to small Remus, always so sick, and felt immeasurably upset. It wasn’t fair.

He’d shown you a lot of kindness and made you really happy for the last few weeks, and you would admit to yourself you fancied him madly. Despite this, you thought it was the kind of thing that would still make you sad. You inhaled harshly, looking up at the ceiling to blink away tears.

When you were sure he wouldn’t wake up, you got to work. His flat was clean enough but you were going to make it shine. His clothes were organized in the way that a guy who hadn’t long ago been a teenager would so you refolded and pressed the corners. You washed every cup in the sink and scrubbed the floor down with a scouring sponge. You dusted every surface you could find.

He didn’t have a lot of food, but definitely enough for a soup. You called your mother from his telephone and had her whisper instructions on how to make something edible.

You cleaned up after yourself and set the soup to simmer on the stovetop. It was late evening by the time you’d finished, your arms aching. You didn’t let it get to you. Imagine what Remus is feeling right now, you thought. This was hardly hard work.

You climbed back into bed with him, curling in a ball so that his head was level with your sternum, like two interlocking commas, watching his chest move up and down.

You almost drifted off, hoping that when he woke up he’d feel better. He roused slowly, his movements alerting you. You pretended you hadn’t almost been sleeping yourself, and allowed him some privacy, continuing your charade by flipping the book open to a random page.

“Can you smell that?” he asked.

“What?” you whispered.

He opened his bleary eyes fully. “Did you make something?”

“Soup,” you answered, giving up on the book.

He pushed up onto an elbow. “What kind?”

“I just used what was in your freezer, mostly. Like minestrone without the pasta.”

“Hmm,” he said.

“How do you feel?”

“Less tired. Listen, you didn’t have to make anything.”

“I wanted to… if that’s okay.”

He looked adorable. “It’s okay. It’s nice. I forgot how nice you are.”

“You forgot?”

He backtracked. “I mean… in Hogwarts, you were the girl who would do anything for someone if they asked. Homework and tutoring and taking the heat. I don’t want to take advantage of your niceness.”

“I don’t remember being like that.”

“You wouldn’t, it’s second nature to you.”

You smiled affectionately at him. “You can rest easy, Remus. It’s just soup.”

“I’m talking about more than soup.”

‘’We’re friends, aren’t we? The ‘friends’ part of friends with benefits is caring about you.”

“And making me soup.”

“And making you soup, loser.”

“Don’t push it.”

-

You went home that night although he offered for you to stay. You had no idea if it was the right move to stay or leave so you made up a lie about seeing one of your friends. He called you the next day and the day after, both times sounding lethargic. The fourth day he sounded well enough.

You took the plunge.

“I made paella but it’s a really ridiculous amount because I don’t understand portion sizes. Do you want to come over and watch Rocky III on video?”

“Sure, Y/N.”

He looked happier when he arrived than he had in a while.

He had flowers. More than the single bloom he'd given you weeks ago, a bouquet. Ragged and windblown, but a bouquet all the same.

"It's to say thanks for organising my clothes. You folded my underwear, you weirdo."

You laughed nonsensically, bringing the flowers up to your nose. You actually knew this flower - gardenias. Big white gardenias with blue baby's breath.

"Thanks," you said breathlessly. "They're lovely."

You took one of the petals between your fingers lovingly. They felt soft as silk. When you looked up, Remus had a thoughtful look on his face.

Thankfully you'd had the good sense to clean your bedroom. You shouldered open the door, leaving him at the threshold. On your bedside table was a cup of water and the single violet rose he'd given you, still living unhappily. The cup was slightly too short for the bouquet but you didn't suppose it mattered, slotting them in. You'd only changed the water this morning so you hoped it would be fine.

You pushed the violet rose front and centre and turned to grin brilliantly at Remus.

"They're so nice. Thank you."

He ducked his head. “You’re welcome.”

“I have to heat up the paella again. Do you know how to do the VCR?”

“My mum was a muggle, so yes. I understand it just fine,” he said, smiling.

Was, he’d said. She wasn’t around anymore. Goodness, could things get anymore heartbreaking for this boy? you asked yourself.

“I watched a lot of videos when I was a kid,” he said.

“Really?” you asked, walking an inch apart.

“A lot. Like, a ridiculous amount.”

“You didn’t go out much?”

You were turned away from him, dishing out the paella into big bowls. When he didn’t answer you turned around to watch him fiddling with the tv.

“Not really,” he said eventually, as though settling for half an answer.

You nodded though he didn’t see. No, you couldn’t imagine he did.

“What was your favorite?

He hesitated. “Have you ever seen the Gnome-Mobile?”

“No,” you chuckled to yourself. “Somehow, that one escaped me.”

“I liked it very much. What was your favourite movie growing up?”

You thought about it as you pulled your wand out, casting a warming spell over your food. “I liked ‘Hello, Dolly!’”

“Hello, Rudey,” he began, not quite singing. “Well hello, Harry.”

“It’s so nice to be back home where I belong,” you sang back.

“You’re lookin’ swell, Manny.”

“I can tell, Danny.”

“You're still glowin', you're still crowin', you're still goin' strong!” you said together. He chuckled at your dramatic rendition.

“Dolly was so pretty. I was enamored with her - I wanted to be like her so badly I used to go in my mother’s room because she had one of those big stand up mirrors and I’d do all her sultry poses,” you told him, using a tea towel to carry the hot dishes into the living room.

You put them down on the coffee table. Remus had put Rocky III in the player no problem, waiting for you to come in before he pressed play on the player.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the bowls. He followed your lead, though he didn’t cross his legs so much as you, keeping one leg straight.

“My mother loved Hello, Dolly!. She must’ve watched it a hundred times one summer,” he said quietly, with the steady voice of someone telling you something important.

You toyed with your food. Remus took a big bite. “She’s gone now?” you asked, knowing the answer.

“Last Autumn.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled at you earnestly. “It’s not your fault. She was sick for a long time.”

“I hope she didn’t hurt too much.”

“She didn’t.”

“What was her name?”

“Hope.”

You ate in silence for a while. You swallowed, hoping to fill the silence.

“And - and your father? What does he do?”

“He works for The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Since I was little.”

“He must be very important.”

“He’s always busy,” he said agreeably.

The movie went on. You gave up halfway through your paella to lie down on the floor. You ignored the television to stare at Remus. He was incredibly attractive like this, languid. You watched in unbridled adoration as his eyes followed the characters, his long lashes fluttering with his moving. He was a little stiff, probably from the injury to his chest from days ago and his transformation.

“...you gotta want to do it for the right reasons. Not for the guilt over Mickey, not for the people, not for the title, not for money or me, but for you. Just you. Just you alone.”

Every time you remembered he was a werewolf you felt a little twinge of pain, though as the days wore on and you got used to the idea you just felt acceptance. You wanted to tell him you knew and that it was okay, and you didn’t care what society said because he was beautiful and kind and gentle.

“And if I lose?”

His hand was stretched out across the floor, half an inch from your own. You really thought about ignoring it, turning your eyes away and watching the film like you knew you should, but you couldn’t. You stretched your hand forward as much as you were able, nudging his fingers with your own.

“Then you lose. But at least you lose with no excuses, no fear. And I know you can live with that.”

He threaded his fingers through yours without saying a word,

-

“I’ve never seen the movies before this,” Remus admitted once the film drew to a close.

You gasped at him. “Remus! Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he laughed. You shook your head at him, stacking up your discarded plates and drinks to scrub in the sink.

“There’s a spell for that,” Remus teased.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “Have you ever eaten from a plate that’s been cleaned with magic? It’s clean, but the mind knows you haven’t washed it.”

“The mind knows,” he echoed. “Stop, stop,” he grabbed the brush from your hand, “I’ll do that.”

“Then what will I do?”

“What do you usually do after dinner?” He said, turning the hot tap on.

There was no point in standing there to watch him. You went back to the living room to square up the cushions, push the coffee table into a straight line. What did you do after dinner? Usually you got ready for bed, finding ways to waste time until you were tired or bored enough to sleep.

You abandoned the living room for your bedroom in a plight for your nail care bag. It was only a small bag. A circle shaped tin of cuticle wax, a small dropper bottle of oil and the tapered angle brush you used to apply it, your sheer red-to-pink bottom coat and clear top coat.

You used the wax first. It had been a struggle to fix your skin since the splinter’s you’d suffered at James’ garden. You tucked one leg up to lean on, rubbing and wiping the wax until your cuticles felt suitably balmed.

You painted them next. Remus walked in, eyes softening at the sight of you blowing on your nails. He sat at the end of your bed.

“You want me to do yours?” you asked him.

“I’m not sure there’s a point, they’d be ruined by tomorrow.”

You laughed. Once the pinky bottom coat had dried, you unstoppered the top coat, using your utmost concentration to neatly paint to the edges of your nails.

If Remus was bored, he didn’t complain.

“You do this a lot?” he asked you.

“My ‘perfect hands’ need a lot of attention,” you said, quoting what he’d said after your frog palace injury. The cut to your palm had scarred now, a smooth pink triangle.

“I can think of other places that require attention,” he said, sidling up to your side.

“My nails are wet!” you protested, holding them up.

“You’ll have to stay very still,” he simpered, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Remus-“

“I know, it’ll be hard for you. I’ll make it up to you.”

You both laughed, thought you sounded more stressed out than he did. He moved to kiss you on the lips fully, achingly gentle, using his left hand to tilt your head, opening you up like a blooming flower. You could feel your pulse hammering through you.

He turned his head as though wading through water.

You felt silly doing nothing with your hands so you placed them down on the bed sheets.

He broke the kiss. “Be careful.”

It sounded more like a threat than a warning. You nodded without thinking, breathing hard.

His right hand was gripping your thigh, and as he nudged your face up to ruin your neck, it traveled higher, until your skirt was pooled against your stomach and if you could see, you knew your underwear would be exposed.

His teeth grazed your pulse point, his hand traced a line at the beginnings of your underwear. It was a monumental injustice that you could only sit there and be ravished.

You moved a hand and he pulled away. You mourned the loss of him.

“Don’t ruin your nails,” he reprimanded.

You put your hand back down obediently. He tried to keep a serious expression as he returned and failed. You could feel his smile against your skin as he kissed you.

“How long does that stuff take to dry?” he asked.

“Not long.”

“That’s too bad, I like playing with you like this.”

“I like being played with.”

He pulled back to look you in the eyes. “You do, huh, pretty baby? You like it?”

“Yes,” you said, closing your eyes in embarrassment.

“Hey, hey. Don’t be embarrassed. A pretty girl like you should always say what she wants, and a guy like me should always give it to her.”

You loved when Remus spoke like this. It was so different from his polite, gentlemanly demeanour otherwise. You felt like you were in on some private secret.

He held your face in his hands, your own pressed into the mattress. He encouraged you backwards, towering over you to bring one knee between your legs.

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he said.

You opened your eyes, saying in a voice barely loud enough to be heard. “Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it. Y/N,“ - his hands moved to your hair, pushing it all back from your face - “I’m not teasing you. You’re ethereal, understand?”

You swallowed, nodded.

“An angel,” he said. “Not just because we’re like this. Not because I want to fuck you.”

“But you will, won’t you?” you implored, pressing one of your fingertips atop the other. Your nails were dry.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he said.

You covered one of his hands with your own and smiled so wide it made your eyes squint shut. He kissed the edges of it, the the middle, kissing you so deeply you forgot to breathe. His knee inched up, up until you were whimpering in his mouth.

“You like that?”

You moved your hips down on him in answer. His hand came up under the edge of your shirt. He pushed his thumb deep into your skin, rubbing a half circle there. The simple motion stole your breath, made you feel more safe than anything else. Even when he wanted you he was tactile, loving even when he was rough.

He pushed his hand past the elastic of your underwear. His touch was so soft it tickled. You jumped under his touch. He smirked to himself at the wetness he found there.

“Oh, you’re done for.” He climbed off of you, pulling your skirt down as he went. You pulled your shirt over your head with your elbow and he helped pull it from your hair.

He leaned forward as if to start again and you stopped him. “I’m always the first to be naked,” you reached out, fingers at the bottom of his shirt. He let you pull it off without argument, though he was seemingly nervous at the sight of his own chest. You pressed your hand flat, touch light, against his chest, against scars.

He pulled his trousers off and then there you were, two idiots in underwear and socks, grinning at each other.

He pulled your socks off, kissing your ankle, your calf. He kissed the side of your knee and your thigh, and then he kissed your dampening underwear, right at the centre of you. You went a little dizzy with lust, barely processing that he was pulling your smalls off too.

You reached back to unclip your bra, exposing your chest. He licked your nipple and you held your breath. He blew cold air on you, laughing when your nipple peaked. He gave the other the same treatment, though this time he took you in his mouth to roll the bud between his teeth.

It sent butterflies straight to your abdomen and crotch. You pushed the hair out his eyes.

Pleased at his treatment he set you free with a lewd pop.

You sat up, intent on kissing him silly again before he could protest. He pulled you to him where he kneeled, wrapping his arms around your back. You folded your own arms around his neck, pleased at being higher up than he was.

You could feel the shape of him through his boxers pressed against your core. He rocked his hips, spreading slick everywhere. You broke the kiss to pant into the side of his neck, distracted by his moving. He lowered one hand, probing the soft skin of your cunt. He started with one finger although it quickly progressed to two as you were already relaxed from his wet-nails game.

His hand cupped the bottom of your arse. Each time he entered you the surface of his palm would hit your skin, causing a riot of goosebumps to spread up your back and thighs. He noticed.

“Cold?”

“No.”

He pulled his boxers down to his knees. You buck against him, too eager. Your legs were squeezing tight around his thighs, trying your hardest not to grind down on him. He let you do as you pleased, arms returning to your back, positioning you just so.

You whined, certainly not above begging if need be. Remus thrust up in response. You felt yourself tighten around the head of his dick, mewling at the ecstasy of him spreading you open on top of him.

You bounced on him, using his shoulders to push yourself up and let yourself drop back down. He enjoyed this, making sounds in your ears that felt like they’d put you in an early grave. You dropped down so harshly you hurt yourself, freezing in his lap.

He froze too at your pained gasp. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, eyes watering. “Too fast.”

“Here,” he said, pulling out. He pushed you back, back flat on the bed once again.  “Want to stop?”

“No,” you shook your head vehemently. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure, dove?”

“I’m sure, I swear it.”

He used the pad of his thumb to sweep circles on your aching clit. You can see his dick twitching at your panting breaths, gulping air to fight the sensation that was building.

You pushed your hips down, leaking cunt inching towards his dick. He braced himself on your hips and took it slow, spreading you open, laughing when your slick dribbled out. He was cautious, taking slow and shallow thrusts that had you sweating and begging him to move.

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me, I hurt me. Please, go faster. Please,” the last please spurred him on, pleading as it was.

“Silly girl, this is why I tell you to stay still.”

“That’s ‘cos you like watching me squirm.”

He was refusing to bottom out, his thrusts quick, steady. Where he held himself above you, you watched his face contort in pleasure, his mouth opening as he rutted into you. You hooked your leg around his, arching your back in hopes of him fucking you deeper.

He took the hint, though he said, “tell me if I hurt you.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” you gasped out, hand gripping his arms so hard you worried you’d give him indentations from your fingernails. He stole your hand from his arm, the other from your side and held them high above your head, pressing them into the pillow. He rolled his hips forward in a deep thrust that hit the right spot.

“You like that? All fucked out like this, you’re fucking unbelievable. Unreal,” he said, voice silky smooth, his pelvis hitting you with enough force that the air rushed out of you.

“I like it,” you practically babbled.

“I know you do, baby.”

He used his free hand to abuse your clit, rough tight circles that brought tears to your eyes. You blinked them away, letting your legs fall to the side as you realised your climax was fast approaching, your abdomen on fire with the wind up.

It felt as though you were reforming around him, melding to the shape of him, and you didn't mind one bit.

You should have probably told him before it happened but it came on so fast, you couldn’t find the will to take in a breath. It ripped from you, and with it, you whimpered, “Oh, fuck.”

Your cunt contracted around him involuntarily, meaning that every thrust he took felt as though it was spearing you apart. You couldn’t form thoughts, though your mouth ran free.

“Your mother should’ve washed your mouth out,” he chastened, still working circles.

Your hands were indisposed, held up, your mouth unable to say what you were thinking, the second orgasm already beginning to dawn. You curled your hands into fists in his grasp.

You were almost limp beneath him, occasionally able to fuck your hips against him. Your legs were shaking, Remus’ thrust getting sloppier. You felt useless beneath him.

“Please, Remus,” you asked, eyes half-lidded.

“Please what?”

“Please, will you cum in me?” you begged.

“You want me to fill you up? Fill you up with puppies?” He joked under his breath. You giggled with tears in your eyes as his hips stuttered against you.

“Please, please. I want it. I want it.”

“Fill you up with my baby, huh?”

You came as soon as he said it, the sound that escaped you almost panicked at the intensity of it, like you were trying to prevent it from happening - the force of it took you by surprise.

He was tired, you could tell, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead. You tugged your hands free to pull his head down to your level and kiss his lips. He rested his forehead against yours.

“Please cum in me. Please,” you said.

He groaned, rutting into you until you were sopping full of his cum. He immediately deflated, collapsing into your chest. You brought your hands up to card through the hair at the back of his head, giggling at the feeling of his dick still inside you.

You felt as though one wrong move would send you over the edge, both of you catching your breath.

“You were more tired than I thought,” you said quietly.

“You come to my house looking like an angel when I can’t do anything about it and thought I wasn’t gonna fuck you as soon as I could? Grow up a bit, I beg,” he said.

“Someone’s cranky,” you said, teasingly moving your hips around him. He hissed.

“I would’ve given you head, just say the word.”

He tightened his arms around your waist. You liked the weight of him on top of you.

“As generous an offer as that is, your cunt is addictive. And your face. And the sounds you make,” he said, rolling off of you. You missed his warmth immediately, though you enjoyed the feeling of his dick pulling free, all the cum he’d fucked into you dripping out.

You brought your knees up to reach down and push a finger inside yourself, pushing the cum out and onto your bedsheets. They were a lost cause anyway at this point.

Curious and feeling lewd, you brought your fingers to your mouth and licked them inquisitively.

Remus brought a pillow over his face and groaned.

You reached out tentatively, pumping a hand up and down his slick shaft. He hardened slowly under your touch, abandoning the pillow over his face to watch you.

You leaned on your side to kiss the skin of his stomach. He brought a shaky hand up to tangle in your hair.

You worked his shaft like all the sex-positive magazines said to, up and down and right to left, delighting in the precum you worked out of the tip. His hips bucked up into your hand.

"Stay still," you said, mocking him. You got up onto one elbow, kissing the tip of his dick, spreading his precum on your lips to tease him. He whined, unable to stop himself when you opened your mouth form guiding your head down onto him. He did half the work for you, using your hair to encourage you up and down his shaft.

You felt the dribble from being unable to close your mouth dripping down your lips onto him, rivulets of spit pooling at the base of him. You used your other hand to take care of the bottom, using your spit as lube.

You must've done something he liked as he started bucking up into your throat. You gagged around him, coming up for air. He used his second hand to wipe the spit from your face.

"Pretty baby, so pretty," he murmured.

"Yeah?" you said, eyes wide, head of his dick bobbing against your lips. You let him fuck your mouth like that, not overly rough but enough to bring tears to your eyes, almost reaching the back of your throat. You coughed, spitting dribble down yourself, feeling it run down your neck and bridge sticky lines from your breasts to his sides.

You licked the bottom of his dick, kissing and slurping up the mess you were both contributing to, using your thumb to wipe little circles on the head of him. When you pulled away his dick had left a wet stripe up your face.

He was close, bucking and writhing with every move you made. You pulled his dick towards your face, increasing the speed of your palming until he moaned like a fire was lit beneath him, crying your name.

You tried to catch his cum on your face unsuccessfully, ending up with white in your eyelashes. He cooed, wiping it away with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, dove. Come here," he said. You pushed up and he hooked under your armpits, pulling you up towards his chest. He used the bottom of his palm to wipe the cum from your face.

"It looked cute though, right?"

"More than cute," he said. He kissed your nose. "Where are you learning these tricks?"

"You can thank Cosmopolitan for that one."

"Evil intrepid magazine."

"You liked it," you teased, lying on his chest so that you were looking up at him, almost cradled in his arms.

He pushed the hair from your face with the back of his finger in a motion that made your heart skip a beat. It was almost more intimate than any moment before.

He leaned down slowly, almost hesitating, using his nose to nudge yours. You tilted your head up obediently. With greater access now, he kissed you. Small kisses, open mouthed. Your hand traveled up his neck to rest at his jawline where you could feel the stubble coming in.

Eventually you were both too tired to keep kissing. You would've let him kiss you for days as long as he wanted to, but he really was tired from the full moon, you guessed, as he look half asleep.

You moved off of his chest to go find a wet towel. You came back in to find him where he was, almost dozing. You wiped all your body fluids off of him and pulled his boxers back up for him. You moved onto yourself, wiping down your legs and everywhere else that was covered in spit and wet and cum. Then you pulled his shirt on, a selfish, longing thing you absolutely didn't need to do. You didn't bother with underwear, knowing your sheets were soiled at this point and the underwear were damp anyways.

You pulled the blankets from under him, pulling them over both of you. You felt weak and knew as soon as you closed your eyes you'd drift off. Remus was already gone, but when you laid a hand softly on his chest, he pulled you close.

-

Someone was knocking on the door. You flinched awake, tripping over the duvet and yourself to find some bottoms. You got some clean underwear from your drawer, intending to answer the door whilst standing fully behind it.

You made your way down the hallway as the knocking increased.

You'd barely cracked the door open when Sirius burst in.

"McKinnon!" he said cheerily. "Sorry to bother you but dear old Remus has places to be today."

You shied away from him, knowing you smelled like sweat and sex and looked like both those things too. You could feel the mascara you'd forgotten to take off in the corners of your eyes.

"How'd you know he was here?"

"How did I know?" he laughed maniacally to himself. "'Oh, Pads, Y/N's asked me over. What do I wear? Do I get flowers?'" -he threw the back of his arm against his forehead dramatically- "'She's just so lovely isn't she, Pads?' Not that you aren't or anything Y/N, but it gets a bit long in the tooth when Mister Farmer’s Market won't stop pretending he doesn't fancy me."

You had to speed walk to keep up with him. He was almost to your bedroom door. He was cracking it open with force.

Remus blinked awake blearily. You grimaced at him in apology.

"Fuck off, Pads," he sighed, throwing his head back.

"We have things to do!"

"Like what?" you asked, pulling the edges of Remus' shirt to cover your bare legs.

"Motorcycle shopping," Remus groaned.

"Motorcycle shopping!" Sirius said simultaneously, beaming.

You blinked at them.

"This couldn't wait till afternoon?"

"Or tomorrow?" Remus asked.

"Time waits for no one, McKinnon. Not even you."

"Get out then, you prat," Remus said.

"Someone's cranky they won't get their morning turn."

Remus chucked a pillow at him.

You laughed, keeping to the edge of the room as Sirius left. You could hear him barging around your kitchen.

Remus made a sound of bone-deep tiredness, stretching. If your mouth wasn't dry before, it was now. You sat on the edge of the bed, watching Remus search the floor for his clothes.

He looked puzzled at his missing shirt. You cleared your throat.

"You want it back?"

He took your head in his hands, looking down at you with infinite softness. "Any other time, I'd say no."

You pulled it off, sitting there in only your underwear. He put the shirt on and kissed your cheek as a thank you. Then he rifled through your wardrobe to find a replacement shirt for you.

"Here, dove."

You smiled to yourself and put it on. You skipped out on your skirt for a tight pair of trousers that flared out slightly at the bottoms that you knew made your legs look good.

Remus waited for you to finish before he made for the kitchen, even pulling your chair out for you. There was no performance to any of his kindness, he just did it.

Sirius was helping himself to a cup of tea.

"Don't look so sullen, Y/N," he reprimanded. "I made some for you too."

"My hero," you said dryly.

He smiled.

"I thought you already had a motorbike?" you asked.

"He does," Remus said morosely. "It's magical."

"It's broken," Sirius corrected. "I had a problem with a telephone pole. The bodywork is fucked, so it's a write off at this point."

You nodded like you understood, accepting a cup of tea from Sirius. It wasn't quite right, but you appreciated the sentiment.

Now that you were sitting you could feel the subtle ache between your legs. You moved a hand to your lower abdomen and massaged the flesh there.

Remus was slumped forward, using his arm to keep himself upward. He hissed when he moved too fast.

"What the fuck, you two? Did you beat each other up last night?"

"I was still tired from th- being ill." Remus coughed.

"Not that tired, evidently. Y/N's got a wobble on."

You cringed at his wording, massaging the bridge of your nose. "Sirius, can we not talk about this?"

"If you're horrified, imagine how I feel," Sirius laughed like this was all good fun. He widened his eyes at you pointedly.

"I don't know what you mean," you said tiredly.

"Remember what happened with Perkins? I can do worse."

"No, you can't," Remus said.

"I don't want you jinxing Remus because my legs hurt," you laughed.

"I should be hexing you, poor Moony looks half-dead."

"Blame Cosmopolitan magazine," you said offhandedly.

-

Remus left to go motorbike shopping, though you weren't sure what he knew about motorbikes. Maybe because his mother was a muggle he could help with the transaction side of things. Still, you didn't get it.

You almost asked to go with them and decided against it. That was a girlfriend thing to do, and you weren't his girlfriend.

He called you later in the evening to ask how you were feeling. You strongly avoided the urge to ask him to come back over that same night although you really, really wanted him to.

This is why when he asked if you wanted to come over the next day you couldn't get over yourself. Your ego ballooned, thinking you must have some amazing sultry presence for him to want to see you twice in one weekend.

You didn't bother looking too nice. Honestly, you didn't truly have the energy for it. You showered and cleaned yourself to an immaculate standard and blow dried your hair without styling it, using a miniscule amount of make-up (mascara, some concealer).

You worried a little outside his door whether that was the right thing to do. You were wearing a midi skirt and an old band t-shirt with an asymmetrical crop to it, just enough to show your midriff if you raised your arms. You hardly looked presentable.

Remus loved telling you how pretty you looked but most every time you saw him you were dressed up to the nines, even if it was supposed to look "natural", it was likely you were highly polished.

It was too late now. You knocked on his door quick, three light raps.

"Let yourself in, Y/N!"

That was always a good sign. You pushed into the flat, greeted by the smell of pesto and something heavier.

You'd brought him a daisy you'd seen while walking. It was suffocated by your nervous hands. You shrugged off your jacket and bag, leaving them by the shoe rack at the door to find Remus in the kitchen, pulling a tray from the oven with a tea towel.

There was a frying pan bubbling away on the stove. That was the source of the wonderful smell.

Remus was cooking for you.

You pushed your hair back with your hand hoping it fell nicely around your face, straightening your shirt. The sandals you wore felt even sillier.

Remus didn't look especially fancy, thankfully, wearing jogging bottoms and a navy short sleeve shirt with ‘made in 1960’ printed across the front.

He turned to you fully. "I made pasta."

"I can see that," you said. You both grinned unbridled at each other. "It smells amazing," you said.

"You want to try it?"

"Sure!" you took the spoon he offered out of his hand, gathering a nice spoonful of sauce and pasta. You blew on it, the steam coming off of it hotly.

"This is so nice," you complimented, almost shocked. "Where'd you learn to make this?"

"Cosmo," he joked.

You put the spoon down on the counter, craning your neck to look him in the face from standing so close. "Someone told me that's a great magazine."

"It's definitely up there. Along with Mizz and Teen Vogue."

"What girl's been whispering women's magazines in your ear?"

"No one," he said, unexpectedly earnest. "There's nobody but you."

You blushed, didn't know what to do with your hands. If he was telling the truth, that was exactly what you wanted to hear.

"Well, nobody else is making me pasta," you said, hoping he inferred what you meant.

His eyes softened at the edges, so you thought he did. He turned off the burners, pouring the pasta into two bowls. He gave you the bigger portion.

He wouldn't let you see what movie he'd put in the VCR player.

You watched in anticipation, legs tucked under you on the floor in front of his coffee table. He sat right next to you so that you could both have an optimal view of his TV, laughing out of his mind when you realised he'd found the Gnome-Mobile.

"This is awful," you said, almost dropping pasta down your shirt.

"This is a classic. Be respectful."

You ate every bite of your pasta, holding your bloated stomach in regret. Remus ate your leftover garlic bread, letting you lean on him in sympathy.

"That was a terrible mistake," you moaned into his shoulder.

He rubbed your arms compassionately. "You'll be okay, give it an hour."

Gnome-Mobile was one of the worst things you'd ever had the misfortune of watching. When it finished you celebrated, remembered how sickeningly full you were, and promptly groaned, holding your stomach.

Remus fussed.

"It's my own fault," you laughed at him.

"I still feel bad."

"Worth it," you muttered to yourself. He made a great bowl of pasta.

"I think we might be boring young adults," he said, leaning against the seat of the sofa. You blew hair off your face.

"Why'd you say that?"

"Well, people our age are out partying or something. What are we doing?"

"Watching world beloved cult classic Gnome-Mobile?"

He pushed the arm that was between you both back onto the sofa, clasping his own hands. "I should've taken you out somewhere."

"What? Remus, I'm having a great time."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

You squeezed his bicep. "Now, where's your cassette collection? I wanna see what you like."

Remus took you on a tour of all his favourite songs, stretched out on his bed to stare at his ceiling together. He had some classics and the a bunch of stuff you'd never heard.

You bobbed your head to KISS, singing the words passionately.

"Cos girl you were made for me…" you warbled.

"And girl I was made for you," Remus mouthed along. It was a funny time for your eyes to meet.

You didn't have it in you to sing the powerful chorus, choosing to laugh dizzyingly at his ceiling. Your eyes drifted to the posters on his wall, the trinkets on his desk. You suddenly remembered your own bedroom back home, your bouquet of flowers he'd given you.

"Oh, Remus! I have something for you. Stay here."

You had to climb over him to get off the bed. You collected your little unimpressive daisy from where you'd left it in the kitchen, forgotten by his fridge.

"Here," you said, crossing the threshold into his room.

"It's a daisy," Remus said. "Obviously. I don't know why I said that."

He stared at it for long enough you started to question if it was a bad idea.

"You know, daisy's have their own meaning," he said.

You quirked your eyebrows at him. "What do they mean?"

"White daisies symbolise hope and new beginnings."

"Yeah? What do the other colours mean?" you asked him, crawling back over his lap to sit next to him.

"Yellow daisies are for friendship. Pink daisies are for when you fancy someone, for gentleness. And red daisies are for passion."

"That's so cute," you said. He sat up and twisted the stem in his hand until the daisy blurred into a white circle.

When the daisy stopped turning, it was pink. You pursed your lips in confusion, failing to notice the wand in Remus' hand until he set it aside.

He offered it to you. "For you."

"You turned it pink," you said uselessly.

"I turned it pink."

"You fancy me?" you asked, struggling to get the words out.

"I do."

Tears welled in your eyes. You sniffled, holding the pink daisy in your hand like a precious gemstone. A mass of feelings came up to the surface. Remus fancied you. Remus didn't just want to have sex with you, he fancied you. Somebody, Remus, wanted you.

"Oh, Y/N, don't cry. I'm sorry, I don't want to upset you. Look, I know I'm not-"

"So I get to be your girlfriend?" you asked, pinning him with your gaze.

"What? You're not upset?"

You laughed wetly. "I like you too, Remus. A lot."

He pulled your free hand into his lap to hold. "Why are you crying?"

You wiped your eyes, daisy in hand. "I didn't think anyone liked me."

"I more than like you."

You grinned at him beatifically. "I can't believe it." He looked unhappy. You held your breath. "What?"

"I have something to tell you. Something important."

You nodded.

"And I understand if you don't want to see me anymore after, or if you hate me. But please, don't tell."

Your face crumpled in sympathy. "I already know, Remus," you said softly.

"That I-..."

You nodded.

"Who told you?"

"Nobody… I just worked it out."

"How long have you known?"

"The day I made you soup."

"That was pity soup?"

You spluttered. "No! That was I care about you soup. You're always tired and you were bleeding and, you know. When I thought about it, it made sense."

"Just so we're on the same page, you realise I'm-"

"You're a werewolf, Remus. I know," you finished for him.

"You don't care?"

You frowned. "Of course I don't." You flexed your fingers in his hand.

"It's okay if you do, Y/N. It's a scary thing."

You shook your head. "You'd never hurt me. Unless I asked you to."

He grinned, his face plastered in such obvious relief that it made your heart hurt. He deserved to always be accepted for who he was, and it was obvious that wasn't always the case.

"So, you're my boyfriend now?" you questioned.

"I'm your boyfriend," he said.

"Oh my god," you covered your face with your hands, smiling so hard you thought your face would split.

"I mean," his hand inched up your back. "Is it so surprising that I fancy you? I can't stop touching you, dove."

"I thought you were like that with everyone."

"No. Just you."

You weaved your arms around his shoulders. "Could you tell I fancy you?"

"A bit."

You flamed, pushing your blushing face into his hair.

"You did clean my entire flat."

You whimpered.

"And you dressed up so nice for me at the Leaky Cauldron, of all places."

You were dying of embarrassment, probably. You bit your lip.

"You're not so innocent yourself. How was I supposed to not fancy you? You made me look in two different mirrors to tell me how pretty I looked and then you bought me flowers."

"The whole point was to get you to fancy me, dolt."

"I thought you were this sweet on all your casual hookups."

"You're the only 'casual hookup' I've kissed fifty times every time I saw them."

You felt immeasurably pleased.

"You haven't kissed me once tonight."

He moved his hands from your waist to your face. "I've been preoccupied," he leaned in close. You shut your eyes. "Let me make it up to you," he whispered.

He kissed you. The rush of warmth that ran through you was palpable, intoxicating. He overwhelmed your senses, smelling like something soft and heady. The feeling of his hand running up and down your arm was enough to make you smile into the kiss. He smiled back, letting you push him down into the headboard behind him.

You let your hand travel down his torso to grasp the lean muscle under his shirt. Your hand teased the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath the fabric to trace a line up to his sternum. You trailed back down with the softest touch you could manage, relishing his shivers beneath you.

You broke the kiss, anticipating the changing in his ability to breath as you pushed your hand over the bulge of his dick in his trousers. You palmed him through the fabric, turning your gaze to the movements of your own hand.

He pulled your face towards him. "You're so fucking pretty."

You turned your face to peck his hand. "I look like shit."

"You're fucking perfect," he said firmly. "Perfect girl."

"You give me far too many compliments."

"I give you far too little," he denied.

He rose up to kiss you again. You drew a line at his waistband with your fingernail.

"Stop tickling me or I'm gonna tickle you back," he warned, holding your face in place so he could kiss you.

You didn't heed his warning, scratching lightly until he was shying away from your touch.

"We're finished," he said solemnly, snaking his hand under the fabric of your skirt. He used the pads of his fingers to tickle the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, zigzagging till he was a millimetre from your underwear. He teased the edge, running his fingers under the elastic.

Fine, you thought. If he wants to play dirty, I'll play dirty.

You let your hand dip under his waistband, keeping the lightest of touches, smoothing the flat of your hand against him lovingly.

You tried your best to stay on task, delighted at his hardening dick from your attentions, but Remus was making it increasingly difficult. He'd abandoned any pretense of tickling you and was instead using his long fingers to rub lines from your clit to your entrance, dipping in half an inch before travelling back up. It was maddening.

You'd given up on kissing for now as you were too busy concentrating. He dotted kissed down the curve of your neck to bite and suck your shoulder.

You pulled his dick free from the constraints of his underwear, enthused by the little dribble of precum that smattered the skin of your fingers.

Remus rested his forehead on your shoulder, panting. "I'm supposed to be winning."

"You definitely aren't," you told him, pumping his shaft much too smugly. "I like you like this, all needy."

"I've actually had enough of you," he said, laughing. You laughed too.

He grabbed the hand that you were using to touch him and pulled it away, shoving you enough that you got the idea to let yourself fall flat.

He pulled your skirt free to make it easier. You felt your eyebrows go up at the centre when he started pulling the pillows from under you.

"Lift your hips, pretty girl."

You did as he asked and he pushed the pillows beneath you so that your hips, cunt and upper thighs were elevated.

Godric, this was the trouble you'd feared. He pulled you underwear down next. You blushed at the wet string of slick that banded between your cunt and your underwear. Remus smiled smugly, tossing them gently next to your skirt on the ground.

"I'll ruin your pillows."

"Sacrifices," he said mournfully, leaning down to plant an open mouthed kiss on your clit. You gasped, fishing the sheets underneath you in one hand. When he didn't stop you covered your eyes with the back of your arm, keening.

"I knew you'd like that," he chuckled.

He fingered your cunt, licking hot wet stripes up the centre of you. When that wasn't enough, he located the bundle of nerves that was your clit with his tongue and manipulated it until you were a quivering mess underneath him.

"Remus…"

"What, baby?"

You only whimpered. Your brain felt like it was short-ciruciting, your whole body heaved.

You didn't trust yourself to put your hand in his hair, too afraid you'd rip strands from his scalp. He was doing a fine job without your assistance either way. The heat built up in the pit of your tummy, rising and rising til you were whining for him to slow down.

He listened. It did little to slow the oncoming climax. You came hard, cunt clenching down on his fingers. He pulled back, admiring the obvious contractions you were experiencing.

"Good girl," he praised. "My perfect girl. Ready to take all of me?"

"Yes," you said, voice wracked with tremors. "Yes, please."

He lined up, rubbing the head against your aching cunt with enough pressure to make you protest.

"Sorry, baby. I'll stop teasing," he murmured, spreading the flat of his hand on your abdomen. He pushed in, the elevated position of your cunt already making you feel spread open.

He took handfuls of your hips, the soft flesh there molding under his hands. He reared forward, fucking you so deeply you cried out in response.

"Yeah?" he said.

He pulled out, fucked in again. You were putty in his hands, limp under his touch. The stretching feeling was suddenly so pleasurable you reached down your hand to wrap around his forearm.

"Perfect girl with a perfect cunt," he said, driving forward again. You half-sobbed.

Where he shifted on his knees you could feel the mattress move under your back, feel it bounce back with each thrust.

He slowed down to a crawl, amused at your complaining. You moved your hips down, following his thrusts, chasing his dick.

"So fucking hot."

"Fuck me properly, jerk."

"Properly?" His hips snapped forward, his pelvis digging into you clit, sending sparks through you. "Is this proper enough for you, dove?"

He was unrepentant, fucking you so that each thrust drove you deep into the mattress. "Okay?" he asked, bringing his hand down to the bead of your clit, catching it between two fingers.

"Yessss," you said, voice high.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"It's not," you said weakly. "Fucking me so good," you praised.

He brought your hand up to his mouth to kiss your fingertips. He pushed deep inside you and stayed there, making circles with his hips that drove mewling cries from you that you'd be embarassed about in the morning.

"Ah, you're so deep in me," you babbled. "So deep."

"Just fucking made for me, weren't you sweetness?"

He bottomed out again, driving you to madness. Your eyes closed of their own accord. Every thrust was enough now, accompanied by a little sound in the back of your throat that wouldn't stop.

Remus liked it, fucking you hard and fast if only to listen to the sounds you made.

"Made for you," you echoed, gripping so tightly your knuckles went white.

"Yes, you were," he said.

He sped up, pulling your hips with surprising strength to meet his thrusts. You circled your clit, so wet it was difficult to find purchase.

He drove forward with one last great thrust, hitting you square in the sweet spot inside you,  pumping cum into you like you hadn't felt before, gasping at the sensation. He replaced your finger with two of his own, replacing preciseness with speed. You felt your heart stop, able to utter a single "oh god," before you came so hard your vision whited out.

You let your hips fall backwards off the pillows, aching in a familiar, comfortable way. You pulled on Remus' arm, forcing him to lie down beside you.

"Is this a good time to mention we'll definitely have cute kids?" he asked, holding your joined hands against his beating heart.

"Well, we've had a fair share of practice runs," you said, still breathless.

You both laughed.

-

"So what?" James asked, wearing his stupid florescent hard hat. You were cross-legged in front of the frog Palace, tasked with caulking the tiny windows with your pinky finger. "He's your boyfriend now?"

"Yep," you said, beaming.

James smirked at you. "Get me a nappie and you could call me cupid."

"Yeah, whatever," Sirius grumbled, also wearing a stupid hard hat. A frog perched on the brim, peering at you threateningly. "I hate happy couples."

"Farmer's Market boy wasn't cool enough for you anyways," Remus said, returning from his brief intermission to the kitchen. He balanced a tray of drinks in his hand.

"Harry agrees," Lily said, baby Harry gurgling happily in his hands. He had a smaller hard hat and a frog in his tiny grasp.

You cooed at Harry's delight. "I expect at least 12 frogs for my baby," you said to Sirius.

"Our baby," Remus corrected gently.

Sirius groaned in agony. "Fuck me."

<3

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[420technoblazeit]

ik it's been contradicted in canon multiple times but im still in love with the idea that after your last canon death your body stays instead of immediately disappearing

schlatt's body was not left in the caravan. hours after the war had ended bad stopped by to collect his parts, hesitant to let even him rot in that place where everything had begun. the funeral is a trainwreck. no modicum of respect is given to the man who had destroyed so many lives and in hindsight having an open casket service might have been a mistake. puffy, who had never met schlatt, winces as they treat him like a puppet, a prop instead of a dead body. she is an outsider. too late to bear witness to the death of someone vaguely familiar and yet not at all. but she still sees the bitterness behind quackity's words and the cold anger in his eyes and decides it is not her place to say anything. her chair is empty before anyone can notice. by the end of it even his picture is marked by arrows. and the casket holds less weight than it should

the button room becomes a tomb. once the knowledge of what happened there becomes known, it is sealed and avoided. and thus wilbur is not granted the honor that even schlatt was given. to have a grave, to be worthy of remembrance. it remains untouched for days until ghostbur stumbles into it, knees scraped and bleeding. he sees a man propped up against the wall. his hair is curled and matted against the hard stone, fingertips tinged by ash where ghostbur's are stained blue. a slight smile rests on his face. there is still pity left there, in those cold empty eyes that are and aren't ghostbur's own. it is not for himself. and with a shiver he stares at his own body and remembers that cold slick sword in his own chest and tears on his face. he does not remember if it was his or his father's. ghostbur's cheeks sting. and phil calls him from outside the room before he can ponder the matter any further

there is no rain when mexican dream is murdered. a boy and a tyrant are the only witnesses to his death and it would be poetic enough if his life were a story, a cautionary tale about the dangers of pointless disobedience and rebellion. but his life had been neither of those things. and now it is simply no more. tommy has only a moment to process his only ally in this place, the only friend who had bothered to speak up for him, being murdered in cold blood before dream is picking up the body and hoisting it over his shoulder. whatever items were spilled are collected into a chest. and tommy is forced to scrub the traces of him that remain from logstedshire as dream leaves. he is alone once more. and the sound of md's laughter does not linger

jack manifold is not the first to fall to technoblade's sword. he doesn't know what he was thinking, really. no one but dream is a match for techno's skill with a blade. but standing there in the shambles of a country he had given himself to a lifetime ago, jack didn't care. he remembers lunging with a sword he had only ever used to shield himself and a blur of movement. in the end he hardly even no felt the blow that killed him. jack remembers shock freezing him in place, followed by a sense of loneliness and anger. white hot anger that techno would escape unscathed, not even knicked by a sword as jack became just another notch on his belt. the second, least impressive one of the day. and then that rage was replaced by real heat as jack fell, grasping for something to stop his descent. something that would not be there. he does not know how long it takes to get back. but when he does it is in that same place he first died and his fingernails are splintered and cracked. there is still dirt under them and the flesh at his fingertips have turned rotten. and he limps home with broken ribs and burnt skin that will not be soothed for weeks

[passivenovember]

A day late! 

--

The night before their wedding with the summer heat so thick and oppressive that Billy’s skin sticks to the air itself while he reads, blinking dumbly through a haze of I’m marrying Steve tomorrow, holy shit I’m marrying Steve Harrington tomorrow night– 

Steve climbs, drunk, through the bedroom window and collapses headfirst into the bed frame. 

Billy sits bolt upright, sheets pooling around his waist, and thinks that if they decided to forgo the bachelor party of course bad luck would seep in some other way. Through the cracks in their history together. Of course, Harrington would break his nose.

“Steve?” Billy whispers. 

Steve’s head pops into view, mouth split into a delicate grin. “Hi, baby. I didn’t want you to be alone when the fireworks start boomin’ in the sky.” 

Billy snaps the book shut. “Your nose is bleeding, asshole.”

“It is?” Steve wonders, patting at his nostrils to find scarves of red glittering underneath his fingernails. “Huh.” He wipes his hand on his jeans, making grabby motions until Billy slips out of bed. 

When Billy slips out of bed, a pair of Steve’s tighty-whities, nearly translucent with the heat of summer sticking to his skin, Steve groans like someone punched him. 

The bedframe, maybe. “God, you’re so hot,” Steve says. He leans his face against the footboard, smearing blood the whole way. “I can’t believe I get to eat you out for the rest of my life–”

“What are you doing home so soon? I thought you were crashing at Robin’s?”

“I wanted to see ya.” Steve declares, very serious.  “And I know seeing the groom before the wedding is bad luck but we’ve had so much bad luck, we deserve good now and I love you. You're the best thing in my whole life, Billy–”

Billy gets his hands under Steve’s armpits, grinning in spite of himself when Harrington’s Bambi legs fold into place under him. “Let’s go to the bathroom. Get you cleaned up.”

“I don’t wanna sleep at Robin’s,” Steve moans, teetering as they march down the hall. “Her tiny dog yaps all night and I drank too many lemon drops and I was laying there on her scratchy brown couch, full of chips and cheese, thinking ‘I wanna sleep in our bed because it’s big and soft and Billy keeps my toes warm, and–’”

The light switch in the bathroom is farther away than Billy remembers it being, tucked around the string of Ecanacia Max bullied him into tacking on the wall. 

Billy props Steve against the wood paneling, reaching and grasping until the room fills with a bright, sweet yellow glow.

The place is a mess. Steve never cleans up after himself when he’s getting ready for a night out so Billy’s gotta do it. There are products everywhere–two half-empty containers of Fabrigee Organics, a stick of deodorant, little hairs from Steve’s shorn mustache dotting the marble sink like wayward blankets of snow.

Billy ignores the mess and opens one of the chipped oak drawers under the sink to fish for a washcloth, running it under warm water when he gets his hands on one that’ll hide the blood stains.

Steve tries to climb onto the counter but nearly falls into the bathtub, instead.

“--my stomach fucking hurts from all that cheese,” Steve declares, eyes big and wet when he finally climbs up next to their UFO toothbrush holder and Billy won’t stop giggling. “It’s not funny, I might die. Can I have tummy rubs?”

“We’ll run you a bath and you can take some medicine. Head to bed.” Billy yelps when Steve grabs him around the arms, voice urgent.

“I don’t wanna head to bed, Billy, we’re getting married tomorrow.”

“Yep, we are.” 

“We should be up all night,” Steve says. “We should count the stars and drink soda and dance to Whitney Houston and watch the sunrise on our day.”

“Baby, you gotta sleep,” Billy says. “You’re shitfaced and your nose is all fucked up–”

“But I love you,” Steve whines, bratty and bitchy and so adorable that Billy has no choice but to lean forward, licking the pout from Steve’s lips if only to get him to stop talking so much. 

When he pulls away, Steve’s still frowning. “What’s wrong, worry wart? You’re not getting cold feet on me, are you?”

“No!” Steve almost screams, and Billy laughs, using the wet rag to wipe the blood from his own lip before going to town on the fresh trickle gushing down his fiance’s chin.

“No,” Steve insists, “I could never, I mean. You’re perfect outside and inside.”

“I feel like you’re just reciting your vows, at this point.”

Steve ignores him, still prattling on as Billy wipes the blood from his nose that, thankfully, isn’t broken. “We should start this next chapter of our lives celebrating how far we’ve come, and all the blood, jizz and tears it took to make it to the alter–”

“--Baby—”

“What, you don’t agree?” Steve demands, pulling away from the neosporin-covered gauze Billy’s trying to tack onto his face. 

Billy deflates, crossing his arms over his chest. “I agree, baby. Of course, I agree, we deserve to party and egg our neighbors' houses and whatever else we want on the night before our wedding. But you just face-planted through an open window–”

“Only ‘cause I wanna dance with somebody,” Steve says, in the tune of their wedding song. “More specifically, with somebody who loves me.”

When Billy doesn’t react, Harrington wiggles his hips. Snaps his fingers, too, while Billy all but drowns in his love for this boy. 

“Alright,” Billy says because they’re getting married tomorrow. 

And he’s been powerless to those eyes, that mouth, those hips since he was seventeen years old. Billy shakes his head and holds the gauze right in Steve’s face. 

“We can stay up and have a slumber party, but you gotta let me take care of you first, moron.”

“You always do,” Steve chirps happily, kissing Billy’s wrist as he slides the bandage into place.

[narcissisticmf]

lonesome | bucky barnes x fem!reader

description: bucky discovers that y/n is being abused.

trigger warnings: abuse, minor injuries, blood, mentions of trauma, graphic violence, domestic abuse, mentions of assault, etc. read at your own risk.

word count: 1.4k

The rain tapped against the glass of the windows as you sat in the corner of the house. It was cold and you felt your body stop its shivers as you'd been growing numb to the brisk air. Your bare toes curled against the broken glass upon the floor. Your crackled lips trembled as you hugged your knees against your chest.

Trembling vigorously, your short fingernails dug into your clothed arms. You squeezed your eyes closed as tears fell down along your cheeks, leaving a stain amongst them. When the front door slammed, you physically cringed, burying your face in between your knees.

"Asked you twice to clean this shit hole up," A drunken voice was heard from the front corridor of the house. You felt the warm blood against the bottom of your feet as you begun to push yourself off the floor.

Your dry lips pressed together as the man who you'd been with for a long while appeared. He had a half drunken beer bottle held loosely between his fingers. You swallowed the lump that built in your throat and let your warm eyes stare at him, blankly.

"I won't say it again; clean this shit up!" He yelled, a vein protruded from beneath the surface of his skin on his neck. You took in a sharp breath and looked down at your bruised hands and bloody feet. He threw the beer bottle against the wall beside your head and shards of glass went flying everywhere, scraping your exposed skin.

"There," He burped and walked closer to you, gripping your chin with his dirty hands. He leaned into your ear and whispered, "Start there." The alcohol from his mouth smelled foul and it made you mentally cringe. Aggressively, he pulled his hand away and walked off towards the stairs that would lead him up to his bedroom.

You gazed at the floor and noticed how much of a mess it was. Something within you felt the urge to run within that very moment. The front door was unlocked and he was potentially passed out by this very moment.

Shakily, you took your feet and stepped over the glass pieces, making sure not to cut yourself as you had already been bleeding out enough. You walked down the front corridor and looked up the stairs to see that the hall lights weren't on, making you slightly confident within your escape. The door was cracked open and you could feel the cool air slip through.

Eventually, you made it to the door and ever so gently opened it without making a sound. Placing your toes against the concrete patio, you felt a weight ease off your shoulders. Soon, you were completely outside and stepped off the porch hurrying away from the house on the side of the street beneath the pouring rain.

Your hair and clothes became soaked as you kept walking. You looked back to see the house and noticed it was completely dark and he wouldn't notice your absence until the morning, perhaps. You took the time to shift your focus to where you'd be headed. You couldn't call yourself free just yet.

Glancing at the street signs, you released a soft breath and allowed yourself to think of as many places you could come up with. You parted your lips and felt your heart palpitate with anticipation as you thought of one person who'd make sure of your safety.

Your feet kicked off the pavement of the road and ran as quickly as you could under the rain. The pain against your feet and bruises all over your body seemed to fade away the second you ran. Your body felt weaker than ever before, but you needed to get out and you'd do anything and everything to make sure of that.

.

Taking your bruises knuckles, you softly knocked on a wooden door. Your body soaked from the rain and hair still damp. Your bare feet stood against the welcome matt upon the floor, you worried of getting blood stains on it, but seemed to have noticed the blood dried by this moment.

You took your hand back down to your side and watched as the door slowly opened revealing Bucky. You could see his heart sink deep into his chest as he noticed you were in pain. His lips parted as his pupils dilated.

"Y/N.. what– uh, what happened to you?" Bucky asked as he looked from side to side out in the hall of the apartment complex.

"I.. I had nowhere else to go," Your voice broke as tears began to fall from your eyes and trickle down your cheeks. Bucky took your wrist softly with his metal fingertips and led you inside.

"Come to the bathroom, doll, I have first aid in there," Bucky spoke gently and took notice as your feet left bloody spot agains the floor. His released a soft breath and followed you into the bathroom of his apartment.

"Sit on the counter for me, Y/N," Bucky whispered and you did as he asked, lifting yourself weakly onto the marble countertop.

"I'm sorry for the blood stains on your welcome matt," You spoke shakily as more tears fell from your eyes.

"Don't worry about that, doll," Bucky shook his head and took the first aid kit out of the closet. He placed it beside you and took out a few gauze wraps along with some pain relief cream. He gently rubbed your feet with the pain relief and wrapped your wounds with the gauze, tapping it on snugly.

"Who did this to you?" He questioned as he stuck bandages to your hands. You could feel the metal of his left hand brush against your skin, causing goosebumps to arise all over.

You felt your stomach sink, fear taking over your whole body. You blinked slowly and looked at Bucky, finding comfort in his pacific eyes.

"Who, doll?" He asked again.

"My.. uhm, my partner," You whispered, your voice broken. "He threw his beer bottle at the wall.. beside my head and he was yelling at me to clean the house. He was drunk, Bucky.." You whimpered, your bottom lip trembling, "I always get in his way and he always makes me aware of it every time." By this moment, you were heavily weeping, your body felt uneasy just thinking about it.

Bucky took his palms, the metal of his left hand felt cool against your cheek. His other hand was warm and comforting just as much. He looked at you intently and wiped away the tears with the pad of his metal thumb.

"He can't hurt you anymore," Bucky's voice was soft, yet stern at the same time, "I will make sure of that."

You broke into more cries and buried your face into his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you with every bit of strength in him. You withered against Bucky's embrace, feeling safe in his arms yet still scared to do anything more than cry.

"Y/N, did he do anything else to you?" Bucky took his metal hand and gently ran his fingers through your hair, the gesture was comfortable for you.

Your heart stopped at his question, you slowly pulled your head up and looked at Bucky, his eyes were sunken while looking at you.

"He.." You started, but felt your throat run dry, unable to speak.

"Hey.. deep breath, okay?" Bucky offered with a warm gaze. You nodded softly and breathed in slowly, holding it for a moment before releasing through your nostrils.

"Good girl," Bucky spoke softly.

"He would, uh.. touch me," You felt your vision blur as tears begun to form. Bucky parted his lips and pulled your into his warm embrace. You wrapped your arms weakly around his torso, feeling your tears stain his navy blue t-shirt.

"M' gonna kill him," Bucky whispered, mostly for himself, but you still heard it. You squeezed him as tightly as your body would let you and wrapped your legs around his lower waist, unable to let yourself be far from him.

"Can I stay with you for a while?" You choked out, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

Bucky spoke softly in response, "You can stay with me forever, doll."

.

a/n: my condolences to any of those who have suffered from domestic violence. i want to apologize if what i wrote was in any way, shape or form offensive to you and your experience. i never mean harm when i write things like this. i also apologize for any grammatical errors, i wanted this to be published as soon as possible. if any of you are suffering from domestic abuse and/or violence, please call this number (US): 800-799-7233 (available in english & spanish) please remember that you are never alone. i am here with you and for you. i love you all very much. mwah! be safe and treat people with kindness. — angelina.

[veinereastath]

waves of retrospection [Arthur Harrow one-shot]

It’s mostly a bit of psychological take on Harrow; Basically I don’t accept him as dead, so I’ve decided to do what I enjoy doing best and change canon to my own twisted desires, but also somehow leave the ending open to intepretation and choice. So have this small piece of 2204 words of his own retrospection at night by the sea.

Fandom: Moon Knight [2022]

Rating: nothing explicit at all, but there are some mentions of self-harm. You know, glass in shoes.

Summary: Ammit has been defeated once and for all, but Harrow is still alive - but he isn’t sure if that’s what he truly wants.

Characters: only Arthur Harrow and his mind, because I love psychological / philosophical mumbo jumbo.

Side note: English is not my first language so you can expect some mistakes.

_____________________________________________________________

    The rocks of the shore were dark, treacherous, full of little cracks and imperfections. Their edges were sharp, ready to inflict pain on any who would make any kind of mistake, the fail of judgement when stepping on them. Too careless feet would soon find themselves to be cut and bleeding, with the cold, salted water of the sea hitting the shore inflicting even more pain. Rubbing the salt on the wound gained a new, painfully real meaning.

    But the glass he had in his old, battered shoes for the past years made him accept the pain. He got used to it, and he understood its fundemental purpose – after all, it was a punishment he chose for himself, every single morning hiding it under the mundane action of touching the glass of water with his lips, allowing his throat, tired from preaching and intricate manipulation a bit of relief. His throat in exchange for his feet. For someone like him, who knew the value of properly executed speech more than most, it seemed like a very fair deal.

    So Arthur Harrow accepted the pain. The glass was no more, his feet bare, beaten, full of little scars painting his skin like the cracks on old murals in ancient cathedrals, those who saw war, famine and cruelty. He remembered the little chapel he visited many years ago in Italy, where he saw the eyes of painted priests looking at him with cold dissaproval. Perhaps it was because of the fresh blood that tainted his hands, sticking to his fingernails. He spilled a lot of it for Khonshu and his ideals back when the glowing eyes and the ceremonial suit were his to wear. He couldn’t say he missed it, the fabric on his skin, the unique power flowing through his body… But he almost, almost did. Some part of him, the one that enjoyed inflicting pain on behalf of the Moon God, was still there, buried somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his mind, and at times he could swear he feels it again, hears it again, wants to commit to it again.

    Your scales lack balance.

    He almost chuckled at the memory. I wonder why, he thought sarcastically. I have no idea. No idea whatsoever.

    The pain and blood he inflicted on himself did not, however, make him resistant. So everytime his foot, one or the other, slipped on the wet, dark rock he felt the excruciating pain of old wounds opening and new forming amongst them, fresh blood trailing his steps.

    Sometimes he made himself slip on purpose, when some thoughts became too unbearable, pain seeming like the only escape, the nervous system reacting accordingly and momentarily, forcing everything in him to focus on the new flash of torture. It worked, for a while. After a few moments his brain regained its composure, both a blessing and a curse, and once again his mind was flowing through the threads of his past, making him remember everything.

    Once again he put his bleeding foot in the wrong place, and the rock seized the opportunity at once. Wet, cold and with a traces of seasalt on it it deepened one of the already existing cuts. Against his wishes to stay silent, he lost the fight and cried out loud. He lost his balance, palms stretching out in front of him to stabilize the fall. But they also had to pay the price of pain in order to achieve their purpose. Arthur gasped, his lean frame nearly totally collapsed on the rocky shore. He forced his muscles, still strong, but tired at the same time, to answer to his will and slowly put himself on his knees. He could feel the texture of the rocks beneath his hands, feeding on his blood and pain, his slender fingers delicately tracing them, the vein crossing his palm defined so strongly it seemed like it wanted to escape, jump out of his skin and run away.

    Harrow allowed himself to take a few deep breaths and wait. He didn’t have anywhere to be right now, after all. Time could very well stop its existence and he wouldn’t feel the difference. His mission ended – with a failure, no less. The mercy he was shown by Marc Spector was not truly a mercy, he knew. It wasn’t a tale of redemption, his final purpose wasn’t to atone for what he did, but to accept it and still live with it. In suffering, none less, but perhaps that’s what acceptance was truly supposed to be.

    He looked at the rocks beneath him, his knees already aching – but he kept staring. Strands of his light brown hair obscured the sides of his vision, hiding his icy blue eyes from the moonlight, and once again he almost chuckled, thinking about how fitting it was. The very parts of himself were hiding the full picture from him, forcing him to stay in the dark.

    He was tired of it, so he lifted his right hand and ran his fingers along his scalp, forcing his hair to obedience. Most of them obeyed, but, as always, some didn’t, loose greying strands falling down once again, still somewhat blocking his view. The kneeling finally became too painful and, at the same time, too pointless somehow. Arthur slowly forced his body to fall over to the right, so he could balance himself and sit properly, staring at the waves. The view in front of his eyes forced him to pull at his old memories more, so he tried to do so. He focused on his followers, fathering happily in the streets of London in the evening, talking, playing, enjoying every little piece of what was mundane and just so typical of life. He used to be a part of this community, enjoying people’s company, hearing their stories, knowing them better.

    Knowing their strengths, but their weaknesses also. After all, he always strived for pragmatism in his own actions. Know your enemy, yes. But know your friend also, because he can always turn his back on you. Betrayal hurts more, and betrayal always comes from a friend.

    He remember Bobbi Kennedy, for one. She was one of those focused on silent action, not words, and he appreciated that. She was focused, loyal, and pragmatic as well – doing what she had to do, when she had to. It was inspiring for those around her, so when he asked her – ask was such a peculiar word, though – to do something that would be crucial to bringing Ammit back to the world, he always trusted her to do the deed. And she did, and she never asked for praise, welcoming back with success and in silence. It’s all she did, bow her head a little, and he would respond in kind, putting his hand on her shoulder.

    Billy Fitzgerald was also an example of a person he remembered well. The man was somehow like Bobbi, but there were more colors in his emotions and actions – his happiness and excitement was more evident, for example when he heard the ‘She’s here’ after so many years of waiting. But it also quickly broke itself and changed to concern and worry. ‘Mark Spector is in Cairo.’ Arthur noticed how Fitzgerald’s face has fallen at these words, and it never really fixed itself, even long after they finally entered the tomb. Arthur never really saw what happened to him, but he could’ve guessed, and somehow he felt like he actually knew. One of his men was slaughtered by the Heka priests in the field of his vision. Considering that Fitzgerald went to the wrong corridor of the maze and never came back, it was obvious.

    Harrow couldn’t say he felt bad, but the death of Fitzgerald was something he noticed, nonetheless, and that cruel pragmatism of his told him that this mere acknowledgment was quite enough. Some people don’t even get that.

    The waves that forced his mind into the fields of retrospection now changed their mind, unpredictable as they were. One of them hit the shore with more force than the others, and the water splashed far enough to reach his bloodied feet. Salt rubbing into the wounds made Harrow swore under his breath, his jaw clenching. Focus, focus, focus. Think of the others. Who else do you remember?

    He remembered quite a few, but he also had to admit that some of his followers were so far back in the corners of his mind that he could netiher precisely track their face, nor their voice – he mostly remembered names, because he was indeed quite good at that. But he had problems with putting them to their respective owners. Back then it wasn’t a big issue – or, rather, it didn’t seem like a big issue – but right now it seemed to frustrate him way more than it should. Now, when all these people were either dead or scattered to the winds, their cause lost, their beliefs shattered.

    There were kids playing in the streets, there were young and older couples sitting outside the old cafe, there were people wandering, thinking to themselves. Harrow always payed them more attention, because he knew that lonely retrospection was quite a dangerous tool, because it could very easily push a person out of their belief system. How easy it was to forget about the justice of Ammit, and the importance of the reason to bring her back when you have nothing but yourself around.

    So, he always tried to pick up these strays and talk to them. Using his words very carefully, very aware of the power his rough tone of voice. He knew how to use it to his advantage. Actually, once a young woman he talked to called him on that, and he smiled by a margin when that memory came up. She was in her early twenties – a peculiar individual at that because he could remember her face very, very well… But for the love of all the gods of this world, he couldn’t remember her name. Almost like his priorities decided to totally change for this one, random person. Shy, timid, but also very observant; he could see in her brown eyes that she sees more than she makes people think she does. Definitely more of a listener, she listened carefully, taking in all the words of thought he was giving her when he took her for a long stroll on one evening. And at some point she said ‘You’re very good with words.’. With no malice, with no distaste, but rather stating a solid fact with a hint of amusement dancing on her face. And just like that, for a short while, he couldn’t say anything. He just looked at her and smiled.

    He talked to her for many hours after that callout. It was the only conversation he ever had with her, but it was also the one for some reason he enjoyed the most because of how pure it was. Weirdly enough, he could swore he felt younger during that one evening. And she seemed to enjoy his company, even though he obviously knew who he was and what was the function of words and sentences he created and gave to her.

    Against his better judgment, he kissed her palm when they part ways, hoping he would had a chance to talk to her again at some point. He did saw her far away, amongst other people on many days that were next to come, but at some point she dissapeared without a word or a trace.

    She could’ve been a spy, he thought to himself. He realized that he never actually check her scales, never allowed them to show the balance – or inbalance – of her soul. It was weird of him to forget such a thing. So, despite of those fifty years of life experience, of gathered wisdom and skills, he could still be fooled by as little as a weird callback to his younger self. Lovesick, not-really-young fool.

    He took a deep exhale, running his palm through his face. He grew tired of his memories at this point. Harrow stood up, slowly, on shaking legs, and walked closer to the waves. They gathered at his feet like snakes, biting, inflicting pain, promising to consume him whole.

    Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe that’s his test.

    He unbuttoned his red shirt, slowly, almost as if he hesitated. He wasn’t sure himself, and this lack of certainty stirred a new flash of irritation. He got rid of the last button with more pressure, more force, more haste, feeling the cold air of the night brushing the naked skin of his chest. He huffed, tilting his arms to allow the fabric to slide off. As soon as his whole upper posture was uncovered, the wind gained on its strength.

    Charming.

    Harrow put his right foot in the proper water. The pain attacked once more, forcing him to choke down a cry, jaw clenching, drops of sweat gathering on his temples. A short while, and he made another step forward. And another. And another. He allowed the sea to consume him up to the line of his hips, and then he stopped. Wondering.

  What now?

    As if he knew. He once again moved forward. His fate wasn't his decision to make. He allowed people to be consumed by sands of the desert and ancient Egyptian priests, and as his own final punishment he chose the judgment of the sea.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- Did he die amongst the waves, or did he come out clean and walked back home - who knows?

[gwoongi]

wordless pt.4

jeon jeongguk / reader genre: hitman (john wick au), sugar daddy au, angst, crack, fluff rating: mature words: 3.5k warnings: toxic relationships, non graphic sex a/n: u guys asked and i delivered...tag yourself i’m me saying dancer in the dark was coming first....i was wrong...this is also very sweet considering part 5 will not be :D enjoy while u can!

Sometimes, saying “I love you” is inappropriate, and given your circumstances, you think it might send Jeongguk over the edge if he hears them again.

Parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five

(31) Pulling a chair out for them to sit down at the table.

Jeongguk’s not a gentleman.

Everybody knows it, and he’s not ashamed of admitting it. Half of the time, he thinks that it’s what makes him unique, at least. If you (or anybody else, even though since you walked out on him that one time, he��s been seeing all the others less and less) were going to be with somebody, then you might as well just make it different. Spice it up a little bit.

“It will be nice.” Jeongguk, because he’s not a gentleman, is not really listening to you. He sits behind the steering wheel and tightens his hand against the wheel, the other is on the clutch.

“Are you listening to me?”

“No,” Jeongguk replies. He turns the corner, and the car slightly leans you to the right.

A sigh fills the car as he pauses as a set of traffic lights further down the street.

This red light drags forever, and Jeongguk sighs instead and looks at you pointedly, “What, then?”

It takes reluctance to pull your gaze away from the pigeons near the bins on the side of the road, but you do, and you look at Jeongguk. “I just think it will be really nice to grab dinner together.”

“We do that all the time,” Jeongguk says.

“Yeah, but I don’t mean us, or just us,” you affirm, “I mean, like all of us. Family, I guess.”

Jeongguk bristles. “Family? We don’t have any family, baby.”

“We do,” you moan. “I mean. Not family-family, but family. The kind of family we get to choose. Taehyung, and Eunji and whoever.”

Jeongguk nods sarcastically, “Oh. Wrong F word, Y/N, those people are called friends.”

“Oh, whatever then,” you huff, turning back towards the window. “Forget I said anything, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk wants to forget, but he doesn’t. Something about that line, about the way that it stuck with him: The kind of family we get to choose. He thought about it all night, groaned, and then swore and called Taehyung. Alright motherfucker, we’re going to dinner with Y/N so you better shut the fuck up, get a suit, and meet us at that fancy Gangnam restaurant.

So, it’s a Friday evening, and it feels like a Disney Channel crossover episode. Eunji definitely feels out of place in this restaurant, and Jeongguk acts uncomfortable about the way Taehyung sits opposite you, gauging your every move and word with overacted enthusiasm. Actually, all Jeongguk is thinking about is the moment that they got here.

“Here, honey, let me get that for you,” had appeared to be Taehyung’s favourite sentence to say to you; he used it when he opened the door for you, and again with the chair to the table. Jeongguk sat seething, almost red like a ruby. Eunji sips nervously from her glass as Taehyung laughs again at something you said.

Dinner went great, he would have to admit that.

“Oh, we booked the patio for desserts,” Taehyung says. One of Jeongguk’s other friends, Seokjin (who honestly came to observe rather than to fill in for the surprising lack of family at this family dinner) looks left and right to each person on the table and follows the crowd as they leave for the patio once the main courses are done.

Taehyung once again reaches for the door and lets you walk outside. As Jeongguk passes Taehyung at the door, he glares at Taehyung with eyes that could murder. Taehyung doesn’t waver but he does get the hint, even more so as you stroll towards the table. Before Taehyung can even move towards the table, Jeongguk curves in front and puts his hand on the back of your chair.

“Here you go, baby, let me sit next to you,” Jeongguk says, dragging it out for you to sit. You watch him with one raised eyebrow but say nothing. Taehyung says nothing for a few minutes but decides to get right back to it as the desserts begin. It pisses off Jeongguk to the point where his hand leaves fingerprints in your thigh, but you can’t find it in you to be mad about it.

(32) Wrapping a blanket around them when they are sitting on the couch and watching a show.

“You gotta stop letting yourself in here, it scares the shit out of me.”

“I own this dump.”

You gape over your shoulder, “Fucker, you own this dump that you call a dump but you gave me this dump, it’s my dump, don’t call it a dump.”

“Say dump one more time,” Jeongguk warns, shrugging off his jacket and ruffling his hair. It’s wet thanks to the torrential rain outside. His socks squelch across the floor because he left his slippers back at his place, and he’s not here often enough to have his own pair at your apartment.

The apartment is toasty and warm, the heating on high. Except the living room is chilly and dark, dark blue almost.

“What are you watching?”

Jeongguk moves towards your bedroom but can still hear you as he moves.

“Just this show I found,” you reply, watching the screen. “Dead To Me.”

“Never heard of it,” he yawns, and emerges from the room. He’s holding a heavy blanket in his arms, moving to the living room to sit next to you. He plops next to you and glances at the screen, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, over your head like a cocoon.

You laugh softly, shifting it off your head and leaning up against him. “It’s American. It’s got Velma in it.”

“Linda Cardellini?” Jeongguk asks, settling back. “She’s hot as fuck.”

“I know, that’s why I thought I’d watch it, I love her,” you say.

Jeongguk wraps an arm around your shoulder and smushes closer towards you.

“Good day?” you ask quietly.

He takes a few seconds, like he’s truly trying to think about whether he wants to answer or not.

“Okay,” he admits. “Don’t care, it’s over, I’m here, don’t wanna think about work.”

You don’t push him to talk, and instead, let him sit next to you. He likes the darkness because there’s no way you can see his discomfort, his pain, the blood under his fingernails.

(33) Throwing away their piles of tissues when they have a cold.

Jeongguk travels for work a lot, and it’s no secret to anybody he knows. It was midday when he got a call, just a few words over the phone, and then he was moving out of the shower and into the bedroom to get ready.

He had told you to stay, stay until he got back. Unfinished business, he said, that would need dealing with when he got home. So you did, you stayed and he left, and that was that.

Jeongguk sighs and shuts the car door. Until next time, he thinks to himself as he watches the car pull away. Frowning, he straightens his blazer and walks up the steps to the complex he lives at and enters. When he gets to his apartment, he kicks his shoes off right away and as he steps inside, he notices that the apartment is unusually silent.

Normally at his home, his big mansion that he loves up in the hills, there’s some sort of noise. Maybe it’s the sound of the TV on in the kitchen, or the bubbles in the hot tub, or the sound of Elio prowling around the bedroom. This apartment is in central Seoul, closer to work and closer to school. He hates how silent it is, how empty it feels.

“Y/N?”

There is no instant reply. He moves across the apartment, searching silently.

“Babe, you here?”

Worry bubbles in his stomach and he moves in search of you. After searching everywhere, Jeongguk scoffs like it’s a sick joke that you’re not here, until he hears a noise, a croak and a cough from the spare bedroom.

“Y/N?” calls Jeongguk. He moves to the door and twists the handle, and is a few shuffles inside when a grottal, gross noise emerges from the darkness.

“What?” he asks.

“I said don’t come in here,” you croak out in reply, because it’s you, and who else would it be in his apartment?

Jeongguk enters and reaches for the light, pausing when you grunt in his direction. He can see you in the dim light of the spare bedroom, the sun outside the curtains, and he suppresses a smile.

“What happened? I said we had unfinished business.”

“I know,” you rasp. “But one of the kids in my class came to the lab with a sore throat, I thought I’d be fine. But, ta-da.” He can see in the light that there’s a plethora of tissues around your body, like a barrier. So many, snotty and probably damp and scrunched into balls. “Guess he had a cold.”

He grimaces, shuffling into the bedroom despite you telling him otherwise. It’s unsurprisingly stuffy in the room, a given since the room is closed off from the sunlight that bleeds behind the curtains. Like you requested, he doesn’t turn on the lights, keeping you safe in the darkness.

“Shitty kids,” Jeongguk grunts. Finding a lack of interest in the germs that breed in the tissues scrunched into balls, he moves them from the covers and tosses them towards the small bin next to the bedside cabinet. You sniffle, snotty and stuffed, and peer from over the duvet at him.

Jeongguk looks tired, as he always does when he gets back from work. He sports a brand new cut on his lip, one that will probably scar when it’s done showing crimson. There is blood on his shirt, and you know that it’s probably not his. That doesn’t make you feel better.

“How long you had it?” Jeongguk asks.

“Two or three days,” you estimate. He’s been gone almost a week, the seventh day being tomorrow. “Should go soon, don’t worry.”

He smiles, “Not worried. Did you get medicine, or something?”

You sniff once, the air hot in your nostrils. “Nope. I haven’t managed to leave since I came down with it. I only went to the door to collect soup and then I went back to bed in here.” Another sniff and Jeongguk’s eyebrows raise with amusement, “Didn’t want to infect your bedroom, so I came here instead. Hope that’s okay.”

“Sure, it’s okay,” he replies. “I’ll find something for you, I’ve got a bunch of shit that might help.”

“Really?”

Jeongguk nods, “Yeah. Stay put, buttercup, B-R-B.”

(34) Mending an item of their clothing that was ripped.

“Who even takes the subway anymore?”

In reply, Jeongguk gets an appalled scoff. “I’m sorry, not all of us are rich enough to have fucking chauffeurs taking us places.”

“What’re you talking about, you’re rich,” Jeongguk says, his voice kind of muffled due to the sewing needle between his teeth. He sits on the edge of his sofa, your skirt spread over his lap like a napkin at dinner. Down the leg, the seam is torn, showing what could have been an erotic amount of leg. Unfortunately, he’d only got a glimpse of your skin when you shuffled into his home.

As the CEO of ripping his clothes, Jeongguk became familiar with sewing over the years, figuring it was less expensive to sew than it was to replace. So, of course, when your skirt got torn on the subway home, Jeongguk tested his principles and dug out the sewing needle.

“No thanks to you,” you sigh. “You didn’t need to, by the way.”

“Need to what, pay you?” Jeongguk laughs, sewing the seam. “Come on, Y/N, it’s overdue.”

“True, but I don’t really need your money that much anymore.”

“Funny, since you needed it when you didn’t have it,” he sighs dramatically. “Anyway, it’s barely a dent out of my bank account, I wanna spoil you. You’re welcome.”

You frown, shuffling to the couch and throwing yourself over the back so that your head is by his legs. Jeongguk spares you a glance from the skirt and smiles, returning back to the work.

“Thanks,” you mumble. Nothing is said, but he appreciates it, even if he did it out of guilt.

(35) Running out in the middle of the night to get a food item they’re craving.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“What the fuck?”

Jeongguk shoots up from bed into a sitting position, his eyes blown wide as he stares at you. Whenever Jeongguk invites you to stay at his apartment, he always keeps a light on in the evening. His apartment is in a somewhat busier area compared to his house, which is stationed in a private neighbourhood only touched by the wealthiest of the wealthy. His apartment was supposed to be for ease, for if he had to do dirty work in the city and didn’t want to tie his name to a hotel. It wasn’t often that you stayed the night here.

In the light of the dim lamp on your side of the bed, Jeongguk can make out your face. You’re still lying down, staring up at the ceiling. After he stares long enough, you look over at him.

“Why the fuck would you say that,” he breathes, like it’s an insult.

“Wow, would it really be so bad?” you ask, curious now.

He blinks like an owl. “Obviously, dipshit.”

Sigh. “And here I was thinking it would be like the movies and you’d love me.”

“Even if I loved you, do you think I wanna have kids?” Jeongguk questions rhetorically, because he’s actually already talked to you about this. Jeongguk never wants to have children. His life is constantly on the line. There is no way he’d bring a child into the world, just for them to either be used as bait, or grow up in a world without their father. He knows how that feels.

“Fair,” you reply. “Still.”

Jeongguk shudders, it’s cold in here. “Wait, are you for real?” He shifts, the covers make a disruptive noise in the night, “what makes you think that you’re...you know…”

“I keep getting weird cravings,” you explain, like it’s the craziest science that he won’t understand. As soon as you say it, he feels almost instantly better. It’s not like cravings are the most reliable symptom of a pregnancy. Besides, you’re on the pill, and when you’re not, he’s safe. He’s not an idiot, he’s not about to accidentally ruin both of your lives with a few squirts.

“Like what?”

You shrug, “Really craving the Fairway to Heaven ice-cream.”

Jeongguk scoffs. Actually, it’s almost a tch under his breath. “Yeah, of course, you’re craving the most expensive icecream. Predictable. Cute, almost.” He pats your leg over the covers, “We all know Phish Food’s the better flavour, by the way.”

“Tell that to the cravings, sir,” you reply. You frown, then, “I’ll pick some up tomorrow. Maybe I’ll dream the cravings away…”

“As if,” Jeongguk barks, knowing you better. If he knows you at all (which he confidently does), you’ll press about this for the rest of the night until you fall asleep bored of trying. So, Jeongguk enjoys the last few seconds inside a warm bed before climbing out, switching on the light so it burns your eyes as the room fills with it.

“Ouch, too bright!”

“Pussy,” he smirks. “Bro, get your coat, we’re going out.”

“Oh yeah, at midnight?” you ask sarcastically, sitting up. “Where’re we going?”

“Ice cream,” he replies, like it’s obvious. To him it is. “That store down the road sells it and it closes at 2, so get your big coat and let’s get moving!”

“Are we seriously going to get ice cream at midnight?” you laugh, doing as he says.

“We both know you’re not gonna shut up about it if we don’t.”

Jeongguk grabs his own coat and zips it up. Nobody’s gonna care that he’s wearing PJ’s, and even if you’re sleepy and grumpy on the way there, it’s better than keeping you at the apartment alone. He’d have to be crazy to leave you here than he is going out for ice cream at midnight.

(36) Helping brush their hair after a shower.

You’re the best he’s had, really.

Jeongguk knows this, because he’s not stupid or blind or oblivious. Compared to the other girls he’s had, and the ones he left not too long ago, he knows how lucky he is to have someone like you. Someone who doesn’t just want him for the sex and the money. Although scary, it’s reassuring.

Jeongguk comes out from the kitchen to the bedroom where you’re sitting, hunched over a laptop watching a YouTube video that bores you to sleep. Your hair is damp and matted, left to dry as you watch. Fourty minutes into an hour video. Jeongguk narrows his eyebrows, wondering if he’d ever have the patience to watch something like that. Probably not. He barely has the patience when he works, and he has a job that demands it 99% of the time. When he can be hasty he is, but when his job is to kill and protect, patience is a must.

As you watch, Jeongguk moves to sit behind you and he sets his chin on your shoulder, boredly looking at the screen. Your eyes are glossed over, possibly not even watching at all. Regardless, he stays there and slowly rakes his fingers through your hair, straightening out the curls that are close to knots.

He still blames the video for you falling asleep, although it’s probably his fingers. He won’t admit it.

(37) Making sure to be quiet while they’re taking a nap.

It’s not just that. Jeongguk enjoys being gentle, but only when nobody can see him doing it. When you fall asleep, slouched over like a zombie, he smiles and gently closes the screen of your laptop. Whatever garbage your Uni have you watching can be watched tomorrow.

Until then, you must sleep. He moves the laptop away to the cabinet across the room and comes back, collecting you in his arms and moving you into the bed. Once the covers are draped across your body, he takes extra care to be quiet leaving the room and shutting the door. There’s some food leftover in the kitchen from dinner that he’ll eat before joining you, and you don’t wake up, not even when the bed dips as he climbs into it.

(38) Letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt.

Despite his work often demanding him to be around people, Jeongguk isn’t really a big fan of crowds. If he can get out of going out in public, he will jump at the opportunity. He just can’t see why you’re so miffed about not being with the crowds of people on the Hangang Bridge waiting for the fireworks- he’s got a balcony that looks out over the city and the river, so what’s the big deal?

“It’s all about the vibe,” you say with a slight sigh. Your arms are draped over the balcony banister, legs slowly vibrating in the bitter winter air. “As a broody killing machine, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“That stings,” Jeongguk replies, closing the door behind him as he wanders back towards you with a blanket. His eyes glaze over your face as he arrives and Jeongguk rolls his eyes, “Hold your face that way and it’ll stick.”

“Heard it all before from my Mom,” you reply boredly. A quiet thanks is spoken as you take the blanket shield and snuggle closer to his chest, staring expectantly at the black sky. “What time will they start?”

Jeongguk presses his cheek to your hair. “Considering three minutes ago it was only ten to midnight, I can safely assure you that it is not time yet.”

“I’m bored.”

“Why are you so hard to please today?” Jeongguk groans. He wriggles around, “And don’t try me with that ‘I think I’m pregnant’ bullshit. Spare me the moody bitch performance for today, please?”

You pug to yourself. “Sorry. Sorry, you’re right. And I shouldn’t be so...I don’t know. I’m sorry. Thank you for tonight.”

Jeongguk shakes his head slightly. He may never understand women.

“You really that mad over the bridge?” he asks quietly, his mouth against your head. It’s hot, and you lean back towards his minimal body warmth. “I’m sorry I didn’t pass your vibe check for tonight, but I thought it might be romantic or something for us to be up here.”

You almost laugh. “It is romantic. You’re right.”

Jeongguk brushes it off. Lately something has shifted, a comfort in the air that grants you permission to be in his life as someone more important than a ‘sugar baby’. Dare he say it, but Jeongguk actually considers you a friend. Now, you’re at the point where neither of you give much of a shit about the sugar clause you wrote yourselves into quite some time ago. An unspoken thing hangs there like Christmas mistletoe, seen but prayed away.

Distant laughter and a bang grows near the direction of Hangang bridge, and Jeongguk feels you perk in his arms. As a small warmth bursts across his chest, Jeongguk hisses in the cold and stuffs his hands up your shirt, where they curve around your body to cheekily hold both of your boobs. You jump, because his hands are freezing.

“You’re cold!” you whine. “What are you doing?”

Jeongguk shrugs, “My hands are freezing. I’m keeping them warm.”

You briefly glance down at his knuckles outlined by your jumper. “Oh yeah, because I’m sure that’s the reason why you’re literally groping my tits right now.”

“They feel warmer already,” he continues.

(39) Giving them your dessert when you eat out because it’s their favourite.

On the rare occasion that guilt consumes Jeon Jeongguk, he allows his guilt to control his feet. Usually, they end up on a pathway to the bedroom, or in the car where he drives you somewhere nice, or perhaps he picks you up from school instead of cruelly leaving you to take the subway. Now that things have shifted slightly in your dynamic, Jeongguk isn’t sure what flies as romantic anymore. He doesn’t want to leave you with the wrong impression. You’ve had the talk together, the one that touched upon what the future looked like and how quite definitely it looked as though you wouldn’t be with each other, but surely, dinner overlooking the sea in Busan isn’t too fancy or romantic, right?

“Here is your patbingsu.” The waiter circles around the table and gently lays a dish in front of you. Jeongguk carefully watches over his glass of wine as the waiter also announces his own dessert, the exact same. His eyes move down to the display set before him.

He’s never really been keen on dessert, but Jeongguk is the type of person who doesn’t enjoy the idea of one person eating when the other isn’t. So he had just ordered the same thing as you had, nice and simple, without giving it much thought.

“I love this,” you sigh happily, fiddling the metal spoon in your hand and peering up at him, “This is sick. Thank you.”

“I didn’t make it,” he replies.

You roll your eyes, spooning out some of the dessert, “you know what I mean.”

Something in the beach-fronted restaurant shifts as the sun sinks deeper into the ocean, and Jeongguk twirls his spoon anxiously whilst observing the patbingsu. He’s never been a huge fan of bingsu in general, and he looks with slight distaste at the green blob on top of what looks like cornflakes. He doesn’t get Korean desserts. Why can’t Korea be satisfied with an ice-cream sundae?

He dips his spoon into the dessert, taking a polite amount and very quickly taking a bite. For around twenty seconds, he thinks it’s okay, but the aftertaste makes his whole body shudder. Fucking hell, he really hates desserts.

After a few minutes, you finally move your attention away from the scraped clean dessert dish and take a glance over at Jeongguk, who is already watching you with a lack of interest for his own dessert.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, subtly wiping around your mouth just in case. You take in the sight of his unfinished treat, “not hungry?”

Jeongguk shrugs awkwardly, “I don’t really like bingsu.”

“Then why’d you order?” you question quietly.

“I panicked,” he replies, “you ordered it and I don’t like desserts but I didn’t want you to be eating alone.”

You pause, eyebrows quirked: “I don’t mind.”

He sighs. Of course. “Well…” He twirls the dessert dish and pushes it in your direction, “Since it’s your favourite, or whatever, you can have it.”

Your eyes light up, “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” you squeal, happily taking it from him. “Thank you~”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes playfully and sits back in his chair. Whatever he didn’t eat from the dessert he instead eats up in the sight of you.

(40) Making a goofy face until they notice and laugh.

You don’t quite know how you ended up at Jeongguk’s work, but here you are. You could probably trace it back to Taehyung swinging by to get you from school since Jeongguk felt bad he couldn’t, and to be honest, you had been confused when Taehyung drove past the turning to your apartment and kept going further into the city.

Jeongguk’s workplace is pretty big, but still significantly hidden inconspicuously to avoid attention. As you slowly wander around the hallways, you begin to daydream about where Jeongguk’s office may be, what he might be doing and what he might think if he sees you.

Quietly passing through what appears to be a recreation room, filled with tired faces who blink curiously as you brush by, you finally step out into a web of hallways that connect to small rooms walled in glass. Each is empty, besides one at the very end that bustles with tense conversation, and you’re drawn to the sound of Jeongguk’s voice as it carries through the silent hallways.

You push forward, stopping not too close to the doorway so that if somebody who isn’t him happens to see you, you can make a hasty escape.

The room is filled with strange faces, strange men in tight suits and briefcases next to their feet. A man stands up beside Jeongguk at the head of the table, his hands animated as he presses on about something you’re not well read on. Hell if you know a single thing about gun models and firing ranges. You can just about tell apart Fortnite weapons and that’s only because they’ve got colours.

Jeongguk, however, is a sight that captures your gaze. For a while, he sits with his back turned to the man standing, his eyes observing each individual around the table, of who squirm under his watch. He eventually looks back at the man, his jawline sharp and his hair styled so that it only slightly falls into his eyebrows. God damn it, he looks sexy as hell; his shirt is black, cuffed, unbuttoned at the top revealing his skinny collarbones. He’s probably wearing the tight trousers too, the ones that make his ass look good.

A thought strikes you: how would he feel if he saw you outside? While it shouldn’t, the thought fills you with adrenaline. The idea of not him but somebody else seeing you, a girl dressed in white jeans and a red shirt, your coat discarded somewhere on an office chair. Would he be mad? Would he be turned on?

Would you die?

Deciding that the worse case scenario only involved you being yelled at, you decide to dip your toes into the water and tease the sharks; you wonder how long you can hold this silly face for until he finally notices you out there.

It seems like a long shot, and you’re quite close to giving up when finally Jeongguk returns his attention to the table. Heads begin to move in conversation, and Jeongguk’s gaze passes from gentleman to gentleman until they pause abruptly, locking onto you behind the glass. For a moment, he does nothing besides stare. Perhaps he doesn’t care. Then, his eyes widen, like he’s confused and alarmed and slightly impressed. Before his disturbed posture is noticed, you laugh to yourself and run away, back in the direction you tiptoed through.

(Later, Jeongguk finds you in Taehyung’s office sitting on an uncomfortable and torn armchair, a Rubix cube moving back and forwards in your hands. You’re not matching any colours. It’s going nowhere. He smiles.

“Field trip?” he questions, making your head snap up suddenly. He slides next to you on the free chair, “I’ll skin that prick alive, you know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know, but I’m here against my will!” you promise, putting the cube down. “I really wanted to go home. Dead To Me episodes don’t watch themselves, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “I gotta go to a meeting again, then I’ll drive us home, okay?”

You nod. “I’m sorry I distracted you, by the way. I realise now I’m actually very lucky that it was you who saw me and nobody else.”

Jeongguk laughs, kissing your forehead as he rises to leave. “Yeah, well, I’m the most dangerous guy in there, so consider yourself very lucky.”)

[whalesfallmoved]

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. 

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking. 

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course. 

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet. 

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be. 

“Yeah, I know all about that.” 

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?” 

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside. 

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn. 

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised. 

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit. 

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window. 

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it. 

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together. 

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

— 

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target. 

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered. 

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time. 

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes. 

He smiles. Shakes his head. 

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help. 

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?” 

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange. 

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out. 

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened. 

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right? 

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now. 

— 

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt. 

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything. 

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin. 

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand. 

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick. 

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands. 

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up. 

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static. 

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe— 

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist. 

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire. 

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him. 

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts. 

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?” 

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame. 

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last. 

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized. 

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.  

Silly you, you never had a choice. 

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t. 

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping. 

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning. 

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have. 

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst. 

It must be nice being able to speak. 

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human. 

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is? 

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we, 

aren’t we, 

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please. 

—

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait) 

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

— 

He doesn’t stop you. 

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep. 

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump. 

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.” 

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?” 

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it. 

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time? 

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw. 

It always ends like this. 

“You’re on.”

[crossbowking]

More Than This

Summary: (Set during season 3) Daryl and Reader are on a supply run when they find themselves under attack.

A/N: Hi everyone! So this is the very FIRST installment of a series I want to start on my page where we get a bunch of author’s together and write a collective one-shot! I had a blast putting this together. It was so amazing to get a feel for everyone’s different writing styles and it was also super cool how the story ended up blending together.

The order in which we wrote was chosen by a random number generator. After all the participating author’s sent me their pieces, I edited them together -- some stuff was changed or cut for continuity purposes/length. The only thing us author’s had to go off of was the summary -- the rest was up to us! Everyone seriously did AMAZING.

Each author will be tagged after their correlating piece, so be sure to give them all some love!

Thank you to everyone who participated! I hope you all enjoyed the experience!

Happy reading!

xx crossbowking

Masterlist

Tip Jar

Dim and dirty sunlight filtered in through the grimy supermarket windows, providing enough light to see the walker’s blood staining the worn linoleum.

You wrinkled your nose and yanked your knife out of its rotting head before stepping away from the mess. The stabbing you'd gotten used to, but you didn’t think you’d ever get used to that smell.

You looked up when someone stepped into the aisle, but it was only Daryl. You’d recognize those broad shoulders and that crossbow anywhere. You gave him a quick smile and cleaned your blade on the walker’s torn pants. “I think this is the last of them.”

Daryl looked down at the walker. “Better stick together, just in case.”

You nodded, re-sheathing your knife and letting him lead the way.

The two of you did one more sweep of the store before you started your search. You went aisle by aisle, looking under broken shelves and moving piles of cardboard and other debris. But your mind was only half on the task at hand, too distracted by thoughts of Daryl.

You didn’t know exactly when you began to notice the clear blue color of his eyes or how much you wanted to reach out and brush the hair out of his face when it began to grow long. You didn’t know when you started missing him when he was off hunting or how happy it made you when he came back safe.

All you knew was that you were head over heels and that kind of scared you.

You chanced a glance at him and when he looked up from what he was doing and met your gaze, you felt that familiar lurch in your chest. The mad urge to tell him how you felt overtook you. “Daryl, I —”

The front door of the store slammed open, cutting the moment short. You had time to whip around and take in several bedraggled men spilling into the store and realized they were aiming their weapons at you.

But Daryl was there and he was grabbing your arm and yanking you into his chest and diving behind the nearest piece of cover just as shots began to split the air. (@mundieoriley​)

Your heart pounded in your ears along with the sound of hailing gunshots.

Daryl held you in an almost painful grip against him, the furious look of protection etched onto his face.

You desperately tried to catch your breath, feeling panic start to rise inside you.

These people came from absolutely nowhere. How long had they been following you? How could you have not noticed? How could Daryl not have?

You had no time to speculate as the sudden silence that followed was just as jarring.

As you stirred in his arms, Daryl pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes and placed a finger to his lips. You nodded and felt yourself calm slightly, the blue sincerity of his eyes radiating some kind of strength you believed in.

"Find ‘em," a gruff voice called out against the stark silence. "Gut the asshole, but don't mark up the girl.”

You could hear the sneer in the man's voice and your stomach turned.

Daryl's grip on your ribs tightened at the words possessively, and if it wasn't any other situation, you would have enjoyed the sensation to no end.

You, in turn, tightened your grip on your knife, trying to be ready for anything.

The sudden sound of multiple people walking in your direction made your eyes flick to Daryl's in a plead. A plead for direction, a plan, any communication as to what you should do. But Daryl had hardened over, the look on his face showing that he was ready to take on a hundred men if that's what it was going to take. (@rhyatt-deauxtreve​)

He didn't move until it was almost too late.

You tried to loosen his grip because the men were so close and you had to move now. And then you were roughly pushed forward, Daryl's hands no longer holding you tight against his chest.

You ducked away when the first bullet hit the shelf to your left. You didn’t have time to think, you just ran, half bent, hiding behind cabinets and shelves. Your blood was boiling and you distinctly heard the beats of your own heart. Somewhere behind you, the deafening whistle of a bolt cut through the air.

Suddenly Daryl was a little ahead and on your left. He turned around, loaded the crossbow, hiding behind the wall, and fired another bolt.

They were close, too close, and the small distance that you’d managed to win was rapidly shrinking.

As if through the cotton wool in your ears, you heard Daryl suddenly groan in pain.

A bullet had gone through his right side.

“Daryl!” you yelped.

But before you could react, he grabbed your hand and pushed you into a small room, looking over his shoulder every few seconds. “Lock the door and stay quiet,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“What!” you yelled and immediately lowered your voice. “Are you out of your mind? Get in here, there are too many of them!”

“Ain’t gonna fight,” he shot you a glare. “Gonna lead ‘em away. Now listen to what I say and stay.”

And then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Soon you heard firing and shouts. The men ran past your door. You stopped breathing and closed your eyes, praying to whatever God for them to pass you by.

And then, as soon as it had started, the firing stopped.

Sudden silence engulfed the store.

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing. You no longer heard the voices and shooting. Just dead silence.

And that’s when fear, primal fear, took over. (@aisling-beatha​​)

"Well, this sucks like the world's worst vacuum,” you muttered to yourself in nervous indecision, breathing away the panic before the idea of hysterical screaming could set in. You chewed on your fingernail while pacing the length of the musty, moth-infested maintenance closet. "Honestly, what was the man thinking? He's just been shot, for God's sake! He has no business leading a bunch of murdering thugs anywhere. It should be me leading them away.”

Your eyes narrowed and your jaw set as everything inside settled into a deadly calm.

You eased the door open a crack and peeked through, knives at the ready, along with a sturdy wrench you'd found and shoved into the back pocket of your jeans.

Sensing nothing of immediate import, you crept out into the gloom of the store's main area to search for clues as to Daryl's whereabouts, all the while keeping to the deepest shadows in complete silence.

One of the raiders was crouched over a fallen display of ratty old magazines, no doubt rummaging for one where the women wore as few clothes as was decent for the mass consumption standards of a grocery store.

Sliding up behind him like a ghost in the night, you pounced.

After a quick and dirty wrestling match — though he had the size advantage, he was stupid-drunk and you had the jump on him. One heavily booted foot dug into the man's spine as you leaned over him, blade a hair's breadth away from slicing his throat.

Your voice was flat, low, and completely without mercy. "I'll ask only once. Where is my friend?” (@darylconnieftw​​)

He slowly let go of the magazine still in his grip, starting to chuckle.

You felt anger rising in you as his lips formed a slight smirk. You couldn’t help but press your knife even closer to his throat, trying not to kill him then and there.

He lifted both of his hands in defense, visibly amused.

You swallowed, hoping Daryl was still alive and okay – or at least as okay as he could be considering he had gotten shot.

The man moved a little, making you shove your knife against his larynx, clarifying that you wouldn’t hesitate to slice his throat if he did something stupid.

“Whoa,” is all he came up with, glancing up at your silhouette.

You bit your lip, the taste of blood encasing your teeth as you tilted your head to look him dead in the eye. “I ain’t joking,” you stated, causing him to raise his eyebrows in a small nod.

You took a deep breath, calming yourself, before taking the knife off his throat and onto his lower arm, placing a deep cut on his wrist before pulling it back up. He screamed out in pain, his eyes asking for permission to stop the bleeding with his shirt, which you granted.

You listened to his panicked breath for a few seconds, blinking a few tears away. “I asked you something,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, yet low and aggressive.

He stared at you, stuttering as he answered. “The, uh, the guy with the dirty hair and, and, and wings on the back of his, uh, vest?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in. “Are there any other people your group attacked in here?”

He swallowed and shook his head as you suddenly noticed a shadow to your side. (@rxsenkrxnz-imagines​​)

A good thing that had come out of all of this was that after the world ended, you’d acquired very good reflexes.

It was vital to have them good and sharp now, it was the new normal. You would’ve died many times over if you hadn’t, everyone would.

And that’s what got you to swirl around without even having to think about it, bringing the man’s overweighted body with you to face the source of the shadow, the knife nicking at the skin of the big man’s neck, making him whimper. There was a flicker of proudness and a dirty pleasure inside your chest for being able to make a big, bad man whimper.

You’d never thought that you’d be able to do that one day.

From over his shoulder, your eyes focused on another man, this one much more threatening looking than the one under your knife. He was lean and muscular and the hatred and danger in his eyes made you shiver, even though you didn’t let any of them notice.

“Stop right there, asshole,” you said between clenched teeth and the firmness of your voice surprised even yourself. “Or I’ll slit his throat open!”

Of all the things you thought the man would do, a smile was not one of them.

He lowered his head, keeping his eyes on yours, the smile making you sure you’d vomit after all of this was over. “Do it,” he said. “I don’t care. Go on, darling. Do it.” (@elisdays​​)

Well, that was not what you were expecting to hear.

You recognized the man’s voice though, it was the same one who spoke earlier and you put together that he was probably the thug pack leader. “Don’t test me!” you shouted, although you were sure he wasn’t testing you.

A snicker escaped the man’s lips. “I ain’t testing you, darling, I mean it. Do it, kill him.”

“C-come on, man! Don’t egg her on, she actually will!” the man in your grasp whimpered as he begged for his life.

The leader’s eyes fell on the one you held captive. “Sorry, Greg, but you know how it is. The more of you around, the less time we all have with this pretty one. Be a good boy and let her kill you. You’ll be remembered for your loyal sacrifice.” His words sent a shiver up your spine.

These people, no, these monsters were absolutely sick. You already knew that this new world brought either the worst or the best out of people. It was just unfortunate that most of the world became the worst versions of themselves.

“Go on, princess! What are you waiting for?” the man took a step towards you as he urged you to kill his henchman.

You needed to think of something and fast.

“You know what? This is a waste of time,” the man sighed, pulling his gun from its holster.

You gasped as Greg screamed, the thug leader pulling the trigger and shooting Greg in the head. You felt the dead weight of his body fall limp onto you and you tried to use this to your advantage. You shoved the dead body forward and ran, dashing behind shelves as the body fell onto the thug leader.

You needed to get out, you needed to get away from these people and most importantly, you needed to find out where the hell Daryl went.

Panic struck your heart when you thought about him. Was he okay? Did he run into more of them? Did he kill them? You shook your head before you could finish your thought process. Now was not the time to panic and cry. (@ddixons-angel​​)

Pull yourself together — that’s what you had to do now.

You crouched down behind one of the empty shelves, near the exit. But what were you to do? Not like it was an easy decision to make. You had to stay alive, that much was clear. Ending up dead wouldn’t be too big a use to Daryl right now.

The thing that worked in your favor was the thing that terrified you most. The reason for these men wanting you alive had very little to do with the goodness of their hearts.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the grumbling leader, seemingly to have wrestled free of his buddy's dead body.

You should’ve been out of here by now, but you knew that running blindly wasn't going to do you much good — who could even guarantee that you wouldn’t be running straight into the rest of the guy's merry band of thugs? No, you weren’t an idiot.

You stilled completely, not daring to draw a breath as you heard the man's footsteps creep your way.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he sang out mockingly, stupidly giving out his exact position.

He was just a shelf away, practically standing right behind you. (@of-storms-and-sadness​​)

Once he was at arm’s length on the other side of the broken shelf, you reached through with your blade, stabbing him twice in the thigh.

The pain you inflicted caused the man to groan out, cursing through gritted teeth. When he composed himself, he swung around the corner but was met with an empty aisle, excluding the cans and blood that littered the floor.

Before he could take another confused step, you struck from behind, going for his armed hand.

With his wrist in your grasp, you forced the barrel to face off to the side. The gun went off as you backed him into the shelf, using the opportunity to jab your blade into his abdomen once — twice — thrice.

If you hadn’t caught him off guard, you highly doubted that would’ve been the outcome.

The combination of his back slamming against a hard object, your deadly grip on his dominant hand, and you gutting him, caused the gun to slip from his hold and clatter to the floor. You managed to kick the weapon aside before you were roughly shoved into the rack across from you with such force it knocked, not only the air out of your lungs, but your knife out of your hand.

Blinking away your blurred vision, your mind frantically tried to come up with an idea of what to do next. Should you try to reach for the discarded gun? Your knife?

No — there was another weapon in play.

Just in the nick of time, you shrieked and ducked down, barely missing the fist that was meant to make contact with your face. You kneed him in the groin before reaching into your back pocket, feeling the wrench that you had nabbed from the maintenance closet earlier.

Positioning yourself behind the crouched man, you held both ends of the tool, bringing it over his head and to his neck. Your back greeted the ground as you laid there and applied pressure, choking the life out of the once cocky and determined bastard.

“Be a good boy and let me kill you,” you taunted his words back at him through clenched teeth as he struggled.

Once the man went limp, you shoved his body off you with a grunt and went to grab your knife and the owner-less gun — it was yours now.

All of a sudden a shot rang out.

Daryl.

Where was Daryl? (@twdeadlysins​​)

You squatted down, jamming the knife in your hand into the soft flesh of the leaders’ temple, knowing that it could only take mere minutes for the dead to rise again.

You slowly crept over to the entrance of the store and peeked outside, checking if there were any more of the thugs outside.

Your hands were slightly shaking and your heart beating frantically in your chest as your eyes traced the empty street outside of the store. You needed to get to Daryl fast, he needed your help.

The gunshot you had heard had nearly made your heart stop. Had the thugs already killed him?

Since you could not spot any immediate danger, you slowly made your way out of the store.

You chewed nervously on your bottom lip. You had not seen what direction Daryl had led the thugs, but you figured you just had to start somewhere.

You held the knife in your hand, your eyes and ears ready to pick up any movement or sound as you moved along the side of the building. You glanced over your shoulder, making sure that no one was creeping up on you as you moved forward.

Your steps suddenly came to an abrupt halt as you bumped into something solid.

You yelped and raised your hand, ready to strike, but a firm hand around your wrist stopped you.

“Easy girl, it’s just me,” you heard Daryl’s raspy voice and your wide frightened stare locked with his sky blue orbs.

You let out a relieved whimper and threw your arms around his neck, hugging him. “I thought you were dead, I heard a gunshot,” you said as you hugged him tightly.

Feeling how he flinched, you took a step back and your eyes traced down to his side where he was shot.

“Oh god, you’re hurt. We need to get you back to the others before you bleed out,” you whispered, feeling your heart start to speed up again.

The two of you were not out of danger yet. Daryl was shot and you knew it was up to you now to get you both to safety. (@easnuppa​​)

You wrapped your arms around Daryl's waist, leading him toward the truck you’d parked a little way back.

Fear gripped at your heart with every step you took, every wince Daryl tried to keep in, every little bit of blood he was losing. “Nearly there, hold on,” you pleaded to Daryl, the truck finally coming into view.

You opened the passenger side door and took as much of Daryl's weight as you could, helping him get in. You took a glance at Daryl as he sat in the passenger seat, his head leaned back on the headrest and his eyes closed.

You had never been more scared in your life as you were right there in that moment.

You quickly closed his door and rushed to the driver's seat where you promptly started the engine and began your tense journey back to the prison.

With every minute that passed, your panic started to rise, Daryl's breathing started to slow, and more blood was seeping through his fingers that were putting pressure on his gunshot wound.

“Keep pressure on it, Daryl, you hear,” you said loudly, trying to keep him awake and distracted.

But as you looked over to him, he was unresponsive.

“Daryl!” you screamed louder, hoping to wake him up, but failed. “God, no please,” you begged, tears threatening to fall as you took the hand you didn’t need and placed it on his wound, keeping the blood flow at a minimum.

“Daryl, don’t leave me, you can't do this to me,” tears now falling down your face as the gates of the prison came into view. “Please help me, it’s Daryl!” you screamed out the open window to whoever was on watch.

“He's breathing but barely,” you informed whoever came to help, feeling helpless as you

watched them cart off Daryl’s unconscious form. (@jodiereedus22​​)

Everything felt fuzzy.

The world spun around you, noises muted and muffled as the driver’s side door was yanked open. A pair of hands grasped onto your arms and you allowed yourself to be pulled from the truck, finding it impossible to move on your own.

A rough hand grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upwards, your vacant eyes locking with Rick’s frantic ones. He was mouthing something you couldn't quite make out, his hands moving to grip either one of your shoulders, giving you an abrupt shake. “— happened? What happened, Y/N?” Rick’s voice broke through the fog, scanning your features wildly.

You opened your mouth to respond, confused as to why no words seemed to be coming out.

Rick appeared to swallow his frustration, instead taking a deep breath and placing his hand on the side of your neck. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, Y/N, it’s alright,” he soothed before his eyes hardened. “Was this the Governor?”

You swallowed audibly, forcing yourself to calm. “I-I —” you stuttered, exhaling shakily. “I don’t think so. W-We got — we, uh, we got ambushed. And Daryl —” your voice broke at the thought of what had happened.

“Listen ta’ me, Y/N,” Rick intervened, his tone noticeably softer. “Ya did all ya could do, alright? Ya got him home. Ya did all ya could do,” he reiterated.

You took a steadying breath. “I-I need to see him — I need to be with him.”

Rick nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. “I know ya do.”

Things still felt hazy as you made your way into cell block C. (@crossbowking​​)

You sat on top of the steps and waited for news on Daryl. You hoped that he was going to be okay.

After a little while, Hershel hopped out of his cell. "I stitched up his side. But he hasn't regained consciousness yet and his breathing is labored,” he told you.

You headed inside and looked at him.

"Just give me a shout if he wakes up,” Hershel told you and left you alone.

You looked at Daryl and sat beside him. "Dare, you have to wake up, please,” you said with tears in your eyes. (@leej2468​​)

You hoped he heard you so he knew he wasn’t alone.

The afternoon dragged on slowly, yet you never left his side, afraid he would wake alone. You waited impatiently, perched on a stool next to his bedside.

The events of the day played in your mind, making your heart shatter more at the fact that Daryl almost got himself killed trying to keep you safe. Furiously swiping at the tears forming in your eyes, you just hoped that he would wake up and everything would go back to normal.

But you knew, deep down, you didn’t want things to go back to normal. The unspoken feelings you had were eating you alive and today just proved that you had to tell him before something happened to either of you. You knew he cared for you, he fucking proved that today, but you had to tell him that you wanted more.

You couldn’t help but take his limp hand in your own, slightly squeezing. Eyes trained on your joined hands, you almost didn’t notice his eyes flicker open slowly.

He didn’t say a word, only gripping your hand tightly, eyes wild. “Yer alright,” he managed to gasp out, his other hand reaching up to touch your face.

“Don’t try to move,” you whispered a reply. “Let me get Hershel, okay?”

“Don’t,” he rasped, trying to tug you back to his side. “Stay.”

You couldn’t help but bring his hand to your lips, kissing his rough knuckles. He sighed at the feeling and you leaned into his hand. “I thought I lost you,” you whispered, mostly to yourself in relief, but he heard it.

“Ya won’t lose me,” he mumbled, his eyes lazily trained on you as if he would doze off any second.

“You know what we have is special,” you whispered, raising your hand to move strands of hair from his eyes. “I want to know if you feel the same. I can’t wait anymore to tell you how I feel, especially knowing that something could happen.”

He paused, his expression softening. “I know,” he finally said gruffly. “I want...” he trailed off, thoughtful, trying to come up with something to say. “I wanna protect you, keep ya safe, but —” he inhaled sharply. “But I want more.”

You let out a sigh you didn’t realize you were holding. “Me, too,” you replied, and he nodded, his eyes closing. You leaned forward, lips on his forehead, and he didn’t flinch back like he usually did at physical contact.

Instead, he let you, without restraint, his tense posture relaxing under your touch.

“I love you and I can’t lose you,” you whispered, your lips barely on his skin.

He nodded. “Me, too.”

You leaned back, still holding his hand, letting him rest. (@writerzunite​​)

Fin.

A/N: So what did everyone think! 

Let me know if this is something you’d like to see/participate in again!

And make sure you go check out these awesome author’s other stories!!!

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[endless-whump]

Can you write a prompt where Milo has a major panic attack and Nick helps him through it and when he starts to calm down, he passes out in exhaustion and when he wakes up, he's in his and Nick's room and Nick hugging and comforting him please 🥺

Ok I’m not sure how happy I am about how this turned out but it was fun to write! Thank you so much for the prompt <3 <3 hope you don’t mind me throwing in Nick pov at the end

CW: panic attack, self injury during panic, flashbacks, references to captivity and torture, references to scars, self hitting, references to creepy/intimate whumper

---

It was the window that set him off.  It was open and it was never left open, Nick never forgot.  It was their bedroom window that was always always locked and their room was safe but the window was open and Milo could barely think straight everything hurt so badly.  His throat hurt from yelling, ears ringing and heart pounding so hard he could barely hear himself, nails digging into his skin as he panicked.

Nick was here but it wasn’t safe and he was never safe and he was stupid to think he was safe, stupid.

“He’s, he’s here, Nick, I can’t, he’s here I can’t go back Nick p,please,”  Air was impossible to pull into his lungs now, everything was so loud and Samuel could be anywhere in the house right now and he was going to take him away from Nick and he couldn’t go back he’d rather die than go back.

“Milo, he’s not in the house.”  Nick was here, he couldn’t let Samuel take Nick away, everything was so wrong and the house was supposed to be safe but the window was open and Samuel was here and now everything was wrong.

“No, no Nick h,he’s in here he’s in here-”  He pulled at his hair, back hitting the wall.  The room felt too small, he couldn’t breathe and Samuel was in here and he was going back and it felt too much like before and he couldn’t-

“Milo, nobody is here.  He didn’t find you, I promise.”

He felt like he was suffocating, hitting his head with the palm of his hands as he spun around, gasping.  Milo just shook his head, hitting harder and harder until he felt dizzy with the panic, voice breaking in a whimper.  Nick tried reaching out to him but Milo just flinched, jerking away from the hands always trying to touch him and always trying to hurt him.  It smelled like rain and dirt and blood and there was always blood on the floor...it dried and cracked under his fingernails but it never went away.

“You need to breathe, Milo.  Come on, deep breath.”

Milo stumbled as he shook his head almost violently, hitting the wall again.  He was choking and he could almost feel the teeth sinking into his neck, licking the blood away as whispers of horrifying reassurance burned into his memory.  

“No..no-” He moaned in pain, slamming a closed fist into the side of his head, barely staying upright.  “-He..the window, N,Nick he’s gonna hurt me Nick it wasn’t real, please,”  He jerked back when his wrists were grabbed, a familiar face coming close to his.

“Milo, listen to me.  I left the window open, nobody is here.  I opened the window.”

Milo paused, gaze darting between Nick's eyes, terrified.  His chest was tight, hands shaking and throbbing in pain from where he’d slammed them into his head and the wall.  He drew a shallow, sobbing breath, searching for some lie in Nick's eyes.

“Y,You left it? He, he..”

“You’re ok, he’s gone.  Samuel is gone.  He will never put his hands on you again.”

Milo nodded, breathing hard.  He slowly lowered his hands, bracing himself against the wall as the room started to tilt, vision darkening.

“Milo, you- Milo.”

Nick’s weight slammed into him as arms wrapped around his waist, catching him as his knees buckled.  Everything got darker and louder and heavier until suddenly everything went quiet.  He still couldn’t breathe.

---

Nick brushed the hair out Milo’s face, watching him carefully.  They were in their bed, Milo nestled protectively against his side. He’d stirred before, briefly, but not fully woken yet.  He figured it would be better to let him sleep, after getting so worked up.

Samuel. That was the first time Milo had ever said a name- his name, the man who’d taken him.  Nick had combed through every inch of the house, made sure every window and door was locked, for his sake as much as Milo’s.  He did leave that window open, he wasn’t lying just to calm Milo down.  It still gave him an uneasy feeling, though, the thought of him still being out there.

He’d probably wind up in jail if he ever got his hands on the fucker

He snapped out of his thoughts when Milo moved, fingers gripping his shirt.  A soft groan escaped him as his eyes fluttered open, exhaustion and confusion lining his features.

“Easy, you’re safe.  You’re in our bed, me you and Theo are the only ones in the house.  Searched the whole place myself.”  He slid a hand through Milo’s hair, watching his reactions carefully.  It was always helpful to...to ground him, to let him know where he was right off the bat.  There were too many nights Milo woke up thinking he was somewhere else.

“He- Nick, where-”  Milo’s eyebrows furrowed in worry, body tensing as he glanced around the room.  He leaned into Nick, hiding against his side.  

“He isn’t here.”  Nick insisted.  He kissed the side of his partner’s head, wrapping his arms around him and shielding him as much as he could.  He didn’t miss the way Milo held his arms close to his chest, always conscious of the ghosting feeling of restraints.  Nick wouldn’t be surprised if they were never taken off, the way the skin around Milo’s wrists were pale with scarring.  

“Promise?”

I’ll fucking kill him

“Promise.”

--

@haro-whumps@simplygrimly@insanitywishes@lonesome--hunter@deluxewhump@elisabethrosewrites@insanitywishes@iaminamoodymoodtoday @bleeding-demon-teeth @lumpofwhump@redstainedsocks @redstainedsocks @finder-of-rings @insomniacscoprio @inaridriscoll @rosesareviolentlyread @insanitywishes @thehopelessopus @miksmusings @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @princessofonward @liliability

[flowers-of-io]

Shockwave

Read it on AO3 here.

It is thirty-six hours later when the shockwave hits.

The Stranger—Elisabeth—let them stay in her camp out in the frigid nowhere, just a tiny round cabin with a bed and a table. She has driven off into the blizzard for supplies, and Eris quietly notes the subtle sign of trust that was leaving her and the Drifter alone in her personal space. It is cosily warm inside, well-insulated Braytech door keeping the cold out. She can see the snowstorm raging on the other side of the glass, white and blue and violent like the power crackling in her fingertips.

They sit on the opposite sides of the table, an old radio between them fighting through the snow to catch any signal that might slip through. Between the cracks of static and scraps of broadcast, there is silence.

This is the first time Eris has really sat down, stretching her back and legs aching from the hike. Between her mad escape from Io and what happened in the City, and persuading Zavala and the flight to the Jovians, she did not have time for as much as think. Head spinning as she danced from one purpose to the next, time slipping past her, reality squirming and bending. She has not slept in a long time.

The radio hums and Zavala’s voice pierces through, cracking and out of context. “…confirmed that Io, Mars, Titan, and Mercury have disappeared. We don't know why. We have lost contact with Deputy Commander Sloane and Gensym Scribe Asher Mir. We are deploying…”

She cannot hear him anymore.

Realisation hits her like a train at full speed. The assailed planets are gone. Her beloved, sacred Cradle, the Tree of Silver Wings – they are gone.

Sloane is dead. Asher is…

She has known. Since he squeezed her hand goodbye, and his red shadow began to darken her door every night, she has known what choice he would make and struggled to respect it. But it was too calm of a sorrow, she realises now, like leaves falling upon a grave, and she did not wail or claw her fingernails against the sandstone. There was still a thread of stupid hope, one that she hung upon by the little finger and refused to admit it, refused to acknowledge she believed there was still a chance, an unfinality of loss possible to revert. That threat is strangling her now, sharp and merciless, and Eris struggles to suck in a breath.

Drifter moves, his heavy coat rustling as he slouches forward towards the radio. He stares at it intently, silent, until Zavala’s voice is drowned in static again.

“Guess our pals kicked the bucket,” he says with such tremor in his voice Eris is not even angry.

She turns the realisation around like a bitter pill in her mouth, sticking fingers into the wound to get used to the pain. It is best constant, she has learned long ago, rather than the sudden spikes when she would touch the hurting place inadvertently. She digs deep to find some visceral core of horror; she imagines Asher dead in a hundred atrocious ways, his body broken and dismembered, crushed into red pulp, blew apart from the inside in an eruption of sizzling radiolaria. The deeper she reaches now, the safer it will be to sleep – the images familiar and predictable, horrent with spikes she already knows the placement of.

Skittish thoughts propel her to run off into the storm, let the blizzard lash her skin with an icy whip and scream until her larynx bleeds, until she cannot hear the din in her mind anymore. But she will not lose her composure. The days of punching walls and hollering into the night are long past her, shed along with the skin of chitin and blood she had been wearing for too long. She has only just started to bloom again—she will not allow it to trample the gentle scaffolding she has so arduously put up to hold her. She will not break.

Somewhat absently, she can see Drifter staring at her from across the table but her brain is screaming too loud to process it. He must have noticed some change on her face, or maybe how her hands started to shake and fiddle with the beads hanging by her belt, because he keeps his eyes on her—cautious, searching. As if looking for a handhold to grab and drag her out of the pit of horror she is thrusting herself into over and over.

“You saw it coming?” His voice seems to echo from far away.

“I should have,” Eris murmurs, nausea swelling up in her throat. “I should have persuaded them… I should have been there.”

In a desperate attempt to chase off the fuzz of thoughts hurtling through her mind at lightspeed, she stands up and regrets it immediately; the horizontal axis of her vision rotates by thirty degrees and she leans on the table with her full weight for support. Drifter stirs, then reaches out but she waves him off.

She can manage. She has been worse. It’s just another arrow to the same knee—does it make any difference?

She thinks about how her bloodied fingers traced the letters she had never sent to the people she would never see again. Piles of ink-stained paper, trembling sentences seeking comfort and asking forgiveness of the shadows she projected in her mind instead of the real flesh and bone. Real was too frightening, real could judge and shun her, real required a vulnerability she was terrified to reveal. She dreamed of a day when she would be steadier, braver—her hands no longer flinching away from touch, her words bold and sure of themselves—when she would send the letters out, confident of the fearful affection they disclosed. The correspondence she had truly written to herself.

Scrap-sentences circle in her head, squirming into her ears and eyes and mouth slithering between her teeth bitter like poison. Everything she will never tell him, one more thing the paranoia took from her, all the honest words and quivering confessions she feared to account for and how he will never know how she loved loved loved—

Staggering, she slumps onto the cot. Guilt is burning acidic in her chest and she cannot keep from shuddering any longer, burying her face in hands and smearing the ichor all over her cheeks. These eyes cannot cry and oh how she wishes they could, remembering the warm release of tears streaming down and tasting salt on her lips. There is only the black ooze now, seeping into her mouth and ears as she sleeps, drying on her eyelids and sticking them shut with a black wax seal. She is shaking so wildly her back hurts and tries to stifle the wail that creeps upon her lips, threatening to escape instinctively like a held-back breath.

The letters she never sent; alas, the promise had been made. She should have been there.

She had sworn.

The mattress dips down beside her, a movement she hardly registers. Only when an arm wraps itself around her loosely, a tentative loop for her to lean into or move away from, do the floodgates truly break. She curls up against Drifter’s chest and starts sobbing, dry and ugly sobs like frantic gasps for air above water.

He caresses her back, slow and soothing movements of a warm hand against the fabric of her cloak. Eris can hear her own wailing resonating through his ribcage.

“I should’ve been there,” she mumbles, her jaw trembling so hard it is difficult to push the words out.

“I know you were close,” Drifter hums, “but what use would be for you to die there? It’s not like you could’ve done anything.”

“He would comfort me in my darkness… and dying… I could not.”

He shifts and Eris feels his other hand gently press against her head. It is soft and warm and comforting, enclosing her in this tight dark space like in a blanket fort. It helps her slowly calm down until she is not heaving anymore, shivering only from time to time with leftover sobs.

“There was a kid in Eaton. A place I used to live,” Drifter says when her breathing is almost steady, “Taught her to fly a kite. Once it got stuck in a tree, almost at the top, and she climbed all the way up to get it. I asked her if she wasn’t afraid of falling.” There’s gentleness in his voice, one she has never heard there before. “And she said she wasn’t, ‘cause she knew I’d catch her if she did. Knew I’d save her.”

His thumb rubs gentle circles against her temple, lulling her, and Eris struggles to stay focused. She is too exhausted to think, and a terrible headache has begun to settle in, hammering against her sinuses, and Drifter’s tone is deep and calming, as if he was telling a bedtime story.

“When Eaton burned… when she took a bullet and stumbled and fell… I caught her. But I couldn’t save her.”

“At least you were able to offer comfort… One last time.”

“And did it change anything? She’s dead anyway.” Drifter shakes his head, a rustle of cloth sounding so odd with her ear partially covered. “You did what you could, sister. Don’t beat yourself up for it.”

The guilt will not subside until many, many moons later, and it is still gnawing at Eris’ bones in this moment, but the sharp, blinding fear has somewhat subsided into a dull ache. Maybe it is the catharsis of crying, or the initial shock having tumbled past, but an odd haziness overcomes her and her strained muscles begin to ease. The terrible weight of the loss is still dark and grim – she dreads to acknowledge it, fears the moment she will have to look under the cover and face it in all its irrevocable finality, yet for now it sits tucked away somewhere in the corner of her vision, present but bearably distant. For now she is warm and safe and breathing.

They do not speak more, just sit in hazy silence as the storm rages outside.