#does she do it so she can take a painless sip from them? or just so she doesn’t have to talk to them?

[fayesephone]

Messy doodle sheet of my lil bunny vampire Ophelia that I adopted from @flowerrose14 awhile back! 🍷❤️

[lousypotatoes]

What A Glorious Feeling

This chapter takes place after the pilot but before the first episode of the series.

Reader is a falcon demon, doesn't have a beak, wings drape over her kinda like Valentino's (i want him dead), reader has gray skin, usually wears a black tube top, black and white pinstripe pants, black boots, and has a daisy in her hair. Reader has the eyes and ears of a falcon and is also slightly cannibalistic.  Reader can summon any weapons at will and can move things with her mind, whenever she does this, her eyes glow red. Like Alastor, reader can also summon anything at will. If you had something else in mind for how the reader looks, you are more than welcome to imagine something different. 

I know Alastor is canonically aroace, but obviously, in this story he is not. Also, in this book, nobody knows the Radio Demon's name unless he decides to tell them. Sorry I should of said this earlier.

Song Recommendation:

I Did Something Bad - Taylor Swift

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

Present day...

"Ah Dustin," Y/N said, walking over to the man, who was cowering in the corner. "You broke our deal. You know what happens to people who don't keep their word with me, don't you?"

"Please," he begged. "Give me one more month I promise-"

"You said the exact same thing six months ago," she spat angrily, her wings unfolding. 

"I swear-thi-this is the last time," he stuttered. "I just need-"

She summoned red chains, that latched onto Dustin's neck. Tugging the chains over to him, she grabbed his face, digging her claws into his cheeks. He let out a yelp of pain. 

"The deal was that if I killed your pathetic wife, I'd get your soul, and you would get me what I needed from that idiot overlord who thinks he's the shit, just because he's a pimp!" Y/N snarled, digging her claws in harder, drawing blood. "I have been more then generous towards you, and this is how you repay me?"

"I'm trying!" he cried out, tears running down his face. "Please just don't kill me!"

She had a small frown on her face. "I should rip you apart limb by limb," she said, calmly but in a deadly voice. "But I'm not goin' to do that," She removed the chains from his neck and put him down. 

"Thank you so much Assassin," Dustin said, wiping the blood off his cheeks. "I swear I will-"

He never finished his sentence. As fast as lighting, she summoned an axe and chopped his head clean off. 

"Instead, I'll make this is as quick and painless for you," she giggled, licking off the blood from the axe. "I'll have to thank Carmilla for the angelic steel at the next overlord meeting."

Using the axe, Y/N chopped up his limbs and stuffed them in a trash bag she had brought with her. 

"Cannibal town here I come," she smiled once she was done.

"Knock, knock," she said, knocking at the parlor door. 

"Y/N!" Rosie exclaimed upon seeing you. "What are you doing here so soon?" 

"I brought you a little somethin' to snack on," Y/N said, holding up the trash bag. 

"Oh you spoil me so much, my dear," Rosie said, licking her lips. 

"Anything for my closest friend," Y/N said, handing her the trash bag. 

"This is the fifth one this month," Rosie said, opening up the bag. "Sinners know better than to break a deal with you."

"They'll never learn, Rosie," she giggled as she took a seat on the couch. "Did you see the news the other day?"

"The Princess sure does have her hopes up for this hotel," Rosie answered, pouring herself a cup of tea. "Tea, Y/N?"

"No thank you," Y/N answered. "Do you think anyone would actually check in to that hotel?" 

"Who knows at this point," Rosie said, sipping her tea. "But judging by how people reacted, I don't think it's going to work out," 

"Shame," Y/N said. "It's a good idea, if it's actually possible."

"Say Y/N," she said, setting her cup down. "A friend of mine just recently got back into town. He's staying at this hotel," 

"Oh yeah?" Y/N asked curiously. "Who is it?"

"The Radio Demon," she said simply. 

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. "He's been gone for seven years," she said. "Why on Earth would he return now? And why would he be stayin' at the Princess's hotel?"

"Satan knows," Rosie replied. "Y'know, you and him would really hit it off."

Y/N's eyebrow rose up. "Sorry my darlin'," she said, lightly chuckling. "The Radio Demon is most certainly not my type."

"You don't even know him," Rosie said, a slight frown on her face. 

"I don't need too," Y/N said curtly. "From what I know, he seems like a self-absorbed prick."

"Oh c'mon," Rosie nudged you. "The both of you have so much in common! You both like whiskey, you both like jazz, you both like killing people-"

"Why all of a sudden are you tryin' to play matchmaker?" Y/N interrupted. "And why The Radio Demon out of people?"

"Because you need to get out there!" Rosie said, smoothing out her dress. "Ever since I've known you, one of the main things you talk about is how in love you were when you were alive. What was his name again?" 

"His name was Alastor," she said, her heart hurting. "I've searched all of Hell Rosie. Either he's up in Heaven, or the Exorcists got to him."

"That's why I want you to meet him," Rosie said, patting Y/N's shoulder. "Please? Do it for little ol' me?" 

"I suppose so," she sighed. "I was already thinkin' about checkin' out the hotel anyway."

"Marvelous!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together "I promise, you won't regret it!"

Landing in front of the hotel, she knocked at the door, feeling nervous, her wings fluttered behind her. 

"I'm coming!" chirped a feminine voice from behind the door. 

Fiddling with the hem of her top, Y/N waited until the person opened up the door. 

 The princess herself opened the door. "Hello! And welcome to the Hazbin Hot-"

Upon seeing your face in the doorway, she immediately slammed the door shut. 

"Vaggie!" Charlie cried out. 

"What is it?" Vaggie asked, coming down the staircase. 

"The Assassin is at the door," Charlie panicked, pointing at the door. "What do we do?" 

"Really? Another fucking overlord?" Vaggie angrily said, walking over to the door. "I'll handle this."

The door opened up a second time. Instead of the princess, a girl with a large X over her eye appeared in the doorway. 

"What the hell do you want?" she asked suspiciously. 

"There's no need to be so hostile," Y/N said, putting up her hands. "I'm here to simply offer up my services."

"We don't need you to kill anyone,"

"Not those kinds of services," she laughed. "I want to help with your hotel."

"Thanks, but we already have an overlord helping us," Vaggie said, eyeing her up and down. 

"The Radio Demon, yes I know," she said, crossing her arms. "I still want to help,"

As Vaggie was about to close the door, Charlie popped up beside her. 

"Wait Vaggie, we could use her help," she said, smiling. "With two overlords helping us, we can get a lot more done!" 

"You have a point," Vaggie grumbled. "But I'm keeping my eye on you," 

Charlie beckoned you to come in. "Thank you, Princess Morningstar," Y/N said, stepping inside.

"Oh please, just call me Charlie," she waved off. "This is Vaggie," she gestured to the girl with the X.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both,"

"Thank you!" Charlie gushed. "Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel-er-"

"Y/N," she said. "My name is Y/N."

"Right! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel Y/N! Would you like a tour?"

"Of course,"

"Why does the bar look like that?" Y/N asked after the tour was over. 

"Someone blew it up a few days ago," Charlie said simply. "Our facility manager fixed it up so it's nothing to worry about!" 

"Oh-uh-" Y/N didn't know was to say. "I'm glad it's all fixed."

"Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed. "I have to introduce you to everyone! C'mon!" Charlie grabbed her arm and dragged her away. 

"This is Nifty, our maid," she said gesturing to the small demon, cleaning the floor. "Nifty, this is Y/N, she'll be staying with us 

Nifty turned around and her eye widened and she smiled in a scary way. 

"Ooooo! I've never seen a bad girl before!" she said menacingly as she crawled up on you. "Do you want to punish some bad boys with me?"

"Just give me the time and place, sweetie," Y/N said, putting Nifty down. Nifty quicky ran off.

"She's mostly harmless," Charlie said nervously. "Just don't let her bite you."

"I'll keep that in mind," she laughed. 

"This is Husk, our bartender," she said gleefully. 

Husk was drinking from a bottle, he nodded at Y/N but didn't say anything. 

"It's nice to meet you, Husk," she said politely. 

Husk recognized her at second glance, almost spitting out his booze, he decided not to say anything about it, though. 

"Oooooo heya Y/N~" said a voice. 

Y/N turned around and grinned. "It's nice to see you again Angel Dust,"

"Ohhh it's nice to see you too baby~" he said seductively. 

"Oh that's wonderful!" Charlie exclaimed, her eyes sparkilng. "You two know each other!"

"Yeah, we met at a party a while back," Y/N explained. "He kept wantin' to look at a sword that I had just got."

"Y'know babycakes," Angel said, walking over to her. "I could show you my sword, if you want~"

"Another time, Angel," Y/N laughed, Charlie laughed awkwardly with her. 

"Well, I think that's it!" Charlie said, clapping her hands together. "I'll show you to your room and if there's anything you need, just-"

"Oh, we have a new guest?  Heavens, why didn't anyone tell me?" said a staticky voice. 

Y/N turned and saw the infamous Radio Demon standing right behind her. Upon closer inspection, there was a look in his eyes that seemed familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Y/N had loved looking into those eyes, it had brought comfort to her. 

"Oh my gosh! How could I forget!" Charlie said. "Y/N is going to be helping us around the hotel just like you!" 

At the mention of her name, something pulled at Alastor's heartstrings. 

"Well, we need all the help we can get, that's for certain," Alastor laughed.

That laugh, Y/N had imagined it every single day when she arrived in Hell.

"Y/N, this is our facility mana-"

"Alastor?"

Her voice, it sounded like an angel. Alastor remembered the first time he heard it. Everything clicked into place for the both of them.

"Y/N?"

Sorry if all the characters are a little ooc. I need to rewatch the show lmao. 

THERES AN ECLIPSE TODAY!!!

stay safe out there you little rascals <33

xoxo, Izzy

[writedisaster]

vamptober days 30 & 27. idk what i'm doing anymore

cn: blood, torture, alcohol

Day 30: Heritage

It isn't like this for all Kindred.  Carla had been sure to explain that to Jules, the first night she'd seen it demonstrated.  For some clans, the Kiss can be painless, even pleasurable.

It isn't painless when it comes from the Giovanni. 

If she ever gets the big promotion, she'll end up just like them.  Same hunger, same venom.  Same hurt waiting just under the tongue.  It'll never happen, of course.  They need her to work the day shift.

Something in the bloodline, some ancient curse considerately passed along to everyone brought into la famiglia.  What else is family for?  Jules has only ever been on the receiving end of a Giovanni Kiss once, but some nights, right as she's on the edge of sleep, she still remembers the feeling.  She hopes to God it stays only once.

She thinks she's glad of that.

Day 27: Midnight Kiss

Despite her reputation, Jules Guzzo isn’t a full-time sadist.  She doesn’t tend to enjoy being witness when the bosses take dinner.  Don’t call it empathy.  Personal history, maybe.  

The dancer is young and lissome, with the kind of big brown eyes that always attract flattering comparisons to prey animals.  They cling to Carla’s arm with the anxious naivete of someone who knows what’s coming, but only in theory.  Carla folds her silk scarf eight times and presses it gently into the dancer’s obediently open mouth.  They bite down, and for a second, all Jules can think is how Carla once had a man put in thumbscrews for spilling seltzer water on that scarf.  

And then Carla is latched to the dancer's throat, and their body is a spastic glyph of pain.  They don't try to get away.  It's not like they'd make it anywhere anyways, but a lot of people tend to forget futility as soon as the teeth go in.  Even around the wadded silk, even in the noise of the club, Jules can hear the high little noise they make.  She can't look away.  Neon bounces off the whites of their eyes and the sweat on their bare shoulders.  Carla stays on even after one knee buckles, long enough to make Jules think she's not letting go.  And then she does.

The dancer is shaking almost too badly to keep hold of the wad of hundreds Carla shoves into their hand.  She drops their dead-weight form onto the bench seating, where they slump bonelessly into Jules's side, and pulls her scarf out of their mouth.  Smiling, she drapes it back around her own neck, as if she doesn't notice the marks of their lipstick and saliva and teeth.  And then Carla's off into the crowd, and Jules is stuck with cleanup duty.  Again.

Well, taking care of a live body can't be that much harder than taking care of a dead one.

The dancer's eyes are still open.  Their breath is shallow and ugly, but they are breathing.  

“C'mon, doll, let's get you upright,”  Jules mutters, shifting them off her as gently as she can.  They wince, but they manage to hold the position.  More or less.  Their makeup is waterproof, but she can see the glisten of tears on their cheeks.  Grumbling, she pulls her pocket square out and pats them dry.  Throughout the process, the dancer slowly slides back into leaning against her.  She lets them, this time.  They're still shaking.

This place doesn't really cater to the mortal crowd.  Sure, there's a bar, but for the drinkers who don't fall into the “I never drink... wine” category, there's not much beyond well liquor, and even that's definitely not the best she's ever had.  

Still, Jules hands the dancer her sub-par gin and tonic, and they manage to hold the glass.  A bit unsteadily, sure, but she'll take it.  After a few sips, a bit of color comes back into their cheeks.  They set the glass down, very carefully.

“So,”  they say.  Their voice is deeper than Jules was expecting.  She can't tell if they're putting the rasp on, or if it's just an after-effect of screaming into a silk gag. “You come here often?”

[lipstickstainz]

true lies - s. r. (14/15)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Series Summary: Spencer is furious, when you rejoin the team after a year and after you left him, when he got arrested. Little does he know, that you leaving him was the only option to ever get him out of prison.

Chapter Summary: Leaving is the only option - right?

Warnings: angst, blood (but not much), break up, drug addiction (mentioned), alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: hello lovies. I'm back and my mind is full of ideas! I hope you like it! gif not mine.

Series Masterlist

previous chapter

You watch the coffee in your cup as if it has all the answers for the future hidden in the caffeine. It's eight o'clock in the morning, and this is already your third cup of the sacred liquid, and you're sure it won't be your last. The shadows under your eyes are a sign of your nightmares that haunted you last night. The fact that you have them doesn't bother you, after all, you've been going through the procedure for months. What bothers you is the fact that you couldn't wake yourself up this time. You've gotten in the habit of pinching yourself when it would get too painful, but something stopped you last night. And the fact that you don't know what exactly bothers you the most.

"Y/N." Emily's voice pulls you out of your thoughts and you have to tear your gaze away from your coffee. "What do you think?"

All eyes are on you and out of nervousness you'd like to slide around in your chair, but suppress the urge. You haven't been listening for the last few minutes, too busy with your own thoughts and problems that you can't answer her. The case is supposed to be your last, and you're trying hard to enjoy it and value the time with your friends, but really you're just waiting for it all to be over. Most of all, you want to pack your things and leave.

You barely noticeably shake your head for Emily to continue, and turn your attention back to your coffee, which must be cold by now, but that doesn't stop you from drinking it down to the last drop. Without saying anything, you get up from your chair to get another one, paying no attention to Emily's annoyed look. As you fill your cup in the precinct kitchen, she stands right next to you.

"You're not being very helpful, Y/N," she says coolly as you take a sip. You know her manner is all pretense, because in reality she's incredibly concerned. She only needs to look at your face once to know what's going on in your head, but she doesn't address it. She knows you'll talk to her when the time is right. But you're not sure that will ever happen. "I've already assigned the tasks. You stay here and work with Spencer to gather all the important information that may be relevant to Penelope's research." The look on your face says it all. You don't want to spend any time with Spencer, and certainly not alone, but Emily gives you no choice. Before you can say anything back, she disappears out the door with the others.

With your coffee, which you now wish had a strong shot of vodka in it, you make your way back into the conference room, where Spencer is bent over the table, passing pictures and notes back and forth. You stop in the doorway and watch him for a brief moment, and only then do you notice the narrow, red scratch on his face that stretches from his cheek to his neck. You squint your eyes. It hadn't been there yesterday after all.

"What happened?“, you ask as casually as you can as you sit down and set your cup down on the table. As Spencer looks at you questioningly, you point to his face. "Looks bad." Indeed it does, though it's just a scratch. There's bloody crust in a few places, contrasting in color with his pale skin. Something really got to him.

"Cut myself shaving“, he replies curtly, glancing again at the pictures in front of him. You haven't seen him in two years, don't actually remember who he is exactly, but you still know when he's lying. And when to stop asking and let it go. When Penelope calls, you discuss some stuff and you see Spencer scratching over the wound until it bleeds, which he doesn't seem to notice, which is why you stall Penelope on the phone and grab his hand as soon as the line goes silent. Astonished, he looks at you before looking at his fingers.

"Come with me“, you say briefly and don't even wait for him to follow you. You approach an officer and ask for a first aid kit, which is immediately made available to you. Spencer follows you uncertainly into one of the washrooms, where you already put on the disposable gloves from the box - you don't want any bacteria to get on the wound - and wet a towel from the towel dispenser. Reluctantly, Spencer leans against one of the sinks, waiting for your instructions.

"Tilt your head to the side a little, please." You take the damp cloth and gently dab along the scratch to remove the dried blood. Spencer has to swallow at the touch and you see his Adam's apple bob, and really it shouldn't be that attractive, unfortunately it is anyway. You have to concentrate because this is the closest you've been to him in years. You breathe in his scent, feel his warmth through your gloves, and can barely stifle a deep breath.

"How do you know how to do that?“, he asks softly as you disinfect the wound, and Spencer has to pull himself together to keep from reacting to the burning from the alcohol.

You look at him briefly before turning your attention back to the scratch. „Experience“, you reply, spreading some wound healing ointment over it before taking off your gloves and disposing of everything in the trash can. You then put the first aid kit back together. As you turn around, Spencer is standing right in front of you.

"You didn't tell me you were having nightmares“, he whispers, and confused, you look at him. There's concern in his gaze, and if you're not mistaken, a little affection too, but you push the thought aside, not letting yourself have hope. Hope has only harmed you lately you have not moved forward a bit.

You look once more at the scratch, and then into his warm eyes. "You didn't cut yourself shaving“, you count one and one together and clench your jaws. He doesn't need to answer. You did this to him, you just don't remember. The reason you didn't wake up is Spencer. He was probably holding you, reassuring you so much that your body turned off its protective mechanism. It had certainly been the last time he did that, and you hadn't been awake to enjoy it.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?“, he asks, wanting to reach for your hand, but you take a step back. You don't want him to touch you. You'd prefer it if you weren't in this situation at all. You'd prefer that you hadn't come back at all. None of this should have ever happened.

"It's none of your business anymore, Spencer." Your tone is cool and something in his face changes.

"I thought we were friends."

You have to suppress a laugh. Two years ago, you could have lived well with being friends with him. You were prepared for it then, wished it on him, and meant it sincerely. Only lately you've been through so much that you can't even imagine it anymore. The two years had been hell, but you are sure that you can't live next to him without being able to be with him. You can't watch him and Max be happy together, and even though his happiness is everything you want, you'd rather he be happy with you. But you can't tell him that, it would be unfair and selfish. So you just look at him.

Then you reach for the small suitcase and push past him towards the exit.

-

You're glad when the case is over and you arrive back at Quantico. It's been a week since you and Spencer spoke, and luckily for you, you've continued to be spared nightmares, for which you're quite grateful. Not that Spencer is going to join you in bed one more time to calm you down.

As you walk from the airfield back to the building, you fall back a bit, watching the team joke and laugh with each other despite their fatigue. Most of all, you'd like to leave right now without saying goodbye. Rip off the band-aid, without anesthesia. Short and painless. But your plan is foiled when Emily suddenly walks up beside you and puts a hand on your arm.

"We're going for a drink." She raises an eyebrow expectantly. Apparently she's waiting for you to decline the invitation, and all too gladly you'd like to meet her expectations, but it's almost certainly the last night you'll see each other, at least for an extended period of time, and short and painless wouldn't be fair to her - your best friend.

You smile at her. "You're paying for the first round."

Her eyes widen in delight, but before she can say anything back, Luke, who has overheard your conversation, interferes. "We're going out for drinks?" A grin spreads across his face, almost reaching his ears, and suddenly the rest of the team pricks up their ears. Luke's gaze is fixed on you. "I bet I can drink you under the table by now, Y/N."

„You can’t“, Matt replies, and you see Rossi smile to himself. "Last time you did that, you almost passed out after four shots."

"JJ got the drinks. Maybe she mixed something in“, Luke tries to defend himself, but the blonde raises her hands.

"I'm not responsible for your kindergarten drinking. But I'd love to see you try to drink Y/N under the table." She smiles at you and winks, and you can't help but grin. It feels good to know that all is well between you and the team, even though they know with a high probability that you won't be staying. You'd understand if they were mad at you, but that doesn't seem to be the case. JJ looks at Spencer, who is being less than forthcoming. "You coming, Spence?"

He risks a quick glance in your direction before adjusting the bag on his shoulder. He knows this will be your last night. And that you won't see each other again after this. "I think I'll sit this one out“, he replies curtly, but JJ nudges him and he gives her a dirty look.

"You can't avoid it, Spence."

You'd rather he'd gone home.

The first drinks are on Emily, as promised, and the ones after that are on Rossi, and it's actually not long before Luke is sitting at the table with a glass of water, wishing he'd slowed down. You grin at him from the dance floor where JJ and you are swinging your hips, and he sticks his tongue out at you before putting his head in his hands and sipping water through the straw in his glass.

JJ reaches for your hand and pulls you close before wrapping her arms around your neck. "I'm going to miss you“, she almost yells so you can hear her over the loud music. You smile weakly at her. There's a glint in her eyes, probably from the alcohol, and only now do you realize how much you're really going to miss her.

"I'm going to miss you too“, you reply, risking a quick glance in Spencer's direction. He's sitting next to Luke, looking completely out of place. You look back to JJ and without further ado, she puts her hands to your cheeks and presses a kiss to your mouth. When she pulls away from you again, she just grins at you. "What was that for?"

"I want you to know that we love you. We all do. Remember that when you're lonely, and call if you need anything. You are and always will be a part of our weird family."

You wait a brief moment before pulling away from her and disappearing into the ladies' room. As soon as the door slams shut, tears stream down your cheeks and you have to hold onto the edge of the sink to keep from breaking down. You were aware of how much the others would miss you, but hearing it from JJ only makes it more real. By leaving, you're not only leaving Spencer behind, but everyone else as well, and that's so selfish of you that bile rises inside you and you almost throw up. You wish you hadn't had those last two drinks.

"Y/N?" You don't have to turn around to know it's Spencer. You recognized his voice and can see him in the mirror above the sink.He's standing behind you, unsure of what exactly to do, which is why he buries his hands in his pants pockets and looks at you silently.

You wipe the smeared mascara from under your eyes before turning and leaning against the basin. "This is the ladies' room, Spencer. You're not supposed to be in here.“

"I'm right where I'm supposed to be“, he replies, but doesn't move from the spot. He watches you brush your hair out of your forehead and wipe at your hot face to get rid of the tears. "You don't have to go. You know that, right?"

You look up from your shoes, straight into his eyes. "Yes, I do."

You want to leave the washroom, but his fingers curl around your arm, holding you back. "Y/N ..."

"I can't stay, Spencer. I can't look at you without knowing that someone other than me is waiting for you at home. I can't watch you be happy without me. It's okay, really. It's just that I don't have the strength to watch it anymore." The words just bubble out of you, and for some reason you can't stop. But it feels good to say it out loud, even though you certainly shouldn't. "I love you, Spencer. I'll always love you. But I'm at the end of my rope." You shrug in exasperation. "I have to think about me. I can only think about me." Spencer's face contorts painfully, but you can't stop. "To think that you're about to go to Max's and do God knows what ..." You shake your head, as if it might drive the thoughts from your mind. "I feel like I - I - I can't breathe. Like I'm going to die. And I just can't take it anymore."

Spencer's hand comes away from your arm at your honesty, but only to grab your hand and pull you against him. You bounce against his chest, wanting to pull away, but he holds you tight and presses you to him with his other hand. Carefully, he places his palm against your cheek and gently strokes your skin with his thumb. "Please, don't go."

You look into his eyes, which have filled with tears. "Why not?"

You can practically see him struggling with himself. He wants to say something, but can't find the right words, so he presses his lips together and lets his forehead sink against yours. All he has to do is say it, and you'd throw all your plans out the window and stick around. Just a few words. But he doesn't say them. "I can't ..."

You take a deep breath before pulling away from him, disappointed. „Goodbye“, you whisper, before leaving him alone in the washroom.

-

Spencer sits uncertainly at the kitchen table, watching the tea bag with lemon balm in the cup in front of him. He doesn't actually like lemon balm, but he needs something to calm his nerves and get the trembling of his hands under control as he sits there searching for the right words.

The last time he had felt this helpless, Emily had just left his apartment and he had been about to make some phone calls. The first call would have been to a man who would have given him a different number. The second phone call would have been to a woman who would have transferred him. And the third number belonged to someone who would have given him what he was only too happy to get.

Many years ago, he had sworn to himself that he would never resort to it again. That he wouldn't need it. He would be stronger than the desire to feel nothing more. The only thing that had stopped him was that you would never wish that for him. That you had helped him then, had stood by him. He didn't want it to be in vain.

Spencer hates feeling so helpless, even though he actually knows exactly what he has to do now. That's why he sits in the kitchen in the middle of the night, cup of calming tea in hand, not daring to look at the woman sitting across from him. But he doesn't need to say anything either. She knows why he was at her door at such a late hour. They sit in silence, neither quite knowing what to do. Neither of them has been in this situation before. Spencer is glad she's the first to speak.

"So that's it." It's more of a statement than a question. Spencer nods silently, whereupon she purses her lips. "Because of her?"

Spencer looks up from his cup and looks directly at Max. Then he shakes his head. "No, not because of her."

She raises an eyebrow. "But what? Don't you dare give me that 'it's not you, it's me' tour. I've heard that one before."

Spencer has to think for a moment, find the right words, before he answers. "I've lost her so many times. I wouldn't survive it another time."

The two have known each other long enough. Max knows he's not exaggerating or meaning it metaphorically. He has told her about his addiction, and she had been very grateful at the time that he was so honest with her, even though they hadn't known each other long. Spencer knows that all of this is not healthy and psychologically quite far from reasonable and Maxine knows what she has gotten herself into. But no one could have guessed that it would end this way.

"I'm sorry." Spencer's voice sounds hoarse and raspy. He stands up and makes his way toward the apartment door.

"I hope you make it." There's so much honesty in her voice that Spencer has to smile sadly over his shoulder.Maxine doesn't deserve this. None of you deserve this.

The walk to Emily's apartment is short, but to Spencer it feels like an eternity. The train is late, which is why he actually starts running, afraid of missing his chance. He runs until his lungs are burning and his bag is banging painfully against his ribs.The few people left on the streets look at him askance, but he doesn't care. He's panting, barely getting his breath and wishing he was a little more athletic, but as he sprints around the next corner he can already see the building where Emily's apartment is located.

For a brief moment he considers taking a break, catching his breath, but he can't wait another second. Hopefully he's not too late.

He's not surprised that he can just walk into the building, even though he doesn't have a key. He sprints up the stairs, and runs down the hallways until he's gasping for breath and standing in front of the right door, his head high. He bangs on the door with a clenched fist, hoping it will open and he won't be too late. He can't be late. He can't be late.

Finally, the door opens, and for the first time in years, he can take a real breath.

"Y/N."

- taglist closed -

@obsssedwithjustaboutanything // @ashwarren32 // @slytherinbth // @rexorangecouny // @candlemouse // @lexymoniqu // @m3sml // @username2002 // @calliecookie // @haylaansmi // @thehuntresswolf // @skyslowalking // @padsfirewhisky // @criminalminds4days // @criminallyoddsocks // @takeyourleap-of-faith // @vladsgirlxx // @justdianaz // @x2moonlight2x-blog // @countingthestarsinfinitely // @box-of-fandom-stuff // @sergeantbuckybarnes // @princesssmooshie // @sassiest-politician // @ littledm2000 // @a-broken-pact // @strawberry-tea // @sassy-hades // @danrad-rdj4ever // @takeyourleap-of-faith // @smell-my-twisted-shadows // @poeticsassandtrash // @wintrrrsoldier // @peaceluvnirvana // @jemimah-b99 // @lokislilslut // @advicefromnixxxx // @panicattheeverywherekid // @my-guilty-pleasures--of-life // @itsdars @pjmjams // @imagine-this-motherfucker // @sasbb23 // @fivedicksinatrenchcoat // @missyoumaybank // @blameitonthenight21 // @s-r-16 // @knee-coall // @hamlewis // @twodirtymindedgirls // @peoplejustcanthandlemywierdness // @imdefinitelyfloating // @crazyloca06 // @gardenroses1 // @saspencereid // @enchantedlove90 // @sizzlingclamturtlesludge // @moondustmemories // @bambi-is-my-name // @beg0neth0t420 // @william-shookespeare // @pancake2603 // @ayo-cowbelly // @herbstmelody // @frnks-stuff // @mimischaos // @lilxnvm // @archiveofadragon // @burnin-passion // @oddobsessionbutotay // @chaoticdreamsss // @ghostly-ginger // @knittingstudyblr // @gorbagreb // @biafbunny // @ayo-cowbelly // @ellyseveronica // @saspencereid // @takethee // @ethereal-stark // @shirayuki1204 // @spencerreidspp // @jesuswasnotawhiteman // @stinkykay // @exzidss // @ifuckinghatepinapples // @youhaveabadconnection // @kaseyjohnson04 // @vampiracontessa // @princesssmooshie // @gardenroses1 // @r0s3mm // @willyoulovemeinthemorning // @rrtxcmt // @softpeteparker // @littleiswhattheycallme // @hoeyadoingbitch // @emmariexx // @oops-all-ajs / @reidemandweep // @oliwisstephhh // @g0lden-cth // @measure-in-pain // @amesandpineapples // @spencerreidat3am //

[dialux]

I’ve been going on a reading binge of all your Tolkien Women fics, and I cannot stop thinking about Indis. As a consequence I’ve created a headcanon that hurts my heart and I am going to inflict it upon you because this is clearly your fault.

Indis is one of those people just meant to be a parent, it fits her so well everyone knew it was just a matter of time before she became one. And once she gets married she tries so hard to be there for Feanor despite her own grief, but he won’t let her in. She has her kids and everyone congratulates her on having four (four!!) wonderful children, but in her heart she has five. Because Feanor might not have let her into his heart, but she certainly let him into hers, and she will always think of him as her eldest son.

It will haunt her to the end of all days and beyond, that he was always her son but she could never truly be his mother, and on her bad days she thinks that every catastrophe and death of the first age can be laid at her feet for not succeeding in the one thing everyone said was her speciality.

Okay, so a) fuck you, b) fuck you, c) fuck you. This story is basically just saying that, only in more euphemistic terms, anon.

...

Once, there were three: a woman with fair hair, a man with fair eyes, a woman with fair skin. 

...

The woman with fair skin is captured and taken by the Dark One to his fortress, where she languishes for long weeks in grief and agony. She is not turned, even as those captured alongside her become evil beings, twisted and gruesome and cruel. Melkor wonders why this woman- this limpid-eyed, weeping girl- can withstand what no other has managed.

He does not get the chance to find out.

The woman with fair hair storms Utumno. She drags her sister out alongside whoever is left of their people. But the fair-skinned woman collapses only a few days’ from the chill of Utumno, and she shows her sister the secret she expended all her fea upon: a child, a fair-haired, fair-eyed, fair-skinned girl.

Intyale the Fair-Haired buries her sister Indis in a cave of glittering light. Then she takes the child down to her people, and she bids her brother, fair-eyed Ingwe, to watch their niece. Indis he names her, for the mother she will never know, and he raises her as his own daughter, this girl who bears the brightest things of all his family.

...

She is the daughter of all three of them. Of Indis the Slain, and Intyale the Bright-Speared, and Ingwe the Grand. Indis bears one woman’s name and another woman’s steadiness and a man’s strength. She is the princess of the Vanyar. She will always be that.

She will always remember how desperately her mother fought to keep her alive. Hidden in Utumno, chanting song after song of hiding and cleaving and darkness, straining for one more moment- one more moment- to keep the little babe at her breast alive- defying Melkor himself- 

The Vanyar suffer the greatest of the losses to the Dark One before ever Orome comes to them. They- none of them, not from the eldest down to the youngest child- will ever trust Melkor ever again.

She was born in grief. 

The Doom that Namo places- it is shocking, it is pitiless, it is cruel. But then Alqualonde still rings with the laments of the Teleri. But then, Finwe is dead. Melkor has taken not just one from Indis’ life. 

She was born in grief, and, as one by one her children too learn that taste, she wonders: Perhaps the doom is my own.

...

When she is very young, she asks Intyale: What did I get from my mother?

And Intyale- this, Indis remembers very, very well- had paused, and considered, and then said, Her silence.

...

From Indis her mother, she receives silence. From Ingwe, she receives the knowledge of ruling and leadership. From Intyale- 

-from Intyale, she receives the strength of will to remain unbowed.

...

Indis loves Miriel with the kind of love of a calf for its mother: overwhelmingly, adoringly, all-consumingly. She spends hours with Miriel, learning to weave those tapestries, hands tangled in thread of silk and cotton and wool, eyes affixed to the wall just as often as she watches the silver spirals of Miriel’s hair.

The Noldor tend to craft to show their passion for the world, but Indis has nothing of that: she is a fair dancer, a well-versed scholar, a singer of surpassing talent. None of them call to her more than the rest.

She aids Miriel often, now that the building of Tirion is almost complete. Indis enjoys sitting with her and with Finwe, sipping a salty-hot tea as the light changes from gold to silver; she often falls asleep there, slumped over in her chair, and returns only at the second Mingling to Ingwe’s abode.

...

This is what they all forget about Miriel’s death: it was slow.

Slow and lingering and painless. She had dignity unto the end. Finwe clutched her hand until it could not be held. Little Feanaro is the only person in all of Aman, they say, who has lost his mother.

Indis bites her tongue until it bleeds, and does not speak.

...

Intyale dies upon the hills of the Ered Luin. Indis is still young in those days, not quite an adult and not quite a child. Three children are gamboling near the water, and there is- something. Not quite something, but not quite nothing either. Intyale realizes before anyone else, and flings herself forwards, bare-handed.

Bare-chested.

The water boar is driven backwards into the river. Indis grabs the children. Two maiar run, grasp the situation, calm the boar down with songs. Intyale emerges from the river dripping.

She collapses upon the sand, and Indis is there in heartbeats: Intyale is the only mother she remembers, distant and proud though she may be. When she dares to let her eyes drift to Intyale’s chest, everything tightens up inside of her. Her mother is rent open, from breast to belly. 

“No,” says Intyale, and reaches up, and grips Indis’ chin tighter than she ought to be able to, so close to death’s door. “Look at me, little one. We are more than our flesh.”

“You are dying,” whispers Indis, trembling.

“Yes,” says Intyale bluntly. “Call for Ingwe.”

Not for the maiar, who might save her. And not for the Valar either. Intyale has given up: Indis doesn’t realize this until later, but her mother- her aunt- would not have called for Ingwe had she not been determined to join the sister she watched fall.

Intyale forces Ingwe to swear to care for Indis as he would his own daughters. Then she asks for her spear, and to be burned until even her bones show no ash. She tells everyone who her sparse belongings must go to. And then, fingers clutching the bone-spear, she dies.

...

(Feanor, too, burns. Half her family burns to death, Feanor and Fingolfin and Fingon and Turgon and Maedhros and- and- and-

That fire is not of Finwe alone. Fire can be taught to catch, and Feanor never burned quite so brightly to anyone else as he did for Indis and her usurpation of his sainted mother. No: the fire is Indis’ inheritance, and Indis’ gift.)

...

Intyale does not tell anyone who her bone-spear should be given to. Indis finds herself holding onto it, and somehow never lets go.

...

This is what they forget: Miriel was the first to die in the peace of Valinor. 

The second is Finwe.

...

Feanaro has lost his mother, but Indis will become that mother if he will allow it. She would wish for nothing more. Of course she wishes for nothing more. 

But he does not.

Indis watches him when he does not realize. She can see it- the grief, the loneliness. He is a little boy, and Finwe is not half the father he would wish to be, and there are impossible things in this world that Indis wants- her mother, her Miriel, her peace- but most of all she just wants little Feanaro to be happy, to know happiness and joy and trust in it instead of fearing the joy will turn cold and dead in his arms.

...

Miriel had been- quickly angered.

So had Finwe. So do most of the Noldor. Indis is patient enough not to pay much attention to it. 

Well. She is patient.

...

Miriel had been easily provoked into greatness. A few insults, a carefree comment- Miriel would sit at her loom and weave, something ever-greater and ever-better. Even now, the finest gown in Indis’ keep is one that she received from Miriel the day after she spent hours insulting Miriel’s taste in fabric.

Indis would have done that to her in those awful weeks after Feanaro’s death. She would’ve gone in and insulted Miriel to within an inch of her life, made her so breathless with rage that Miriel would have levitated out of her bed to strike Indis about the face. 

But Este’s healers- called in when the labor lasted for more than two days- refused to hear of it, and Indis could only watch as Finwe’s face went whiter by the hour and all they heard from the sickroom were little Feanaro’s wails and the healers’ murmurs. She obeys the Valar: she watches Miriel fade into Lorien, and never return.

Little Feanaro is all that’s left of Miriel. 

She is certain that he’s very much like her, too.

...

Feanaro thinks that his dislike of Indis comes from her marriage to his father. Perhaps the dislike deepened into hatred then; Indis does not know. What she does know- for she’s ensured it- is that Feanaro hated her well before her marriage.

...

(“I expected better of you,” says Indis, once.

Feanaro is three years old. His eyes are Miriel’s in shape and size and beauty. Indis, determinedly, does not flinch. 

“I’m just doing with Rumil taught me!” he exclaims.

“In Valmar,” says Indis, “children learn their letters by the time they turn a year old.”

Feanaro flushes red. “I don’t like these letters. They don’t make sense.”

“Then make your own,” says Indis, careful not to let sympathy seep into her voice.

She does not smile when the news percolates through Valinor of Feanor’s Tengwar. She does not smile, but oh, oh: how she wants to!)

...

This is what they do not see: Feanaro is young, and while fire is forever dangerous, while fire is forever alluring, it is too easy, far too easy, to stamp it out. Especially when it is young. Especially when it is small.

Indis would have been the shelter to that little flame if he would have allowed it. But he will not, so all she can do is throw fuel onto the fire. Chaff and dross and dried straw: insults and backhanded compliments and petty slights. If Feanaro will not let her protect him, then she will build him so high that none will ever be able to strike him down.

(Letting him die was never an option.)

...

Finwe dies, and they leave, and then Feanaro dies, and then Findis disappears, and then Nolofinwe dies, and then Arafinwe comes to her, for the first time since his father’s body burned in Tirion’s courtyard.

“We have been given leave to go to Beleriand,” says Arafinwe quietly, solemnly. “Morgoth shall be defeated and thrown into the Void. The Vanyar shall all come, by King Ingwe’s decree.”

“Is there something you wish to ask me, then?” asks Indis gently.

Arafinwe swallows, one reflexive jump of his throat. “Will you join me?”

Indis rises. Steps away. Goes to her bedroom and plucks it from the wall, and returns in time to see her darling son’s shoulder slump with frustration. 

“I will not,” she says. Arafinwe jumps, startled. Indis steps closer to him and presses the bone-spear into his palms. “I will not return, Arafinwe, to that land. Already it has taken much from me. I will not offer it more.”

“But-”

“Take this,” says Indis. “It is your grandmother’s.”

Surprise glitters in his pale eyes. “I have a sword.”

“This has already held off Morgoth once,” says Indis. “There are tales that will never be told, of the courage of the elves that never saw the Blessed Isles. Intyale Bright-Speared was your grandmother named, and well-named was she! This spear held Morgoth back long enough to release prisoners in the depths of Utumno before ever Orome saw us, long enough to let Intyale’s sister flee. Long enough for Intyale’s sister to hand the child in her arms over to Intyale.

“The sister’s name is Indis,” says Indis. “I was that child. I was named for her.”

Arafinwe stares at her. “You speak so rarely of them.”

“I’ve no desire to relive tragedy for the rest of my life,” says Indis flatly. “Now come. You’ll need to learn how to use that, if you wish to hold Morgoth hostage!”

...

Perhaps she began this, when she chose this path.

Perhaps she could have averted this.

But Indis is the daughter of Intyale, and it will be her bone-spear held to Morgoth’s throat at the end of this awful, deathful road, and if nothing else- if nothing else- she has the will to remain unbowed, this girl born in the shadow of Utumno, this woman who watched all those around her fall as wheat before a scythe, this mother who would rather her children loathe her than die, this daughter who has lost both mothers and knows, bitterly, the whole of that unfathomable loss.

...

That is what she tells Feanor, finally, when he returns to life.

There is something thoughtful in his gaze. He nods, and returns, a week later, and when she blithely tells him that his sons have inherited his monotonous fashion sense, Feanor flushes, and then pauses, and then says, carefully, “I’d rather it be monotonous than Finarfin’s gaudiness,” and Indis drinks her tea- salty-hot, just as she likes it- and she says, smiling, “I am glad you can be taught.”

[the-silentium]

Quits

Masterlist

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Words: 2200 words

Warnings: TUA season 1 and 2 spoilers, violence, blood, swearing.

Requested by: Anon!

Hi!! Can i get a five x reader where the reader gets shot or stabbed or something but doesnt tell anyone and ends up passing out? Thanks!!

A/N: I’m back at my requests! Thank you Anon for this sweet lil’ idea and I hope it lives up to your expectations as it does with mine  ❤ Requests are still open!

You remember a time when you took pride in your capacity to make the right choice at the right time. When school asked you what you wanted to do in life, you chose the right one from the start unlike the majority of your friends who had to change classes multiple times and were now a happy veterinarian. When life put on your path the incarnation of your perfect partner, you decided to take it slow to see where it went. Fortunately for you, you quickly saw through his facade and kicked him out before he could create more permanent damage to your heart. 

Your life was full of important decisions that were though at the time. Sometimes you had to take some days to think about it when other times it took you hours. They were all risky shots that could end up badly for you in the end so you liked to take your time to think about it. 

This is why when Five Hargreeves, your childhood closest friend, knocked at your door one day and asked for your help to stop the fast-arriving apocalypse, you didn't think twice and immediately accepted. How could you make the bad choice by helping him save the world? If he failed you would die, he would die, everyone would die and this is obviously the bad end of the story, right?

Well, as of right now, you were starting to doubt it. After failing to stop 2019's apocalypse and after Five had time-traveled every living Hargreeves plus yourself in the 1960s, you found yourself in two precarious situations: one, you were back in your 13-year-old self and two, you were not fighting two crazy hard-ass Commissioners, but three crazy hard-ass IKEA mafioso! 

It was a miracle that you survived the raid on the Hargreeves Mansion unscathed. You had thanked your luck for allowing you to live another day, although you regret ever doing so. Clearly, you had jinxed yourself, for surviving the Swedes ambush at the Mexican consulate wasn't as painless as the raid. 

A very well-sharpened knife had managed to pierce your skin, getting in your abdomen all the way to the hilt before you managed to kick the white-haired man down a nice flight of stairs. Your medical instinct pushed you to hastily insert some absorbent tissue into your wound to control the bleed and allow you to check it later. 

Sadly, one thing led to another and you were now sitting with all six Hargreeves who were currently trying to formulate a plan of some sort while Diego was focussed on his JFK conspiracy and you were literally bleeding out. 

The once pristine washcloth you had stolen in the kitchen was completely soaked, staining your blue shirt with dark red spots. Speaking of spots, hundreds of tiny black ones were now dancing in your line of sight like dark fireflies. 

"Has anyone here done anything to screw up the timeline?" 

You lifted your hand hoping to get the attention of the others, obviously working when Luther asked what you'd done. 

"Anything yet, but would it screw the timeline if I died here?" 

You saw Five frowns in confusion, his mouth opening on a question before yelling your name when you couldn't hold yourself up anymore and fell to the ground. Strong arms lifted you from the floor and you landed on a comfy cloud. You smiled in contentment, it has been a while since you had a proper night of sleep. This cloud will be perfect for a nap. 

Tiny slaps on your left cheek forced your eyes to open and meet a concerned blue gaze. 

"So pretty." You mumbled, still focussing on the blue eyes frantically scanning your face. 

Oh did I mentioned earlier that you had a crush on Five? Because you do and it is not small if after 15 years your heart still accelerates when you merely meet his gaze. 

"Don't sleep okay? Keep your eyes open!" You laughed at his command, it is the same thing you told him the day he lost consciousness at Leonard's cabin. You had a snarky remark at the tip of your tongue but it died on your lips when darkness forced its way upon you. 

………………………

Even before your mind was operational enough to create thoughts, your brain was already running full speed and relentlessly reminded you that your abdomen was on fire. The pain was a great ally into your mission to wake up and open your eyes. Maybe you would be able to ask for some painkillers. 

The harsh neon light shining over your head made you tear up the second your eyes opened to assess your environment. You tried again, slower this time, and found yourself confused by your surroundings. 

Many times in your childhood you had passed time in this room, planning pranks, doing homework, reading, or just hanging out. Nothing had changed excepted the walls that were now covered in equations and names. 

Groggily, you attempted to seat up, your abdominal muscles screamed in agony at your movements forcing you to stay on your back. The groan that erupted from your throat alarmed a passer-by who raced to the door, opening it so fast that it collided with the wall. 

"She's awake!" Klaus shouted in the corridor when he saw your wide-open eyes. He only had time to put a foot into the bedroom that a blue light appeared out of nowhere announcing Five's arrival. Your heart was beating too quickly by the time Five had pushed Klaus out of his room and slammed the door shut behind him. 

“What were you thinking?!” Five's anger caused you to frown. What did you do? You searched your mind for an answer and quickly found one in the vivid memory of a knife diving into your flesh. 

You opened your mouth to talk your mind but nothing came out of the desert that was your throat. Noticing your problem, Five caught a water bottle from his nightstand, cautiously brought it to your lips, and let you drink small sips of the freshwater. Satisfied, you coughed once to prepare your throat. 

“Now you know how it felt so we are quits.” You answered, referring to the time in Leonard’s cabin where you felt like the world had stopped when Five lost consciousness. You took care of him as best as you could despite your field of expertise being animals you had a basic understanding of the human anatomy, so with your trembling hands covered in his blood while desperately trying to not notice how much there was, you worked as effectively as you could to keep the love of your life alive. 

"This is not a game! You could have died!" You would have believed his angry eyes if only his hands weren't shaking so much. You were friend with Five for long enough to know how to read his temper and now, he was scared. 

"But I didn't." You tried to calm him down with your calm voice. You remember jumping at his neck the second he woke up that time he passed out, why couldn't he do the same instead of yelling at you? 

You watched him open his mouth a couple of times before closing it, clearly thinking through what he was going to say. When he finally chose, his voice was barely audible. "Selfish." 

You blinked in confusion at his statement. "Me? Selfish?" With each word now, your voice was raising until you reached the point where you were yelling at the blue-eyed 30 years old man. "Everything I did was to save the damn world from the apocalypse and you call me selfish?! I took a fucking knife to the gut and dealt with it for the sake of the world and you call me self-" 

"I wasn't talking about you." Now this stopped you good. You frowned in confusion, not seeing where he was going. "I was talking about me." 

Your head tilted to the side, searching your brain as to why Five would call himself selfish. All he did was for his family, he never acted for himself, so why?

"I almost let everything down to make sure you made it back alive. I almost let the world end for you because I can't imagine living another 45 years where you're not there." His words were soft, a tone that you weren't aware was used exclusively around you. His gaze fled yours, switching between the scribbles on the walls and the foot of the bed. 

Color rushed to your face for his words definitely sounded like a confession to your ears. Your childhood self had waited for so long to hear something of the type, so long that you thought the friendzone was the ultimate area that you would be welcome in. You accepted that your feelings were strong enough to be pleased by his happiness even with someone else. 

A smile formed on your lips causing Five's heart to miss a beat in its rhythmic pumping. "I-"

"Guys they are doing it!" Klaus' loud voice on the other side of the door cut you off. 

"Doing what?" Allison had joined her brother at the door, confused of his antics. 

"Admitting their undying love for each other!" At this point Five had opened the door swiftly, his murderous gaze fell on his siblings, daring them to say something more. It was at this moment that Klaus realized how scary his brother was in reality, he wasn't the little Number Five anymore, but a grown-up man who could easily murder him in a thousand ways possible. 

"Oh heck no!" The words fell off your mouth against your will, the embarrassing situation making you nervous so your brain tried to defuse the situation by stating the opposite of what Klaus wanted. From your point of view, you totally missed the way Five's eyes lost their deadly rage, instead showing his pain at your words. He was quick to hide his feelings once more, but his siblings had enough time to acknowledge his true emotion. 

Slapping Klaus behind the head, Allison got a hold of his shirt and pulled him away to let the two of you clear this out. Everyone knew you two were pinning each other when you were younger. Even when fighting the two apocalypses! It was clear as day for the rest of the family, however, it wasn't the case for the both of you. 

The door slammed back in place once more making you jump and hiss in pain when your abdominal muscles contracted. In your field of vision, you noted that Five had tensed before closing his hands in tight fists and made his way to his desk, the only place in the room you couldn't see because of your incapacity to turn around. 

You knew what you said must have hurt him, it clearly seemed like you had rejected him. Stupid defense method. 

"Five?" No answer was given, his heavy breathing being the only sound resonating in the room. "I didn't mean that." A scoff fell off his lips. 

"You think I'll believe that?" The venom in his voice told you just how much you had hurt him, squeezing your heart in shame. 

"When you disappeared 15 years ago I developed a system to protect myself from new heartbreaks. It hurt way less to force myself to believe that my feelings for you were nonexistent than acknowledge them and continue living without you, Five." Water appeared in your eyes, pooled down your cheeks, and soaked your new shirt. "I was so used to deny my feelings that-" Your voice broke when a sob forced its way out of you. 

Hands found your cheeks, drying the wet trails before pulling you into a firm chest. You managed to slip your hands around his waist and cried for as long as needed. The exhaustion of the last endless days caught up to you along with the fact that the subject of your love was very well alive and here to stay, fueling the flow of tears falling down your eyes. 

"I really didn't mean it." You managed to croak out between sobs. 

One of Five's hand went to your hair, stroking your head tenderly. "I know." Your grip onto his shirt tightened when a kiss landed on the top of your head. 

Slowly, he pulled away to lay you back down onto his bed and snuggled to your side when your anxious eyes found his. One of his arms went under your head while the other took care to not accidentally touch the general area surrounding your wound when snaking around your waist to keep you as close to him as possible. 

His body heat was very much welcome, you snuggled your way into the crook of his neck in search of comfort. 

"Rest. I'll be there when you wake up." He whispered into your hair when his button-down crumpled in your hands. 

You sighed, allowing yourself to relax in his embrace. "I love you Five." You had to get it out before you let yourself fall asleep for you were scared that later would be too late. 

"I love you too." Delicate patterns were traced by his skilled fingers onto the bare skin of your waist making you shiver. Your heartbeat accelerated at his chuckle before stabilizing when you fell into a peaceful slumber.

[honestsycrets]

Say Your Piece II: Heart Breaker

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, hvitserk x ?

❛ type | double triple? shot, mistakes were made au

❛ chp summary | after the reader says she doesn’t want hvitserk; he makes a bad decision. it gets worse from there.

❛  tags | plus size reader, verbal arguments, extreme social anxiety, extreme body insecurity, drinking, hateful words, illustrator hvitserk x writer reader, mention of infidelity, shame, OCs, sexual frustration, blackmail, cheating mentioned, verbal abuse, sexual blackmail, poor communication? it’s more likely than you think. tags to be added.

❛ request | So Hvitserk request (you a asked for it 😂) Remember the Little Lovers event and the self-conscient plus size reader who didn’t want to have sex ?Well I didn’t get the sex lol. I want my Hvitserk to show a woman how her body is enjoyable. Thank you 😊 for @alicedopey

❛ sy’s note | i’ll eventually get you your sex scene, DAMN IT.

He wakes with a blaring headache caused by a stream of fresh morning light against his soft cheek. He pulls his arms around you-- or, what he thought was you, as the moment he does so, he knows it’s wrong. Where soft folds and overflowing breasts were, he finds thin limbs and small breasts.

It’s not your body-- he realizes all at once. The high rise apartment that overlooked the city wasn’t, either. It was the fruit of an accomplished older woman, whose many books hovered on a white shelf beside a white bed. Everything in the room holds the same pure standard. He flings himself from the bed, his naked ass colliding with a nightstand. The items ripple over the surface and settle into new positions. The woman pushes up, dragging the painfully monochrome white fluffy sheet to cover her flat chest. 

“Hvitserk?” 

Erika, in all her sharp-eyed glory, stares right back at him. Vomit spins up his throat, incited by the affection by with her eyes considered him. Hvitserk scrambles over the perfectly plain hardwood floors, upchucking up what’s left of his agitated stomach after his pathetic night out on the town. 

“Hvitserk!” 

Her spindly hand is at his back. Ordinarily, she was a comfort in your absence. That despite her pushing, and pushing, and pushing to get your name off “his” book, she would always be there for him in ways that a lover could not. Author-illustrators make so much more than being an illustrator alone, she reminded him. Her considerate words now feel like measured steps against his relationship. Her touch rips his skin into gooseflesh. Hvitserk works his shoulder away, his knuckles becoming white around the bowl.

“You drank too much last night.” it’s a non-question. Obviously, if he were here, he had. He groans his miserable response into the toilet bowl, wishing he could smother himself in the water, as it would be a better punishment than anything his girlfriend could do to him. “I’ll make you some coffee.” 

Her steps become distant echoes. When he finishes and cleans after himself, he starts his search for his clothes. He picks them from a singular pile, draws them back on, and reaches for his phone. It bleats a miserable eight percent battery life.

“She didn’t call if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ericka stands in a silvery slip; although he’s not sure when she put on some clothes. She hands him his cup of coffee and takes a seat on her “divorce couch”, a plain grey chair that she scammed her ex-husband out of. As she sits there, all long limbs, and purposefully sultry clothes-- the guilt strikes him.

Hvitserk takes a sip of bitter, burnt black coffee. She’s never been a great coffee maker but her heart is in the right place. It wouldn’t feel right to snuff her. After all, he probably spent the night before buried in her cunt. 

“You called me to pick you up at the bar last night. You were so drunk all you wanted to do was lay on my chest,” Ericka pulls a sheer black kimono over her thin collarbones. His eyes fall on her hands. “I told you she’d break your heart. Women like that-- once they get over a certain weight-- they aren’t emotionally available to do anything but eat. It consumes them.” 

“She ain’t like that.”

“If she’s not like that, then why did you have sex with me? Be honest with yourself, Hvitserk. Your needs aren’t met with her. That’s why you needed me.” 

His mouth runs dry. Like he’s been chewing on his regret as if it were paper. He couldn’t remember the night before. It was like a bad memory he never wanted to recover. Hvitserk glances down to his cup as he sinks onto her bed. 

“It was an accident,” he glares at the surface. “I- You know I can’t be with you, right? You’re--” 

“Old?” she asks. He’s never cared about something as simple as that. Twelve years his senior or not, it wasn’t an issue.

“It’s not that. C’mon Erika, you know I don’t give a shit about age. She’s my baby girl.” 

“You’re going to stay with her? A woman like that?” 

“Like what?” Hvitserk sets the coffee on the nightstand as he snaps at her before he could bite it back. He knew what she meant. Erika’s long ranging sigh reminds him of Aslaug. How tenderly her hands would wrap around him even though they were truly tainted with alcohol perfuming off her breath. 

“I’ve been your agent for years Hvitserk. We go through this every time you find a girl. This oen is by far the worst. She doesn’t care about you. Look at all that work you did for her yesterday. The pendant you bought her. The work you’ve put into her books! You even pick up all the food she eats. She won’t go outside of her house and you still expect that she’ll suddenly become this fat trophy wife on your arm.” 

“Just because she’s fat don’t--” 

“It isn’t about the fat, Hvitserk.  How many times does she have to show you, or tell you for you to get the picture through your stupid head, huh? She doesn’t want you! And you have the balls to call me a fucking accident.” 

“Erika--” 

She leaps up from her chair. Hvitserk sucks in a hard breath and tries to find sense through the nonsense, looking through his phone. Erika was right. You hadn’t sent a message. Not in his texts, not on his social media. More egregiously, he spots a new post. Ericka’s hands fold over his, pushing him back to sit on the bed. She slides over his thin hips and takes a seat on his empty lap. It was painfully simple, painfully domestic, and painfully wrong.

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned in forty years,” Erika whispered in his ear. Her thin lips move, gliding like butter in his ear. “If someone doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to change that.” Her fingers comb through his hair, like slimy tendrils. “But I’m here.” 

Hvitserk tips his head nack, gazing at the ceiling. Her palm caresses his scruffy jawline to drag his attention from the ceiling to her soft blue eyes, a painless depth, if only he would listen to her words. Hvitserk shifts her back on the bed, loitering around her waist with a supportive hand on the base of her back.

“I know you care ‘bout me. I just-- need some time, okay?” 

It doesn’t slip him that she’s scowling as he walks out of her home. There was someone he could count upon, when things were difficult, his phone buzzing in his palm reminded him of that. 

“Hey, Ivar.” 

Or, maybe not.

“You fucked her?” Ivar stopped chewing his pastry, ambling his head one way then another, laughing against himself. He took his mug of properly brewed coffee to his lips. Hvitserk regrets agreeing to meet him at the cafe. “What were you thinking sleeping with your agent?”

“I wasn’t thinking! I was drunk--” Hvitserk set his hand to his forehead. He has no appetite as he cycled through what he had done, searching out the moment that he called Erika. He fails to locate anything but quiet sobbing behind the neck of a beer bottle and a distant, squeamish feeling of fingers down his nape. “I think she took advantage of me.” 

Ivar sets down his cup of coffee, picking up a fork and knife as he leaned over the table, lips punctuating each word. 

“Yes, well, I am sure that will go over with your girlfriend well. I’m sorry, I slept with my skinny, well-established agent who has been wanting me to get rid of you. That bitch has been after you for years. What do you think she will do now? She won’t let you go.”

“She understands,” he reflects at the monochrome crowd. His plate is full but has gone cold with his lack of appetite. Normally, this was the place he came with his brother to binge breakfast and muse about women. Ubbe wouldn’t care about his issues: he never had time for anyone but himself. Not really. Ivar scoffed, gazing into the foot traffic flitting by their cafe. 

“Tch, I’m sure she does. She will probably break up with you.” 

He bobbed his head.

“I think she already has.” 

A normal man would come to beg. 

But Hvitserk draws in the deep quiet of the park. With only the barks of dogs, the giggles of children, and the occasional frequency from couples watching movies in the park, it’s a place of solace by the small pond. 

He starts with an outline of Xiao’s small face. It’s a rough outline, budding and ready to be kissed with by watercolours. Soft pinks like petals of peonies droop in his photo. He must have blended this shade wrong. Line after line that he sweeps, he weeps. His phone jingles in his pocket and his heart tightens around his chest like a straight jacket to someone in an insane asylum. He must be going crazy-- if he too can no longer paint.

“Where are you?!” you boom on the other end of the line. Hvitserk fumbles his phone, suckling in a breath. Had Ivar told you? No, his brother wouldn’t. Not Ivar. He was never a gossiper. 

“In-- in the park?” 

“What has gotten into you? You could have at least texted me to tell me you were okay. I was worried sick!” 

You? Worried sick? This wasn’t the you from yesterday. The one that pelted out how selfish he was for craving intimacy. The one that told him that all he wanted was to sexualize you. As if he were some sixty year old pervert with a camera in hand to click a picture of under your beautiful pastel skirts. Hvitserk sets the brushes into his cup of water and sets aside Xiao’s painting to dry.

“Hvitserk!” 

“I’m here,” he blurts out. “I didn’t think you’d care. You didn’t call.” 

“Like I didn’t I call you all night.” 

Something cracks, deep in his belly. With all the days of work he’d done for you and you alone, he forgot himself in the mix. He jerked his phone back, frantically looking at his phone app. No recent calls meant what they meant. When he finds nothing, it only thrusts him into a further rage. 

“Bullshit,” he belts out. “You didn’t. You didn’t care about me last night. You never fuckin’ do.” 

“Hvit--” he turns off his phone. There was a sliver of a moment in which he regrets that on the basis of last night. Maybe you rejected him, but he wasn’t an idiot. A man simply didn’t cheat on his girlfriend because she said no. 

He packs up his bag and heads toward the football field. It’s time to play football.

He smashes Ubbe on the field. If he wasn’t at peace with being an illustrator, maybe he could have been a ballplayer. Flipping the ball from foot to foot with Ubbe on his trailing his tail was fun, but watching him try and miss as he thwacked the ball on its net was even better. Unlike Ubbe’s well-proportioned body, he’s all long limbs and quick feet. Just the right combination to slip out of Ubbe’s grasp. Well, that was, until Ubbe tackled his ass onto the blades of grass, sending the both of them rolling through the grasp.

“Bro, really?!” Hvitserk laughs, dropping back onto the grass. The skid marks on his clothes would be unreal. 

“If I can’t catch you,” Ubbe heaves, digging his hand into his pocket. He finds his phone there, vibrating with messages from Torvi: probably. Hvitserk shoves his arms behind his neck, drawing out breath after ragged breath. 

“Wanna go eat?” 

“Na,” Ubbe shoves himself onto your feet. “Your girl is here.”

His what? Ubbe rushes off. A sinking feeling came over his clammy hands. He opens his mouth to beg him not to go, to take him along with like he used to as a child. He’s terrible at making up and hours ago, he’d hung up on you. His lips press together, soothing himself with the false pretense that-- no, it would be fine. If you didn’t apologize, perhaps neither would he. 

He finds you on the other side of the soccer field, fashioning his favorite sundress. There’s something glamorous about its corset bodice and its draped sleeves that left him breathless. He wills down his terrible arousal, drawn to the pendant he bought you nestled between your large breasts. You wait for him by his things, pulling the rim of a broad pale hat and looking down at beautiful chunky nude heels. 

You’re beautiful and terrifying all in one. He regains himself enough to make his legs solidify from the liquidy mass they were seconds ago. He might feel much like a newborn calf falling over himself to get his things, but perhaps he looked better than he felt. Women like sweaty, stupid men, right?

“What are you doing here?” he picks up his things. “I thought you didn’t like to be seen in public.”

“You hung up on me,” you hold his tablet flush against your dress and offer it out to him. He takes it and secures it back in his bag. “I had to come to find you.” 

“Yeah? I’ll bet.” Hvitserk wills down the painful throbbing behind his joggers, pulling his bag to obscure the pain he was in. The sooner he went home, the sooner he could jerk himself off without the overwhelming guilt of being, as he was, a whore. Why couldn’t he stay mad? He wanted to stay mad! “You look... nice. Never seen you looking so nice. What’s the occasion?” 

“You like it?” You pull out the skirt and stop to do a twirl that he curses himself for stopping for. Normally, his girl wouldn’t even go outside. Who was this? He’s aware of others watching-- the fat girl in a flashy dress. “I wore it for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” He moistens his lips, his voice raspy and thick. “Looks like an angel.” 

“Does that mean you’ll come back home?” You reach out for him. Your soft hands winding around his well-corded arm. He realizes then, the confidence in which you carried yourself masked the desperation in your hands. They trembled over his bicep. “I’ll be good, I promise I won’t yell at you again like that. I wouldn’t even be mad if you-- you found someone else to fuck. I know you-- I know you need it. If you can’t get it from me, I can wait on the side. As long as you’re not in love.”

“Hey,” he softened, settling his hand atop of yours. He stops midstep, turning on his high tops on the sidewalk. He takes your hands and listens waits for your outpouring of emotion. Traffic passes by him. They speak in hushed whispers. “Hey, hey, hey. Baby girl wait-- that’s not -- what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that but you were pushing and pushing and wouldn’t stop! I didn’t know what to do. I want to have sex with you,” you squeeze his fingertips. “But you don’t know what it’s like to be fat, old virgin.” 

He was trying to listen. He really was. The moment you spoke that word: that v-word, his mind went blank and numb. You’re still talking long after he’s stopped listening. Hvitserk sucks in a breath: it sends him into a flurry, pursuing the bone of your virginity long after you’ve stopped talking.

“What do you--” his lips twitch, drawing in a smile. “--mean a virgin?” 

“I haven’t had sex-- I… I wanted to--” 

His girl-- a virgin. He wants to smile, if not for the knowledge of the other night, waking up in Erika’s itchy sheets. Hvitserk knows that he has to tell you, he only doesn’t know how. You’re talking again. 

“What did you say?” he asks. 

“I want you to do it,” you answer. “Right now. Just forgive me.” 

He about drops, a moistness coming over his mouth that he can’t-- exactly-- help. His palms feel just as hot, sweating as he pulls them free from yours. Clearing his throat, he slips his hand against the small of your back. 

“Na, let’s… let’s take it easy. We’ll talk ‘bout it later.” 

He wants that virginity. 

But logically, oh woe is he, he knows it’s not really right to take someone’s virginity if they’re not all there. You’re not all there because you don’t know of that night. It’s like, consent, right? Bad consent was just jerking your ankle like some Viking and dragging you into bed with him. If he was going to do it, he told himself, you had to know what he’d done. 

It was a slip-up. 

Hvitserk finished another drawing for his new book independent of your input. It was a children’s book about good bodies-- because as he looked at your good body, he was reminded of Ericka’s cruel words. He wanted to do better for lil kids.

“Hvitserk, your phone is ringing,” you said pointedly from across the room where you sat like a madwoman. Your frantic papers sat nestled around a basket of shared chicken he made for lunch. 

“Huh?” Tapping over, he recognizes Erika’s photo, planting a kiss on his cheek on his first big break. She had been the first one to really believe in him. It was a long time ago now, he reminds himself to change that to something more… suitable after last night. He gestures his fingers at you. “Thanks, baby girl.”

He answers the phone. The moment he does, he hears Erika’s flat voice snaking into a hiss. It’s a noise that he hasn’t heard. Not in all his years of having her as his patient agent. 

“You’re with her, aren’t you?” 

“No, I’m uh-- with Ubbe.” He throws you a glance. You tilt your head, he shakes his, and that’s the terrible loneliness of holding a secret. “Erika--” Hvitserk sighs, parting his lips to talk. She shushes him with such severity that he thinks she’s trying to lop his head off, too. 

“Break it off.” 

“What?”

He steps outside and leans against the cold metal door separating the high-rise apartments from, well, the outside world. He expects to see her standing out there. All he finds are the many cars parked on the street and the stillness of movement. It’s too quiet. The whistle of the wind through the street chills him. 

“I know you’re with her. I can tell her for you if you’d like.” 

“No. Don’t--” Hvitserk sighs, searching for the words in the silence. “I don’t think you understand. We worked through it.” 

She laughs something from deep in her belly at him.

“I wasn’t asking. Either you do it— or I’ll make you do it. You obviously don’t know what’s best for yourself. Why else are you fucking around with some--” He collapses on the stairs, cradling the phone to his ear as she goes on. “Don’t think I won’t expose her for what she is. A thief.”

“She’s never-- Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“You told me you would take care of it. Something you’ve failed to do-- I should have known you couldn’t do it. ”

“If this shit is about yesterday--” 

“I’ll give you one more chance to break it off if you come over tonight.” 

“Are you blackmailing me?” There’s a pause on the other line. Then a chuckle. A long winded, painful chuckle. He should have known better. That night-- calling it an accident wasn’t exactly tolerable for a woman like Erika. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could be easily ignored.

“If that’s what I have to do.” 

 He chokes out a sob. Ivar was right. She wasn’t going to let him go.

“Fuckin’-- fuckin’ fine.” 

@punkrocknpearls​ @flowers-in-your-hayr @tephi101 @alicedopey​ @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

[marvelous-writer]

i’ll chase away your nightmares and keep you safe

Summary:

Tony looks at him with a worried frown as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and a side of chips. He reaches a hand up and brushes a few stray curls off of Peter’s aching forehead. “You don’t look too good, Pete,” he says.

“I don’t feel that great,” Peter admits, not having the energy to pretend that he is.

“How’s your head feeling?”

“Hurts,” Peter mumbles miserably.

“Hmm,” Tony hums, as he braces his hand against Peter’s forehead.

Peter lets his eyes slip shut as he leans into his cool hand, bringing only a small amount of relief to his pounding head. He almost wants to cry when Tony takes his hand away.

“You do feel a little warm. I wouldn’t have had you slaving away out there in the sun if I’d known you didn’t feel good, Pete.”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier. I think I’m just tired or my brain is fried,”

OR

Peter experiences a bad migraine while he’s staying up at the cabin and Tony helps him through it.

Word count: 3,159

Genre: whump, angst, hurt/comfort

Link to read on Ao3:

A/N: Part 3 of @webpril

Peter squints against the harsh sunlight as he wipes sweat off his forehead, trying to ignore the pain pounding away in his head. 

“Hand me that wrench, will you?” Tony asks from his position kneeling on the grass in front of the pressure washer that had broken down as they started to power wash the house.

Peter nods as he reaches into the red toolbox and grabs said wrench and hands it to Tony. “What do you think? Is it going to make it?” He asks with a hint of sarcasm. 

“Well,” Tony says with a grunt as he tightens a bolt on the machine. “I think she has a few more good years left in her.” He says, shooting a smile over his shoulder at Peter. 

Peter smiles in return, trying not to wince when his head lets off a particularly sharp throb. He’s had this killer headache since he woke up this morning but it hasn’t been this bad until now. Sitting out here in the middle of a heatwave in the sun probably isn’t a wise decision on his part. He’d rather be inside where the cool AC is, sprawled out on his bed in the dark, sleeping this off. But he’d never say no to spending time with Tony, even if it involves a mundane task of fixing a pressure washer. 

“So… I was thinking—” Tony says as he hands Peter the wrench back when he’s done using it. 

“That can be dangerous,” Peter says. 

Tony huffs out a laugh as he shoots a grin over his shoulder at Peter. “Like son like father, I guess.” He says. 

A warm and fuzzy feeling bubbles up in Peter’s chest at his words as he smiles, ducking his head down as he puts the wrench back in the toolbox. “What were you thinking?”  

“I was thinking… what if I made some fettuccine Alfredo for dinner tonight, get some ice cream at your favorite place down the street, and we can have a nice, relaxing family movie night?” Tony asks as he wipes his oily hands on a hand towel, standing up from the ground with a small grunt when his knees click in protest. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Peter says with a smile as he pushes himself up from the ground, only to pause when his head gives off a particularly sharp throb from the new position. He reaches up and rubs at his forehead, hissing slightly though gritted teeth. 

This always happens when he tries to work through the pain of a headache, which hopefully isn’t upgrading to a migraine but with Peter’s luck, it probably is. 

And of course, Tony’s dad senses tingle. 

“You okay?” Tony asks, looking at Peter with his brows pulled together in concern. 

“Yeah… just a headache.”

Tony’s still frowning as he looks down at his watch to check the time. “It’s a little after noontime, so how about we head on inside and I’ll whip you up a sandwich for lunch.” 

“Sure.” Peter agrees easily, letting Tony guide him inside the blissfully cool house and out of the intense sun and heat. 

They find Morgan sitting on the couch in front of the tv watching one of her cartoons, one that Peter doesn’t know because it came out sometime in those five years during the Blip. 

“How about you sit with Morgan while I get lunch started?” Tony suggests. 

“Okay,” 

Peter slips his shoes off at the front door before he walks over to the couch, wincing at the sunlight pouring in from the windows, mixed with the obnoxiously bright colors from the cartoon on the tv. He plops down on the chaise section of the couch next to Morgan and throws a pillow over his face to shield himself from the light. 

“Are you okay, Petey?” Morgan questions. 

“Yup…” Peter mumbles beneath the pillows. “M’ all good, Morgs.” 

“Why are you hiding?”

“M’ not hiding. Just trying to sleep and the light’s bothering my eyes.” He tells her. 

“Does your head hurt like Daddy’s does sometimes?” She asks. 

“A little.” 

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Morgan whispers.

“S’okay.” Peter mumbles. 

 It takes only a few minutes before Peter feels himself drifting off to the soft murmurs coming from the tv, but he can’t quite fall asleep with his head pounding away. It almost makes him want to cry at the unfairness of it all—why his brain just won’t shut off and let him fall into a pit of painless nothingness.

He’s taken out of his almost-asleep state by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Pete, you awake? Lunch is all ready.” Tony says in a soft voice. 

“Mhmm…” Peter hums as he slowly sits up, letting the pillows fall away from his face, finding the room’s curtains to be drawn with the tv off, settling the space in a soothing semi-darkness. 

Tony looks at him with a worried frown as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and a side of chips. He reaches a hand up and brushes a few stray curls off of Peter’s aching forehead. “You don’t look too good, Pete,” he says. 

“I don’t feel that great,” Peter admits, not having the energy to pretend that he is. 

“How’s your head feeling?” 

“Hurts,” Peter mumbles miserably.  

“Hmm,” Tony hums, as he braces his hand against Peter’s forehead. 

Peter lets his eyes slip shut as he leans into his cool hand, bringing only a small amount of relief to his pounding head. He almost wants to cry when Tony takes his hand away. 

“You do feel a little warm. I wouldn’t have had you slaving away out there in the sun if I’d known you didn’t feel good, Pete.”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier. I think I’m just tired or my brain is fried,” 

Tony huffs out a small laugh. “Your brain isn’t fried, Pete. You’re just tired and you’ve been overworking yourself lately. How about you eat what you can and you can nap until dinner?” 

Sleep. That sounds pretty nice right about now. 

“Okay.” Peter agrees easily. 

…

After lunch, Tony helps Peter upstairs to his bedroom and draws the black-out curtains, engulfing the room into darkness, much to Peter’s relief. 

Peter is about to lie down but Tony stops him by handing him one of his pain meds. 

“But they make me feel weird and loopy,” Peter argues weakly. 

“I know you don’t like taking them, but it’ll help with the pain,” Tony says. 

Peter sighs but takes the pill anyways just to please him, swallowing it down with a few sips of water from the cup Tony gives him. 

When Peter is lying down on his side with his eyes closed, he hears Tony walk out of the room and down the hallway to the bathroom before the sink turns on, until footsteps approach his room. 

Peter breathes out a relieved sigh when he feels a cool, wet washcloth being placed over his eyes and forehead. 

“Better?” Tony asks as Peter feels the bed dip down next to his hip. 

“Mhmm…” Peter hums, feeling the coolness take the edge off his headache so it no longer feels like his head is at risk of exploding from the pressure. “You gonna stay?” He asks hopefully. 

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Tony says, hearing him get up again before the bed dips down beside him until he feels the man’s hand card through his curls. 

The feeling soothes Peter as he breathes out another sigh of relief as he allows himself to relax, feeling the tension leave his body. 

It only takes a few moments before Peter finds himself drifting off to sleep, feeling the pain grows duller as his consciousness fades away. 

…

Peter can’t breathe as dust begins to fill his lungs. 

He looks up with wide, tear-filled eyes at Tony, who’s standing several feet away from him, looking equally as scared as Peter.

“I don’t wanna go,” he pleads, voice wobbling as he takes a few stumbling steps towards him. “P-Please—P-Please, I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go.” 

Tony opens his arms as Peter falls forward, but instead of falling into Tony’s arms, he falls right through him as Tony suddenly crumbles to nothing but a pile of ashes. 

“N-No!” Peter screams as catches himself on his shaking arms, saving himself from face-planting on the orange, dirt-covered ground… which is now covered in Tony’s ashes. “N-No…. p-please,” Peter sobs as he carefully picks up a handful of it, only to break out into a harsh cough that has him doubled over, finding that he’s coughing up dust. 

Ashes. 

That’s all he sees. 

Ashes. 

Peter blinks away the tears in his eyes as he looks around himself, seeing figures of ashes floating in the air where the Guardians and Dr. Strange once stood. 

He’s all alone. 

Peter takes in a shuddering breath as he looks back down at himself, only to see that his hands are now disappearing, dust falling from his fingertips, joining Tony’s on the ground. It quickly travels up his hands, then his forearms, climbing up his entire body. 

Peter sucks in a gasp, feeling like his insides are now full with his own ashes, suffocating him. 

He’s dying. 

He’s all alone. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

They all fall down. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

They all… fall… down. 

Peter’s eyes snap open, only to be met with a horrible, pulsating pain radiating through his skull, feeling like it’s about to explode as something hot shoots up his throat. 

Peter shoots up into a sitting position as he gags, only for more waves of sharp pain to stab at his head as he tries to get up. But the moment that he manages to swing his legs over the bed, he gags again and hot, liquidy vomit spews out of his mouth, landing all over his lap and the floor. 

But the only thing he can see is ashes. 

Peter gasps in the middle of a gag, only to break out into a harsh round of coughing but it only brings back the memory of him coughing up dust in his nightmare… or was it real? Is he already dead and this is a dream? Or his worst nightmare that he’ll have to live again and again in a constant, torturous loop?

His head and ears are pounding too much, Peter doesn’t hear the pair of footsteps running up the stairs towards his bedroom. 

Peter slams his eyes shut as he coughs up more bile—more ashes. 

His ashes. 

It’s happening again. 

Thanos snapped.

Half the universe is gone. 

Thanos won and they lost. 

“Peter! Peter—look at me, kid!” A voice filters its way through the sheer panic racing through him, mixing with all the pain. “Pete—open your eyes for me!” 

Peter snaps his eyes open, only to find Tony’s worried face in front of him—but it’s just like before, except Tony turned to ashes right in front of him. 

“T-Tony p-please,” Peter hoarsely says, feeling something cold slide down his cheeks. “P-Please—I-I don’t wanna go. P-Please,” he begs as he slams his eyes shut, unable to get the image of Tony crumbling to nothing in front of him. 

His breathing comes in quick gasps now, and it feels like his insides are filling up again—oh God. It’s happening again. He’s going to die and there isn’t anything or anyone that can stop it. Thanos won again—he’s always going to win. He’s never going to stop coming. 

Peter’s dying all over again. 

“Pete—you’re okay. Peter! You’re not dying—kiddo, please listen to me!” 

He’s going to die. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

Peter lets out a choked sob, only to throw up more bile. “I-I can’t-” he sucks in a sharp, choked breath. “Can’t breathe-”

Black dots dance around in his vision as he opens his eyes, finding a blurry figure in front of him, feeling cold hands on his face. 

“Pete you’ve gotta listen to me, bud. You have to breathe.” 

“I c-can’t,” Peter chokes out around a sob, squeezing his eyes shut again. “I-I can’t—I c-can’t!” 

“Yes, you can. You can breathe. You’re not going anywhere. I promise you, Pete. Please. Come back to me. Try to take in a deep breath, okay? Think you can do that for me, kiddo?” 

Peter sucks in a gasping breath, feeling horribly lightheaded now, but he tries. 

“That’s it, Pete. That’s it, kiddo. In and out.” Tony soothes. 

It feels like forever until Peter’s lungs give in, letting air in and allowing him to breathe. He sucks in a shaky breath that triggers a harsh round of coughing, before he opens his eyes and blinks a few times to clear his blurry vision. 

“T-Tony?” Peter asks, seeing the man kneeling in front of him with a worried expression on his face. 

“I’m right here, Pete,” Tony tells him in a soft voice. “You back with me?” 

Peter blinks, his brows pulling together as he shakily nods. He closes his eyes against the pounding behind them, mixed with horrible nausea churning away in his stomach. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbles. 

“I know you don’t kiddo. I’m so sorry,” Tony says, feeling a hand brush away a strand of damp curls that are stuck to his sweaty forehead. “How about you take a minute to catch your breath and we’ll get you all cleaned up and back into bed, okay?”

Peter blinks hard as he looks down at his lap again, but closes his eyes at the disgusting state of his lap. He opens them back up again and looks at Tony, brows pulled together. “I-Is this… is this real?” He asks. 

Tony’s face falls as he reaches up and gently wipes a trail of tears from Peter’s cheeks with a calloused thumb. “Of course it is, bud,” he softly says. “This is real, I’m real and you’re at the cabin with me, Pepper and Morgan.” 

Peter sniffs wetly. “B-But… it just felt s-so real.” He whispers. 

Tony nods as he runs a hand through Peter’s hair. “I know, Pete but I promise you it wasn’t. It was just a nightmare.” He says in a soft voice as he places the back of his hand on Peter’s forehead, frowning. “You’re burning up, kiddo. It looks like this is more than just a migraine.” 

Peter breathes out a sigh at that. “‘Course it’s not.” He mumbles miserably. Good ol’ Parker Luck. 

“How about we get you cleaned up, hmm?” 

Peter wordlessly nods as Tony helps him stand up, grabbing him a change of clothes from the dresser before slowly leading him out of his room and down the hallway to the bathroom. Tony is practically carrying him with how wobbly his legs are, but they manage to make it to the bathroom and Tony helps him sit on the closed toilet seat. 

Peter closes his eyes against the painful throbbing going on behind them, letting himself slowly slump against the wall next to him. He’s barely aware of Tony wiping his face with a warm washcloth until he’s gently shaken. 

“Pete, you gotta open your eyes for me, bud,” Tony says softly. 

Peter lets out a low, hoarse groan as he blinks open his eyes, squinting against the LED lighting in the bathroom. 

“Arms up,” Tony instructs as he helps him out of his ruined t-shirt and into a clean one. “Think you can stand up on your own so you can change your pants?” 

Peter binks slowly. “M’ kinda dizzy,” he admits.

Tony frowns at that as he goes back to the task at hand and helps Peter slide his ruined pajama pants off, grateful to have a pair of boxers on to save him any further embarrassment. Tony helps him stand up on shaky legs to pull on the clean pair of sweatpants he grabbed, helping Peter pull them up to his waist.

“I think you’re good to go, bud,” Tony says, offering him a small smile.

Peter tries to smile but he thinks it comes out more of a grimace. Tony wraps an arm around his waist and helps him out of the bathroom and back down the hall towards his room at a slow pace. When they walk back into the room, Pepper is throwing a white duvet over his bed and she looks up at them, offering Peter a warm, sympathetic smile.

“How are you feeling, honey?” She asks.

Peter makes a weak sound at the back of his throat as he blinks sluggishly, too tired to form words anymore.

“He’s feeling pretty crappy,” Tony answers for him as he guides him over to the bed and helps him lie down on the clean sheets, which Peter suspects Pepper changed while they were gone.

Despite how out of it he is, Peter feels guilty that she cleaned up after him.

“M’ sorry,” Peter mumbles as he blinks open his eyes as Tony pulls the covers up to his chin. “M’ such a problem.”

Tony frowns as he exchanges a look Peter doesn’t catch with Pepper before he looks back down at him as he sits on the edge of the bed. “No, you’re not,”

Peter shakes his head, feeling tears pricking at his eyes. “I am,” He argues weakly. “Y-You shouldn’t have to deal with me.”

“Peter,” Pepper says as she sits down on the edge of the bed on the other side. “You’re not a problem, honey. You’re sick and you’re tired. We want to help you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Besides, it’s part of the job description.” He says with a small smile.

Peter honestly doesn’t know what he’s done in life to deserve such an amazing and caring family.

“Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?” Tony says as he fixes the blanket around Peter and tucks him in.

“Okay,” Peter mumbles as he blinks up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Feel better, honey,” Pepper says softly as she smoothes a hand over his hair before she stands up and walks out into the hallway.

A spark of fear shoots through Peter as Tony stands up and he thinks he’s about to leave too. “Can you stay?” Peter slurs tiredly.

“Of course I can,” Tony says, the corners of his lips turning up in a small smile as he walks to the other side of the bed and settles against the headrest.

Peter slowly rolls on his side so he’s facing him and wiggles himself up so his head is resting against Tony’s chest, earning a chuckle from him in response.

“Feeling a little cuddly are we?”

“Mhmm…” Peter hums as he closes his eyes, feeling Tony’s hand settle in his hair, hearing the faint, comforting thumping of Tony’s heart against his ear. “T’hnks for taking care of me,” he mumbles sleepily.

“That’s what I’m here for, Pete,” Tony tells him, warmness in his voice as he cards his fingers through Peter’s curls.

[wavesmp3]

before the bucket falls

jeonghan x (female) reader 

requested from sensory prompt #33: the feel of fingertips trailing over a bare shoulder blade genre: study abroad/university au + apocalyptic-ish  wc: 4k warnings: implied nudity i guess, maybe a few curses as well a/n: i apologize that this took me ages to finish, also the bucket list is completed out of order, enjoy!!

(0. Hear That There’s A Week Until The End Of The World)

You hadn’t expected to be so nonchalant when you hear that the world is ending in a week. Hadn’t expected to so readily accept you and your classmates inability to return home from studying abroad for the semester. And you certainly hadn’t expected to sit down with Jeonghan that afternoon (an acquaintance-made-friend in the whirlwind of apocalypse news) to create a list of things to do before the world ends. 

“We’ll start tomorrow,” he declares scribbling one final item on the bucket list before folding the paper and shoving it in his pocket, “and hopefully we finish before the world goes up in flames.” 

(6. Bang On The Hood Of A Car And Say ‘Hey, I’m Walking Here!’)

Your first day before the end of the world begins with you and Jeonghan searching for a car. 

“This one is...” Jeonghan frowns, rereading the sixth item on the bucket list. Looking up, he says, “it was your idea wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Now, get in the car and pretend to almost run me over.” 

Jeonghan complies, starting the car and driving towards you all too slowly. Still, when he gets close enough, you bang on the hood of the car, half-laughing and half-yelling “hey, I’m walking here!” He only laughs at you incredulously. 

You switch after that, you in the car and Jeonghan walking across the street. And this time, when you get close to his figure instead of banging on the hood, you hear a small thud and watch him fall to the floor. You run out of the car shrieking his name only to find him on the ground laughing. 

“I thought-” you exhale, breath hot with a mix of shock and relief, “I thought I actually hit you.” 

Jeonghan doesn’t say a word too busy literally rolling on the floor, clutching his stomach in laughter. And when you shove him, kneeling on the ground and smacking his arm for freaking you out, he only laughs harder. 

(3. Steal Something)

Unsurprisingly, number three on the list is Jeonghan’s idea. You don’t argue, not at first at least. But when you step into the convenience store and begin shoving bags of chips under your shirt and bottles of soda into your bag, you start to feel the small push of your consciousness. 

“Is this a good idea?” You say to Jeonghan who’s deciding which kinds of candy he wants to hide in his pockets. 

“There’s no one even here.” He waves you off pointing at the empty cash register. “So honestly I’m not even convinced if this counts as completing number three.” Deciding on a chocolate bar, he turns on his heel, grabs an extra bottle of juice, and exits the store casually. 

(11. Perform Three Acts Of Kindness) 

You leave some money at the unmanned cash register anyways. “Number eleven,” you say to him when he gives you a look, “it can be our first act of kindness.” He stares at you for a long moment, as if deciding how he should react to your inability to shoplift. You half expect him to walk back into the empty store and take your money from the counter. He doesn’t though. Instead, he smiles, a lopsided one that makes some part of your stomach twist uncomfortably, and laughs towards the ground, his head hanging in a way that makes his bangs fall in front of his eyes. You feel suddenly, almost foolishly, warm. 

“Come,” he beckons, pulling at your sleeve, “let’s eat.”

(10. Eat The Perfect Meal) 

The perfect meal isn’t actually perfect, an odd mix of convenience store snacks and whatever you both had left in your dorms. 

“We should have cooked something ourselves,” Jeonghan mumbles, between a mouthful of chips, “the perfect meal has to be made with love.” 

“It also has to be edible,” you retort, sipping your coffee and recalling your earlier realization that neither you or Jeonghan can cook. 

And it’s after a few more moments of eating away the tenth item on your shared bucket list that he asks, “how do you think it’ll happen?” You look up from your fruit cup. “How do you think the world is gonna end?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, “something big perhaps. An explosion?”

“Or Zombies?” he continues for you, light-heartedly. “Aliens, maybe?” 

And perhaps two days ago, you would’ve laughed at the possibility of the world coming to an end thanks to an alien invasion, but right now, sitting next to Jeonghan with yesterday’s headlines bouncing back and forth in your head, you don’t feel anything but melancholic. And like feet sinking into sand, you realize for the second time since the news came out that you have less than a week left to live. With a hopeless sigh, you say, “I hope that when the world ends, it’s painless.”

And unlike his previous suggestions, there’s nothing light-hearted about the way Jeonghan adds, “something quick.”

(4. Sing A Song Loudly In Public) 

You had wrongly assumed that this particular bucket list item was meant to be a fun and embarrassing karaoke in public sort of thing. But when Jeonghan stands on the ledge of the fountain in the center of the plaza and begins singing, you realize you've created a bucket list with an angel. Or at least, a boy with the voice of one. The plaza isn’t very busy this afternoon, but the few passersby that happen to catch his mini concert erupt in a well-earned applause when the song finishes. 

“You can sing?” You question in disbelief of just how good his voice sounds. 

He shrugs at that, jumping off the ledge in a shy sort of way that doesn’t at all match the kind of guy you pegged Jeonghan to be. “Your turn.” He pushes you towards the ledge. 

You almost fight against the nudge, almost turn around and tell Jeonghan just how tone deaf you are. But when he smiles your way and cheers your name encouragingly, you decide the embarrassment might be worth it. 

It’s not, it turns out. The entire plaza seems to murmur ‘why is she singing?’ the second you open your mouth. And it’s before you even reach the second verse that Jeonghan starts clapping and whooping for you. “Wow!” He exclaims cheerfully. “You suck.” 

You burst into laughter at that, cut your song short, and jump off the ledge grabbing Jeonghan’s hand and running away from the embarrassment with him close behind. 

—

“Where’d you learn how to sing like that?” You finally ask, later than afternoon as you and Jeonghan aimlessly walk along the street. 

He shrugs again, a familiar timidness overwhelming his body, then tells you about the singing lessons he used to take. “It used to be my dream. To become a singer.” 

“Used to?” 

He sucks in his bottom lip. “Things changed I guess.” 

You decide not to prod further. “If you could do anything right now, right before the world ends, what would you do?” 

“Anything?” 

“Anything.” 

He thinks it over for a moment, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. “Hold a concert.” He answers finally. And when you give him a look, a reminder of what he said about things changing, he just smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and mutters something about how dreams die hard. And for the third time today, you’re surprised by how shy Jeonghan gets about his singing and how endearing you find it when he does. 

“What about you?” He returns this question, pushing the attention away from himself. “What would you do?” 

“I’d go home.” You say quietly, hoping the press of sadness that comes with thinking about home doesn’t show in your voice. “See my family once more before the world ends.” And when Jeonghan doesn’t respond or meet your eyes, you laugh, unable to procure a more creative reaction. “It’s kinda lame, isn’t it?” 

“‘No, no.” He says quickly, waving away the suggestion before the words can even settle in the air. “It’s not lame; it’s…” his voice trails off, fingers reaching out in front of him as if he’ll find the right words in the last remaining rays from the sun. His hand drops to the side. Seemingly, giving up on the previous sentence, he says, “Tell me about them. Your family.” 

You’re about to say no. About to change the topic to something a bit lighter. Something that doesn’t force you to think about home and the people that you miss so fiercely and long to see once more. But it’s as the word ‘no’ bubbles in the back of your throat, that you meet Jeonghan’s eyes and find a starling amount of sincerity in them. And when you go looking for your intent to reject the request, you find it’s disappeared altogether. “Okay.” You exhale. “Where should I begin?” 

And so you spend the rest of the day telling Jeonghan about your family, and by the time the sun begins to set, he tells you about his. 

(12. Say Goodbye To Your Family) 

You both decide it’s better to get this part of the list over with. Pulling out your phones and dialing home soon after the sun sets. It’s an odd sort of arrangement, you think to yourself listening to the phone ring, you and Jeonghan sitting on opposite sides of this empty street. “Privacy,” he had told you, walking away from you and taking a seat on the curb, “this way you can cry in private.” 

It’s… bearable at first. You talk to your family, update them on what you’ve been doing since your last call home as if everything is normal, as if they’re expecting another update soon, as if the world isn’t ending in a few days. But the facade that everything is fine comes crashing down the second you hear a noise come from the other side of the road, a mangled sound that rushes all the way from Jeonghan’s mouth to you, banging at your heart and creating a dent between your lungs. And you suppose that if you were a little bit closer and if Jeonghan hadn’t turned around to put his back between him and you, you would’ve heard him sobbing. The thought alone ignites a flame of sadness that emerges from your lips, travels through the phone lines, and ripples across the ocean separating you and your family.

Saying goodbye to your family does not stay bearable for long. 

He finishes the call before you. And when you do finally hang up, it takes ten minutes of calming down before you're in any state to walk across the road and greet Jeonghan for what feels like the first time that night. 

“Can we, uh,” you stop, sniffle, then laugh at the absurdity of this moment, “can we stop here for today.” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, finally standing from the floor. He doesn’t look your way, keeps his eyes trained to the ground while bringing a hand up to wipe at his nose and eyes. “I’ll walk you home.” 

(5. Wish Upon A Star) 

Sleep doesn’t come that night. You spend it tossing and turning in bed, replaying every bit of what was probably your last conversation with your family. At 2 am there’s a knock on your door. Jeonghan stands in the doorway, eyes drooping and blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Yeah,” you say, opening the door and letting him in, “I can’t sleep either.” 

After another moment, he finally says, “have you ever been to the roof?” 

You let him lead the way. 

— 

The night air feels cool against your skin, brushing through your hair and sending a shiver across your skin. You pull your hoodie closer around you before laying down on the roof next to Jeonghan who throws his blanket so that it drapes over both of you. 

“Which one for number five?” He says gesturing to the starry night sky. 

“Number five?” 

“Wish upon a star.” He reminds you. 

You lift your hand and point to one off the center, a bright one that flickers more than the others. “That one.” 

“Okay,” he exhales. You watch the breath leave from his lips. “Make a wish.” 

You do.

“Which star do you think is gonna blow up and cause the end of the world?” He asks, shifting his body and ending up a fraction closer to you. 

“Give me a crash course on all of them and I’ll let you know.”

He does, making up constellations and creating fake names for each one. 

And at some point in his explanation of the origin of each star, his hand finds yours. The cold seems to wither away after that. 

(1. Ride A Motorcycle) 

“Are you sure you know how to ride this thing.” You question for the fifth time that morning, pacing around the moped and Jeonghan who’s sitting impatiently on it. 

“Just get on would you?” He huffs, dropping the extra helmet on your head and pulling you towards the moped. You settle behind him, fixing your helmet and clasping it in place. “You know how to get to the beach right?”

“Yeah, but we just need to make a pit stop somewhere first.” 

“That’s fine. Grab on.”

Ignoring the unevenness of your breath, you wrap your arms around his torso. You try not to think too hard about the way he momentarily tenses up when you do. 

“Ready?”

“Please, don’t kill me on this thing. We’re all dying in a few days-” He doesn’t let you finish, revving the motorcycle and laughing when you scream into his shoulder. 

(11. Perform Three Acts of Kindness) 

“What are we here for?” Jeonghan wonders aloud, his voice echoing in the auditorium. 

“Number 11. Our second act of kindness.” He looks at your quizzingly. “Yesterday you said that if you could do anything before the end of the world, you’d have your own concert. So here,” you hand him a mic and point at the empty stage, “go sing.”

You’ve never seen him run so excitedly. 

(3. Steal Something)

When Jeonghan wrote down ‘steal something’, you definitely hadn’t expected him to coerce you into stealing a house. “This isn’t even stealing. This is trespassing.” You hiss under your breath, looking over your shoulder. “Plus, we already stole from the convenience store.”

“Firstly,” Jeonghan begins, finding an unlocked window to the beach house and cracking the adjacent door open, “you paid the store so that definitely didn’t count. Secondly, trespassing is basically just stealing space. And lastly,” he announces turning around and waving to the open beach house, “this place is gorgeous and free.” 

You peer inside the house and--shit, it is gorgeous. “Fine.” You relent taking a step inside the house. He smiles triumphantly. 

“Come on,” he grabs your hand as soon as you set your things down and starts pulling you towards the beach, “time for number two.”

(2. Send A Message In A Bottle) 

“Who should we write to?”

“A friend?”

“An ex?” He grimaces at the suggestion.

“How about ourselves 10 years ago.”

You consider it. “Or what about,” you start tapping a finger against your chin, “ourselves 10 years from now.” He gives you a wary look. “Just in case this whole thing turns out to be a hoax.”

“Do you believe that?” he asks quietly. 

You bite your lip. “Not really, no.”

“To myself,” Jeonghan scribbles on the paper, “ten years from now.” 

And when you're both done with the letters, you fit them inside empty beer bottles and let the waves take them. 

Inhaling the salty ocean scent, you watch the bottles float.

“This moment would feel a lot better if I didn’t feel like we just made marine pollution worse.”

(9. Go Skinny Dipping) 

The water is freezing, cold against your bare skin and lapping by your shivering mouth. 

“It’s not that cold.” Jeonghan laughs, splashing sea water in your face. 

You splash him back. “For you maybe.” 

“Tell me a secret.” He says suddenly, stopping and treading the water in front of you. 

You think for a minute before answering. “I really like it when you sing.”

“That’s not a secret; it’s a confession.” He complains, flapping his hands in the water. With a teasing smirk, he adds, “next you’ll confess your undying love for me as well.” 

You laugh, sort of, swallowing salt water in the movement and choking on the sudden intake. 

Clearing your throat, you say, “give me an example of a good secret then.” 

“Okay,” he hums, biting his lip and swimming closer towards you until your knees awkwardly bump into each other. You swallow at the proximity. “I’ve never been in love.”

“Never?”

He shakes his head. “Have you?”

“Once.” Something in your stomach turns. “Or at least I thought I was in love.”

“And what do you think now?”

You meet his eyes. They look strangely hopeful. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

His hand comes up, fingers trailing over your shoulder blade and lingering right above your collarbone. You shiver. 

“Still cold?” He whispers. 

No, you think, but your head nods ‘yes’ before the word comes out. 

He swims back to shore. And soon after, you follow. 

(13. Fall In Love) 

You finish showering before Jeonghan, coming down the stairs of your stolen beach house and taking a seat on the stolen (but comfortable) couch. You look for the bucket list to cross out skinny dipping for him. And when you find the folded list in a pocket of Jeonghan’s bag, you realize that this is your first time seeing it since the night of its creation. You read over it carefully. 

1. ride a motorcycle 2. send a message in a bottle 3. steal something  4. sing a song loudly in public 5. wish upon a star 6. bang on the hood of a car and say ‘hey, i’m walking here!’ 7. watch the sunrise  8. watch the sunset 9. go skinny dipping 10. eat the perfect meal 11. perform three acts of kindness 12. say goodbye to our families 

And under the twelve that you and Jeonghan made together is another, additional bucket list item. Written in a different color pen and in his messy handwriting is:

13. get her to fall in love with me

“That shower felt so good.” Jeonghan’s voice comes traveling down the stairs. “I found sand in-” he stops, halts at the end of the banister upon seeing the paper between your hands. 

“What do you mean ‘get her to fall in love with me’?” You gulp, holding up the list. 

“Oh, that,” he laughs, awkwardly, slowly walking towards you, then stopping halfway as if he’s made a mistake, “I added it after you left that night. And, well, yeah.”

You stand up and go to him, meeting him halfway across the living room. “Jeonghan I-” you lose grasp of what you’re going to say next and elect to stare at him instead, studying the drop of water that falls from a strand of hair to his face. Decide instead to study the flutter of his lashes and the way his gaze darts between your eyes and your lips. He inhales. “Oh, fuck it.” you mutter finally, grabbing the collar of his tshirt and kissing him. 

It takes a second for Jeonghan to react, too long your brain convinces you already beginning to pull your face away. But it’s as your lips leave his, that they crash together again, him pulling at your hips stumbling backwards until you knock your head against the wall, bodies flush. You wrap your arms around his neck, tangle your fingers through his wet hair. There’s a moan, you can’t be sure which one of you it comes from, but the sound of it has you feeling weak somewhere, everywhere. 

“Upstairs,” you pant, when he pulls away for the smallest of seconds.

“Are you,” he pauses, lips hovering in front of yours and breath heavy against your skin, “are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” you smile, noticing the flush in his face, glad he's just as affected, “I mean it’s on the bucket list.” 

Jeonghan happily complies. 

(7. Watch The Sunrise) 

You both watch it in bed, from a window that seems to capture it perfectly. 

“It’s pretty,” he states, holding a hand up in a straggling ray and watching it turn gold in the light. 

“Only a few more left.” 

(8. Watch The Sunset) 

You watch it on the beach with a stolen towel from the stolen house under you. It’s beautiful really. A mesh of blues, pinks, orange, and purple. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunset like this one,” you say inhaling the salty scent of the sea that lingers on your arms and legs and hands. 

Jeonghan hums, absentmindedly enough for you to turn around to look at him laying on his back and playing with a loose strand from your hoodie instead. 

“We can’t cross it off if you don’t actually watch it.” You tell him, finding his hand in yours and pressing a kiss to the back of it. 

He shrugs. “I’ve seen enough sunsets.” 

(11. Perform Three Acts Of Kindness) 

“Last item,” Jeonghan murmurs one day, settling into bed next to you, “one final act of kindness.” 

You poke at his chest. “What do you have planned for it?” 

“This.” He says, pulling out a small slip of paper. You sit up. “I bought you a ticket.” 

It takes you longer than it should to realize it’s a plane ticket home. 

“How and when did you…” your voice drops away, the logical questions slipping off your tongue when you make a new realization. “There’s only one ticket.” 

“Listen,” he starts, turning to face you properly. “I think you should take it.”

“No,” you refuse, shaking your head. He takes your face between your palms forcing you to stop and pay attention. 

“Go home and see your family. That’s what you told me you’d do before the world ends.” He hesitates, releasing your face and taking your hands in his. Something feels entirely wrong when he starts to rub small circles into the back of them. “You only have a few days left. So go home. Say goodbye to me instead.” 

“Things change,” you say a little too harshly, regurgitating what he told you earlier this week. “And I don’t know if I can go anymore.” You sputter out just barely, voice feeling suddenly course against your vocal chords, but what you mean to say is: I don’t know if I can go without you. “And besides,” you stress, putting the ticket back in his lap, “you can’t make me go.” 

“Don’t you see,” he chuckles, a small, quiet sound that has no business making you feel as warm as it does, “I’m not making you go,” he meets your eyes again, and for some reason, you can’t seem to shake the feeling that this is the last time you’ll see them like this, “I’m asking you to.” 

[writeblrfantasy]

born from the prologue of the way of kings, some old school supernatural inspiration, and my entry into the hannibal fandom, i give you cyril's hell! all the characters in this are gods of actium state and urkon, and this happens well before acogs takes place. nikolai and katya tell this story over the fire over the course of the book. it's a mythology story.

cw blood, very vague descriptions of pain and torture and injuries, everything you can think of about someone being tortured in hell basically

word count about 7000

thank you guys for all the love on the summer of seret ashling, it definitely inspired me to write another short. i love writing shorts--you get the serotonin from finishing a wip and seeing people's reactions to it much faster. lower stakes. i have plans to write many more :)

enjoy! <3

Cyril wakes to burning pinpricks of agony seared into his arms. Unfortunately, this is perfectly normal.

The ghost of Alabaster’s laugh echoes in his ears, slowly fading out, but never completely. He never leaves Cyril alone, whether he’s sleeping—if you can call it that—or widely, excruciatingly awake. He’s dropped Cyril back in what has become his home, a room brightly lit with distant fire and a musical background consisting of the screams of the damned.

This place, out of all, is probably the safest for him, despite the metal piercing his arms, the chains connecting him to the ceiling. His arms went numb from the angle minutes ago. He tries not to jostle them, as well as his collection of new wounds, only healed enough not to kill him.

What does Cyril have to do to prove he knows he can't escape?

It’s not about that, he knows.

Alabaster's hell is more than pain, more than agony. It transcends anything Cyril has ever experienced, and yet every week Alabaster finds ways to show him something else new.

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Alabaster’s cologne lingers on Cyril’s skin, one more layer of invisible pain. The worst thing is perhaps how he’s unable to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. It only takes minutes after Alabaster deposits him back in here for his whole body to become soaked again.

Cyril naively thought, when Alabaster first brought him here, that it wouldn’t be so bad. That everything he’d be made to endure would be softened or cushioned in some way, more about drama than actual pain.

How wrong he was.

Alabaster, or perhaps just his own mind, has trained him to be relieved when he comes to unlock Cyril’s door every week. Freedom, he thinks, respite from the endless heat and sweat and reprieve for his aching arms. For the first few seconds, Alabaster’s smile looks pleasant. He’s undoubtedly excited to see Cyril, but Cyril somehow manages to forget every single time that smile means nothing good for him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alabaster always says, in such a familiar tone it’s imprinted in Cyril’s dreams. “Let’s go.”

Reprieve turns into regret quickly.

Cyril has learned how to manage this, somewhat. Stay very still, don’t trigger anything, don’t tense up, try to sleep. Doing nothing but sleep for the whole week until Alabaster comes still won’t do enough, but in sleep, he has relief for a bit longer, a chance to see Damokles’ face again.

Tonight, when he closes his eyes, it’s not just Damokles’ kind eyes waiting for him, it’s Thea’s dark ones, clearer than usual, almost like they’re calling out for him.

He opens them and jostles himself a bit by accident, groaning in agony. He searches the shadows in the corner of the room for her face, and he could’ve sworn—

There’s nothing there but the sweat in his eyes.

***

As he drifts through sleep and wakefulness, Thea’s dark eyes return to him. He sees flashes of her through the haze of flames and screams, a striking dark clarity and a sense of peace.

The days just before Alabaster collects him are the worst. He finally has his strength back, or as he much as is possible down here, and it’s a new kind of agony to feel so glorious the day before his feet will be knocked out from under him. In the early days, when he still believed he could sway Alabaster by repetition alone, that if he begged just enough, Alabaster might listen, he pled to be left alone for just one more week.

“Not this time,” he’d sob, back when he still sobbed, when he gave Alabaster the pleasure of savoring his carefully crafted creation. Let him see, let him have it, he once thought. If he gave Alabaster what he wanted, he’d get a reward, because that’s how fair people work. All it did was make Alabaster hungry for more of his tears.

“Thea?” he whispers, low, as he swears her face appears in the shadows again. She’s exquisite, and she’s not real. if he’s not just seeing things, she’s one of Alabaster’s new experiments designed to drive him out of his mind.

Cyril will not fall for it.

“Thea?” he asks, still, hopeful and naïve despite everything.

The darkness in the corner moves, too clear to be a product of the shadows cast by the flames. Cyril stands straight so that his feet are supporting his weight instead of his arms, alleviating the perpetual ache in his back for a precious moment.

Theadora, in all her glory, walks out of the corner, dripping darkness and shade. Her long dark hair flows behind her, and her skin shines under the straps of her long dress. She doesn’t seem to walk on solid ground—her feet and the bottom of her black dress melt into shadows before his eyes.

Cyril loses his breath. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Most wonderfully of all, she’s clean, her face free of sweat and her arms free of blood and age old wounds.

She rushes over to him immediately, cupping his pale, ashen face in her dark hands. “Cyril,” she whispers, perhaps afraid of disturbing nonexistent peace. Cyril would be more afraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs as she presses their foreheads together. She smells like their garden in the clouds, sweet and fresh, not a trace of smoke anywhere on her. She kisses him, and Cyril melts into it like liquid, imagining he can sip freezing water from her lips. She’s so refreshingly cold. Her heart is the only part of her that’s warm, and pleasantly so. It burns for him.

“He fabricated you to taunt me with for his pleasure. You’ll be gone in a moment, and I’ll be screaming for you because I still haven’t learned after all this time, and in a few days he’ll come in to see the results.”

“No. Cyril, I am real.” She touches one of his hands, clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it but knowing the ramifications. The way she stares at the chains holding him to the ceiling makes him shiver. He’s almost forgotten any type of power existed other than hot, burning, prodding pain.

How he’s missed the icy power of the moon.

“I am here to get you out,” she insists. He closes his eyes—they’re the words he’s dreamed of thousands of times, exactly in her sweet, desperate voice, but it’s too good. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see Alabaster’s grin in Thea’s eyes.

“You can only open the door from the inside, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you in,” he argues. Anything else pleasant would tear him apart when it inevitably crumbles down on him. “You—you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

“Of course.” She brings out a jug and raises it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the water sweet and cold, probably from the Pelia, her favorite. He doesn't care if it's poisoned.

Her silver bracelets sparkle in the firelight, and his eyes follow her fingers as she wipes the swipe off his face with a velvet cloth. He jerks his hands towards her as she begins to pull away on instinct, remembering his chains with a sigh. She’s still close enough for him to press his lips to her dark wrist, light as a feather.

He jerks again when something wet hits him, but his heart lurches when he looks up and sees that it’s her tears. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire lining the walls and the distant screams of Alabaster’s victims.

Cyril has never wanted his hands back as much as he does now. He wants to wrap his arms around her, whisper assurances in her ear like he used to when she grew worried. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in the hollow his neck, crying quietly. The slight twinge of pain her salty tears bring to his hundreds of wounds old and new is more than worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

She gathers herself enough to say, “What? Why?”

“I’m sorry for getting caught. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been smarter, shouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, I knew what would happen—”

For a moment he's back in that seedy human tavern with both of them, intrigued but not alarmed by Alabaster's sudden presence and mischievous grin. What a fool he was to let Alabaster take him outside. Before he knew it, he was here.

“I would slap you," Thea says. "This is no one’s fault but Alabaster’s.”

He raises his eyes and smiles at her through his lashes. Thea makes him feel young again, as free and painless as if he’d never been dragged down here.

She pulls back, dries her eyes, and says steadily, “Me and Damokles have been waiting outside the door every night. Alabaster has been greedy, going out more often to collect new victims. He’s been careless. He leaves the door open enough for me to slip in through the darkness. He’s bright enough to take up all the light, he doesn’t notice me.”

Cyril’s heart pounds. Damokles. He resists temptation to ask about him—Thea would tell him if something was amiss with him—and instead asks, “How long have you been trying to get in here?”

“Too long. I’ve only been able to set foot inside some of his maze before he comes back or locks the door. This place is convoluted.” She swallows. “Do you even know where you are?”

He doesn’t care about where he is, he cares that she is actually starting to sound real, which is the worse option. If she’s just Alabaster’s creation, she’ll be ripped away from him. if she’s real, she’ll be ripped away from him when Alabaster discovers them together, and that will hurt ten times as much.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “The eighth ring of hell. I’ve been through them all. The misconception is that each gets worse the further up you go, but that’s not true. Each sector of hell is just as bad as the last, just in different ways.” He licks his lips.

“Alabaster has spared nothing spared nothing in my tour of his domain. He’s shown me every piece of what he calls art. I have become so intimately familiar with the beauty of hell, the beauty of pain, the purity of it. He says it reduces us to our most basic needs again, tears down our walls and erases our dignity. He loves watching the change.”

Her mouth drops open. “He—” A distant creak draws her eye, whipping her hair into his eyes.

“That’s nothing,” he says. “I hear that ten times a day.”

“Nothing for you, maybe. That’s the sound of Alabaster opening the door.”

“Really? It’s that quiet? That’s a bit anti-climactic.”

She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door. “I need to go.”

“No,” he says, rattling his chains, which is more likely to draw Alabaster than their voices. He seems to have a sense for when Cyril is struggling or in pain more than when he’s talking to himself. “Please. Don’t leave. I won’t survive it.”

I won’t survive it? He’s survived far more corporeal pain than Thea’s absence. Moreover, where is this panic coming from?

“I’m sorry,” she echoes—now she’s the one with nothing to apologize for. The last thing he wants is her getting trapped down here too. He’d sooner endure everything Alabaster has done to him again than let him touch her. “I’ll be back, I swear. Damokles and I miss you more than you know.” She feeds him the rest of the water and kisses him one more time, a break from the endless heat. He takes it greedily. He’ll take everything he can get.

“That one’s from him,” she says, longing eyes raking him over one last time, before disappearing into the shadows of the corner. He knows she’s gone—the flames flicker, almost going out, before returning in full force. The sweat she wiped away from his forehead returns quicker than he would’ve liked, but at least Alabaster doesn’t come running.

***

“Hello, beautiful. Let’s go.”

Alabaster sweeps into the room in a ray of light blocking out the darkness of the hallway behind him. The clank his lantern makes when he sets it on the floor is a noise Cyril hears in his dreams.

Cyril stopped speaking to him long ago, and he ignores Alabaster while he reaches up, spreading his sweet smell everywhere, to free his arms. Through gritted teeth and a stifled shout, he lowers them, resisting the familiar temptation to shake them out.

“You know you don’t have to hide your sounds,” Alabaster says. “They’re like music to me, the finest lutes and cellos all at once.”

“That’s exactly why I do.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in a week, and his voice is hoarse and dry with thirst and underuse. “No water this time?”

“I have something better.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

Alabaster grins, showing sharp white canines, running a hand through white blond hair. He’s always chosen a wickedly tall body with long, pale fingers, skinny as a stick. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt under his brown waistcoat are always rolled up above his elbows, ready at a moment’s notice to get elbow deep. Black trousers are always stainless and black shoes are always shined perfectly.

He never wears a hint of the filth that lives in his mind, the grime that’s often under his fingernails. The only light he gets is that of the flames—he’d never go near Cyril’s sun if he could help it, just in case it might hurt him. He only leaves to draw in more victims, never under Thea’s moonlight. Cyril has been around him long enough to know that he’s not invincible, not mentally, at least. He does have fears.

To be fair, Cyril can’t think of many who wouldn’t be terrified of Theadora.

Alabaster rests a hand on his lower back as he escorts him out of his little room; Cyril jerks out of the way.

Alabaster is a whole head and slim shoulders above him, and Cyril hates having to look up at him, but his power on this place prevents Cyril from changing his own appearance. He’s been stuck with white skin, plain blond hair and sea blue eyes for however long he’s been down here, a short body with a bit of fabricated muscle—Thea liked that. He hasn't seen his own shirt since he got here, and his pants are somehow still clean.

Gods don't need to eat, so Alabaster never feeds him. Just one more pleasure he can deprive Cyril of.

After this, when he gets out, because there will be a when, Thea will come back—he’ll never be able to stomach wearing a toned body again. Perhaps the strength Cyril gave himself improved his endurance a little bit, but he stopped counting his blessings long ago.

He and the others are the ones who give the blessings. They shouldn’t be able to take them from each other, but Alabaster has taught him with not just words that anything can be broken if you try long enough, human or god.

The only thing Alabaster doesn’t have control of down here is his eyes, orange like his flames. Every master of hell has to don them while they’re down here.

The orange glows and dispels all hints of innocent gold. That gold fades every time Alabaster sets foot here in his heaven, and returns when he mingles with normal humans, enticing them with his beauty to follow him to the point of no return.

“So,” Alabaster drawls as they walk out of Cyril’s little prison room into the darkness of the hall together, the screams louder and everything dirtier, “you’re in a rather good mood.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re glowing. I work hard to make sure no one glows except me.”

Cyril rolls his eyes. Let Alabaster psychoanalyze him all he wants, that won’t change the fact that for the first time, Cyril has hope built on fact. Hope is something Alabaster can beat out of him, but not if he doesn’t know why Cyril has it, and he’s already exhausted the Thea-and-Damokles-aren’t-coming-to-save-you angle. It’s a novelty now.

Alabaster shepherds him to a room Cyril could easily find on his own now, hell’s elevator, or as Alabaster likes to call it, the hellevator. The box of iron bars is decorated with skulls. Cyril started naming them a while ago to occupy his mind. Tiana stares down at him from the top corner, Alis from the outside looking in.

He waves at them. Alabaster doesn’t keep him in chains outside his room, since there’s no hope of him escaping hell. Only the master of hell can open the door, and only from the inside.

The elevator takes off with a lurch that knocks Cyril backward. It's nothing more than a cage, and no more stable, but Alabaster is convinced of his own invincibility, that nothing will ever befall him in his own domain. Cyril is determined to prove him wrong.

As the elevator finally stops, he lands with another lurch that ends with him face first in the filthy ground. It’s far from the first time, and he picks himself up with what dignity he has left while Alabaster strides out upright.

Alabaster brings him past room after room, cell after cell of unfortunate people like him who have endured Alabaster’s abuse like him. They stop in front of a pair of bone decorated double doors that stretch up toward the sky, shadows licking at the walls. Screams seem to come from within, or perhaps that’s just Cyril’s mind.

The doors open slowly, apparently triggered by Alabaster’s presence. “Welcome to my newest creation,” Alabaster says with a grin, spreading his arms. The room is large and shiny and new, not yet tainted with bloodstains and misery. Cyril is here to break it in.

Cyril lays on the table where Alabaster asks him to, doesn’t try to run. He’s tried, so many times. It gets him nowhere. It’s easier just to submit.

Alabaster probably likes this best. Not the physical pain, the scars, the blood, but rather watching all the joy and hope fade from Cyril’s eyes.

Alabaster loves nothing more than inflicting pain, but he has too many unwilling participants to get to. He only personally tends to a handful of his favorites, but he’s made it abundantly clear that Cyril is his ultimate favorite. “I’ve managed to capture a god,” he said when Cyril asked. “An equal. How could I not treasure that? I will find time to visit you personally every week however long as I keep interest in you.”

Alabaster will never lose interest.

What gets Cyril through it this day is the memory of Thea’s icy hands on him, her tear filled kiss, her promising words. Hope. Hope will get you killed here, or it can sustain you if you’re lucky. If you hide it well enough.

Hope is the memory of the natural warmth of his sun on his chest instead of the harsh heat of hellfire. He thinks of one day in particular, laying in a field north of Actium, flowers arranged in his hair by Thea, the wind threatening to blow them away while Damokles’ fingers carded mindlessly through it.

They had so few worries, then. They are gods, what do they have to worry about? They are eternal. Nothing can hurt them but themselves and each other.

The irony of that, as Alabaster does what he does best, is striking.

***

The next time Thea visits, she brings Damokles.

Damokles has no control over the shadows, the darkness, hell, and especially not keeping silent, so Cyril doesn’t know how Thea managed to sneak him in, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that in seconds, Cyril has Damokles wrapped around him for the first time in who knows how long.

Thea stands to the side, her eyes brimming with tears but letting a weeping Damokles have his moment. Not much except pain can bring Cyril to tears, but the deep, chest wracking sobs Damokles lets out nearly do. “Oh, Cyril,” he cries, clearly unafraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention the way Thea was. “Sweet, sweet Cyril. My love. What has he done to you? I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Cyril smiles. “I’ve always loved your passion, but I think Thea’s iciness will be more lethal. You are nothing but fire, and while it is beautiful, Alabaster revels in it. Is resistant to it.” He looks over Damokles’ shoulder at her, the way she crosses her arms and passively admires them both.

“Fair enough.” Damokles kisses him with salty tears trapped between them, igniting the fresh wounds on Cyril’s face, but it doesn’t matter. His lips stretch his wounded cheeks into a stinging smile.

“Cyril, have you seen yourself?”

His smile fades. “No. Why?”

Damokles slicks back his black hair with his hand, and Cyril gets to admire the way the firelight dances off his olive skin. Cyril has a love hate relationship with the flames and the light they paint onto his lovers’ faces.

“Thea, can you get him a mirror?” Damokles asks, now decidedly not looking at him. Cyril’s heart begins to sink.

“I’m ugly to you now?” he asks quietly.

“No, no,” Damokles predictably says, cupping his cheeks. “Nothing could ever make you ugly in my eyes, or hers.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Damokles.”

Thea passes Damokles a mirror, who holds it up in front of Cyril’s face.

The sight there takes his breath away.

Alabaster never gave him a mirror down here, ever, and for good reason. What has to be months and months, maybe even years of abuse and torture is shown on his face in lines of scars like claw marks. There’s an x over his right eye—he doesn’t even remember that one. What Alabaster does to him sometimes bleeds into mindless waves of pain.

“Tilt it down,” he breaths in a voice deep and full of grief that’s not his own. Thea takes in a sharp breath, and Damokles searches his face uncertainly before complying.

Cyril has never been vain about his looks—how could he when he could just change them anytime? But Alabaster’s hell is different. He can’t just wave away his scars. Anything etched into his skin down here will remain, which is probably why Alabaster has been so thorough in marking him.

The first time Alabaster brought him out of his little prison room, freed him from his chains, Cyril attacked him. Alabaster would’ve hurt him regardless, but the fire in his eyes increased after he pried Cyril’s hands from around his neck. He gave Cyril his first scar, a slash across his palm that cut deep and bled deeper. Before Alabaster put him back in chains, which effectively cut off his powers, Cyril tried to heal himself. Alabaster’s laugh afterwards still haunts him.

“That won’t work,” he said, smiling. “Hell’s scars cut deeper. They can’t be wiped away by anyone but me. I am going to enjoy making a canvas out of you, beautiful.”

Cyril spat in his face, but that didn’t change the outcome. Now, Alabaster’s masterpiece is unveiled to him for the first time. The body looking back at him in the mirror is unrecognizable in its horrors, faded pink lines wrapping around his torso like a rope, a collection of slashes over his heart, one long cut from his jaw to his collarbone.

He remembers that one, remembers wondering how it didn’t kill him. Of course, Alabaster would never let him die. He has utter control of every piece of matter in every circle of hell, from the worst torture rooms at the top, to the sixth ring where Cyril’s prison lies, to the door leading to the outside world at the bottom.

Cyril is strangely fascinated by his new appearance. A wave of panic that he’s stuck with this now washes over him, but he stubbornly pushes it back. He’s survived so much worse than vanity.

“Please, be honest,” he begs, hanging his head, letting his arms hold his weight like he does when he’s alone. “You truly don’t think differently of me?”

Thea and Damokles are silent for a long time, exchanging uncertain glances, which does nothing good for Cyril’s esteem. Finally Damokles turns to him and says, shaky and angry, “Of course I view you differently. I view you as someone who’s gone through pain and horrors I can’t even imagine, with scars he would probably love to get rid of but can’t. Cyril, I’m pissed.”

Cyril swallows. Thea murmurs Damokles’ name and lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. Damokles never hides his emotions. There isn’t enough space within him to contain everything he feels—it’s the reason every human looks to him for guidance with the head and the heart.

“I’m pissed that Alabaster did this, more pissed than I could ever express. I’m a little pissed at you for not being pissed at us, for thinking we’d ever abandon you, that we haven’t been trying to find you. Don’t deny it, I know that look on your face. Most of all, I’m pissed that we took so long to get here. I’m pissed at myself for not doing more.”

He pushes his hair back again, long curls always falling into his eyes, and seems to get some of his sense back. “Thea will attest that she had to hold me back every time we watched Alabaster leave hell. I could barely keep my hands to myself, I wanted them around his pale little throat. His unmarred, unscarred throat.” Damokles’ fists clench. Cyril shivers under the burning rage in both their eyes, boiling—or in Thea’s case, freezing—just under the surface.

“Cyril, you are the bravest thing I’ve known. I love you. Nothing could ever change that. How could I ever be anything but horrified for you?”

“I don’t want you to be horrified,” Cyril says. “I want you to treat me the same way you always have. I just want to go back to how things were before I was abducted.”

Thea’s sad eyes tell him what he already knows: things will never be the same again. But Cyril can shut his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back in the field under the sun with Thea’s flowers and Damokles’ fingers in his hair.

“Can you hang in here just one more week?” Damokles asks. “We’ll get you out. I have a plan.”

Cyril’s eyes dart to Thea, raising an eyebrow. She’s staring at Damokles like she’s never seen him before.

Cyril swallows all his questions and nods. “Okay. I trust you.”

Damokles breaks into a blinding white grin and kisses him again, sweet and hot in the way Cyril needs. Thea is wonderful, and sometimes is the break from reality he needs, but Damokles is the dose of truth no one else will tell him.

Thea’s icy kiss comes next, with both of them their arms around him to follow. “When you’re out and completely free of pain,” Damokles says, a promise burning in his eyes, “I’ll show you exactly what I think of your scars.” Thea hits his arm, calls him inappropriate, but Cyril’s grin reassures them both.

They disappear into the shadows, Damokles holding tightly to Thea’s arm. The heat of the flames doesn’t feel so intense, now. When Alabaster comes the following week, Cyril is almost grinning, and no question Alabaster poses in between cuts and bruises can make him give them up.

***

It’s not Alabaster’s abuse or declining sanity that will kill him, it’s the anticipation, the waiting. When Thea and Damokles finally melt out of the shadows, after an eternity of waiting, Cyril’s stomach is in knots. Even stranger, both of them are empty handed.

“How are we going to get me out of here if you have nothing to do so?” Cyril demands before noticing the expressions on their faces. Damokles’ mouth is set in a grim line, and he tries to force a smile that just doesn’t stick. He’s uptight and determined about something, or, more accurately, stubborn.

Thea is furious. She’s perfectly composed and neat as always, but her fists are clenched and the air in the room is more frigid than usual. Cyril isn’t complaining about the latter, but they’re obviously withholding information. “What’s going on?”

“We’re here to get you out, like we promised,” Thea says in a far stiffer tone than he pictured her saying those words, glaring at Damokles’ back. Cyril has tried getting her to budge when she shuts herself off before, and it’s a fruitless effort, so he doesn’t even try now. He’s always been the calm force keeping those two storms from destroying each other. Without him there to separate them, who knows what they’ve gotten up to.

“And how are you going to do that?” Cyril asks again, shaking his chains. “Only Alabaster can get me out of these.”

“Oh, love, is that what he’s been telling you all this time?” Damokles asks with the pain of the heartbroken. “We can’t open the doors of hell, we can’t remove your scars, but gods have more influence in hell than you would think.”

Cyril’s blood begins boiling just under his skin. “Are you telling me I could’ve freed myself somehow this whole time?”

“No, those chains are as anti-god as I’ve ever seen. We didn’t free you before because we didn’t know—we just found this week—but it’s probably a good idea we didn’t. I would’ve hated causing you the pain of replacing them before Alabastard got back.” Damokles closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. The fire flutters in the room, and a pop of air follows.

The breath is knocked out of Cyril as the chains abruptly break and drop his arms from the ceiling. Much like the elevator, he falls to his knees with the force of it. Thea is there immediately to hug him while Damokles deals with the noise of the chains. Cyril leaves the possibility of Alabaster in their hands, they’re not stupid. He allows himself to bury his face in her neck and shake, weak with relief.

“It’s okay now,” she murmurs into his hair. “You’re going to see your sun again soon. My moon.”

He begins quietly sobbing.

He told himself, all the times he foolishly dreamt of freedom only for Alabaster to drive the dream out of him, that he wouldn’t cry. He’d stay strong, he’d pretend he was fine. Damokles and Thea are too perceptive, too sensitive, he didn’t want to upset them any more than he knew they would be.

So much for that.

“Please,” he begs, a word he’s used so much, but never like this. He’s shaking all over, bleeding from his lip, bleeding inside, burning. He’s always burning, always bleeding, always pleading. Alabaster thrives on it. “Help me. Get me out of this place. Can't you just take me out through the shadows?”

“We will get you out,” she says shakily, dodging the question, cradling the back of his sweaty, bloody head against her. She’s on the verge of tears. Damokles drops to the floor to join the pile, wrapping chiseled arms around them both. They sit there in silence for a moment, grieving and celebrating and fearing and hoping. Cyril’s heart is so full of love for both of them he could burst.

“What about Alabaster?” Cyril has to ask at last. They can’t avoid him forever.

Damokles stands and suddenly shouts, “Alabaster! Come out, you bastard. Face us.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Cyril hisses, but Thea holds him down. "Let's just go out through the shadows." He'll leave Alabaster behind, he'll leave it all behind without revenge if it means he can just be safe.

“He’s an idiot,” she says, “but you have to trust him. He has a plan.”

“I know how hell works, Thea. I know the limits of Damokles’ stupidity.”

She just cradles him closer. He should've known Damokles wouldn't be able to leave without revenge.

After a few minutes of nothing, a great rumble begins shaking the room. If Cyril still hides his head in Thea’s neck, who’s to judge?

Alabaster has never made a dramatic entrance like this before, which must mean Damokles is onto something.

Cyril hears the moment Alabaster enters the room, firm boots on stone, Thea’s inhale. Cyril raises his head and sees Damokles standing tall and strong, his favorite handmade sword stashed somewhere else. It wouldn’t do anything against a god—Thea begged him not to include that in the list of things it could slice through like bread, and he loved her enough to agree.

Quick as Thea’s lightning, Damokles lunges forward and wraps his arms around Alabaster from behind. He is the patron of soldiers for a reason, his strength is unmatched, his grip sure. Alabaster struggles to no avail.

Cyril studies the contrast in them with pleasure. Damokles meets his eyes, panting, and smirks. Alabaster isn’t struggling, bucking Damokles off like he did so easily with Cyril. Perhaps it’s Damokles’ natural strength, maybe Alabaster is more afraid of him than Cyril.

“Oh, Alabaster,” Cyril says, smiling. “You spent so long trying to teach me the beauty of your ways, but you never believed I’d start agreeing with you. Well, here you go.” He raises his arms, trying to hide a wince and stifle a groan of pain. Thea’s hands on his waist help steady him—though that might just be her calming powers. “Here is the result of your hard work in all its glory. Are you happy now?”

Alabaster looks at him through long, pale eyelashes. He manages a manic grin through the grimace breaking out on his face, licking the sweat off of his lip. He’s blinking and flicking his hair like that will do anything about the sweat. Cyril is looking forward to watching him realize nothing will work.

“This won’t work,” Alabaster says. “Keep me as long as you want, but you’ll never leave. Only the master of hell can open the door, and from the inside, and I swear I’ll never open it for you as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re not going to be the master of hell much longer,” Damokles says, lowering Alabaster to his knees in front of him, hands held behind his back. His eyes meet a breathless Cyril’s. “Shall I place him in your hooks?”

Cyril, open mouthed, is speechless even for that question. He can only manage a small shake of the head. “Keep him low, where he belongs. Don’t give him the dignity of meeting your eyes.”

Damokles nods in approval. Thea helps Cyril to his feet to avoid that exact issue, and Damokles ties Alabaster’s hands more securely with some rope. “What the hell do you mean?” Cyril asks.

Damokles meets his eyes without fear, a dark, intense stare. “I mean, I’m going to kill Alabaster and take his place.”

The whole room freezes. Even the fire seems to still.

Cyril looks at Thea for help, but her arms are crossed and her face set in that same muted furious expression she arrived with. He understands the fierce determination in Damokles’ eyes now.

“You’re not.”

“I will. That bastard doesn’t deserve to live, and you two deserve to get out.”

“Why can’t you just take both of us through with your shadows?” Cyril demands of Thea.

She’s crying now, silent and strong, even with her cheeks shiny and wet. “The moment Alabaster places his mark on someone, like a scar, they are bound to this place and its rules. No shadows for you.”

“Not even after his death?”

She shakes her head and squeezes his waist. “I tried so hard to talk him out of it,” she says, gesturing to Damokles. “His mind can’t be changed.”

“Damokles, no,” Cyril says. This can’t be real. “Don’t do this to us. I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Damokles says, his own eyes shining. He’s smiling, though. “If we could, I would have you kill him.”

Cyril breathes out. “I don’t want you to get trapped down here! At least, uh”—he rubs his forehead— “you be the master only until Thea and I can find someone to take your place. We’ll find a way to do it without you having to be killed.”

“You would involve a human in this mess? An innocent?”

“I won’t lose you.”

“It’ll be preferable to what you went through,” Damokles counters, though Cyril sees his hands trembling. Cyril’s lower lip begins trembling.

“I’m not sure it will be,” he chokes out. “You’ll be without the physical pain. The rest is the same. I never had to manage the eight rings of hell.”

Damokles shakes his head, turning his eyes back to his prey. He sighs, then his hands are moving.

“Damokles, no!” Cyril yells. Thea’s hands hold him back, but it’s too late—rather, Damokles ignores him. He wrenches Alabaster’s head to the side with a crunch as satisfying as it is agonizing to watch. Thea squeezes his hand and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as Alabaster’s pale head falls limp.

The room begins shaking again. Thea falls to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground, Cyril is rooted to the spot. Damokles stands tall and breathes in, embracing his new role. When he opens his eyes, they’re bright, flame orange.

“You idiot,” Cyril hisses, shoving him back. “You didn’t give me any time to input. You never think. We could’ve worn him down in one of the hundreds of rooms alone I was sent to. We could’ve gotten our revenge and our freedom. Instead, you decided to become the master of hell instead. We’re split up again.”

“Better me than you.” Damokles yanks open the door of Cyril’s little room and walking with purpose. Cyril follows him. “Tell me where the door to this place is. I don’t know this place from the inside yet.”

“West,” Cyril says automatically, then curses himself. “You can’t just leave with us. Too long away and you’ll start to wither away, and I’m not coming back here if I can help it. This isn’t a solution. Far from it.”

“Hell no you’re not coming back here. Never again, for you.” Damokles takes a deep breath as Cyril guides him to the elevator. Thea is hot on their heels, shadows licking the ground. “Cyril, I did this because I love you and Thea more than I’ve ever loved anything. I would set fire to our Actium in a day if it meant protecting you. I didn’t care what it would take to free you, I just didn’t want you to suffer you anymore.”

“When you described how we’d spend our time when I was free, had you made up your mind then? Were you lying through your teeth?”

“No, dammit,” Damokles growls, turning around and pushing him against the wall. It burns Cyril’s back, but not as much as his kiss. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I love you, too?” Cyril yells back. “What if I never wanted us to be apart again? I will find a way to fix this. We will get you out.”

Damokles doesn’t argue.

When they reach the door Cyril tried to break out of so many times, tall, white, and uncharacteristically clean, Damokles kisses Thea goodbye. Tears begin filling Cyril’s eyes again as Damokles presses both hands to the door and murmurs something under his breath. It opens as easily as a human door.

“There you go,” Damokles whispers. Cyril can smell the fresh air, and it almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t look yet. He stubbornly looks back at the aching oranges and blacks, the smell of smoke that’s ingrained into his soul now, the blistering heat they’re leaving Damokles behind in. Thea’s hand snakes into his, and Cyril squeezes it like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“We’ll meet again,” Damokles promises, before the door swings shut and locks with a boom. Cyril misses him immediately in a wave of incredible grief.

He turns around.

The sky is so very black, the stars so very bright, the air so very cool. Cyril closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow the way he dreamed of for so, so, so long. But his right hand is painfully empty, the pains of hell too fresh. He needs a thousand baths, a thousand days in the sun, but he’ll never stop wishing Damokles was there.

Cyril breathes, closes his eyes, and with barely any effort changes his hair to a dull, mousy brown. It's an immediate relief, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cyril says, “but I already want to go back.”

“Yeah,” Thea murmurs, thick with tears. Cyril lets her cry, too in pain and exhausted to do anything but hold her hand and stand in solidarity.

In his mind, he’s in the field with flowers and fingers and laughter in his hair, the sun warming them all.

It's so peaceful at night.

It's wrong.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog

tag of interest: @aelenko

[plaidbooks]

Hi babes - a request that’s kind of specific- (readerxcarisi) this would take place in season 19, episode 8 where Rollins and Carisi are at the shitty motel and they have that moment. So the idea would be that reader is also a detective, maybe newer or something tagging along with them two and reader knows Carisi has a thing for Rollins and reader was with him when they saw the guy leaving Amanda’s room. Reader is there for him after and he realizes maybe he was chasing the wrong girl??

New Girl

A/N: Hey Anon! I had to rewatch this to do some of the dialogue from it (I condensed the first scene so it’s not incredibly long.) but it’s a good idea to rewtach this ep before reading....unless you remember that Heather was the catfisher and stuff. Anyways, this is a little longer cause t’s slower paced. I like the idea of being there for someone without needing to ask. Also yes, I’m taking the chance to flex some sports knowledge, sorry not sorry. Hope you enjoy <3

Tags: none

Words: 2727

Taglist: @the-baby-bookworm @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @lv7867 @storiesofsvu @reading--mermaid @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles

“They traced the IP address to West Virginia,” Sonny said to Olivia, as they both came into the precinct.

“Good, get a John Doe warrant and send it to the local precinct,” Liv replied.

“Done and done.”

Liv gave him a smirk. “Then fill up your gas tank. Fin, you’re riding shotgun.”

“Oh, hell no; I’m allergic to West Virginia,” Fin said, leaning back in his chair.

Liv sighed. “Okay, Rollins, you’re up.”

“Really?” she whined.

Liv glanced between the two, already looking tired of this crap. “Come on, someone’s gotta translate for him,” she joked, gesturing at Sonny, who rolled his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you perked up. You were still the new kid, so you were jumping at every opportunity to go out in the field. Plus, you had a massive crush on Sonny, and being stuck in a car with him seemed like a good chance to learn more about him.

Liv gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you; at least someone here wants to work. But I’d also like someone with experience; Rollins, you’re going too.”

 ***************

The drive wasn’t awkward…at least, not for Sonny and Amanda. They’ve been partners for years now, chatting up a storm. You sat in the back seat, listening in on their stories, jumping in when appropriate, but otherwise fading into the leather behind you. This wasn’t what you had hoped for when you thought about going to West Virginia with Sonny, but at least you were getting some experience in the field…right?

The arrest was quick, painless. You actually found yourself feeling bad for Heather as you had her arrested in her mother’s home. But then you remembered what happened to Katie, and it solidified your resolve.

When Amanda suggested you three, and Chuck, the local officer, go to The Barrel—the local bar—for information, you’re first thought was that maybe alcohol would help you loosen up around Sonny. But after a few shots and a cocktail, all you saw was how he looked at Amanda, and you cursed yourself for not seeing it sooner. Why would he ever fall for someone like you when he could be with someone like her? And they were already so close; what was the point of trying?

Complaining about a headache, you excused yourself, telling them you’d see them in the morning.

“Want me to walk ya back to your room?” Sonny asked, looking concerned.

Your heart fluttered at the thought, but then you remembered the heart eyes he’d been giving Amanda all evening. “No, I’m fine. Thanks though.” You wandered back to the hotel across the parking lot, wiping the tears from your face, locking yourself in your room.

 ******************

You were in the hotel lobby making yourself coffee when Sonny came in.

“Morning, [y/n],” he said, smiling at you. “Feeling better today?”

You melted at his smile, tears threatening to form again, but you pushed down your feelings. “Uh, yeah, much better. How’d you sleep? Hopefully you and Rollins weren’t up too late.”

“Nah, it was fine. We may have started a bar fight, though,” Sonny grinned at you, and you giggled, trying to picture him fighting anyone. He went about making two coffees and grabbing an assortment of free breakfast foods. He put everything on a tray and you followed him out, heading towards Amanda’s room as he called Liv to give her an update. But you both froze as a man came out of Amanda’s room, both of them chatting for a moment before he left. And Sonny’s face fell as he turned and went towards his SUV instead.

You gave Amanda’s closed door one last look before you went after Sonny. He stopped at his SUV, putting the tray on top so that he could fish his keys out of his pocket. He sniffled and it was only then you realized he was crying.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked tentatively. But you knew the answer—of course you did. Because you had felt your heart shatter last night.

“Fine,” he grunted, opening the driver’s door and sliding in. This was sure to be a fun ride back to New York. Grabbing the tray he had left on the roof of his SUV, you climbed in behind the passenger seat.

You sat in silence for a few awkward moments before you said softly, “I’m so sorry, Sonny. If you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.”

 *****************

The ride back was worse, to say the least. The tension in the air was thick, not to mention, you sat in back with Heather, who seemed to be daydreaming about meeting The Monster. You found yourself watching Sonny, or at least, the half of his face that you could see. He was quiet, subdued; so unlike him, and you realized you hated it. You wanted him to be his laughing, jokey self. You tried asking him questions—and Amanda, so you weren’t too obvious—but he wasn’t all there, his mind somewhere far away. Eventually, you gave up. falling into the silence of the drive.

 *****************

Liv mercifully gave the three of you the rest of the day off after delivering Heather to the precinct. You were just debating what to do for dinner when there was a knock at your door. Curious, you unlocked it, opening it to see Sonny shuffling on his feet on your doorstep.

“Son?” you asked in confusion.

He gave you a nervous smile. “Hey, can I come in?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” You moved out of the way, letting him enter your brownstone.

You both stood there awkwardly before he asked, “have you had dinner yet? If not, I can maybe whip something up? Or I can order takeout?”

“I haven’t yet, no.” Now thoroughly confused, you shrugged, playing along. “Did you have something in mind? I was thinking of ordering a pizza or something….”

“Pizza sounds great. Here, I’ll order. You like pepperoni, right?”

 ******************

You both idly chatted while waiting for the pizza to arrive, the awkward tension still palpable. Sonny didn’t say why he came over and you didn’t ask. The delivery man showed up soon enough, and Sonny insisted that he pay, so you let him. You found some beers in your fridge, offering one to him, which he gratefully accepted. As you ate, you started talking more, just about where you were before transferring to Manhattan, why you decided to come here of all places. The tension in the air subsided, and slowly, Sonny started talking about himself; his family, his recent accomplishment at Fordham—you had started just after he had passed the bar exam, so you didn’t hear much about it—and how much he loved his job.

“So, now that you passed the bar, are you going to leave us for Barba?” you asked. Sonny cocked an eyebrow, a grin on his face. “Oh my god, that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you giggled, your cheeks burning.

Sonny chuckled at the implication. “I—I don’t know yet. I really do love my job as a detective. But I always wanted to be a lawyer, ya know? And now I can be. But with Mike passing…it just doesn’t seem like the right time.” He took a sip of his beer. “Hey, maybe with you taking over, I’ll be able to. I’d feel less bad leaving the department behind; they won’t be as short-staffed.”

It hurt to think about Sonny leaving; you were just getting to know him. “I still got a long way to go, though. Liv wouldn’t even let me go with you to West Virginia alone. What was it she said? ‘I need someone experienced’ or some shit.” You rolled your eyes.

“Hey, I was in your shoes before, too. It’ll pass quicker than you can blink.” Sonny spun the bottle in his hands. “Besides, I almost wish it was just us, and that Rollins wasn’t…” he trailed off, his eyes staring at nothing.

You swallowed hard. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Hm? Nah…I mean, she’s my partner, yeah? I have her back, and I know she’s got mine…. We’re close and…yeah, I don’t know.” He looked everywhere but at you, a slight pink tint in his cheeks.

You nodded sympathetically. As much as you wanted him to like you, you just wanted him to be happy. And if she made him happy, then you’d have to live with that. “Being so close with someone for so long, it’s not shocking if feelings…developed. Have you talked to her about it at all?”

He shook his head. “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me with this, but can we stop talking about Rollins? Please?”

“Of course. Sorry…. I got ice cream, if you want some dessert?” you tried.

Sonny sat there for a moment, staring a hole into your floor. “You know what? I think I’m gonna get out of your hair.” He stood, stretching. “Thank you for letting me crash your night for a little bit.”

“You sure? You can stay as long as you need,” you replied, but he was already moving towards your front door, sliding his jacket on.

“Yeah, I’ve taken up enough of your time. See ya at work tomorrow.” And then he gave you that heart-melting smile before he was gone.

 ****************

Whether Fin or Liv could feel the tension in the precinct the next day, you weren’t sure. But Sonny had gone back to his nontalking self, sitting at his desk, working through Heather’s posts. At some point, Amanda invited him to lunch, but he declined. They had a few clipped, whispered words that you didn’t hear, but after she left, Sonny looked upset again.

Standing, you went to the coffee maker, making two cups—one for yourself and one for Sonny. You came back, placing it on his desk, within hands reach. He glanced up at you, and you gave him a soft smile before moving back to your desk, diving in on something to help Barba with his case against Heather.

After another half an hour, Sonny got up, coming over to your desk. “Wanna go grab lunch?”

You looked from him to the mountain of posts and pictures you still had to go through, then back at him. “Please,” you groaned, grabbing your jacket and following him out.

 ****************

For the next two weeks, you and Sonny would get lunch. Or, if it wasn’t possible to take lunch at the same time, you’d bring each other something, switching off each day. You both also seemed to know when the other ran out of coffee, placing a refill on one another’s desk just as you’d finish the last sip. Conversation started to flow easier between you two, and you found that you highly enjoyed just chatting with him. Every now and again, he’d come over to your place, and you’d just talk; mostly about work, sometimes about your families. You still had a crush on him, but you shoved it down, trying to not let it interfere with work, or with your new-found friendship. Though, you noticed with some glee that he no longer looked at Amanda with that sparkle in his eyes.

On Saturday night, Sonny showed up at your doorstep, a 12 pack in one hand, takeout in the other. “Are you not watching the hockey game tonight?” he asked, his Islanders sweater on proudly.

“I, uh, wasn’t planning on it?” you replied, confused. In all your talks, neither of you had mentioned sports, except that Sonny had played basketball as a kid.

“Pffttt. You are now,” he said, pushing into your place. You giggled, following him to your couch. Plopping down next to him, you grabbed a beer while he flipped through the stations until he found the game. He cheers’ed you, then you both took a sip, watching and yelling at the screen. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement with him, even if you didn’t know all the rules, nor particularly cared about hockey. You just enjoyed spending time with him.

At some point during the first period, Sonny put his arm on the back of the couch, his legs spread. You never understood how someone so lanky could take up so much room, but it made you smile. He just looked so natural, so comfortable on your couch, and you loved it.

“Come on, Lehner! You gotta cover your 5-hole!” Sonny yelled at the screen, groaning as the Islanders let in a goal.

“Uh, explain that to me, please?” you asked, confused.

Sonny sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees, moving closer to you. “Okay, so, ya see how the goalie, Lehner, has his legs so spread? Well, when the Pens shoot, that’s where they aim, ‘cause it’s his weak-spot and they know it. He’s slow to get his glove there and it’s an easy goal.”

“So…the 5-hole is between the legs?” you guessed.

“Exactly; see? You’re a quick learner,” Sonny smiled at you as the game cut to commercial.

You grinned back. “Well, I have a good teacher.”

Sonny’s eyes lit up with an idea. He put his beer down, then turned to face you. “Here, stand.” You cocked an eyebrow at him but obeyed. “Put your arms out and spread your legs…not that far; be comfortable. Okay, so, right here,” –he put his hand to the left side of your face, above your arm— “is the 1-hole. The opposite side here, that’s the 2-hole. Then here,” –he went back to your left side, under your arm this time— “is the 3-hole, and—”

“The opposite is the 4, and between the legs is 5?” you finished.

That lopsided grin was back. “Exactly.” He looked at the screen as the commercials ended. “Ooh, game’s back, here.” Sonny’s hands went to your hips, sending electricity through you. He dragged you back onto the couch next to him, your leg touching his, and his arm around your shoulders. You couldn’t pay attention to the game as your whole body heated, a stupid grin on your face from the closeness. At some point, you relaxed against him, snuggling into his side. If it bothered him, he didn’t say anything. In fact, quite the opposite—when he wasn’t groaning or gesturing at the screen, he had his arm around you, holding you to him.

Once the game was over, Sonny helped you clean up. “Thanks for letting me crash your night again,” he said—the same thing he said every night when he showed up unannounced.

“Anytime,” you replied. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Sober as a fox,” he smiled.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that even a saying?”

“It is now,” he declared, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Really though; I’m fine. Thank you for worrying.”

You walked him to the door, holding it open for him. Sonny stopped just outside your place, turning back around to look at you. “Text me when you get home, so I know you’re safe,” you said softly.

“Okay, I will…. I, uh, wanted to thank you. Not just for tonight, but for every night…and lunches, and coffees, and just—letting me be me for a little.” He gave you the sweetest smile, and you thought your chest was going to burst.

“Yeah, anytime, Sonny. I want you to feel…safe with me,” you replied.

“I do…I really do.”

You were leaning against your doorframe, and he had one hand on the wall next to it, leaning against it. Slowly, he leaned forward, his face getting closer to yours. Swallowing, and praying you weren’t misinterpreting, you leaned in, too, until your lips met in a soft, chaste kiss. Sonny’s mouth was gentle against yours, his lips smooth, and you stood up on your tiptoes, pressing yourself harder against him, afraid that he’d realize what was happening and that he’d pull away, disgusted. And though he did pull away, his eyes were still closed in bliss, a small smile on his face, one that slowly grew the longer you looked, making your own smile appear.

“You sure you don’t want to stay the night?” you asked, your voice hopeful.

Sonny looked deeply into your eyes, then to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Well, if you insist, maybe I can be persuaded to crash your night a little longer.”

[isis-astarte-diana]

Simple Pleasures (Strange Mercies)

Summary: “Missy rarely smokes, and when she does, she savours it.”

Warnings: NSFW. MIHOW. Dodgy dynamics. Humiliation (obviously). Smoking fetish. Some spit. The occasional allusion to being burned, but it doesn’t happen.

Word Count: 1979

NB: Missy uses your hand as an ashtray. That’s it. That’s the fic. Remember, smoking isn’t cool! I intend to write more Missy smoking kink and this is a test to see if anyone wants it.

Missy rolls the match across her knuckles with effortless fluidity.

Your eyes are drawn to the motion, but she seems utterly bored by it; with her hand hanging over the arm of her chair, it’s almost level with your face where you kneel at her feet, and you suspect the performance is entirely for your benefit. It’s an invitation to ponder her intentions. You have no choice but to accept.

The Persian rug is coarse under your knees. You can feel, already, the livid imprint of the weave sinking into your skin, leaving bumps and indents that will take hours to fade. She’ll run her fingers over them later, delighting in the marks; delighting, too, in the way you shiver under her ticklish touch.

Missy has a deep appreciation for the simplest of pleasures.

Her lips leave a pale print on the rim of her brandy glass and she sighs, indulgently, as she sets it down. Your whole body comes alive with the sound. You lean into it, breathe it in, cling to her satisfaction as if it were your own. She drops her eyes to you at last. In her face you see the faintest stirrings of a smile.

“Open.”

It’s a familiar enough command. It works like muscle memory, the parting of your lips, the slow stretch of your jaw, offering up your mouth to her for whatever she might want to use it for - or, perhaps, she doesn’t want to use it for anything at all. She might simply want you to stay like this, agape, soft and pink and waiting, watching her, your mouth drying in the warmth of the library hearth. On your knees. Open.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

No such torture; no such luck. She reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and retrieves a handkerchief. When she leans forwards you expect her to ball it up, thrust it into your mouth, pin your tongue beneath it and leave you to choke gratefully on the cotton, but she only guides it past your upper lip and uses it to dry the backs of your front teeth.

It’s startlingly invasive, the drag of fabric, the pressure of her fingers through the cloth against your gums. There’s nothing cruel about the procedure, but nothing gentle, either. It’s purely a matter of practicality.

You have to make a conscious effort not to moan.

Whatever soft sound of confusion, of protest or encouragement, you cannot quash is ignored. She taps the back of your tooth with a bare fingertip to test her work. Her fingers are cool, and you feel this touch everywhere, through tooth and skull and spine. Your hands clench into fists at your sides. Your cunt throbs almost painfully. With a pleased little hum, she withdraws. The match changes hands.

You understand, now.

The very tip of the match head is coarse and gritty against your gums when Missy positions it behind your teeth. You think of sulphur, of phosphor, of ground glass and poisons, and the thought threatens to strangle you, but everything you know, she knows better, and there is so much comfort in that.

She smiles, twists the match a little bit, scratches your dry gum with it. “Keep still.”

As if you needed to be told.

It is strange, and painless, and over before you have quite had a chance to register it. The match catches on the bottom edge of your teeth as she drags it free. It has just passed your lips when the head bursts into flame, no chance of burning you, but certainly close enough that you flinch away from the rush of heat and sound. At the motion your tongue finds the residue clinging to the back of your tooth. The taste is bitterly offensive.

Missy chuckles. She retrieves a cigarillo from the silver tin on the reading table and makes a show of baring her teeth, of gripping it between them, of closing her lips around it and cupping her hand over the match to shield the flame from a nonexistent breeze while she lights it. Her cheeks fill and hollow in swift puffs. You find yourself breathing in time with her. The match is extinguished with a swift flick of her wrist. 

She regards you like this for a moment, eyes bright past the thin trail of smoke that curls around her face. Between the rich earth scent of tobacco and the woodsmoke from the fire and, above all, the sweet opium of her perfume your head is swimming. When she takes the cigarillo from her mouth to speak, her words come as a pale cloud.

“Hold out your hand.”

Left hand, palm up, shoulder height. She doesn’t have to say this part.

The lit tip of the cigarillo washes your palm with warmth from its nearness. She keeps it there, letting you feel it, letting you measure the threat. She watches you for movement all the while. Flinching would be unwise, dropping your hand yet moreso. You tremble with the effort, but you manage to keep still, mouth open, hand out, underwear uncomfortably slick.

It’s unlikely that she’ll decide to burn you. Not impossible, but unlikely. You’re more concerned that she might choose to tap the ash into your mouth rather than your hand.

Again, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Your arm twitches with surprise at the weight of soft, warm ash when it falls into your palm. The touch forces a quiet gasp from you. She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Missy rarely smokes, and when she does, she savours it. She takes her time, sipping her brandy, indulging in each breath. Most of the time she doesn’t even look at you while she taps the ash into your hand, and this is difficult enough, but when she does the sickening heat that curdles in your belly grows until you can hardly breathe past it. Your arm starts to ache from its position. You can feel the plea in your eyes turning more desperate by the second.

Her boot brushes your inner thigh.

It makes you jump, and this moves your hand, and the small puddle of ash there threatens to spill onto the rug. A mistake like this would not be swiftly forgiven. You would think yourself lucky if she stopped at making you lick it up. You right yourself quickly, heart racing, legs parting further to invite another touch. 

None comes.

Instead she leans forwards, tilting her head, bringing herself almost close enough to kiss you. When her lips part, she lets her mouthful of smoke billow into your face. You have to blink rapidly to keep it from stinging your eyes but the taste is familiar and welcomed.

“Are you wet?”

Your face heats at the question.

She needn’t ask; not really. Even if the desire wasn’t written plain across your face - and it is - the scent of your arousal is thick now, the fabric of your underwear damp and sticky against your flesh. What she wants is to draw your attention to it, to make you admit it, to make sure that you know that she knows how much it excites you to be put on your knees and used without affection.

Your voice is rough from the lungful of smoke. “Yes, Mistress.”

She taps another clump of ash into your hand. “Yes, what?”

“Yes,” you barely whisper. “I’m wet, Mistress.”

“Really?” Missy quirks her brow, feigning surprise. “Show me.”

This is the worst of it. It comes as no small relief to slip your right hand under your skirt and beneath the band of your underwear, but the order is not yet to pleasure yourself. You can feel the slickness on the fabric smearing over the back of your hand even as your index finger slips into your flooded cunt. You arch into your own touch, extended hand quivering. The ash there rolls perilously close to the edge of your palm. She holds your gaze, crocodile-patient, making sure you don’t enjoy this exploration any more than you need to.

You leave yourself open and wanting when you withdraw, the perfunctory penetration having soothed nothing. Removing your hand from your knickers is torture.

Presenting it to Missy is worse.

She wraps her free hand around your wrist, cool and light, and inspects the evidence of your arousal. Your index finger is slick down to the palm. You can feel it beginning to dry in the warmth of the room, fluid thin and cracking on your skin. When she brings your hand a little closer to her face and inhales deeply, her lashes fluttering closed, you can do nothing to bite back the squeak of embarrassment.

She cracks one eye open to look at you. Her voice is low. “So you are.” Her fingers loosen from your wrist and she brings the remains of the cigarillo back to her mouth. Just before it slots between her teeth she adds, almost as an afterthought, “go on then.”

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

Your fingers are swift and clumsy when they squirm back beneath your waistband, skirt caught between forearm and belly, exposing the bulge of your knuckles in your underwear as you find your clitoris with two fingertips. There’s very little friction. You’re dripping, the fabric doing nothing to muffle the obscene sound of your fingers slipping through your own wet heat, but you manage to catch yourself at just the right angle. You jerk into the contact, breath stuttering, fighting to keep your other hand steady while you take up a rhythm of strokes.

Missy finishes her brandy. The cigarillo has burned down to almost nothing, and you know that she won’t indulge you once it’s gone. It falls to you to be quick about this, to drag yourself over the edge while you have the chance, all the while watching as your time goes up in smoke. Fortunately, that pressure only brings you closer.

“Eyes on me,” she reminds you, when you bow your head. It takes all of your strength to lift your chin from your chest and look at her. She taps more ash into your palm, watching with quiet disinterest as you work pleasure into yourself, desperately chasing your orgasm.

It’s almost shamefully quick.

You can feel it tightening in your thighs before long, tension building, your hand quickening to match. The ache in your outstretched arm is spreading into your shoulders and neck, your knees burning with the rocking motions of your hips, the foul taste of the match head still lingering in your mouth. Sweat rises on your brow.

She takes hold of your left wrist. You know what’s coming, and that knowledge has you gasping, thighs squeezing around your hand. Her dark head bows. Your hand quivers in her grip when the wash of prickling sensation begins to creep into your belly, and she mercifully holds it still. Without her assistance you’re sure you would spill ash on her skirt. The consequences of this do not bear thinking about.

You come as Missy spits into your hand.

It all marries together; the soreness in your knees, the fatigue of your limbs, the thick warmth of her saliva in your palm. Under the weight of your debasement the orgasm is cold. It takes you swift and silent, nothing to mark it but your harsh breaths, the rush of liquid heat that floods over your fingers. When you fall still, something like a sob catches in your throat. Your hand stays buried in your waistband as she lifts her head and offers you a fond smile.

“Good girl.”

You don’t even feel her stubbing out the cigarillo in your palm. The slick mess of ash and spittle leaves your skin too wet to burn.

The strangest things can be a mercy, when you do them right.

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (44)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

When you work the next day... it’s better to avoid spending an entire evening having fun. I'm not saying you don't have the right! but only... avoid returning home at 2am. You were already sleeping in the van, Danny had to hold on until he reached his bed. And it only took him 5 seconds to fall asleep. He wasn't drunk, just exhausted. And the awakening... was not the most pleasant. Between the rays of the sun that came to heat his skull and the phone that vibrated, his heart swayed as best he could towards the most bearable.

Surprisingly, he wasn't late. But it wasn't going to take long if he didn't rush a little. He still sent a message to Melina so that she could warn the boss. He got up, took a shower, and then took medication to calm the onset of a headache that hit him. Then he went to the kitchen where he found a note from you next to a plate where breakfast was resting. Danny smiled as he took the piece of paper in his hand.

“To help you get back on your feet for the day. Thank you again for last night I had a lot of fun. See you tonight. I love you. (Y/n)”

“Wow... it's an adorable message. That's the base, but coming from her it makes it even cuter.” said a main voice which Danny knows very well. He raised his head to see Jed, his alter ego, leaning against the kitchen worktop. “It's even amazing that she reacts like this by knowing who you are.”

“Better that it happens like this between the two of us rather than reluctantly sticking my knife in her throat, don't you think?” Danny responds, sipping his coffee.  

“I hope you had a great time last night. And that you thought about finding an excuse for Hembrook in case we were potentially late. Because don't count on me to blow you one.”

“I warned Melina and don't worry, I have a valid excuse. And in a way, since you're in my head, you had fun too.”

“It's true.” replied Jed putting his glasses back on his nose.  

As he took another sip of coffee, Danny suddenly heard whispers... whispers that he has already heard. that very night. And obviously, Jed hears them too. Actually... he has been hearing these whispers for a little while. Since McKellan's murder to be more precise. And it never stopped, quite the contrary.

“I've heard these noises before... that night in my dreams.” said Danny looking at Jed.  

“You quickly forget that I’m part of your mind. What you hear, live or dream, I feel it too. But I confess that compared to you it’s less.... precise. Blurrier. So let the mental psychologist that I am... help you analyse what you saw. Tell me about this dream.” responds Jed.  

“Tsk. Fine. I was... in a kind of... mist. I could barely see the trees around me. I walked, for a long time, but the more I walked the more I felt like I was standing still. Suddenly I hear screams. (Y/N’)’s screams. And when I turn back to her screams, I see like... giant spider legs grab me and take me into the mist. Then nothing.”

“Mist... giant spider legs... If I remember correctly, you don't have arachnophobia? Because I don't see how she can appear and see in a mist. Less how she could catch you.”

“Thank you very much it helps me a lot nerd. Don't you have something more interesting to say? You're supposed to be as smart as I am.” Replied Danny annoyed.

“Well in this case... I would say that you may have attracted a mystical entity to you. And that she is looking for different way to reach you. And Only God knows what she wants from you.” responds Jed.  

“Don't tell me you believe in all this mystical stuff. it's just bullshit to attract people and take their money.”

“I remind you, Danny, that I’m the opposite of you. What you don't believe, I believe. We don’t know if hell and paradise exist, if there is an infinity of dimensions... or if our world... isn’t connected to another. Mystical things are not to be taken lightly. Be careful. Your dream may be a sign, a proof.”

Danny sighed before doing the dishes, taking his belongings and leaving the apartment, while Jed shrugged his shoulders shaking his head and sighing before disappearing. It has always been very difficult for these two opposites to get along, and when that happens, it’s to be noted with a white cross. Danny got into his van and set off for the newspaper. Despite the way he got up a little late, he arrived at work with only 2 minutes late. Without depressing the accelerator, just driving normally. Either there was no one on the road, or he wasn't that late.

He climbed the steps, arrived at the offices, greeted his colleagues, and settled down to begin writing his article. As soon as he starts writing, Danny is unstoppable. A bomb could explode, he would not move an inch. After 2 hours, he stopped, stretched his arms and back, and then got up for coffee. And a part of Neptune's pie that you had delivered with other pastries.

While he was in the break room, drinking a sip of coffee, Danny heard whispers again, the same as those in the apartment. He turned his head to the door at the back of the room, leading to the stock of coffee and other food. What surprised Danny wasn’t the whispers, but a kind of black mist that looked like it was escaping from the door. There are no electrical appliances in this room, nor are there any flammable products. So where does this mist come from? The whispers became clearer, becoming voices. voices... distorted, impossible to say if it was a man or a woman who spoke.

“Danny... Danny... Come with us. Come and join me in the mist... Soothe my hunger... for eternity.” Said the voice.  

“What? How do you know my name?” responds Danny approaching the door.  

“Come with us. You will be able to extinguish your thirst for blood... and mine.” replied the voice as the door slightly open letting the tip of a giant spider's leg come out of it. The same as that of his dream.

“Jed? Is everything alright?” said suddenly a woman voice.  

Danny turned to see Melina in front of the coffee machine, raising an eyebrow at his colleague's strange action. The latter nodded, pretending to have heard noise, but that it may have just been a lack of sleep. Melina nodded, she was obviously aware of the little evening you both had, before having her coffee and leaving the room. Danny glanced again at the door that seemed normal again. No more mist. No more whispers. Maybe it was just his imagination.  

Danny returned to his desk and resumed writing his article until he finished it. He took it out and went to his boss's office to show it. As usual, nothing to complain about. Then, Mattew came to present another article he was writing on his own. He and Danny left the room to return to their posts. Melina joins them a few minutes after.  

“Tell me both. I know it's going to sound a little weird, but do you believe in mystical stuff? You know premonitory dreams and all that stuff.” asks Danny suddenly.  

“No, not really.” said Mattew.  

“My grandmother believed in it; besides she had a gift of Shamanism and communication with the dead. As far as I'm concerned, I believe in it a little, but let's say that I will look for a more rational explanation before going into the supernatural. Why?” said Melina.  

“I thought it was just bullshit...have you changed your mind?" Said Jed with a smile in Danny’s mind.  

“Shut you’re f*ck up.” responds Danny mentally before looking at Melina: “Well let's say I've been having a pretty weird dream lately. And I'm looking for someone who could explain to me what that means.”  

“Tell me more. Maybe I could enlighten your lantern.” said Melina.  

Danny recounted his dream in detail. Mattew listened without understanding too much, sometimes leaning his head to one side or the other and sometimes raising his eyebrows. Melina, didn’t move an inch, listening attentively, closing her eyes from time to time, as if to think on the meaning of all this.

“OK...the reasoned side of my brain would say that... You're worried right now about (Y/N). With everything that has happened... it wasn't easy for both of you. I think the mist and the legs of spiders... represent the dangers that can arise at any time to attack you. And the fact that you get dragged and hear (Y/N) screaming, it would mean that you're afraid of not being able to protect her. My mystic side says that you attract some...negative spirits. Negative entities which try to...get you in their sides. Something so powerful that neither you or (Y/N) could resist. Maybe the revenge of a dead man... Hoggins or McKellan... or Mike. They all had a tooth against you because you were rummaging through their businesses while others would have given up.” said Melina.  

“How amazing. I've already heard that somewhere... Oh, yes! I was the one who told you that just this morning.” said Jed in Danny’s mind.  

“f**k you.” responds Danny mentally. “Well, thanks Melina. I hope it’s just fear and not some mystical thing...”

The rest of the day passed not without Danny hearing the whispers again. But he ignored them. It wasn't real to him. He returned to the apartment and went to his office to observe the now striped photos of Mike, McKellan and Hoggins. Vengeful spirits huh... Ridiculous. And why not death itself while we're at it?  It was your turn to enter the apartment slightly tired but happy. Danny left his office with his bag for his... second job. Ghostface is going out tonight.

“Wasn't it enough for you to kill Hoggins? do you always need more?” you said looking at him.

“Always Honey, always. Did you really believe that I was going to stop and become a model citizen? No no no... Once you dive into it, it's like a drug. You can't stop. But if it can reassure you, it will be a quick and painless death. He or she will not feel anything.” responds Danny with a sneaky smile.  

On his last words, Danny sent you a kiss before leaving. He set out in an uncrowded area of Roseville, making sure he was not seen and annoyed. He put on his Ghostface’s outfit, went up to the roof of a building and with his binoculars he observed the surroundings. He thought back to Melina's word. What if she was right? after all, he had to admit that these voices he heard, manifested themselves when McKellan died. But until now, he had never paid attention to it, it was tiredness for him. That’s all.  

“Tsk. I'm not going to start believing these bullshits... it will eventually pass.” said Danny to himself.

“You should believe it.” said Jed.  

Danny grumbled before looking through his binoculars again. He eventually catches a glimpse of his next victim. Poor little thing who lives her life peacefully, imagining what she will do tomorrow. Unfortunately, tomorrow will never come. After all, it's not as if the inhabitants of this neighbourhood are saints. But what Danny didn't know was that he was being watched. Not by someone. But by something. A thing that, the more Danny killed, the more the desire of this thing to have him in his ranks grew.

Until the day he will take him...and you too.

***

(There you go! We are still approaching the end of DSS little by little and I saw that you were 71 people to follow me! I could never thank you enough for following me all this time! When I compare the first chapters of DSS with the latest writings, I feel like my way of writing and telling has changed. For the better, I hope. And I hope I will continue to offer you stories that you will like! I hope you’ll like this chapter like the other ones! Well, it's time for my brain to rest! Have a great weekend to you all!  See ya! )

[sasa-gay-yo]

Hi ! Love your story so much! I wanted to know what you thought about Levi getting married? I know he doesn’t necessarily love the idea of marriage, but if he were to have a wedding how do you think it would go?

                                                Levi and Marriage

___________________________________________________________

Levi’s thoughts of marriage (or at least what I think he thinks) will definitely be explored in Just Us, but that’s a later portion of the fic. Now, I’ll just do a list sort of explaining what I think his opinions are.

I don’t think Levi will really have a concept of marriage or why it needs to happen. He isn’t around a lot of married people to realize its function and he probably thinks that it’s not really needed in the world that he lives in. He also just doesn’t really see a difference between a relationship and marriage at first. You’re going to have to be the one to bring it up to him because he honestly hasn’t even thought of it even if you were in a relationship with him.

Levi’s stubborn, so because he thinks marriage isn’t really needed in a relationship, he will probably just shrug and ask why you need a piece of paper to denote you’re together. A piece of paper? Why do you need a piece of paper to tell you we’re together? You might have to give him a lot of logically sound reasons other than “I just want to get married” because that might not be enough for him. No matter how much you want it, he’s really not going to understand it. He knows your emotions and acknowledges them, but it's just very “eh” to him.

It’s going to take years for him to warm up to the idea after you brought it up. Maybe once the titans are gone and everything is settled for a while, you get to go around more in Paradis. This is when he experiences more married couples and the benefits of being married with his own eyes. I think Levi cares a lot about titles and once he hears people introduce their wives, the cogs in his head start turning. Wife has a better ring than girlfriend or partner to him. He also noticed how concrete wife was. If you were his wife, maybe the brats would stop flirting with you like they could replace Levi. If you were his wife, the Garrison men wouldn’t dare to go up to you during military balls and events to ask “Why are you with him and not me?” Life doesn’t have to be slowed down and titans gone for him to see the concreteness and think about it, but it will help more if it’s a calmer peaceful time.

However, I can also see Levi seeing that life is going downhill (before Erwin’s coup maybe) and he knows that marriage is one of the things you want so much, so he might cave because he wants you to be happy before things get rough. Let’s live these experiences rather than having regrets when or if we die, because Levi is done with having regrets. How bad can marriage be then? He does a complete 180 randomly. You won’t even know it. He still doesn’t see it as really needed to solidify your relationship because he knows that it’s only your for the rest of his life, but he doesn’t see any reasons against it. Also, it’s painless to go to the city hall and just signing a piece of paper. He goes from, “eh, I don’t see why” to “eh, I don’t see why not.” So, one random night you’ll be doing the most normal thing and he just blurts it out like he always does with his feelings. You’ll be in the middle of cleaning the kitchen floor and he goes:

“Let’s get married then. Tomorrow or the next day.”

Don’t expect a ring or a big, cute proposal. It’s just short and right to the point. Either way, it makes you so happy that he finally agrees. You just jump up and down, knowing how much it took Levi to agree, and you can see him smiling a bit at your reaction. He’s made you happy and that’s all he wants.

Levi won’t want a wedding or a party even if Hange or you are so ready to have one. That’s his one condition and you agree. He doesn’t even dress differently. Just the black slacks and jacket, you walk down to the city hall (his face still the same blank stare), and then it's just done. Paper signed, fee paid, and the plain rings he randomly bought at 6AM in a random shop exchanged. Nothing big, nothing romantic, but even still he can’t help but feel different inside now that you’re his wife. It’s the title that gets him, that’s what he wants to say to himself. The status upgrades he gets, too… oh, and also the fact that you now have to be his and vise versa forever and his heart is about to burst thinking about that. That’s what the vows they made you say said. He will always deny that the feeling of “just being married” is amazing because it isn’t logical like he is.

(You asked if he were to have a wedding so, I think if a wedding did happen, it would still be very small and the whole time Levi would just be straight-faced. Even if he was feeling some type of emotion, the idea of having other people see it was more horrifying to him. During the reception, it would be like I mention below. Just looking on at the cadets or people involved getting drunk, dancing, etc. You’d force him to dance once, but that was it. He’d just sit, eat, drink, and force himself to talk to anyone who came up to you two.)

There’s still a tiny, little party when you two get back to your shared home. You let it slip to Hange you were going before dinner, so she set something up with whoever is left at what time it is. If it is earlier in AoT, it’s just Levi’s Squad, Erwin, and some of the officers who know about you. If it’s later, the nine that are left try to gather something up with what they have. Nothing big, but warm enough to make it feel like it was a special night and not just a regular dinner. Levi’s face was still blank the whole party, and he wasn’t going to tell you he enjoyed the brats getting drunk and almost crying that you were off the market now. You did notice that he was touching you the whole night. He would never let you get farther than 5 feet from him and would always have a hand on you somewhere.

Once everyone left, you and Levi were sitting drinking your nightly tea. He’d gotten you a ring or something matching because it’s what you wanted (and you have him wrapped around your finger now), so you’re just messing with it as he’s staring at you a bit annoyed… but there’s something in his eyes. When he looks at you, he’s gazing at his wife. Not his girlfriend, partner, significant other, etc. His chest feels a little tighter during this intimate moment. A husband and wife. Goddamn it, now he knows why people get married and it’s something he can’t explain. Should’ve done it sooner, he thinks.

“How was today for you?” You ask him, knowing how long it took him to consider getting married. Hopefully, he didn’t hate it now that he’s stuck. You also thought maybe that having people celebrate after might have given him negative feelings as he always wants privacy.

“It was…I enjoyed it.” You leaned into him and he put an arm around you. You noticed his finger was lightly touching his ring, spinning it. He sipped at his cup again, looking down at your smile.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, husband.” He huffed once, rolling his eyes, but he didn’t hide the slight smile on his face.

“As long as I get to be with you, wife.”

[inquisitive-mess]

A Slice of Happiness Final Part

Including Sibylle of Cleves and Maria of Jülich-Berg by @blackdiamondwrites127, and Katherine Tudor by @ellielovesdrawing

Mention of Jane Paker by @altairtalisman and Anya Askew by @thenicestnonbinary

T/W: Blood, Past Characters Death, And Hint of Past Trauma and Abuse

When Sibylle and Kath heard Ann, Sibylle was kind of surprised on how easy that was. She expects Ann to put up more of a fight, but see how vulnerable she currently is and how things has been, it does made sense that she doesn't have the strength to do that. Kath decided to grab Ann's coffee and tiramisu with some plates and utensils from the kitchen and place it on the table. She figure this may be a long story, so she want Ann to be comfortable when telling it. Ann saw Kath bring the tiramisu and some plates to them and was confused by it. She didn't know why Kath brought them and it made her feel a little worse. It was a constant reminder on how she didn't deserve this. Kath soon sat next to Sibylle and took a sip of her coffee while Sibylle got herself comfortable in the chair. Ann try to take her mind off the dessert and begin speaking " It begin when I was thirteen and started to work at the palace...." Kath choke on her coffee, put her mug down after spitting her coffee back into it, and begin coughing when she heard Ann. Sibylle went to Kath side as she try to help her breath correctly. Ann look at Kath when this happen and asked her " Are you okay?" Ann felt little bad that she cause Kath to choke on her drink. Kath soon recovered and nodded. She was kind of caught off guard on what Ann had said and made her confused by it. Sibylle looked at Ann and she nodded. Sibylle then told Kath " Babe, Ann just like us. She a reincarnate and been around for ten years, like I have. She's the younger sister to Catherine Parr. She knows that Jane, Anya, and Mali are too." Kath took in this information and realized why Ann look so familiar to her. Ann does share some facial feature to Cathy. Kath then said " So is that why you wanted a tiramisu because it has coffee in it?" Ann replied " I would say yes, but it not because I'm addicted to coffee, like my sister. You see, I wanted something i'm familiar with in taste since this would be the first time trying it. Jane was the one who told me about it after we went to restaurant yesterday and a dessert that is hand-made in a bakery are usually better than ones you buy in a supermarket. To tell you the truth, I only have coffee when i'm in the mood for it." This made Kath really happy because Ann trust her this much to make this order for her and Siby knew how much this made Kath day.

Once eveything had settle down and Kath was alright, Sibylle and her got themselves comfortable again, so they can listen to Ann talk and Ann begin again " As I was saying, it began when I was thirteen and start to work at the palace. My mom mange to get me a post in court and I became a maid-of-honour to Catalina. She was good friend with her and part of her lady-in-waiting staff. I wanted to be good as my mom was and did my very best, which I really enjoy." Ann grip her mug a little tight and continue " Unfortunately I did see the bad things while being there. Like how the king treated Catalina and witness how terrible the king was. Once Catalina got divorced and sent away, Anne became queen and I begin looking up to her as role model. I knew it wasn't Anne fault for what happen to Catalina, since I already know what really happened. I continue to follow her example, until she got executed. I knew Anne didn't commit any of those crimes, but I couldn't do anything about it, since that would mean I would have to go against the court and the king. I watched her death and blame myself for being a bad assistant, student, and friend. Jane became queen soon after and I was shocked that she still wanted me there. She must of knew how I felt and blame herself for what happen to Anne. I was part of the funeral cortege when she died and one of the fortunate to be present in Prince Edward baptism." As Sibylle and Kath listened, they wanted to tell Ann that this wasn't her fault and she did nothing wrong. Sibylle could see why Ann ask her that question when they were in the room before dinner and her hesitation on being friends. Ann looked down at her mug and said " Soon after, I met my future husband, William, in court and got married. I do miss the time we spent together and family we made. He may not be smartest person, but he was strong, loyal, and good father to the children." Ann smile a little and wished she lived long enough to see all of her children grow up and get married. Sibylle knew how Ann felt, since she does think about John and her kids from time to time.

Ann took a sip of her coffee and went on " I went back to court when the king marry Anna and served her." This perk Sibylle's interest a bit and wonder what Ann did in her sister time in court. She knew what happen during Anna time and didn't like it. In fact, she would of called out everyone, even the king about everything. " When I learn she didn't know much English and heard what court have been saying to her, I took upon myself to learn German, so she had someone to talk to and may be help her. As you can see, that didn't end well when her marriage got annulled and sent away. She did visit time to time, so that was good thing at least. Though I could tell her self-esteem did get hurt a bit even when she try to hide it." Sibylle did get her answer when she learned that Ann does know German and wasn't hearing things when she was at her shop during the incident. Kath was glad that Sibylle had another person she can talk to in her native language. Ann then begin to tense up as she begin talking again " Then Katherine became queen..." Ann got a little sad and continue " When I saw how young and inexperience she was, I wanted to help her all I can and she took a liking to me. I eventually was appointed the keeper of the royal jewel, but I had to leave for short time to give birth to my first child. I did return back to court, but it was around the time Katherine was charged and arrested for adultery. I didn't know how this happened and soon realized that the incident was happening again. What makes it worse is that when Katherine had the choice to choose to accompany her through all this, she picked me. I accepted her request and followed her until her death. I was one of last people she trusted and felt honored she saw this highly of me, but I also felt that I failed as friend and assistant."

Ann took a deep breath to ease her tension and begin speaking again " Then came my sister time as queen. I was completely caught off guard when the announcement was made and didn't know what to feel. I was really worry about my sister safely and didn't want anything bad happened to her, but Cathy reassure me and told me that everything would alright. My husband and I were there for her private marriage ceremony to the king and I was appointed chief lady-in-waiting. We had each other's back and made sure we didn't do anything to attract any attention. Of course, it didn't go that smoothly. A few courtiers didn't like Cathy and try to get Anya to confess that Cathy, me, and few close friends were Protestants, which you know what happen there. When I learn what happen to Anya, it hurt me knowing how she was beaten and burned to death. I blame myself what happen to her and wish I was able to do something. Cathy felt the same way and eventually help each other with it. Then the possible arrest warrant happen. I didn't know much about it until later on when Cathy told me in private. I was shock by it and didn't know what I would of done if it did happen. I was worry about my children and others rather than my own safety. I was so thankful that Cathy was able to persuade the king before it happened. When the king died, my second son and I moved and was part of Cathy household in Chelsea while William was appointed one of the guardians to King Edward. We stayed there until Cathy married him and we all know how that went. I still feel responsible for what happen to her by trusting him so easily, which cost Cathy her life. I still have memories of her funeral service and how everyone was. I lived my rest of my life in peace. Raising my three children, my title increases as William continue serving Edward, and was one of the ladies to Mary, until my untimely death. I really don't know how I died, but I remember being painless. And that's the end."

When Ann was finish her story, she closed her eyes, put her hands together, and took in the silence in the room. She felt kind of relief that she was able tell someone that wasn't family or Jane about this, but the same time, she knew she just exposed her emotions to Sibylle and Kath. She didn't know if they would feel sorry for her or think she was damaged and have to be with friends because of it, which is something she didn't want happen. She really do want to have friends, but the worry still lingers in her head that she would hurt them. As she was thinking, Sibylle and Kath took everything in and couldn't believe what Ann had been through. True, it wasn't that surprising back then, but the fact that she witness almost everyone she knew deaths and still be in one piece was incredible. Ann was whole lot stronger than she give herself credit. Sibylle couldn't imagine how that feels, even with everything she dealt with. They now understand why Ann has this fear and knew what to do. Sibylle place her one of her hand on Ann hands, which cause her to open her eyes to look at Sibylle with a small smile on her face and spoke " Thank you for telling us, Ann. I know that must be hard for you to do and we appreciate it." Kath appears behind Ann and gave her a hug, which surprised Ann. Sibylle continued " I understand why you think the past would repeat itself, but we are here to tell you it not. You're able to protect your friends now and prove that already by stopping me from hitting that guy and protecting Jane and Mali from me. You're a lot stronger then you know it. And if you still feel that way, I have no problem teaching some things, so you can gain some confidence to be able to protect them." Ann start tearing up when she heard Sibylle and didn't know what to say. Kath then told her as she let go and begin serving the dessert." We love to spend more time with you. You accept our past, so we can accept your past too. Plus you seem to be fun to be with." Ann look down and started to cry. Sibylle saw Ann crying and told her " Do you know what Jane said to me when I ask about you? She told me that you had a hard life, but you're definitely one of the kindest people she ever known and you would be the go to person if she ever need to bury a body. Anya also thank me when she got back from fix Cathy laptop at your shop. I didn't understand all this, but after spending time with you and see what kind of person you are, I can say all of this was true. You truly are the most kindness person I every met and we loved to be your friend." When Ann heard all this, she felt happy as she cried because she finally made friends without worrying that something bad would happen to them. Kath place the tiramisu in front of Ann, which Ann saw and feel confident on eating it, so she grab the fork, took a piece of it, and ate it. She really enjoyed it and was glad she was able to experience this while Sibylle and Kath got their slice and join Ann on eating it.

After they finish the tiramisu and everything was back to normal, Ann was getting tired and excuse herself, so she can get some sleep. Both Sibylle and Kath told her have a good nap and Ann nod at them to tell them okay. She went to room, closed the door behind her, place her stuff back on the table, and lay on the bed, which she completely knockout once her head touch the pillow. Once Ann left, Kath and Sibylle start picking up the mess they made and Sibylle ask Kath, if she going back to bed after this. Kath shook her head and told her that she it was almost time for her to go to work. Sibylle nod and went back clean. When they got done, Kath gather her things for work and was ready to leave. Kath gave Sibylle a kiss on cheek before leaving. Sibylle decide to stay up and decided to do some work on her laptop, before going to her friends house for her bike. A few hours pass by and Sibylle got some work done, which is good because she can focus on other things when she gets to the theatre. She went outside for a bit and head to her friend house to pick up her bike, thanks to her friend, and went back to the house rolling her bike on the side. She parked her bike on the driveway, walk back inside, and started doing her morning routine. She went to the kitchen, pull out food for their pets in the storage closet, pour some in their dishes, put it away, and got herself ready for work. After hour went by, she walk back in the kitchen and saw Killjoy and Malky was eating, but didn't see Oz. She went looking for him all over the house and couldn't find him, until she saw the door to the room Ann was sleeping in was open. She walk to it, stick her head inside, and saw him on the bed sleeping next to Ann. She quietly walk inside and head the bed, where she smile a little when she saw this and thought it was cute. She took her phone and took a picture of it, which Oz begin waking up. Sibylle pet his head to prevent waking Ann up. She then move him carefully and place him on the ground, where he started heading to kitchen to eat. Sibylle was about to leave, when she heard Ann moving in her sleep, remove blanket covering her, and pushing together to form some kind comfort pillow. Sibylle figured that she was trying to make up the difference in mass once Oz was gone. She then notice the bottom of Ann's shirt was raised up a bit exposing the lower part of her body and saw something there. She quietly got close to her to see what it was and got shocked once she saw it. It was dark patch of discoloration that spread from the front of the body that looks it goes up to her chest to a small part of her back. Sibylle mood change immediately and slowly left the room heading to the kitchen.

As she was walking, Sibylle was really angry what she saw because this wasn't the first encounter with that. It was when she went to juvie and saw other adolescents covered with them. They were the ones who looked so defeated and was very sick due to how malnutrition they were. In fact, some were so mentally destroyed that they try to kill themselves in there. Sibylle clutch her fist at the thought of it when she realized that everything made sense now. How Ann doesn't like talking about her past, her breakdown at the zoo, her refusal on asking or accepting help, why she wasn't adopted, and some of her behavior. Ann was mentally abuse and most likely neglected in the orphanage. This hurt Sibylle knowing that Ann went through this growing up and didn't have anyone to turn to, like before. She wanted to tell Ann that she was okay now and wasn't alone anymore, but knew that if Ann found out that Sibylle knows, she may overreact and possibly do permanently damage to her on a mental level. Sibylle decide to keep this to herself until Ann is ready to tell her and the others about it. She did however want to know the person who did this to her and make them pay. When she was in the kitchen, she pull out her phone and texted Papa Julian to see if he can help her with this. She want to be discreet about this, since she didn't want the others to learn what she was doing, especially Kath and alart Ann about it. Once she done, she put her phone away and decide to make her and Ann breakfast before going to work. Ann soon got up and head to the kitchen where Sibylle was done cooking and was setting up the table to eat. Ann ask Sibylle if she need help, but Sibylle told Ann to sit and would serve her. Ann was ready to object, but Sibylle gave her a look and Ann listened. She sat down and waited until Sibylle served her food. Sibylle soon sat down and they begin eating with no trouble. Once they were done, they clean up the kitchen, grab their things, said their goodbyes to Oz, Killjoy, and Malky, and went out the door as Sibylle lock the door behind her. Sibylle soon head to work on her bike while dropping Ann at shop and provide her a helmet. Once they got Ann's shop, they said their goodbyes and Ann thank her and Kath for everything. Sibylle nod and told her that it no trouble and will relay the message to Kath when she sees her. Sibylle then start her bike and drove off going on their separate ways. Sibylle made promises to herself that she will help Ann in any way and made sure that Ann doesn't feel alone or go through anything like that ever again.

A week later, Kath was in her bakery doing some orders when a man in a worker uniform walk inside her shop, head to the counter, and stop there. Kath walk up to the man and did her usually greeting " Welcome to Tudor Rose, how can I help you?" The man answer " Are you Katherine Tudor?" Kath looked confused and reply " Yes..." The man lift up a clipboard front of him and read off a paper on it " We are here to deliver a new industrial baking oven, remove the old one, and install the new one for you. Do you have a back area where we can go through to do this?" Kath was even more confused by this because she didn't order anything and would remember certainly something that huge. Kath ask " I think you got the wrong place. I don't remember ordering or paying for anything." She had no idea what's going on and didn't know what to do. The man show Kath the paper on clipboard and told her " Well, as you can see we have a order for here for this place to do all this and been paid for by someone. The person didn't give us a name, but say it was to be delivery to Katherine. There also no way for us to take it back once the order is done." Kath look at the paper and true to the man's word. It did said her name and her business, but no name for who order it. She had no choice, but let them do their job. She show the the man where he and his team can go through to deliver and install it. Once she did, she let the workers do their job while she look at the paperwork. She then saw what kind of oven it was and shock by it. It was the one she wanted for the long time, but didn't have the funds to get it. She called Sibylle and wait for her to answer. Sibylle answer in few rings and Kath said " Ibby, I though we agree we going wait until we have enough to get me that." Sibylle was confused by what Kath had said and ask " What are you talking about, babe?" Kath question Sibylle by asking " I have workers here who delivery and installation that oven I wanted and removed the one one. Did you ordered and paid for that oven for me?" Sibylle then answer " No, I didn't. As you said, we talk about it, so I wouldn't done something like that, especially since we didn't have that kind of money. Are these people legit?" She knew why Sibylle said that since they walk in the same road before. Kath replied back " Yes, I checked everything out and they weren't lying. Also there no way to stop it." Sibylle sighed on the phone and told Kath " I'll check on you on my lunch break. Keep up posted if any change." Kath nodded and said " I will" She soon got off the phone and went to the front of the store to tidy things up with Mari since she can't do anything, until the workers job was done. The workers got done with the job in a few hours and went on their way. Kath with Mari finally went to the kitchen and saw the oven. It was beautiful to see and Kath was smiling, but was more curious on who got this for her. Far as she knows, only Sibylle and Mari were the only people who knew this was the oven she wanted and talk to about it. As she was looking, Sibylle walk in, stand next to Kath, and asked her " It looks as beautiful as it is in that catalog. Do you know who got this for you?" Kath shook her head and answer " No. The paperwork didn't show the name of the person who order." While they were talking, Mari called out as she stand next to the oven " Kath, zere's something here" They both walk the oven and saw what Mari was talking about. There an engrave Tudor Rose on the side and a folded piece of paper tape below it. Sibylle took the paper off of it, open it up, and read it. She soon hand it to Kath and read what it said " The answer of course, is that the clock isn't meant to measure earthly time, but the time of the soul. Redemption and condemnation time. For the soul, each instant is always a minute short of judgment." ~ Gregory Maguire After reading this, both Sibylle and Kath chuckle a little and knew a certain person is going to have an earful when they see them again, but for now, let them enjoy their day. They deserve some happiness in their life.

Pervious

[charincharge]

Cruel Summer, Part 10

cruel summer masterlist

AN: Warnings for the beginnings of angst, drinking and some sexual situations. Your comments keep this thing alive. As always, feel free to message/ask/etc. about anything. I adore hearing from you all. xo

If there’s one thing Rowan has learned in the last few days, it’s that Aelin loves sneaking around. Maybe it’s the intimacy of sharing a secret, or maybe it’s just the way Rowan allows his touch to linger just enough to leave promises of the future – but Aelin’s barely let him out of her sight since she left his bed, greedy for more.

This is how they end up in the break room bathroom during Rowan’s lunch break. They were supposed to just sit together as Rowan ate his lunch, but as Aelin’s eyes darken as they watch his lips wrap around his fork, he knows her restraint is about to break. When a drop of dressing drips onto his finger and his tongue darts out to lick it off, she grabs his hand and drags him into the closest room with a lock.

The bathroom is cramped and dirty, but Aelin doesn’t seem fazed. Rowan chuckles as she kisses her way up his neck. She hops onto the pedestal sink to get better leverage, but the unsteady porcelain rocks slightly beneath her. Rowan grips the sides and stops it from swaying any further, never stopping his soft laughter.

“I’m not having sex in this filthy bathroom,” Rowan snickers, though his hands make their way to her waist, anchoring her against him.  

Aelin scrapes her teeth against his jawline and runs her tongue against his stubble. Goosebumps raise on the back of his neck under her hands, and she smirks, satisfied.

“You sure?” she asks, and Rowan groans as he pulls away from her, breathing hard.

“You’re evil, you know that?”

Aelin hops off the sink and sashays toward him, like a predator stalking her prey. He backs up with every step, until his back is pressed against the door. He slides his hands into the back pockets of her jean shorts and exhales, shakily using all his restraint.  

“I swear we will finish this later,” he says and leans down to kiss her softly. “I’m coming over tonight,” he reminds her.

“But my parents will be home, so we’ll have a Dorian chaperone until super late,” Aelin whines.

Rowan frowns at the mention of her parents and Dorian – he’d forgotten about that little detail. But he shakes it off and remains resolute. “I’ll make it worth the wait. But I have to eat before my afternoon shift. You know I get hangry.”

Aelin winks saucily. “I’ve got something for you to eat.”

Rowan’s cheeks heat as he pulls her closer. He peers down at her, his green eyes both amused and horrified. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You have no one but yourself to blame,” she says as she rests her chin against his chest. Their heads lean towards each other, that magnetic pull raging, and meet in one last reckless kiss.

“Food,” Rowan breaths.

“Fine,” Aelin agrees with a roll of her eyes. “Wait like five seconds to come out. Just in case.”

Aelin slips out the bathroom door, and Rowan takes a second to breathe and adjust himself. That woman will kill him. He counts to five slowly before exiting the bathroom himself. He slinks back to the table, avoiding looking up at Aelin, who’s now mid-conversation with Elide.

“…do you mind? My phone is at 5%, and I can’t find a charger anywhere.” Aelin plugs her phone into the wall, and Rowan wonders at how easily Aelin can lie on her feet.

“Rowan!” Elide calls out. “You eating lunch?” He nods stiffly. “Mind if I join you?” she asks, and Rowan gestures for her to take a seat.

“So, what’s everyone up to tonight?” Elide asks innocently, because she has no idea the implications of the answers of her question.

“I was actually going to see if you wanted to come over?” Aelin asks, and Rowan trains his face into a neutral stare, wondering what the hell Aelin is doing. It’s bad enough that Rowan is going to have to share Aelin’s time with Dorian tonight. At least Dorian knows about them. With Elide there, they won’t even be able to touch each other. “Dorian’s coming over for a movie night, but who knows what he’ll make me watch,” Aelin continues, oblivious to Rowan’s plight.

Elide is touched and thanks Aelin for the invite, but declines. She already has dinner plans. But the pair of them excitedly pencil each other in for the weekend – for some girl time and catching up. Rowan sits quietly and finishes his salad as the two of them chatter about how much they miss the other, relieved that Aelin somehow knew Elide wouldn’t take her up on her offer.

At the end of his break, Aelin grabs her phone from the wall and bids the pair goodbye, leaving Elide with a hug and a small squeeze to Rowan’s arm. He smiles after her, hoping to spot Aelin around the park in the afternoon. But he never does.

For the first time, Rowan drives up the Ashryver’s long driveway. He’s changed out of his uniform and into a nice pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but he’s nervous nonetheless. There’s something about being in this house that makes his stomach churn. Aelin opens the door before he finishes knocking and flings herself into his arms for a tight hug. He nods hello to Dorian, who watches their interaction with interest.

“Aelin,” a voice calls from the kitchen. “Please come say hi before you disappear for the night.”

Aelin apologizes and leads the boys into the kitchen where her parents are already seated at the table for dinner.

“Mom, Dad, you remember Rowan?”

Rowan smiles politely.  “Thanks so much for having me In your home again, Mr. and Mrs.—”

Rhoe cuts Rowan off. “Please. Call us Rhoe and Evalin.”

Rowan scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ll try.”

“Aelin Ashryver Galathinius!” Evalin scolds from the other side of the table as Aelin reaches onto her dad’s plate with her fingers and plops a large piece of potato salad into her mouth.

“Iss mah favorite,” she says around her mouthful, and Rowan can’t help but chuckle.

Evalin’s brow furrows as she chides her daughter. “You know the rule. If you want Emrys’ food, you have eat it at the table with us.”

Aelin looks at her company with questioning eyes. Dorian and Rowan shrug in near unison, letting her decide. Rowan isn’t exactly fond of the idea of having unexpected dinner with her parents, but Aelin seems to want to, and he’ll do whatever she wants.

Aelin slinks into her seat, and the boys follow her lead, Rowan taking the seat next to her. Rhoe grins widely. “Wine?” he asks, holding up a bottle of Sancerre.

Aelin looks around the table. “My favorite meal. My favorite wine.” She looks at her parents. “What do you want?”

Rhoe chuckles as he fills her glass. “Is it not enough to want to spend time with our beautiful daughter and her lovely friends?” he asks, but Aelin’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“No.”

“Drinks first,” Evalin turns to Rowan as she stands from the table. “Rowan, I know Dorian prefers beer. Can I get you one, or is wine okay?” she asks. “Or we have a full bar if you want something completely different, or sodas or lemonade or sparkling water if you’re not a drinker.”

“Beer is great,” Rowan says.

“IPA? Hef? Stout?” she asks, reaching into a fridge tucked into the base of the large kitchen island.

Rowan is overwhelmed by the choices. He usually grabs Coors Lite from the grocery and is done with it. He’s not a fancy drinker by any means. As if sensing his distress, Aelin reaches out beneath the table and places her hand on his knee and squeezes lightly.

“We know what Dorian wants,” Aelin says with a laugh, diffusing his discomfort. “IPA, like every other former frat boy in the country.”

“Excuse me – it’s delicious,” Dorian says with a wide grin, “And I will not be shamed for being in a fraternity, Ms. Ashryver. Some of us had a four-generation legacy to uphold.”

Rowan relaxes as he tells Evalin he’ll try an IPA, and Rhoe turns to Dorian and questions him about his father, speaking of legacies.

As the conversation continues, Rowan slides his hand under the table and finds Aelin’s hand still on his knee. He lifts it up and laces his fingers with hers, thanking her for helping him. She swipes her thumb along the backside of his hand, a silent you’re welcome.

Dinner is far more painless than Rowan suspected it would be. He participates in the conversation occasionally, but he’s more than happy to let Aelin and Dorian to do most of the heavy lifting. He’s mostly pleased she doesn’t remove her hand from his knee the entire time. After their fourth beer, Evalin sternly tells the boys they should not plan on driving home.

Rowan’s hand stills on Aelin’s. “Dorian, you have your room, and Rowan, you can take Aedion’s old room. And Rowan, please feel free to join us any time. We love having Aelin’s friends over.”

Rowan smiles and nods. “Thank you, Evalin.” She wraps him into a long hug, and though he’s startled, he can’t help but return it.

As they separate, Evalin turns to Dorian, who is ducked down into the island fridge, pulling out a handful of beers.

“If we’re not driving…” he says with a cheeky smile, and Evalin shakes her head at him.

“Aelin,” Rhoe pipes up, and Aelin turns toward her father, who finishes the dregs of his wine glass with a long sip.

Aelin shouts. “I knew it!”

Rowan stares, perplexed, and Rhoe laughs. “Know what?”

“I don’t know, but I know there’s something to know. I knew this meal was suspicious,” she rambles.

Rhoe sighs, exasperated with his daughter, making Rowan smile. At least Aelin exasperates everyone, not just him.

“You know the Cortlands,” Rhoe begins.

“Our neighbors?” Aelin asks. “Yes, Dad. I know the Cortlands.”

Rhoe continues on. “The Cortland’s nephew, Sam, is coming here for a few weeks. He’s just around your age. You probably don’t remember him. He used to come here when he was very little. You two used to make sandcastles together.”

Aelin sighs loudly. “And?”

“And I may have told the Cortlands that you would welcome him into your group of friends. And that you would take him to the park tomorrow.” Aelin looks like she’s going to protest, but Rhoe barrels on. “The young man just lost his father, and you will be nice to him.”

“Fine.” Aelin grumbles as she refills her wine glass. “Is that all?

Evalin rolls her eyes. “Yes. We’re turning in. Don’t stay up too late.”

As the Ashryvers disappear upstairs, Aelin practically drags Rowan down to the lower level of the house and into the home theater. He stumbles down the stairs after her and exhales in awe upon seeing the theater. It’s filled with reclining couches and blankets and a small bar is filled with movie candy. The ceiling is dotted with tiny lights, making it look like a starry night sky.

“Dorian, close your eyes,” Rowan hears Aelin say, and he’s taken by surprise when she pulls Rowan in for a kiss with all her strength. It’s not gentle. Refusing to separate from him, Aelin tugs him down onto the recliner with her, and he lands on top of her, laughing.

“How are you so strong?” he asks, getting situated upright on the couch. Aelin leans into his side and rests her head on his shoulder.

As Dorian picks the movie, Rowan wraps his arm around Aelin’s shoulders, playing with the ends of her hair and running small circles down her arm. She leans further into his side, relaxing sleepily against him. He kisses the top of her head, and she smiles up at him.

“That wasn’t horrible, right?” she asks, eyes wide, and Rowan shakes his head.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Dorian hands out candy and drinks to them as the movie comes on – Twizzlers for Dorian, Milk Duds for Aelin and Sour Patch Kids for Rowan. They watch the crappy action movie, and Rowan has to hide his smile in Aelin’s hair several times as she and Dorian make their boisterous, drunken commentary. But despite how perfectly the night has been going, something in Rowan feels unsettled. He wonders if it’s because Aelin introduced him to her parents as her friend. He wonders how they would feel if they knew what he and their daughter were really up to.

By the time it’s time for bed, Rowan’s thoughts are tangled into a complicated, insecure knot. Aelin whispers that she’ll be right back after wishing him goodnight far too loudly. And Rowan strips down to his boxers and climbs into the soft bed.

He closes his eyes and tries to relax, but his mind won’t stop racing. He feels so far out of his league when it comes to these people with their fancy beers and mile long driveways and home theaters and personal chefs. It’s no wonder Aelin only thinks of him as a convenient, warm body.

“I really like him, Ace.” Rowan hears Dorian’s smooth tenor through the crack in the door. Rowan knows he shouldn’t be listening to their private conversation, but they’re standing right outside his room, and he can’t help but strain his ears to hear the reply, wondering what Aelin has to say about that.

“We’re not turning this into a threeway thing. Get your own fuck buddy,” Aelin replies with a laugh. Rowan’s stomach twists with an uncomfortable pang, feeling every one of his insecurities confirmed with her swift reply.

A heavy pause before Dorian begins again. “I just… I thought tonight was going to be weird,” he admits. “I didn’t know what the dynamic would be, you know? Anyway.” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable from talking about his feelings, and Rowan feels slightly guilty for listening. “Feel free to hang out with both of us whenever. It was fun.”

“I appreciate your best friend approval, but like I told you. This isn’t serious. We’re just… hanging out.”

Rowan frowns, bothered by her answer. But unable to articulate why.  

“Well, if you could hang out quietly, that room shares a wall with mine and I’d like not to be completely scarred by morning,” Dorian mumbles, and Rowan closes his eyes as he hears the bedroom door open and Aelin slip into the guest room, joining him under the covers.

Aelin runs her hand up his side and kisses his shoulder. Then his chest. And as they go to land on his lips, Rowan stops her.

“Aelin? Do you mind if we…don’t?”

“Oh,” she whispers, surprised.

“I’m just a little more tired than I thought I was,” he says. “Too much beer, I think.”

Aelin rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling, and the abrupt space between them feels like a giant chasm, and he longs to pull her back into him. She props herself up, staring down at him, and he’s grateful for the dark, because he’s not sure what his face looks like.

Aelin tucks her hair behind her ear. “Should I go back to my room?” she asks softly.  

“Only if you want to,” he replies, and he’s relieved when she scooches back down onto the mattress and lays her head on the pillow next to him.

“I don’t want to.”

Aelin inches closer, and Rowan holds his breath as she snakes herself under his arm and rests her head on his chest. “Is this okay?” she whispers, and Rowan’s heart thunders in his chest. He nods as he runs his hand down her back, relishing in the silky feel of her nightgown. The nightgown has somehow ridden up, though, and as Rowan goes to pull it back down, he feels the bare skin of Aelin’s behind under his fingers. He can’t control his hands as they slowly trace over her smooth thighs and run between her legs.

Aelin lifts her head and angles her hips up to give Rowan more room to let his fingers roam.

“I thought you were too tired,” she says, and he can hear the smirk in her gravelly tone.

“That was before I discovered you were in my bed with no panties,” Rowan admits as he rubs his fingers over the apex of her thighs, their physical connection undeniably present.

Aelin breathes heavily, but her hips still as she places a hand against Rowan’s chest. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” she says seriously.  

Rowan’s breath stutters as he leans up and captures Aelin’s lips. “I appreciate that, but right now, I need to be inside you.”

He lifts Aelin up, and she sinks down onto him slowly. As she rocks on top of him, her head thrown back in pleasure and the headboard thumping softly against the wall, Rowan thinks what he wants with Aelin is anything but casual. He’s going to break his own heart. He just knows it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

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