#feel this in my bones and my fight or flight response

[dizzybevvie]

"Kingdom Hearts is so complicated" "Nomura made it up as he went along" "KH makes no sense" Have you considered that Riku is 15 and autistic and gay bc if you do I think itll change things

[neverendingford]

.

[queenimmadolla]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈: 𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

(A Lisa Frankenstein, Eddie Munson AU)

previous — next part ┊ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ( + playlist)

Summary: You learn the identity of your new undead friend, get a mini ‘makeover’, catch your crush’s attention and bury a body while Eddie learns throwing up on the girl he’s interested in probably doesn’t display his potential as a boyfriend, but his protective nature might.

Chapter Warnings: a stinky boy, dark humor, unpleasant home life, intense longing (on eddie’s behalf). oh yeah, and murder.

a/n: so i lied, this is actually longer than the first chapter and i accepted my fate. we’re getting to the fun stuff, though. next up: more vigilante justice, eddie lore and emerging feelings for a certain dead man walking. hope you like it!

light dividers ℗ cafekitsune ♡

“C’mon, over here.” You gestured to your open doorway, watching your new zombie pal hobble up the final step and round the staircase. His movements were harsh, stiff as hell and made your bones hurt to watch for whatever reason. Every over limp was accompanied by an inhuman grunt, and you wondered if moving his limbs might actually be painful for him.

  You were never particularly skilled in the art of masking your emotions, so your eyebrows were furrowed, mouth parted and upper lip tucked up to clearly display your phantom discomfort. 

  Once he was close enough, you crossed over the threshold, standing a little in front of your bed as he wandered in, large eyes immediately raking over everything on your walls. After beckoning him further in, you moved around the filthy corpse standing in your room to close the door. 

  “Despite your deadly good looks, we can’t risk anyone seeing you. No one else can know you’re here.” You informed him, trying to stress the seriousness of the situation without seeming too controlling. While you had waited for The Zombie to struggle up the stairs, you’d determined there were three possible ways this town would react to discovering a member of the dead had risen—that only seemed to be socially acceptable and celebrated in the form of Jesus Christ:

 1.) Pitchforks and Torches.

2.) News, Military, and Government attention, which would no doubt mean you’d have to break him out of some lab.

3.) Pitchforks and Torches, News, Military, and Government attention, which would mean you’d have to save him from an angry mob before inevitably losing him once News stations picked the story up, causing subsequent Military and Government interference and the scientific study of your undead friend in some high tech/high defense lab, leaving you to figure out how to break into and get him out of it. 

  Or, he could just not leave your bedroom. A beautiful alternative.

  The Zombie didn’t even pay you any attention, stumbling forward—and banging his foot against the leg of your bed frame—to take a better look at your things. He was grunting and groaning, though this time it seemed to be a little different. It almost sounded like he was talking to himself. Or maybe to you. 

  Zombies in film seemed to be able to voice their demands for brains. Could he? Did he have the same urge or need to eat brains? How would you even feed a zombie?

  “Can you talk?” You asked, leaning back against the door, eyes on him as he had to hop in place in order to turn his body to face you, “Like, speak? With words?”

  He seemed to consider your question for a moment, eyes darting to the side.

  “Uuuuuuunnnggghhh.”

  “So, that’s a no. Do you…do you need brains? Because I’m not sure I can get you any of those—and if you think for one second that you’re gonna eat mine, you should know I fall under fight when it comes to fight or flight responses. I’m like an alley cat, I’ll fuck you up.”

  The Zombie stumbled back, rocking from side to side. It took you a moment to realize he was trying to shake his head, no.

  Interesting.

  “No brains?”

  Again, he rocked from side to side, “Uunggh-uunghh.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Your defenses dropped immediately as you played with your hair, pulling gently at a section of it, “Well, what do you eat?”

  He did the choppy shoulder raise he’d done in the livingroom earlier, “Unnhh unnhh.” 

  Your lips curled into a small, fascinated smile. Okay, you knew he had been once alive, once a human being existing on this earth with blood pulsing through his veins—and now he was dead.

  Yet, he wasn’t dead. He was dead but standing in your bedroom, amongst your girly things and not so girly things, staring at you in his grotesque form, and shrugging I dunno, like some alive person. A full blown, supernatural one-time (to your knowledge) occurrence only depicted in Sci-fi films and horrors.

  Why you? What did he want with you?

  You hadn’t realized you’d voiced the question until he hobbled back around to your bedroom wall, raising his left hand, and the only one he seemed to have, up to one of the tombstone etchings. His fingers were all sorts of fucked up, frozen in the most uncomfortable looking positions as a result of rigor mortis in whatever position he’d died.

  “What? That? It’s just an etching I made of a tombstone.”

  He craned his head around, and you tried not to be freaked out with the way his neck hadn’t turned enough with it, tapping his crooked pinky finger against the craft paper and then moved it to his chest.

  Your eyes zeroed in on the etching, trying to understand what he was attempting to tell you. 

  It was MUN’s tombstone—no, Eddie Munson’s tombstone.

  Your jaw dropped. Had to be somewhere around your feet, on the floor. Holy. Shit.

  “That’s you? You’re Eddie Munson?” It was rude, but you openly pointed at him.

  He didn’t grunt in response this time, rather, he began to cough and gag as he jerked his body around to get his hand in his dirty jeans. 

  While he did whatever it was, you took the time to take him in even further. He wore black jeans, but under his leather jacket he seemed to be wearing a discolored dress shirt that had once probably been white. You had a feeling the sneakers on his feet, while horrendously dirty, weren’t all that worn out. Dress pants were pricey, you knew that much after buying some for your father when your mother would take you to outlets and malls with her. Dress shirts were a little cheaper and new shoes were seen as a staple in big events for peoples’ lives, such as graduations, birthdays, dances, weddings and funerals. 

  You had a sneaking suspicion this lively carcass hadn’t been from this part of town when he was alive. 

  “UUUUUUNNNNGGGHHHH!” The Zombie moaned out, almost victoriously as his stiff arm stuck straight up in the air. Dangling from his curled fingers, was your mother’s pearl necklace. You’d seen it last when you’d entrusted MUN with it yesterday.

  You gasped, reaching out as he lowered it into your furled palm. 

  With the proof in your hand and his corpse before you, you knew you were speaking to Eddie Munson. He was, without a doubt, the grave you’d been running to.

  “Holy crap, you are Eddie Munson!” You gripped the pearls in your fist, eyes wide and blinking rapidly to try to make sense of it all, “You were murdered and now you’re not—I mean, you were, but you’re back from the dead, standing in my—ooh, standing pretty close actually.”

  You tried not to flinch as you became aware of just how close he’d stumbled over to you. Definitely within arms-length. He didn’t exactly stink, his flesh looked much too leathery to actually smell (you weren’t about to lean in and sniff to test the theory), but the scent of wet dirt was strong and the smell of whatever he’d spat on you earlier seemed to be lingering. 

  Zombie Eddie was in desperate need of a shower.

  “So, this is all pretty cool and bizarre—I’m a fan of both—but uhm, why are you here…? Like, in my house.”

  He slouched even further into your space, this time you did flinch a little as the most muffled whimper sounded from him. Reminded you of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz when he couldn’t speak properly because he was all rusted up. 

  Eddie held eye contact as he struggled to grab hold of your hand and the minute he did, dirt from his skin pressing into yours, you knew what was coming.

  Because of course it would. This is something that would only happen to you.

  Shakily, Eddie tried lifting your hand and your mouth puckered, brows furrowing before you sucked your lips into your mouth as you watched him prepare to kiss your hand with his filthy, dead, dried out lips that still had bits of that green goop he’d spat up around it.

  You were a nice person—a relatively decent human being, but you weren’t that nice and you didn’t wanna have to go to the hospital on the off chance that you caught something from a corpse. Explaining that one would send you straight to the psych ward and probably end in some sort of abuse of a corpse charge, so you quickly pulled your hand out of his grasp, rubbing your fingers together to roll some of the dirt off of them.

  “Okay, okay, I see, mhm—alright. You’re here because—when I said I wished I was with you, I didn’t mean like, I wanted to have your dead body…y’know, pressed up against mine. I meant like…in the grave. Next to you. Like buried there because I’d be dead. It was a moment of intense angst—I’m nineteen and my life is in the fucking gutter. I’m surrounded by terrible people in this town and I have the rest of my life to live out this way.

  “I didn’t mean to lead you on or something, and I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to do literally anything with a corpse, other than bury it.”

  The two of you stood there, just staring at each other. He still hadn’t moved out of your space and you were still kind of leaning back, away from him, so you added, “So. Just a little recap, I wanted to be dead. Did not mean I wanted to be with you. Romantically. Together. Like a couple.”

  And then you felt a little guilty because that wasn’t entirely true.

  “Well, not with you as a cadaver.” Because you had fantasized about the person in the grave being a source of comfort to you, “Or—or, you in general. ‘Cause…’cause I didn’t know it was you given how fucked up your shit was, and I didn’t know you when you were alive.”

  God, you were messing this up. Rather than continuing your ongoing word vomit, you flashed him a tight smile.

  Finally, you got a reaction out of him. He creaked back, those little whimpering sounds coming from his lips before that same nasty ass green shit from before started leaking out from behind his eyeballs.

  You’d made him cry.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—I just moved here a couple of months ago and you were already dead by then! I’m sure you were a lovely person and I would have liked y—y—yo—ECH!”

  You gagged, hand flying up to cover your mouth and nose as you felt the contents of your stomach start to make its way back up. While your hand was in that position, it squeezed the tip of your nose, cutting of the assault currently taking place against it.

  Whatever it was Zombie Eddie was secreting instead of his tears, stunk. It was the most putrid scent you’d ever had the misfortune of knowing. Nothing could compare to it, not literal shit, not vomit, not pasta that had been left out to cook in the sun for several weeks, nothing.

  You were sure one more sniff of it, and your nostril hairs would either shrink and curl up, or disintegrate. 

  “MOTHER OF GOD—your tears smell horrendous—I’m gonna throw u—ECH!”

  You gagged again, tears flooding your sight and you hurried over to the bathroom, gesturing for him to follow behind you.

  Chrissy had left her door to the bathroom open, so you skidded across the tile to shove it closed, desperate to make sure the scent didn’t reach the room and wouldn’t linger in there.

  She’d drive you straight to the ER to get checked out, because nothing you could possibly shit out should ever and would ever smell that bad.

  You yanked the shower curtain back from the tub, setting Chrissy’s products to the side and out of the way, “You need to bathe like two years ago, my dead guy.”

  You stepped to the side, pointing into the tub with a finger as your other hand rested on your hip like you were ordering a misbehaving child in.

  Eddie groaned, and you got the feeling that he was unimpressed with your theatrics. Unfortunately for the both of you, you hadn’t been dramatic about it. His stank tears had to be an actual biohazard and you didn’t want to think about the fact that very same biohazard had been projectile vomited onto your face a couple of minutes ago. You were so gonna scrub it raw.

  Begrudgingly, he hobbled over to your tub and struggled over the edge until he was in—his upper half slamming into the tile wall. 

  You didn’t say anything about him being fully clothed, shoes and all, because everything he wore needed a good rinse off. If not, you’d have to hose his clothes down in the yard before subjecting the dryer and washer to them.

  “There’s my soap.” You pointed out the pink bottle of pomegranate and berry scented shower gel, “And my shampoo and conditioner—those two are very expensive and a little goes a long way, so don’t waste any.”

  You eyed him for a moment, mouth twisting in consideration, “Nevermind, it’ll take half the bottles to get your hair clean, I’ll just have to replace them a little earlier than my budget expected.”

  This time, Eddie’s mouth parted rather wide as he moaned out, “UHNNNGGHH.”

  He was probably telling you to fuck off already, but you were distracted by whatever insect was currently in his mouth, on his tongue.

  “SPIT IT OUT!” You shrieked, and he aimed his head down, the large thing with too many legs falling right out to crawl around on your bathroom floor.

  You screamed as you began to stomp around, trying to crush it beneath your remaining slipper but it kept evading it! Finally, your foot flattened it with a satisfying crunch.

  The evil had been defeated. You were nearly panting, shoulders rising and falling as you calmed your breathing and another sound registered.

  Eddie was croaking now, it sounded almost like the most painful gasps someone would let out on their deathbed. You stared, puzzled for a moment before it dawned on you.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  He did it again, stiff body leaning completely back on the shower tiles now.

  “Oh my god, you are! YOU DICK!” You slapped the side of his arm and then quickly yanked it back, frowning at the mud now caked to the back of your fingers. 

  “Ugh,” you tried to shake some of it off over the tub, your head shaking as well—and despite the predicament, you found the corners of your lips twitching but you refused to smile. Wouldn’t let him get that over you, “You’re gross. That better be the last living creature to come out of you, you Zombie Headbanger, take a shower.”

  You didn’t give him a chance to moan, groan or croak at you again, yanking the curtains back to shield the tub and it’s undead occupant.

  You rolled your eyes, almost fondly, and gathered too much toilet paper to wipe up the remnants of the bug and toss it in the trash. Should’ve been in a different corpse’s mouth if it wanted to live.

  “You know how to work a shower, don’t you?” You asked aloud as you approached your bathroom counter, taking notice of the bathroom mirror as you uncapped a room spray and gave your bathroom a good burst of it. The mirror had already been replaced, looked like Laura couldn’t stand to know there was something imperfect in the house—aside from you. 

  You heard the tub start to run before the shower stream took over. At least he still remembered that much.

  “You wanna listen to some music?” You asked over the loud stream of the shower.

  “Uunngh.”

  You took that as a yes and leaned over the counter to tweak the knob of the radio you and Chrissy always left on it. Immediately, a country station started playing and you quickly switched the station.

  “That’s not one of mine! Chrissy listens to Country whenever she misses her ex-boyfriend, I don’t know why.”

  You kept twisting the dial through various stations. When you hit a station midway through Disposable Heroes, you turned the knob again only for your companion to voice his outrage.

  “UUUUUUNNNGGHHHH!!!”

  “What?” You switched the station back, “You like Metallica?”

  He grunted from behind the shower curtain, and the scent of your body wash began to fill the bathroom, much to your relief. You could hear him banging around in there, probably not the easiest to wash up with a bad case of rigor mortis.

  “They’re alright, I liked Ride the Lightning, but Master of Puppets is good, too. Their last album was good, too, but it felt kind of different. Not the same without Burton.”

  Eddie made a sound of confusion, hand with the fucked up fingers reaching out to push the curtain back so he could poke his head out.

  You met his gaze through the mirror, “You don’t know?”

  He just blinked, almost owlishly. 

  Shit. He must have died before the fall of ‘86. You’d have to ask Chrissy when exactly Eddie had died.

  “The bass player, Cliff Burton? He died in ‘86. Bus accident.”

  You watched as Eddie’s gaze dropped, and the groan he let out sounded remarkably sad as he ducked back behind the curtain.

  Unsure of what to say to make him feel better, you let the radio play out the rest of the duration of Eddie’s shower and took diligent care in washing your face and brushing your teeth. Once he was done, smelling amazing and just like you, you’d had him shed his clothes for one of your nightgowns and dragged him back to your closet.

  You knew he was quite literally stiff, but he seemed extra unenthused with his choice of ensemble, so you were going to let him choose his own.

  “Alright, take your pick.” You yanked the doors of your walk-in closet (as in you could take three steps in and that's it) open and he flinched back at the amount of pink seeping out of it. When he made no move to look through his options, you selected one for him.

  An even gaudier nightgown you tried to shove in his arms. And he let you, before purposely dropping it to the ground while holding eye contact. 

  “Well, I thought you would have looked great in it.” You mumbled as he creaked down to pick it up for you. When Eddie hobbled into the closet to hang it up, you shut the doors behind him, “Pick something else and then you can come out!”

  Your closet doors didn’t lock though, so you were just banking on him assuming they did and you heard his offended zombie groaning. While you waited, listening to him no doubt bang into the walls as he struggled to dress himself, grunting and groaning, you twirled around on your desk chair.

  Eventually, the closet doors parted and you gasped at the sight of him, standing there in your lavender fluffy, oversized sweater and pair of white pajama pants with hearts all over them. He couldn’t really move his face all that much, not very expressive and yet you could somehow tell he was scowling.

  “You look like Grimace.” Was all you said, mind conjuring up Ronald McDonald’s purple monster friend.

  The closet doors were promptly slammed shut. When he emerged once more, gone was the former ensemble. Eddie was wearing a neon green skirt, a tight off the shoulder black top, and nothing else.

  You wolf whistled at his skinny, severely discolored legs.

  He stuck one out, modeling it for you and you realized he was humoring you. You laughed, eyes crinkling.

  “You tryna knock me dead, too?”

  When he nodded, you laughed again and stood up to rummage through your dresser. You found a band tee you used as a pajama top, and some black pants that looked like they might fit him. Then you spotted a red plaid flannel you had hanging on your bedroom door, waiting to be placed in the closet.

  The clothing items were shoved into his arms and you pushed him back into the closet.

  When he came out (eheheheh) again, you were practically bouncing in your seat. You’d never seen Eddie alive before, had never seen him in clothes that weren’t his burial ones, and he definitely still looked as much of a Zombie as Michael Jackson had looked in the Thriller music video, but he also looked like a young adult, and very much so in his Metal element. He was stretching your baby blue socks to their limit, but they’d have to do until you could steal some from your dad. You’d scrub his shoes tomorrow, before class.

  If Eddie were alive, he’d look…hot.

  You smiled to yourself, still taking him in as you realized you were looking at Eddie Munson.

  To show your admiration, you clapped for him, “That’ll do real well. What do you think?”

  Eddie raised his forearm and you tilted your head, confused. He followed your gaze and groaned, rolling his eyes as he realized that was the arm lacking a hand. Then, he held up his other arm, painful looking thumb finger cracking and popping until he was giving you a thumbs up. You ended up tying a scarf around the wrist without a hand, just to hide the gaping wound. 

  With the matter of his clothing solved, you moved onto his hair, sitting on the bathroom counter while he stood in front of you as you worked on detangling with a spray bottle and a legion of hair products. It took some TLC, and ignoring the hole where his ear should’ve been, but you brought his curls back to life. You were shocked to even see he had bangs, they’d been plastered to the top of his head when he was the Swamp Thing.

  They framed his eyes, looked real good on him and he seemed to enjoy the entire process, eyes slipping shut and little moans (not like that) coming from him.

  “Well, I think we’ve got you back in good shape.” You put down the comb, placing your hand on his shoulders to turn him towards the mirror, “Is this Eddie Munson?”

  You watched his gaze scan his reflection, before those eyes were on yours in the mirror. 

  “Unnnghhh.” Eddie held up his arm with the missing appendage and you nervously scratched the back of your heard.

  “Well, you see, I don’t really have any extra hands on me, at the moment. Just down to these two,” You emphasized the sentence with some jazz hands to display yours, then immediately felt guilty over still having yours so you hid them behind your back.

  Eddie groaned low, lifting his wrist to the side of his head, where his ear should have been and you made a displeased sound. 

  “Oh. Noticed that, did you?”

  His eyes narrowed and even though you had no idea what Eddie had sounded like, you could still hear him in your head, Notice my fucking ear is missing? Yeah, I did.

  “I don’t have any extras of those, either. If it’s a body part, I’m out of stock. But—who cares? Plenty of people live without them.”

  Eddie grunted, eyes narrowing even further at you.

  You winced, “Poor choice of words—the point is, no one will even notice. Because no one is going to see you.”

  Eddie’s next grunt sounded disappointed and you felt even guiltier. What were you supposed to do? You’d already made him look as relatively normal as you could, there was only so many ways you could disguise a zombie who walked oddly, communicated via moan, groan and grunt, and looked like he had a medical skin condition.

  You were about to try to comfort him when you heard the front door open and you gasped.

  “WHAT IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN?” You heard Laura cry out, and your dad shouted your name. 

  “I don’t mean to sound homophobic, but back in the closet!” You shoved him out of the bathroom and in the direction of his new hiding place. He hadn’t looked very keen as you shut the closet doors on him, but he’d have to wait for now.

  Your dad was probably having one hell of a heart attack, staring at the mess of the house, the broken window, fearful a similar situation as your mother’s assault had taken place with you as the victim.

  “I’m alright, daddy!” You reassured as you raced down the stairs to your concerned father. He was concerned alright, but not about you.

  He had Laura in one arm, who was openly distraught about the shards of her damn plates, and Chrissy, who was staring at the mess with open confusion, in the other.

  “You,” Laura spat at you with venom the moment her chilling gaze locked onto your approaching figure, “What. Did. You. Do?”

  Wow. You’d seen an actual Zombie—he was upstairs, in your bedroom closet—and still the most unbelievable thing to happen to you was your ‘family’’s ability to immediately blame you. You hadn’t expected Eddie’s corpse to be the first suspect in their head, still, they’d seen your house ransacked—as you tried to escape your friendly deceased headbanger—with you nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been at all concerned for your wellbeing. God, they sucked.

  “Me?! I didn’t do this!”

  “Then who did!?” Laura screeched back and you found yourself getting angry.

  “The guy who broke in!” You shouted back and Laura immediately rolled her eyes. You could hear your dad say both of your names to calm you down, but you were growing tired of him, too. Like Eddie, he seemed to be missing parts of his body. Noticeably, his goddamn spine.

  “Really? You expect us to believe that after last night? The smashing of the mirror, my precious moments figurines? Muffin, your daughter is out of control. She destroyed my house!”

  “Do you ever use those creepy eyeballs stuck in your skull?” You found yourself blurting out, “Does it look like any part of my body came crashing through that window?!” You pointed aggressively in the direction of the livingroom, where glass littered the floor. It was too much for just an object to have been thrown through and your body had no cuts, nothing to show from possibly jumping through it.

  “Mom, if sissy was attacked─” Chrissy tried, her her mother was having none of it.

  “Attacked? Who would want to attack her? She’s invisible, taking up space!” Laura was practically hysterical as she gathered pieces of her broken dishes, “That’s why she’s acting out, can’t you see? She’s recreating the crime scene that got her so much attention and you’re all falling for it!”

  The woman was crying, mascara smearing around her eyes as her angry glare was once more directed to you, and you found yourself shrinking and hurt at the accusations, “You need serious help. You’re crazy and a danger to us all!”

  “I think you might be mistaking me for your psyche.” You mumbled before turning your attention to your father with pleading eyes, “Daddy, there was a home invasion! I tried to call the police, but as soon as I heard him, I ran up to hide in my room.”

  “She needs help, institutional treatment.” Laura hissed into your father’s ear as as though she was the devil on his shoulder.

  “Daddy…”

  “Mom, sissy’s not a nut, we can’t send her to the looney bin!” 

  You wanted to scream. All this talk about you being insane, and there was a literal walking corpse upstairs who could disprove that. You just weren’t willing to sacrifice Eddie for yourself. 

  “Dad, I’m not crazy. Okay? Last night was just a mirror, and tonight someone broke in. There’s a huge difference between the two, I’m not crazy.” You tried to reason, desperate to not get shipped off to some mental ward. 

  Your dad appeared sympathetic, “No one is calling you crazy, sweetheart.”

  ”I did.” Laura guffawed at your father siding with you.

  “She did, I heard her.” Chrissy confirmed, frowning at her mother.

  “No, Chris. Your mother’s just upset, she’d never say something like that and mean it.” You watched with disgust as he pulled Laura into his arms. It was more than you could stomach so you stormed out of the dining room, making a retreat for your room.

  You were on your own. Your father had just proved that. Laura could say anything to you, treat you like crap, starve you and he wouldn’t ever step in, just continue being his wishy washy self. If it had been him and not your mother that night, you wouldn’t be suffering like this. 

  You’d have a loving parent. 

  You quietly shut your bedroom door once you made it in, leaning your forehead against it as a tear slipped from the corner of your eye. Emotions were something you tried to embrace, but crying because of your family felt…wrong. Like something you shouldn’t have to do. 

  Wiping your face, you realized more tears would be coming. Tonight was meant for crying. So, you slipped into bed, tears leaking steadily down your temples to seep into your hair and pillows. You were so hurt and you wanted to sob, but you were conscious of the dead guy in your closet. What if he heard you?

  With a stuttering breath, you peered over at the closet to see the doors barely open and Eddie peaking out at you.

  You rolled onto your side, back facing him to hide your tear stained face and weakness as you thought about how loud you and Laura had been downstairs. He’d probably heard what she said about you.

  It was one thing to be treated the way you were, it felt extra pathetic to have someone bear witness to it. 

  The closet doors closed quietly behind you and just as you did every night, you squeezed your eyes shut, willing sleep to come so you could be done with the day and move onto the next, just solemnly trying to make it through life. 

  Maybe you and Eddie had more in common than you originally thought. Maybe you were a zombie, too.

  When your alarm blared from your nightstand, rousing you from sleep—the only peace you ever seemed to get—you stumbled out of bed almost blindly, eyes heavily lidded with exhaustion as you yanked your closet doors open.

  A garment was immediately thrown over your head, covering your face and you remembered your current house guest.

  With a sigh, you yanked the clothing off your head, balled it up and threw it back at Eddie, “Dude, I have to get dressed. I have class today.”

  Eddie grumbled, un-balling the little black dress and holding it up for you. It was the dress Chrissy had bought on sale and then given to you when she came to the conclusion that black washed her out and she looked much better in pastels.

  “I’m not wearing that, not so much my style.” You tried to push past Eddie, but he remained planted where he stood, grunting as he held the dress out to you once more.

  “Do I look like Madonna to you?” You asked, pushing the dress back towards him. Eddie groaned and threw the dress at your face again, closing the closet doors while you yanked it off your head, again.

  “We’re gonna have to have a conversation about your communication skills later.” You called through the door and fiddled with the dress, “Can I get a sweater or something to go along with this?”

  The closet doors were quickly opened and a new article of clothing was flung over your head before they closed. You’d just pulled the sweater off of your head when the doors opened once more and a hat was tossed at you.

  “Dang—anything else?”

  “Uuunggh.” Eddie moaned through the door, and you tried to pull at them but he must have been holding them shut from the otherside. 

  Resigned to your fate, you swapped out your pajamas for the outfit Eddie had apparently selected for you. He would navigate to the black clothing. You were unsure of it until you saw yourself in the mirror. Normally, your clothes weren't all that revealing. Form fitting—maybe, but never as attention drawing as this. You just figured you weren’t the type that could pull it off.

  You were wrong. 

  The dress hugged your figure in the most complimentary way. It was short, stopped mid-thigh, but it didn’t look awkward or make you feel like your vagina would be on display if you bent over, thanks to the lace of the bottom hem flaring out.

  For once, the girl in the mirror looked stunning. And when you did your makeup, taking your time to smoke a dark blue shadow out along your lash line and eyelids, she looked drop dead gorgeous. 

  You’d walked onto Campus with your head high, body rocking and a new found confidence that hadn’t quite made it’s way to the surface before. The heads turning in your direction were new and you found you kind of liked it, their gazes weren’t uninterested, scowls or looks of annoyance. They were appreciative, even from the straight girls!

  “Okay, am I seeing things or does your sister look drop dead gorgeous?” Tina asked, as Chrissy and her friends stood admiring you from the bench they were occupying.

  “You’ve got perfect 20/20 vision. She’d be unstoppable if she kept the confidence. Could probably even win pageants. Do you think she’d join cheer?”

  Eddie fiddled with one of your shoes, tugging on a shoestring in boredom. He was sat on the floor of your closet, light from your bedroom windows creeping in through the cracks of the doors. 

  You’d lectured him before you left for class, told him he had to stay put. Laura wouldn’t be leaving for her nurses’ conference until the afternoon, so she’d be lingering in the house and she’d have a cow if she stumbled upon him.

  So you’d pointed and lectured until he was creaking and groaning his compliance. 

  He’d stayed in the closet while you got dressed and, after you’d made sure Chrissy had already left, watched you do your makeup in the mirror while you chatted about the classes you had to take for the day.

  Eddie had listened, to the best of his ability with one ear, and stared at your reflection as the heavy sense of longing settled on his chest, crushing the heart that no longer beat but desperately wished to. For you.

  Death was not like he’d ever expected. No heaven, no hell. He was just…dead. Maybe it’d been the way he died. Perhaps, the suddenness of it, his lack of peace in life while living, or the fact that he was murdered, was the reason he saw neither heaven nor hell. He’d just been in a dark place. Literally, no source of light, no out of body experience, just darkness. For a while, it was tolerable, he’d heard Wayne’s voice comforting him. Telling him how much he loved him, how much he missed him. Then, nothing.

  Nothing for so long. Quiet. Silence, not at all a peaceful kind. He no longer existed in life and yet the silence was still somehow smothering. 

  Until one day, he wasn’t alone anymore. 

  You found him. 

  Talked to him all the time, laid with him, kept him company and said such wonderful things. Eddie had no idea how much he’d appreciate hearing about current news events as a dead guy.

  And while you kept him from feeling lonely, there was always a sadness to your presence. Broke his heart when you told him out of place you felt because he just wanted to claw his way out of his grave and tell you that no, you weren’t odd, you weren’t weird, you weren’t out of place. You were unique. You were the type of person he would have admired if he had been alive, different but not desperate to fit in. Just longed to be accepted.

  He understood the sentiment all too well. 

  Eddie understood you. And you had no idea who he was, had voiced as much to him, couldn’t come up with his identity because some fuckers had defaced his tombstone—of course they would—and yet, you knew exactly who Eddie was. Knew him to his very core.

  When you visited him, Eddie felt warm. He had no idea he could even feel things, other than the constant loneliness that had plagued him after Wayne’s presence disappeared, and before you.

  With you, it felt like you were right there with him, beside him. A warmth, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in for some much needed comforting. How ironic that he finally found someone who could finally see him, and he couldn’t do anything about it because he was dead. 

  And when you had come to Eddie that fateful night, the sadness he always noticed about you was heavier. A new despair attached, one that had him desperate to get to you, comfort you as you’d done for him.

  I wish I was with you.

  You’d said it. Had said what Eddie had wanted to hear you say for so long, even before he was dead. Before he knew you. It had always been you he was waiting for. He was beginning to understand the universe was bigger than anything he could have imagined (and yeah, maybe universal studios was the first thing that came to mind when he was alive), was positive the heartache he went through was necessary if it led him to you. Eddie could have done without the murder—there was no undoing that. Except, there kind of was. And it happened with a strike of lightning.

  Unlike the many times he wanted to before, he’d actually been able to open his eyes, break out of his coffin and dig his way out of his own grave. 

  Eddie had had a major breakdown, freaking out at just about everything regarding returning from the dead after he’d broken through that final layer of thick terrain, minutely softened by some light rain from the storm. He had first tried to go home, only to find himself face to face with an unfamiliar mobile home set up on Wayne’s lot. A peek into the window revealed a couple. 

  No sign of his uncle.

  It filled him with a sense of panic and he’d needed something—someone to stabilize him, keep him grounded. 

  Eddie was sure he was tied to you. Not only because of the unique bond you shared, he also felt a pull to you. Just some intense instinct. 

  He knew where to go after.

  Your welcome hadn’t exactly been as warm as the grave hangouts—he didn’t blame you, his vocal chords were useless to him for the time being, meaning he couldn’t explain himself as you shrieked and flung dishes at him (and he was impressed) and fled from him. He could make sounds, so Eddie suspected he had the ability to talk, just lacked the healthy cords due to years of non-use to them, what with him being dead and all. 

  Eddie’s case was definitely not helped when he’d broken your fall—he was freaking the fuck out about you dangling from the roof like that—and you’d pressed on him stomache when you landed on him. 

  He hadn’t meant to…y’know…spit all that up on you, it just happened and he immediately wanted to die right after, just roll right back into his grave, he was so fucking embarrassed.

  Projectile vomited on the girl you’re tryna romance, Munson. Nice.

  Then, you hadn’t been attacking him, tugging him along to your room instead where you immediately told him you were just using dark humor to cope and didn’t actually want to be with him.

  Probably something you should have clarified for him before he returned from the dead to be with you, but whatever. He wasn’t mad about it. Just a little bit heartbroken. Definitely didn’t stink up your closet with a little cry sesh while you were at college. Totally didn’t smell like Cherry Bubbles (how is that a scent?) from the bathroom spray he’d had to limp out to grab in an effort to hide the scent of his rotting body tears.

  Now, he was just confused. Had no idea what the hell to do. Thinking on it, it had obviously been stupid as fuck to think you’d want him when he was literally a dead body. Couldn’t exactly stroll down the street, holding his one hand without garnering a few odd looks and arrests. 

  So, what could he do now? Sit in the closet and think about everything. Try to remember everything about his last moments alive—and when it had him wheezing in the closet, cowering in the dark, he’d switched to thinking about his uncle. Concerned. Wondering what had happened to him. When that subject, too, began to promise a panic attack—he switched to thinking about you, and oh how he ached in a different way. You were right there, in reach for him and yet the two of you couldn’t be. 

  The most frustrating part is how good the two of you could be for each other, and Eddie literally couldn’t talk you into giving it a chance, couldn’t even flirt with you. 

  He had some mad rizz when given the opportunity, a body that wasn’t stiff as hell and a fucking voice. Eddie knew he’d be able to get you all shy and cute, similar to how you were when you talked about what you thought he was like back at the cemetery. 

  FUCK. What the hell? Life wasn’t fair to him, death wasn’t fair to him, now life as some zombie wasn’t gonna be fair to him?

  What kind of fucked up existance was this?!

  All because of some stupid fucking lightning that—

  Lightning. Eddie perked up, theories racing through him. If it had brought him back from the dead, maybe it could do more. Before he could think on it further, he heard your door open and froze. 

  It was too soon for you to be home. You said you’d be back in the afternoon, after Laura had left. 

  Eddie heard a scoff.

  “How has it gotten even worse in here?” Laura mumbled to herself. 

  Eddie scowled, as he heard her footsteps enter your room, could hear her padding around. 

  The fuck was she doing in here?

  It was a risk, Eddie pushed the closet door open, just enough to give him a crack to peep through. 

  Your stepmom was in some sort of jazzercise outfit—ugh, of course she did jazzercise. The blonde woman was currently rummaging through your drawers, looking amongst your belongings. 

  She was invading your privacy.

  If Eddie had blood flowing through his veins, it would have been boiling. 

  He’d heard what she said last night, how she berated you. Accusing you of using your mother’s murder to seek attention.

  And the other members of your family weren’t speaking up nearly enough to defend you. He was surprised that Chrissy—small town for Cunningham to be the Chrissy you’d been telling him about—even tried to defend you but she should have been putting her mother in her place. She hadn’t come up to check on you, either. 

  Eddie had a few things he wished he could say to Laura Cunningham, tell her exactly where she could shove her stupid figurines and verbal abuse. 

  If she was searching for something, Laura didn’t find it. She slammed one of your drawers shut, eyed your sketches pinned to your wall with disgust before speed walking out of your room. When she passed the closet, Eddie took notice of the headphones over her ears, could hear whatever she was listening to, Walkman probably set to the loudest volume.

  Eddie’s mouth chipped up into a smirk that kind of hurt his face. He opened the closet door fully, stumbling out to poked his head out of your bedroom doorway just in time to see your stepmom disappear down the stairs.

  Eddie followed, steps loud and uneven. Laura didn’t notice his presence, too engrossed in whatever she was listening to and occupied with her own ego. Looked to be cleaning up the place before her little trip. 

  Laura disappeared into the kitchen, well out of view of the living room so Eddie stumbled in, eyeing the pristine setting. The place looked impeccable, spotless, antiques everywhere that Eddie just knew the old bat was dying to have people ask about so she could name drop and be as haughty as possible.

  Eddie could wreck all of this in no time, and he would if he didn’t know she’d immediately blame you for it. He still felt guilty you’d been chewed out for the mess he made. 

  Bitch.

  Eddie heard her returning, so he hid behind the wall, waiting a few moments before he peered around it and across the foyer, into the dinning room where she was seated after having fixed herself something. Laura still had the headphones on, so Eddie took that as the all clear to continue exploring.

  He spotted a family portrait hung over the fireplace, a seemingly picture perfect family was displayed. A man he assumed to be your father loomed over Laura and Chrissy, one hand on each of their shoulders. Eddie barely glanced at them before you pulled all of his attention. You were stunning, light catching the highlights of your face, lips parted just enough to encourage a pout. Your hair was wild in comparison to the other women in the portrait—Eddie loved it. You looked like you belonged on an album cover for some rock band, even with the sorrow swirling around in your eyes. Your unwavering melancholic stare pinned Eddie, and he could feel himself getting protective over you again. You must have been miserable that day. 

  See, if he had been around, he could have easily cheered you up. Snuck over on the day in question. Laura would have hated his fucking guts—Eddie wouldn’t have minded being the boyfriend your stepmom didn’t approve of.  Horsing around behind the little photo shoot set up to get you smiling, get those pretty eyes of yours twinkling before whisking you the hell out of there once they got the money shot.

  He rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself as he turned away from the past that never was. Couldn’t have (he’d already been dead), should have (but couldn’t) and would have. In a heartbeat.

  His posture worsened under the weight of his own despair, sulking with it until he spotted an acoustic guitar, tucked in the corner and resting on a stand.

  “Mm?” Eddie tilted his head in curiosity before making his way over. It was difficult to do, but he managed to settle the neck of it in the crook of the arm lacking a hand, and strummed with his stiff fingers, pleased to find that it was already tuned. 

  He plucked a couple more chords, stopping once to adjust a peg. Then the doorbell rang and Eddie’s eyes widened. He fumbled to place the guitar back on its stand and plaster himself against the wall as Laura got up to answer it, having apparently been able to hear it ring but not his guitar playing.

  “Yes?” Laura asked as she opened the door, impatience soaking through her tone.

  “Carpet cleaning.” A man’s voice stated, sounding bored beyond measure. 

  “Carpet Cleaning? My carpet is so clean you can lick the fibers.” God, was your stepmom ever not insufferable? The carpet cleaner salesman seemed to be thinking the same thing and Eddie figured he had to be annoyed with his work day already to say what he did next.

  “I doubt the one downstairs is.” The salesman snorted and Eddie would have snickered if he could as he heard Laura let out an affronted and embarrassed gasp. 

  “EXCUSE ME?!” 

  The guy must have turned tail because Laura was stepping out after him, yelling as she closed the front door behind her. 

  Eddie eyed the bowl she’d been eating from, curiosity getting the better of him as he stumbled over to inspect it. Spaghetti.

  He shouldn’t….But what was the point of being a dead corpse if he couldn’t use dead guy powers for good?

  It only took a little effort, Eddie successfully gagged and heaved until a warm that had been lurking in his stomach came out, dropping out of his mouth to wiggle around in Laura’s lunch. Eddie watched as it disappeared between the noodles and sauce, satisfaction filling him.

  Served the hag right.

  With justice served, Eddie made his way back upstairs to your room. He’d just made it to your doorway when he heard Laura return. He waited a few more moments for her to sit down, settle herself, twirl some spaghetti around her fork and put it in her mouth.

  Eddie was beginning to think the worm had made its way to the very bottom of the bowl when Laura let out a high pitched scream. 

  That one was for you.

  Eddie smirked and walked back into your room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  You had two classes for the day, back to back so as to not have to stay on campus longer than necessary, and both classes were pleasant. There hadn’t been any change in the materials covered or anything, eyes just kept attempting to discreetly take you in, which you caught from your peripheral vision. 

  While you enjoyed the new attention your attire and the way you carried yourself brought you, you quickly realized it wasn’t something you needed. What you needed was to feel good about yourself and for once in your life, you did. 

  You were absolutely giddy, and you felt so badass somehow, was this what Chrissy and her friends felt like all the time? Maybe putting effort into your appearance wasn’t just a load of crap dispelled onto ugly people by the conventionally attractive. 

  Regardless, you were strutting your way to the library, eager to turn in some books, make Steve Harrington’s jaw drop, then run back home to Eddie so you could thank him profusely for not having fugly taste.

  Once you made it to the library, you noticed no one was at the front desk. Steve must have been putting some books back on their shelves.

  No problem, more time to prepare yourself, maybe run through some possible conversations so you wouldn’t go stupid at the sight of his gorgeous face.

  Your bag hit the ground with a thud, thanks to the weight of the hardcovers within it and you bent down at the waist to rummage through it, placing one heavy hardcover book, two heavy hardcover books, three heavy hardco—

  “You got the rest of the library in there, Mary Poppins?”

  You snapped back up, whipping around just in time to see Steve’s gaze rise from where your ass had been unknowingly on display, to meet your eyes, his honey brown ones swirling with warmth.

  Oh, god. Just play it cool.

  “Just some tampons and some chips.” 

  Leave. Walk out. Save face.

  “No chocolate for that time of the month?” He asked, leaning up against the desk, rather than going around it to handle your returns. Steve wanted to talk to you. He’d been eyeing your ass and now he was making small talk. 

  You were going for it. 

  “Craving a different kind of sweet thing right now.” You leaned in, just as he had at the tailor’s yesterday. You were laying it on thick, sure. It worked though. Steve leaned in, too, and you clocked the tick of his eyebrow. Interest. Holy shit—things were finally looking up for you.

  “I’ve got some starbursts in my car,” Chrissy chirped, materializing out of thin air to stand in front of you and Steve. 

  You almost knocked down the books you’d stacked on the desk, cursing under your breath. “Geez, Chrissy.”

  “Hi.” She grinned at you, her darling crooked teeth gleaming before she was fixing Steve with a stern look, “Sorry, I need to talk to my sister. Preferably, alone.”

  “I’m not exactly gonna run to the gossip columns about anything.” He mused, exchanging an amused look with you but you couldn’t really hear anything going on around you because Steve Harrington was flashing you smiles around Chrissy, your pretty and practically perfect step-sister, and not her. You’d entered another dimension and you did not want to leave. All you could do was smile back at him, like some infatuated idiot while your fingers reached up to pick at your lower lip.

  “That may be so, but I think it’s best if she hangs around a good crowd.” Somehow, Chrissy had wedged herself between you and Steve, standing protectively in front of you with her arms crossed. She was about as intimidating as a pomeranian. Still, it was endearing to have someone act like they cared about you.

  “And the library is just full of Neanderthals, is that what you’re implying?” Steve leaned both elbows back on the desk, gesturing out to the few students—most meek in appearance—occupying the area.

  “I was thinking more of creepy librarians, high school peakers, and former playboys.” Chrissy shot back and you nudged her, hissing out her name. The protective thing was nice, just not when she was trying to scare away the man you’d be making your boyfriend.

  “Golden coming from you, of all people, your royal highness, the Queen of Hawkins High; former head cheerleader and Miss Hawkins of ‘87, but not ‘88 and I’m pretty sure Heather Holloway won again this year, so looks like we both don’t have a lot going on, do we?” Steve was smug, shooting you a wink that made your heart melt and drip down your sternum.

  Steam was practically blowing out of Chrissy’s ears, “Shoo fly, don’t bother us.” 

  Steve rolled his eyes before they fixed on you, past Chrissy’s head, “I’ll see you later okay? Thanks for bringing your books back on time.”

  You giggled, still staring at him as Chrissy began to tug you away, “Until the next time, I guess?”

  Steve held your stare, smirk softening into a smile, “I’ll be waiting.”

  It was easy for Chrissy to guide you out after that. You were floating. Light as a feather and high on life.

  “You are the only girl I know who can survive a spiked drink and still want to have anything to do with the guy.” Chrissy sighed in exasperation as the two of you loitered by the drinking fountain, “There’s like at least four other guys here who would date you, sissy! Don’t waste your time on that one.”

  Okay. Only four other guys? Ouch. “Steve didn’t spike it. Carol did.”

  “And she’s always following him around like some sad little mutt. Better to just stay away.”

  You scowled, mood souring. One afternoon. You couldn’t have just one afternoon where you felt good about yourself without someone bringing you down. You knew Chrissy meant well, but in that moment, she was pissing you off. 

  She seemed to pick up on the shift of your attitude, changing the subject, “After practice, I’m gonna go out tonight. Some of the girls want to go bowling and then have a little kick back. Cover for me?”

  How very much like Chrissy to insult you in the name of protectiveness, and then ask you for a favor. She still cared more about you than your own flesh and blood, so, “I thought your mom was gonna be away for a few days in Akron.”

  “She is, but daddy’s not. And he’s way too overprotective, I can’t even sneeze without him bursting into my room to ask me what’s wrong. He always wants to know where I’m going, argues with me when I try to go out late—it’s so annoying.”

  All you could think about were the many times you’d said goodbye to him as you left the house at whatever hour you wanted while he mumbled a bye and read whatever magazine he was reading or watched TV. 

  You tried to consider it a good thing that he let you be so independent, yet something in you ached, sure he simply didn't care enough for you. Not like he did Chrissy, and he’d known you longer, all your life. 

  “Oh. Uhm, I think he works late today, anyway. I’ll cover if he asks, but I’m sure you’re good.”

  Chrissy perked up, pulling you into a tight hug, “You are the best! I knew I was gonna love having you as a sister. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  Chrissy didn’t wait for your reply, practically bouncing down the hallway and you sighed. 

  At least you’d have some peace and quiet, maybe you could get Eddie into better shape too, and you’d get to tell him about your day!

  With your classes done, you made your way to the parking lot, where Mystery waited for you. 

  You slid the back door of the Volkswagen open, tossing your bag in before sliding the door shut and climbing into the driver's seat of the bus. Then you started your mantras and manifestations, gripping the key with a sweaty palm before you were sticking it into the ignition and turning it with bated breath.

  She roared to life and you sagged back in your seat, bones like jelly knowing you piece of crap bus was still kicking.

  It was the biggest lemon of a car you’d ever seen, carried around jugs of coolant in the back because it had to be refilled almost every time you started it.

  But it was yours.

  When you pulled up to the house to see Laura’s car was gone, you felt yet another weight lifted off your shoulders. You were completely free to be you. Snatching your bag from the back, you made a run for your house, quickly unlocking the door before stampeding up the stairs. 

  You burst into your bedroom, chest heaving to find it in normal condition and no Eddie around. Frowning, you tossed your bag on the floor, beside your bed, and made your way over to the closet, yanking the doors open.

  Eddie peered up at you from his position on the floor, rocking an old feather boa of yours.

  “Eddie, I told you you were free to roam once Laura left. You don’t have to stay cramped in there all day when no one is around.” You offered him a hand and helped hoist him when you took it, “You wouldn’t believe the day I had—you’ve got stellar taste, by the way.”

  “Uuungh?”

  You reached under your bed, snatching an old Easter basket out that you used to hide your snacks. After you settled on the bed, you patted the spot next to you, and Eddie hobbled his way over, grunting as he settled onto the cushy comforter.

  “I know I was grumpy this morning. I’m sorry, you were right. The dress was a hit!” You exclaimed, ripping a bag of sour gummy worms open. The pink end was clenched between your teeth as you bit it off, bag of sweet and sour treats held out to Eddie as an offering.

  Eddie reached into the bag, attempting to crook his fingers enough to hook one. You watched the leathery skin between his brows pull—if you had blinked, you would have missed it—as he struggled to free his hand from the bag, shaking it a little until you pinched the bottom firmly, allowing him to pull it out.

  “Unngh.” He grunted in thanks. 

  As Eddie moved onto the challenge of getting the gummy worm to his mouth, you went back to telling him about your day, “I mean, god—all I did was put on a little dress and I felt kind of invincible. Not to mention Steve Harrington seemed to like it.”

  Eddie froze, gummy worm hanging out of his mouth, “Mm?”

  “Steve Harrington, did’ ya know him?” You asked, steamrolling right on as if you hadn’t, “Talk about winning the genetic pool—that man is so fine. We talked a little at that party I told you about, and before I did drugs, he was being so nice to me. And I didn’t look as hot as I do now, so I was hoping for a reaction out of him—BOY did I get it.”

  You let out a dreamy sigh, recalling the way Steve had leaned into your straightforward flirting.

  “He’s kind, funny, and sometimes he even has good book recommendations. He’s like the total package and I think he might actually like me.”

  You paused your ranting to look over at Eddie. If you didn’t already know his face was stuck like that, you would have thought he was scowling. 

  “You got a little…” Reaching a hand up to cup his jaw, your thumb lifted the gummy worm hanging out of his mouth the rest of the way up. Eddie’s cracked lips parted, just enough for you to press the rest of it in, then he chewed slowly, face not even twitching to clue you in on his emotions. 

  “There.” Your hand dropped back into your lap as you perked up, “I wanna assume he’s better than the other horndogs who popped woodies just because I wore a dress and flashed some leg.”

  You stuck out your leg to demonstrate, the dress slipping even further up your thigh as you held it out, smooth (mostly, she was a little prickly but no one would notice unless they were stroking it) skin on display under some fishnet stockings.

  Eddie let out a pained sounding groan, which you figured meant he was agreeing with you about the rest of the male population. 

  “Yeah. Well, I think everything’s gonna work out perfectly. Even if Chrissy keeps butting into my love life like some fairy chastity-mother. God—I just, I’ve never been close to actually having something I wanted before, you know?”

  Eddie whined from behind closed lips, holding up the wrist that lacked his hand. 

  “What?” You asked, glancing down at the scarf wrapped around it. Eddie reached up with his fucked up fingers to point at where his ear should have been and it clicked for you, “Eddie, I can’t pull an extra hand and ear outta my ass. I wish I could, but I don’t have spare human parts lying around like pieces of a vacuum.”

  Eddie whined again and this time you could actually see his lips pulling down, frowning.

  “I told you I wish I could, but I can’t! I don't know how to get people parts and I don’t exactly have the black market on speed dial. Besides—you’re fine like this, I mean what are you able to do as walking dead guy anyways?”

  “MUUUUNGGGHHHH!” Eddie groaned, loud and obviously upset as he dramatically flung himself back on the bed hard enough to shake it.

  “Hey!” You snapped, fearful for your bed frame, “Chill out dude—don’t act all coked out!”

  He turned his head, face miserable but before you could continue your scolding, you heard your name called upstairs.

  Laura.

  “SHIT, hide!” Eddie stumbled up and barely even had the chance to turn around before you shoved him into your closet, shutting the doors.

  You’d barely stepped away when Laura burst into your room. She was dressed in her nurse uniform, complete with the stupid hat, yet there was something off with her. Her skin had a grayish tint to it, she looked clammy, eyes and nostrils red with irritation and her mascara was running. Laura Cunningham looked just as terrible on the outside as she was inside.

  And for once, she scared you.

  “Laura! I thought you were headed out of town for your trip.” Laura’s stare was even colder than you’d ever seen it, unnaturally icy blue eyes both vacant and filled with a deranged sort of rage. You expected her pupils to turn into slits any second, it would be the last physical trait she’d need to resemble a demon.

  Stepmother from hell, indeed.

  “Mmm, I’m sure you were looking forward to that,” Her voice was soft, almost gentle and nothing about it was kind. It was as if to coax you forward to her, lull you into a sense of ease before striking. You were reminded of the anglerfish, and the glow of their fin ray. They used it to draw unsuspecting prey towards the light before they were devoured. 

  You took a small step back. She took one forward.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to attend next year, I’ll be skipping the conference this year. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do much learning or networking with my head plastered in a toilet bowl. I seem to have come down with something. Do you know what my symptoms are?” She asked, voice so sugary sweet and thick. 

  “Uhm. I-I’ve been on my period. Maybe we synced?” You hated how small your voice sounded.

  Laura’s lips pressed into a thin, cruel smile, “No. I haven’t been throwing up with a cramping stomach because of my period. I’ve been vomiting non-stop because a little slut under my roof is trying to kill me. And do you know who that psychotic little tramp is?”

  Your eyebrows furrowed, mouth parting in shock. Did your stepmother just call you a slut?

  “ANSWER ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU!” She bellowed, making you jump and gasp. You’d never heard Laura raise her voice like that, it dropped several octaves and she was staring at you with nothing but pure hatred burning in her eyes.

  All you could do was shake your head. You were terrified, but you weren’t about to play her game. You were neither a slut nor a tramp and it was clear, regardless of what you’d say or do, she’d be unleashing her wrath upon you.

  Laura chuckled without humor, “You really are just a stupid, insignificant bitch, aren’t you? I open up my home to you and you do nothing but cause trouble every time I so much as turn my head. I have been nothing but kind to you, even after you wrecked my home. I’ve been an angel. But putting worms in my food?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I didn’t touch your food, I just got home from classes. An—And I didn’t ask for any of this, I didn’t ask to move here.” You could see tears beginning to blur your vision, welling up and threatening to cascade over your lower lashes. They didn’t. You refused to cry in front of her. Refused to give her that satisfaction. 

  “Oh, please.” Laura scoffed, looking at you in bewilderment, “Did you want to stay in the house where your mother was sliced and diced? Was that a comfort for you?”

  “You know that’s not what I meant, I didn't want to start my life over in some town full of ignorant people.” You gritted out, hand clenching the bag of gummy worms.

  “Ignorant people, and yet—you still don’t fit it in. Telling isn’t it?”

  Despite your fear, you felt your own rage starting to build within you and before you could stop yourself, you spat out “What do you care? You never wanted me here. You just wanted my dad here in your clutches and you knew that wouldn’t happen if we hadn’t moved. He would have never chosen you over my mom.”

  Laura sneered, “It’s not much of a choice when she’s rotting in some coffin, six feet under, is it? I’m sure she’s relieved to be done with you and all the disgusting things you do for attention.”

  “Shut up!” You demanded, seething now as the devil incarnate dared to speak about your mother in such a disrespectful manner. Laura was only able to sleep in a bed alongside your father—wear that tacky ring on her finger because your mother had tragically lost her life. 

  Laura wouldn’t be but a mosquito in the room if your mother were alive.

  You hadn’t been expecting the strike that came next, hadn’t been prepared for Laura to pull her arm back and swing it forward, cracking your cheek so hard you almost spun. You yelped, hand reaching up to press against the skin of your cheek, feeling it throb and sting under your touch.

  She fucking hit you. You gaped at her in disbelief and Laura didn’t look remotely apologetic.

  “I am beyond tired of you and I am not going to wait until some maniac guts me to be rid of you. Especially when you’re already a threat to my life. No. I won’t stand for it, so I took it upon myself to begin your admittance to Hawkins National Psychiatric Center.

  Your blood ran cold as images of the unsettling ‘center’ flooded your mind. You’d heard of it before, horror stories told amongst your peers. A psych ward. And Laura Cunningham was going to have you committed. 

  “No, please. No.” You whispered, voice laced with fear.

  “It’s for the good of everyone,” Laura began, leering over you. “You don’t belong here. Your place is locked up, solitary confinement where no one will have to see you ever aga—

  THUNK.

  Laura let out the smallest of gasps.

  You watched the unsettling blue of her eyes give away to whites and red veins as they rolled to the back of her head, her body going limp as she tipped forward and fell face first to the ground. Your mouth dropped open as you watched her collapse, gurgling and twitching on the ground for just a few seconds before she went still. Then your gaze flitted to Eddie, who stood tall with your old sewing machine clutched in his hand, a corner stained red. 

  Your eyes flashed back down to Laura, and they widened in size when the pink of your carpet began to turn a bright red, blood seeping out of her skull to pool around her head and soak into the floor.

  Eddie made a grunt that sounded more so like a noise of satisfaction and tossed the sewing machine back into the closet. 

  You heard them before you saw them. Eddie had found the small pair of scissors included with your sewing machine and clipped them in the air before he bent down. You could only watch, stunned silent and with morbid curiosity as Eddie snipped your stepmother’s ear off.

  “Oh, god…” You finally found your voice, eyes darting anywhere else to avoid seeing the skin severed. You breathing became labored, chest rising and falling rapidly as you staved off a panic attack while your undead friend cut the ear from Laura’s dead body.

  Eddie held it up in triumph, like it was some sort of medal rather than a human ear.

  “Wha─? Why─?” You couldn’t even finish a sentence and Eddie must have noticed how distraught you were. He rose from the floor, stepping over Laura’s body to pull you into his arms and despite what had just occurred, you returned the embrace; arm slipping under his to clutch at the back of his shoulder, desperate for the comfort he was offering. His hand rubbed circles over your back and you leaned your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder, stare never once leaving Laura’s body as you whimpered.

  When he pulled back—just enough to be able to look at your face—he held the ear up, towards you.

  You knew exactly what he was asking you to do.

  ”Eddie…I—I can’t. I can’t do that…We have to bury the body first.” You placed a hand on his chest, leaning into him again as you both turned your heads to stare at someone who was no longer a problem for you. For the first time, in a very long time, you felt safe.

  Eddie had rescued you.

Moving the body was surprisingly easy. You’d expected Eddie’s limbs to be fragile for some reason, a foolish thought considering he’d so easily crashed through your window that first night. Eddie actually possessed a great deal of strength, easily lifting Laura’s body—wrapped in sheets—and carrying her downstairs. 

  Movement seemed to be getting easier for him, limbs that had been out of use for years returning to life and unstiffening just as he had. If his arms could support Laura’s body with no problem, you wondered what had happened to his missing hand in the first place.

  You made sure the coast was clear before you pulled your bus up the driveway and Eddie placed the body in the back. It obviously hadn’t been strapped down, so while you drove to the cemetery, Laura’s body was rolling around, banging against the sides of the Volkswagen. Eddie just turned up the music you’d been playing.

  The cemetery was vacant, thanks to the relatively early time of the day. Most people still hadn’t gotten off of work yet, which made this easy for you and Eddie. It wasn’t the most respectful thing to do—you were just out of options. A grave had already been dug out, for some poor recently deceased soul (not Laura, she could go to hell), so, the two of you had quite literally dumped Laura’s body into the empty hole and covered her with a layer of dirt so she’d go unnoticed when they’d lower the coffin, of whoever’s grave this was, into it. 

  After the deed was done, the two of you stood side-by-side, staring into it. 

  “Is death comforting?” You asked, breaking the silence. Eddie didn’t answer, didn’t even grunt, so you turned your head to the side to find him already staring at you. 

  He shook his head. 

  “Good. C’mon.” You gave the burial plot, now and forever housing Laura, an extremely and aggressively disrespectful finger, and tugged Eddie back to the bus. He went willingly after kicking some more dirt into it.

  When the two of you returned home—after you briefly stopped for ice cream while Eddie waited in the bus—you’d gotten straight to work; Eddie’s head in your lap as you sewed the ear into place.

  While you threaded the needle through the skin, Eddie waited patiently, thumb playing with your fishnets. Once you knotted the string and used your teeth to nip off the excess, you admired your work. 

  Good stitching, secure and it wouldn’t fall off. The coloring was a bit odd, skin appearing obviously more lively than Eddie’s dull gray-green tint. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “Done.” You announced, hands resting on the mattress at your sides. Slowly, Eddie rose to a sitting position, head shifting around to face you, “What’s the survey say? Ear any good? Hear anything?”

  Those big, deep brown, baby cow eyes of his looked despondent as he shook his head. 

  “Mm-mm.”

  You sighed, feeling a bit despondent yourself. He’d saved you from a life of medicated compliance and padded walls, and you couldn’t even get the human ear you’d stitched to the side of his head to work. You felt guilty knowing you couldn’t make him whole again, as he so desperately wanted to be. Couldn’t be his blue fairy.

  You reached your fingers up, tips brushing alongside the soft outer edge of his ear. How funny that an appendage that had once belonged to the nastiest person you’d ever encountered, a woman who hated your very existence, was now endearing because it was a part of the guy before you. Your friend. Your protector. What had taken place that afternoon would no doubt lead to trouble, but you knew Eddie hadn’t acted out of malice. 

  He’d simply wanted to help you. And—okay, yes, he got an ear out of it, but it didn’t work. What mattered is that you weren’t alone anymore. You had someone that actually cared about you. Enough to kill for you, even. 

  It felt…like you mattered to someone.

  “I’m sorry.” You mumbled in disappointment, “I really did think it was gonna work, too. Guess Laura’s still useless, even when she’s dead.”

  Your hand dropped back into your lap as the two of you simultaneously heaved out sighs. 

  “At least you have something there, you know?” You tried to see the positive side, keep Eddie happy, “Like nipples with boob jobs. The dial doesn’t work but you can still turn the knob.” 

  He made a humming sound, contemplating the analogy, weighing it as his head tilted this way and that way. 

  “Maybe it’ll catch up with you later, like the rest of your body. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you getting better at moving around.” You teased, nudging your shoulder playfully against his.

  Eddie stiffened and you thought you might have offended him, “I mean—I’m not paying super duper close attention or anything, I just like to watch you—It’s not like I see a living dead guy every day.”

  “Unngh.” Eddie seemed to pay no attention to your word vomiting, pointing at a sharpie on your nightstand. 

  “What? This?” You reached over and snagged it, offering it to him. He carefully took it from your hands, his hardened fingers brushing over your soft ones, and awkwardly popped the cap off with his thumb. 

  Your eyebrows shot up as Eddie began doodling on the skin of your hand near your thumb and index finger. 

  “Why did I think you were illiterate?” You mused aloud and Eddie briefly stopped to glare at you and grunted, unamused, “You can’t blame me, you could have picked up a pen and paper this entire time, hell—I have an Etch A Sketch you could have been using instead of making me decipher your ‘uuunnngghhss’.” You did your best impression of his zombie grunting and he put the sharpie between his thighs so he could flick the cap at you. 

  Like an expert dodger, you lifted your hand just in time for it to bounce off your palm as you giggled and he went back to finishing up his little doodle. 

  A lightning bolt. 

  Your lips pulled into a soft smile as you admired it, something warm pooling in your belly. It was cute and there was something very attractive to you about walking around with Eddie’s little sketch on you.

  An Eddie Was Here, if you will.

  And then it hit you. Lightning.

  “OH.”

  Eddie grunted, pleased that you’d picked up on what he was trying to convey.

  “But how are we gonna…” You trailed off, brows furrowing as a montage of the two of you played in your head; sticking a metal rod in the ground with Eddie holding onto it as you waited for some approaching storm to electrocute him. The only problem was the weather forecast for the week predicted nothing but sunshine and clear, starry nights. No electrocution for the week. Unless…. “Oh my god.”

  You turned to Eddie, grinning almost maniacally, “I’m a genius.”

  Forty minutes later, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror Chrissy had set up inside the tan shack. It was softly aglow with pink and warm hued fairy lights, and neon blue coming from the tanning bed. One of her beauty pageant crowns was placed on your head, and you had to admit, it did make you feel pretty. It looked good on you, too. Huh. Maybe you should have done pageants, could have won one, even.

  Sparks flew from the tanning bed, some feet away, with Eddie inside of it. 

  It was the next best thing to actually being struck by lightning. Well, it was either the tanning bed or electrocuting him in the small pool with a plugged in radio, but you didn’t want to get wet.

  You grabbed a little fairy wand, no doubt part of one of Chrissy’s pageant costumes—probably Galinda—and posed with it, pleased with your reflection. Your hair was frizzy and it somehow added to your allure. 

  You could rock with this confidence thing for a while if it made you not hate yourself like usual. 

  The tanning bed’s buzzing whirled down until it was silent, save for a few random sparks, and the bed opened up, top lifting to reveal Eddie laying in a cloud of smoke, wearing those little goggles you’d insisted on to protect those pretty eyes of his.

  You got up to check on him, tapping his chest with the end of the wand, “You baked enough?”

  He groaned as he sat up and dinged his head on the top of the tanning bed and you flinched, dropping the wand.

  “Ooh, yeah, I’ve been there too.”

  Grabbing onto his hand, you helped pull him out of the tanning bed to sit on the edge and sat beside him, pushing the goggles up his large forehead and pinning away his bangs.

  Eddie didn’t say anything, just blinked sluggishly. He was baked alright, that voltage was no joke.

  “Eddie,” You leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Can you hear me in there?”

  No reaction. 

  “EDDIE MUNSON, CAN YOU HEAR ANYTHING I AM SAYING?!”

  To your amazement, Eddie flinched away from your shrieking, and with his face turned to you, you noticed he looked different, skin more…skin like. Not the leather you’d noticed before. He still hadn’t answered you, so you kept going, “IS THAT A YES—YEAH?”

  Eddie groaned out, face affronted as you continued to scream at him and your shrieking turned into screams of excitement. Eddie joined you in yelling (well, he tried, it was very loud groaning) when it dawned on him.

  It worked. Eddie Munsons had two working ears.

  “Oh my god!” You flung yourself at him and immediately jolted away when you got shocked. Eddie reached out for you, resting his hand on your shoulder, “No, it’s okay, that was on me. I got too excited, but oh my god! Eddie! It worked! We got you a working ear!” 

  You were beaming, felt like you’d cracked the secret of life. And it looked like Eddie was trying to smile at you, corners of his lips pulled up just a tad. 

  The two of you looked ridiculous, you with your frizzy hair, crown and fairy wand, and Eddie with his electrocuted hairdo, tanning goggles making his bangs look insane and a slightly discolored (actually, it was looking more like his skin tone now, bizarre) ear, with one earring and one hand.

  You glanced down at your arm; specifically, at Eddie’s arm resting against it. The one that lacked a hand.

  Well, you’d already started. 

  “I think I know someone who can give you a hand.”

[go6jo]

(one can only truly feel with their eyes closed) s.gojo

it’s three in the morning and satoru is standing outside your bedroom door, pinching his bottom lip in between his fingers while anxiously awaiting your arrival. you should’ve been back before midnight and there is something unfamiliar stirring inside him, something that is rendering him restless. there is a heavy lump on his throat that is making it hard to swallow and he can feel himself starting to feel sick.

satoru was born bearing the curse of atlas, the world weighing a little too heavy on his shoulders ever since he was little. the body of a child is a frail one and satoru had been too scrawny at the time, bones too fragile to handle all of that weight by himself. he’d fallen on his knees one too many times and had struggled to stand up on his own until he had grown to become something akin to a god, one who barely even knew fear. 

satoru reaches for the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, waiting for something, a call, a text even - anything to let him know that you’re okay.

however, his head is quick to turn at the sound of heavy footsteps echoing throughout the entire floor when he catches sight of your silhouette emerging from the shadows on the other end of the poorly lit hall. he feels his heart cave in on his chest for you, eyes softening and full of compassion when he notices the sole of your feet dragging laboriously against the floor, weary and sore after being away for so long and having just traveled all the way back here, back to him. 

ten days to be precise. that's how long you’ve been gone. and when you manage to make your way along the seemingly endless corridor, so very tired from your lengthy mission overseas, satoru can visibly see your body cease its fight against gravity as you let yourself collapse into him. he is so quick to guide your arms that had fallen limp by your sides to wrap themselves around him, pulling you closer, craving the proximity after having longed for your touch every day for the past week and a half. he follows it by looping his stronger ones around you, offering you the stability you need, holding you and welcoming you back with a quiet good girl whispered to the crown of your head. 

in the quietude of the moment, while trying to recover from the fretful state he had induced himself into, satoru realizes now that fear has become a constant in his life.

“you’re late” he threads his fingers through your hair, soothing away your fatigue though he thinks he might have just lulled you to sleep because you’re standing so still, breathing so softly. at your lack of response, his hand cups the back of your head tilting it upwards and your lips begin to part, ready to protest but it’s only then, when you meet his gaze, that you become aware of the distress graven on his handsome features, brows furrowed and bottom lip swollen with the indents of his remaining anxiety, teeth merciless as they tried to chew away the nerves in his system.

satoru is always so good at hiding his feelings. he might’ve been terrified out of his mind, but hardly anything gives it away. his voice never wavers when he speaks and his hands have such a steady grip on you that his inner turmoil would’ve almost gone undetected. almost. because concern is so easily discernible in his eyes - his eyes are so honest, as honest as satoru gets. they have always let on more than his words — they’re his biggest strength and yet his biggest weakness, his blindfold keeping any vulnerability from seeping through.

“i know but i'm here” you close your eyes when his thumb rubs the spot between your eyebrows “my flight got delayed and i didn’t wanna wake you up with a phone call”

“i wasn’t sleeping” not until i know you’re safe.

“i’m alright, satoru. im here” you two speak in whispers like two kids sharing a secret, your voice barely audible as you lean your cheek against his chest, a hand rubbing circles over his heart.

a placid wave of silence envelops the two of you in its calm embrace as you take your time to touch, to grab and to squeeze — to let your hands get acquainted with each other’s skin again — you swear you feel him shiver against you, when you caress the skin behind his ear, where you know it’s sensitive.

“let’s get inside, baby.”

you nod against his chest and squeeze him in your arms one last time before you pull away to unlock your bedroom door. you lace your fingers together with his and pull him along, dropping your luggage somewhere in a corner and not even bothering to turn on the lights instead guiding him towards the bed that you’ve shared during so many other nights before — so eager to be cradled in his arms, to drift off in the warmth of his presence. but when satoru drops his head to your shoulder from behind, you halt all movements, stopping in your tracks.

he doesn’t say a word, just moves the palm of his hand gingerly up the skin of your exposed arm, only stopping where the strap of your dress sits on your body, gripping the fabric in his fist, begging to see you, whole. to make sure there is not some invisible force holding you together and that you won't fall apart under his fingers. he still touches you so carefully as if you will.

for a long time now, satoru has worried that the eyes he has relied on throughout his entire life might fail him sooner rather than later. reality can be deceiving and he has grown to harbor a certain skepticism towards it. after all, his best friend had met his demise at his own two hands, had taken his last breath in his arms, however, that unfaithful day in shibuya there he stood, intact - alive. satoru is now imbedded with a constant feeling of uncertainty, doubting what otherwise he would’ve believed to be the undeniable truth.

you lift your hand to rest over his, loosening the grip he has on the fabric of your garment before you slide both straps off your shoulders, letting your dress fall to the ground and revealing your partially nude body to satoru’s prying gaze. he closes his eyes with a sigh that makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise in anticipation. he brushes a few strands away before he presses a kiss to the mound of your neck where your spine protrudes your flesh, where your skin is most tender and delicate, feeling the subtle bumps of your skin against his lips — the way your body reacts to him proof that you’re not just some hallucination. that you’re here. that you’re alive and well. 

he figures he is so much more in tune with his surroundings whenever he’s not looking. his eyes are closed shut yet the way you shudder under him when he runs the tip of his finger up the curve of your spine, the little sounds you make, the gasp that unintentionally escapes your lips when he lays the most gentle of kisses on the shell of your ear — he’d know you anywhere, even with his eyes closed. he knows the way you feel, the way you sound, the way you smell. even blind, his other four senses would still lead him to you.

he touches you until your skin starts feeling feverish under his fingers, wishes you’d just melt into him and would fill in every crevice in his body until he’s so completely covered in you he can barely breathe. and when he needs more, he carries you to bed in his arms then lies you down in the white linen sheets. he reaches for the back of his shirt and tugs it off before taking the spot next to you, yearning for the feeling of his skin against yours.

he kisses your collarbone, left then right, worshiping you whole, paying equal attention to every part of your body, then dips lower to kiss over your sternum. he loves on the freshly inflicted wounds on your skin then proceeds to run his tongue over the newly healed scar that runs diagonally on the flesh of your stomach — your taste, that, too, he has memorized by heart.

“i always come back looking worse than when i left” and it's supposed to be a lighthearted joke because you're smiling and your tone is somewhat playful but it makes satoru wonder if you think he loves you any less because of it.

sometimes it’s hard baring yourself to satoru like this, he knows it. your scar ridden body a striking contrast to his almost pristine, untouched one. however, it’s on nights like this one where you feel closest to him, laying bare your insecurities to him and, in return, he entrusts you with his — more often than not as he impulsively lets them escape his lips in the form of strangled moans against the sweaty skin of your neck, telling you he loves you. don’t ever leave. i don’t know what i’d do if i lost you, too.

“you returned, baby. that’s all that matters.” he utters against your belly then comes to rest on your chest, ear pressed atop your heart.

satoru has grown fond of the sound of your pulse lulling him to sleep, slow and steady. he unwraps his arms from around you, moving his hands up your sides until they settle around your ribs, feeling the way your lungs fill up with air, his head moving up and down, in sync with your heaving chest. he smiles fondly to himself, every heartbeat, every breath you take a reminder of the life flowing inside you.

he looks up, eyes searching for your face after a few minutes have gone by since you stopped playing with his hair. he had wanted to protest but then he takes in the image of you, mouth slightly agape, a subtle frown on your face — an angel lying under him. so fragile, so innocent.

you're sound asleep and satoru is overcome with the intensity of the sheer adoration he feels towards you when he comes to the realization that you had felt so at peace in his arms it had only taken you a couple minutes to doze off. it is as if your body reacts to his presence on its own, telling you that it's okay to let your guard down, that it’s safe around him. to him, there is no bigger privilege than to know his touch brings you such tranquility — that he’s your safe haven.

upon further inspection, however, as his eyes linger on you for a little longer, there’s a cold shiver that makes its way up satoru’s spine when he notices how still you are, barely even moving. apart from the subtle rise and fall of your chest, you’re so inert, so lethargic. so lifeless.

and suddenly it is as if there is not enough oxygen in the room as he finds himself gasping for air, lungs growing heavier by the minute as he starts to drown in mirages of your inanimate body in his arms, hands clammy and fingers digging into the flesh of your ribs instinctively, out of desperation, as if he’s trying to stay afloat.

he calls out your name once, and he would’ve felt bad for waking you up but, right now, he can’t even seem to think straight. he could be so selfish at times still you never resented him for it. so he calls for you again.

you don’t answer at first, his voice too weak to even pull you out of sleep. satoru hoists himself up on the bed, lying sideways next to you, his body looming over yours as he brushes the strands of hair that are sticking to your forehead away from your face — your complexion looks so much paler under the moonlight.

“baby.” he calls in between heavy breaths, eyes frantic searching for something. anything. this time you stir in your sleep, turning around and nuzzling into the crook of his neck as if seeking for the heat of his body on instinct alone. he sighs releasing some of the tension inside him “baby.” though there is still a hint of urgency in his voice.

“im sleepy, satoru” he can barely hear you as you bury yourself deeper into his neck.

“i know, baby. i know” he tries to soothe you, cradling your head closer to him but pulling you away from him just as quick, grabbing your cheeks in between the palms of his hands and gently holding your head up to take a look at you instead. your eyes remain closed, still so heavy with sleep.

“just need you to say my name.” it sounds like a desperate plea.

“satoru.” you barely even manage to mumble as you lean deeper into his touch, lips brushing against the sensitive skin on the inside of his hand. moving only on instinct still, too drowsy to even make sense of what is happening, to notice his agony.

“that’s it.” he pecks you on the lips “again.” he is trailing kisses across your cheeks, his breath heavy on your skin when he begs you in a quivering voice “please."

the feeling of his hands shivering against you it’s what gradually rouses you, opening your eyes only to be met with his wide-eyed gaze, pupils fully blown out in the dark, alert with fear.

you know how he gets, it isn’t the first time this happens yet it never fails to alarm you. you’d seen it in his eyes many times before and you’d seen it again earlier tonight, when you arrived, tenuous yet just waiting for the smallest trigger to so easily turn into something out of control.

it's as if he's suddenly put in a trance and nobody can pull him out of it. his hands start wandering everywhere and in a rather frenetic way, feeling around your skin as if he has gone blind. hands fumbling to hold whatever is within their reach, clenching whatever it is you're wearing in his fists, searching for something that you can’t quite understand.

you never know what to say, you can only hold him in hopes it will pass. you hold him and coddle him, whisper words of reassurance in his ear in hopes that you can be as much of a source of comfort to him as he is to you.

he apologizes afterwards, he always does. apologizes for needing you so much that sometimes it drives him close to insanity. then he always whispers a thank you from under his breath, thank you for letting me rely on you, but he barely ever does, only when he so desperately needs it — when it’s him lending others his strength, being relied on, who says thank you to him.

you sit up in bed, extending your hand towards him, waiting for him to take it. you pick him up when he does and you let a hand wrap around the back of his head, guiding him to rest on your shoulder.

“satoru, satoru, satoru.” you whisper against the shell of his ear while stroking his hair. he thinks he could fall sleep right here, like this.

please, lean on me, too.

i got you, you don’t have to be strong all the time.

 if you let me, i can be strong for the both of us. satoru thinks he knows what you’re trying to tell him.

“i’ll say it as many times as you need.”

once again, he is so overwhelmed by his profound infatuation that it is as if his love has grown a will of its own, as if it has grown fangs when his teeth sink, unwarranted, into the skin of your shoulder, love wishing to seep itself deep into your bloodstream. “want you whole.”

“so greedy.” you wince quietly, nonchalantly against his snowy hair and he runs the tip of his nose up the side of your neck.

he keeps on nibbling on the tender skin of your jaw, as if he’s hungry and trying to prove a point. that if he so wished to, if he was greedy enough, vile enough, he’d devour you full.

“i'm the greediest, baby” for what is love if not greed. is it not wanting to consume the other person and let yourself be consumed in return? for his entire life, satoru has known nothing but an insatiable hunger. always wanting more, always needing more. gluttonous for more, more, more. in the end, he always managed to get what he wants and he doesn’t hold back, you never asked him to either.

he knows he owns you wholly, that you placed your soul, mind and body fully on the palm of his hand and he doesn’t think he could ever settle for less. doesn’t think his hunger would ever be satiated with less than a handful of you.

he places a trail of kisses that goes down to your shoulder again and he pulls away from your skin with one last kiss to the spot where he left a mark. a mark that is so unlike any other in your body. one that comes from love.

“i'm sorry that i need you so much” he envelops you in the tightest of embraces, touching his heart with yours.

he wishes you understand that he’s apologizing for so many other things, too. he’s sorry that he can’t give himself to you the same way you’ve given yourself to him. you’ve always kept your heart so willingly open to him yet it seems that he only ever allows you a glimpse into the heart inside his chest on nights like this, when fear holds him in it’s strong, relentless grip or when he’s falling apart at the feeling of being inside in you, body panting above yours, too lost in his own pleasure. only then does he allow himself to be vulnerable with you, spilling all of his heart's content into your distracted ears — when he thinks you’re far too gone to listen, to truly acknowledge his feelings — but you treasure every single moment of fragility of his, for they are so scarce, listening attentively even when he thinks you don’t.

“say my name one last time” he breathes against your ear.

here, in these sheets, satoru pretends to forget his name and the burden that inescapably comes with it. he forgets the world needs him and lets himself need you instead, just this once. — just this once, he’ll pretend to be the weak one, the one who needs saving and finds a shelter in your arms.

“satoru…” your words are spoken barely above a whisper, like they’re meant just for him.

“again” he connects his lips with yours and holds the back of your neck with one hand, the other resting on your lower back for support as he dips both of you down onto the mattress.

and you say it. again. and then again. not because he asks you to but because satoru knows how to get what he wants. he pries his name out of your lips as he trails open mouthed kisses down the valley of your breasts, forces it out of you in the form a laughter as he nibbles on the inside of your thighs, tickling you with his breath and ultimately earns it in moan that you cry as a prayer when he sinks down on the mattress and makes a home in between your legs — until you're chanting his name over and over again, sobbing that you love him, you love him, you love him.

he smiles to himself, does it half smugly, half earnestly. satoru is now twenty eight and his shoulders a little lighter, the world fitting all too perfectly in this queen sized bed.

[notjustjavierpena]

Reunion - Part II: Clamp

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This started out as a collection of a few requests. Then it became feely instead. Then a second chapter to Reunion. Read the first part here.

Summary: Homemade nipple clamps, toast for breakfast and a sudden confession. 

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, dad’s best friend joel miller, daddy kink, innocence kink to some extent, homemade nipple clamps, nipple play, PIV sex, rough sex, dirty talk, possessive sex, reader has post-sex feelings, joel does too. 

Word count: 3.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49869355/chapters/125892349

Clamp

Joel’s stomach growls loudly underneath you as you are cuddling in bed. He tries to deny it when you start fussing, but the way the noise repeats itself, traveling all the way up to your ear as you rest your head on his chest, makes him capitulate quickly. You get out from underneath the covers.

“Come on, I’m hungry but…” he says with a tinge of the stubbornness of a teenager as if eating is only an inconvenience and not a way of staying alive as well as healthy. He’d go hungry to touch you, and it’s almost sweet but you’d rather feed and hydrate him so he can go again sooner. 

You can feel it as he watches your ass when you move to the dresser in his room. There are a few pieces of clothing sticking out, and you yank at what you correctly assume is a t-shirt. Pulling it over your head, you are encapsulated in the smell of Joel’s fabric softener, a hint of his cologne too that doesn’t seem to want to come out completely. 

“I’m going to make some toast,” you say just as stubbornly, bending over to tie your hair up in a messy bun despite knowing you are not wearing any underwear. Joel groans behind you. 

“Ain’t playin’ fair,” he mutters bitterly, “Look at you. No panties and my shirt? Diabolical.”

You hear shuffling behind you but you actively ignore the footsteps coming up behind you. Instead, you secure a few stray hairs with the hairpins that you took out last night, trying to look busy when hands settle on your hips. 

“Turn around,” he tells you. You smile to yourself. 

With a few seconds delay, he adds a threatening ‘young lady’. You put on a pout and then face him, “Just wanna feed you, Daddy. Look at you. You’re already skin and bone.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he argues.

You shake your head, allow him to kiss you longingly for a little bit, “No, I like your tummy. You’re soft. Like you soft.” 

“Soft,” he repeats with a scoff, “I ain’t soft.”

And then, “And I always get what I want.”

Suddenly, his hands reach up to find the hairpins at the back of your head. He pulls one out, makes you furrow your brows as it tugs a little at the sensitive baby hairs there. 

“Ow, what are you doing?” You ask as he removes the second one. He holds them in his large palm, big enough to hide them completely from view. 

“Do you trust me?” He questions. He looks into your eyes expectantly, waiting for confirmation before he continues. You nod. He doesn’t go on.

“I mean yes,” you quickly add.

“Good girl,” he smiles at how well you are learning. Then he reaches for the bottom of his shirt that you are wearing, pinching the hem with his thumb and forefinger now that he has the pins in his palm. He yanks the shirt up until it rests above your breasts, “Hold this up f’me.”

You do as he says. The fabric skimming over your chest and the anticipation that is hanging in the air has made your nipples hard, standing in peaks and waiting for what is about to happen. You know exactly where this is going yet it still hits you when one of the pins clamp down on your sensitive nipple. 

You half-moan in beautiful pain, half-chuckle in surprise. It stings and pinches, but despite never having done this before, your body reacts a whole lot more by pulsing between your legs than by triggering your fight-or-flight response. 

Joel studies your face but you don’t give him any indication that you want to stop. He tugs a little on the pin to make sure it is secure and elicits a little sound from you. You’ve noticed his boxers are already starting to tent. 

“Next one,” he informs as if performing a mediocre task, his voice having dropped an octave. He sounds breathier, aroused. You don’t jump half as much when your other nipple is painfully pinched too, but the feeling of them burning together is so intense that slick has started to smear your inner thighs. 

“Now,” he yanks your shirt down, makes your arms fall to your sides and your toes curl as a pin nearly catches in the fabric, “Go make me some toast. See if you still think I’m soft then.”

“But…” you try. 

“Go on,” he says and crawls back into bed before you can play dirty and touch him on the front of his underwear. 

*

Making breakfast has never been harder. 

You are in a world of hellish lust as you enter the bedroom again, holding a plate with buttered toast in your hands. There is a slice for you too, but it’ll take a whole lot longer for you to eat your way through it than it will take Joel to wolf down his own two pieces. 

He sits on the bed in silence, chewing quietly and occasionally brushing a few crumbs off the top of his chest. You hope that he doesn’t see the way you try to rock down on the foot you have tucked underneath yourself because he’d laugh straight into your face. 

“Don’t start without me.”

You sit up straight at being called out and the shirt tugs at your tits. You hiss loudly, “Please.”

“In a moment, just gotta get clean first. Sit against the headboard, ‘n take off your shirt,” he leaves the bed to go wash his hands. He is painfully hard at this point. You nearly break the plate when you move to place it on the nightstand. 

“What’re ya doin’?” He calls over the tap running from the master bathroom. 

“Not getting fucked,” you quip. 

“Watch it,” he replies back as if unaffected. God, he is so much better at this than you.

You are completely naked as he reenters the bedroom. You’ve stuffed a pillow behind your back, halfway to lying down with your ass scooted downwards on the bed a little. Your pussy is flushed pink and glistening, presented, and your nipples are a good amount of shades darker from the blood flow having settled there. The burn is exquisite, but it’s the sight of Joel’s eyes going dark that makes you whine.

“Jesus,” he laughs quietly as he crawls between your legs. Even the weight of him on the bed makes a sound slip from your mouth, “Ain’t ya just an obedient little thing?” 

You blink up at him almost teary-eyed. He takes pity on you. 

“Let’s get these off,” he promises, kneeling to free his hands from having to support himself. He removes one homemade clamp, making you whimper in relief at the ceiling. The blood flow makes your heart pound, slamming painfully against your ribs whilst you anticipate the second clamp being removed.

Joel flicks your abused nipple instead. Your head snaps down to his grin, betrayal visible on your face. Your cunt reacts immediately, feeling too empty and fluttering as it tries sucking in something that isn’t there. 

Joel looks down between your legs. He smiles affectionately, creating an obscene contrast to what he is doing to you. He coos softly at your facial expression, it having turned pained and horny, “Shh… I’ll kiss it better, baby.”

He finally removes the second hairpin. There’s a second where he lets you cry weakly at the new sensation, but then he tugs at both of your nipples to the point where you don’t even have the brain power to say a sound. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Good,” he praises, relenting but only to rub the sensitive nubs with his thumbs in clockwise motions, “Don’t think about anything. Just think about this, princess. Feel good?”

It does. You nod. The gentleness behind the touches is soothing you more than you thought it could, the pads of Joel’s fingers bringing your heartbeat down a notch. He traces your areola, breathing a little more erratically at seeing your pussy jump without being touched. 

He tugs again, soothes again until your nipples are red and swollen underneath his fingertips. The clamps have done a number on you because you start to think you might be able to come like this, a growing pressure starting between your legs. 

But Joel isn’t going to let you. He straightens until he is upright again, swallowing thickly as he focuses his attention on your neglected cunt. He runs a warm hand down over your mound, your hips twitching in response to finally being touched. Joel’s breath hitches in his throat as he stares down at his shiny palm, “Why didn’t you say anything? Look at her. She’s weepin’.”

“Just needs you,” your doe-eyes are on full blast. 

“Mhm,” he agrees, lazily running two fingers through your slick folds until you sigh, “You took a lot last night. Think you can handle it?” 

“Want you to keep me sore, Daddy,” you push into his touch again. He swears under his breath, teasingly dipping his digits into your cunt but making no suggestion that he will follow through on what they’re doing. You bat your eyelashes, “Please.”

It does not take much more convincing. He calls you princess again but this time it is with a frustrated sigh. He yanks his boxers down over his hips to let his cock spring free, kicks his underwear all the way off, and lets them fall to the floor of the bedroom in record time. 

He is fully erect. Hard and beautiful. The head of his dick has turned a dark red from having been seeking your attentive touch since he watched you put up your hair. The tip impatiently weeps precome for you. You consider a blowjob for half a second because your mouth waters at the idea of tasting his salt and musk. 

Later, you think, some other time. 

He strokes himself a few times until the bead at the head spills down over the length of him. Your eyes never leave his cock, especially not when he slides it through your glistening folds to coat himself in your arousal. 

“Could come just like this,” you tell him and finally dare to look up into his eyes. He smiles back at you and it tugs at your heartstrings. You reach out to hold his elbows and lift your legs to wrap them around his waist. 

In one smooth motion, he positions himself and rocks into you without stopping until he has bottomed out. The girth of him never ceases to amaze you. It’s the same each time; he stretches your walls painfully until you whimper and tells you that big girls can take it. Ain’t you a big girl? You nod with your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it to suppress the pathetic little noise that’s bubbling up in your chest. 

It works for a moment but only until Joel tells you to breathe. The noise finally comes out and it becomes wanton when he starts fucking into you. He pounds you like yesterday and you can barely contain yourself anymore, whining and groaning as he gives it to you with the intention of making you sore all over. Your walls are already sensitive, and you hate to think that you haven’t actually been out of your state of arousal since you knocked on his door. It’s embarrassing. It’s infatuation. 

You let out a high-pitched squeak as he bucks up his hips, nudging at the front of your walls and searching for that little spot inside you that belongs to him by now. He finds it expertly, fits inside of you like you were made for each other. 

“There!” You plea whilst arching your back, “Daddy, it’s right—“

“I know where it fuckin’ is,” he leans down to kiss you, breaths coming out through his nose as he shoves his tongue into your mouth. You dig your nails into the back of his arms, making an attempt to move with him and oh God, you kiss him so deeply. 

“Say I’m the best you’ve ever had,” he growls when he pulls back for a breath that he can barely catch, sweat threatening to drip down from his brow. He has one hand on the headboard, making the bed rattle underneath the both of you, and the other lays over your heart. He applies just the slightest pressure to your chest. 

“You’re— baby, please,” you can barely find the words, gasping out into the room. The only thing you can think of is how important it feels to hold onto him as he drives into your cunt, scared that if you let go you’ll melt into the mattress and never see him again. You never want that to happen. You want to drown in everything he is. 

“Say it,” he gives you a particularly hard thrust, managing to put the hand on the headboard behind your head before you bang it into the wood. You don’t even think you would have noticed it if it had happened since you are so delirious already from being so fucked out. 

“Best— best I’ve ever had,” you stutter out between loud moans, the pleasurable tightening in your belly soon reaching a crescendo, “I’m close, oh f— I’m so close.”

“Careful, princess,” he notes as you almost swear at him, “Don’t make— shit, don’t give me a reason to stop.”

He wouldn’t, you think, he is as lost in you as you are in him. 

“Never,” you pant, noises climbing in pitch, “I’m gonna be so good for you, Daddy. Gonna come— oh God, please, gonna come on your cock!”

“Yeah,” his thighs flex, your legs squeeze harder around him, “Oh fuuuck, I can feel you— come on my dick, sweetheart. You can do it.” 

The tightening releases into sweet clenches. Your vision blanks for just a moment, your brain unable to focus on any other of your five senses except touch, and Joel touches you deep inside as his hips stutter and your walls milk everything he has to give. 

He fucks you through it, bucks his hips upwards to prod at your g-spot whilst you shiver and moan from the heat of your climax. It may be even more intense than yesterday despite how many highs he pulled from you. 

Everything stills. Time passes while you pant. The windows must be foggy by now. Joel slips out with a soft groan and kisses away the pained moan you let out when emptiness hits.

You are sure you are experiencing heat stroke as you try catching your breath. There are small beads of sweat scattered all over your chest and stomach, some collecting in the dip of your belly button. You feel like you are floating in the Sunday afternoon silence. A bird chirps outside of the window, and you catch yourself wondering why you haven’t heard it until now. He is too important, you think, so important that you filter out anything that isn’t him until he leaves you in this state of clarity. You love him.

Joel is staring down at you and you can see yourself in the reflection of his brown eyes. He glows just like you, filled to the brim with dopamine. His skin burns as you rub his arms where you have been digging your nails into them moments before. You wonder if he feels the same as you; like someone who is seconds from evaporating, bursting, something, unable to move, in love. 

You pull him down into yourself. He sticks to you in a way that would normally have you scrunching up your nose, but you don’t care about it right now because his cheek is pressed to yours. You giggle softly with post-orgasmic excitement. 

But then a thought reluctantly worms its way into your head. Why isn’t he saying something? You know why you aren’t, but why isn’t he? 

“Joel,” you say in confusion as he suddenly starts to break free from your embrace. He moves to sit up next to you, eyes the plate on the nightstand, and practically launches himself up from the bed so he can take it to the kitchen. 

You crawl across the bed without thinking as if you have the speed to catch his wrist before he is out the door, “Joel. Fuck, Joel!”

That catches his attention. Joel turns in the doorway. He sets the plate down on his dresser instead, “You know I fuckin’ hate that.”

“Well shit,” you continue and he visibly flinches. 

“Don’t say anything,” you don’t think you have ever warned him as he repeatedly does with you, “Don’t say anything, just come here.” 

You hold out your hands, still on your knees at the edge of the bed. You grab at the air, and after a brief pause, Joel gives in. He steps forward until you can hold onto his wrists, “Remember that time you wiped away my tears? The first time we… doesn’t matter. Point is I was sad and you were there.”

Joel avoids replying. He swallows thickly, jaw muscles tensing. 

“I just mean that you can talk to me,” you finish your speech which is barely a speech with a beating heart. There are so many butterflies in your stomach that they are making you slightly nauseous. You look at him expectantly, watching his eyes skim over your face, scanning for what you assume is genuineness. You won’t ask why he needs reassurance that you are telling him the truth. 

“I’m falling for you,” he breathes out. 

Of all things, you do not expect this. 

“Ditto,” you say back, eyes widening when you realize that it’s the word you have managed to blurt out. 

“Ditto?” Joel furrows his brow. 

You slap his arm, “Shut it. You know what ditto means.”

But then he bursts out laughing and your heart swells. He leans down over you, naked and vulnerable right there in front of you, and kisses you gently. 

He inhales deeply afterward, then asks the question that you want an answer to as well: “What in the world are we going to do?”

*

It comes out of nowhere a few weeks later when you’re home again. 

“You know Joel?” Your dad asks as if you have never noticed him in the many years he’s been your father’s best friend. You try not to freeze. 

“Yes, I obviously know Mr. Miller, Dad. What about him?” You sip your coffee, eyeing the crossword on the back of the newspaper that your father is holding up in front of himself. 

“Think he’s seein’ some new lady,” he replies but there’s no tone to his voice. 

You tense in your seat, setting down your mug to avoid dropping it if the news is about to break, “Why do you think that?”

“Don’t matter why, but she’s good for him, I can tell,” your father is still oblivious, “Just smiles more.”

“Ah, well good for him,” you pause briefly, “Can I get the crossword puzzle?”

“Sure, honey.”

As he rustles the paper to pull out the page, you stand with the excuse of getting a pen, but when you have your back to your father, you grin to yourself and don’t mind the butterflies that seem to have moved into your body.

Joel is right. 

What in the world are you going to do?

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[rae-writes]

all for you...

Dazai x twin!reader

wc : 1.k

warnings : angst, ambiguous ending, major character death [not reader or Dazai], blood, implied prior emotional/physical/[light] sexual abuse

synopsis : "I don't want to play this part but I do, all for you"

a/n : I...apologize for this

“Well now…this is quite the mess to clean up…” 

The splattered blood on the wall had begun to drip, sliding down the wood slowly and splashing onto the floor with faint ‘pit, pit’ echoes. There was an eerie, ringing, silence to the air and a tension that felt suffocating.

Something shifted when Mori turned to look at the two children who just witnessed the murder— they were no older than fourteen. 

“You twins are my witnesses…from now on, I will be the new boss of the Port Mafia, and the two of you…will stay by my side.”

Fukuzawa Yukichi and Mori Ogai sat at a small, cherry-wood table that was decorated with a glass china set for the tea they were talking over; it would’ve been a rather amusing sight, if the conversation topic hadn’t been so serious. 

While they both performed their positions as head of their respective organizations diligently- and extremely well- it was no secret that they were each getting higher up in their years. They thought it best to discuss who would potentially be taking over once they were retired together, as it would help maintain their mutual agreement between said organizations. 

“Your best candidate is Doppo Kunikida, is it not? I was fairly certain it was him who was acting in your stead whenever you could not.”

You and Chuuya stood directly behind Mori, with a small handful of your subordinates a couple of feet away; similarly, Fukuzawa had Kunikida and Dazai behind him, with the rest of the agency’s core members on standby. The two heads didn’t really need them here, as they could very well handle themselves against one another, however by this point, it was more or less a tradition. 

“That is correct. What about you? Surely you’re going to pick from your pool of executives, aren’t you?” 

There it was. That nauseous dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. It sunk into your bones, forcing a cold sweat to the surface of your skin as, instinctively, your flight or fight response tried to take over. 

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The sounds around you grow muffled so suddenly it makes your head spin and the scenery melts down into a memory of the executive meeting held a week ago.

“Do not mistake my words. I will continue as the Port Mafia’s head until it is apparent I am no longer able to fulfill my role; even then, my presence will not just disappear. This is my home and the organization I’ve dedicated my life to. I’m simply implying that we will need a suitable replacement when that time comes.” 

Rae glanced at Chuuya, finding him to be exactly who Mori was looking for. There was no one else in the room, or even the entire Port Mafia for that matter, who would be better suited to take over the position as boss. 

“And Dazai Osamu shall be just the person to do so.” 

No matter how sickening the feeling of fear and dread can be, anger will always be the secondary emotion. Even if that anger doesn’t last, it festers somewhere deep inside someone and builds until it’s crawling throughout their whole body— and suddenly it’s controlling them. It’s what takes over their mind like a parasite until it’s moving their legs, their fingers, their hands; until it acts on all those…scenarios in a person’s mind that were never meant to be born- that were only supposed to stay as impulsive thoughts. It’s then that the entire world a person experiences can be flipped upside down and drowned in the raging tides their anger brought. 

It was that anger that had your body moving on autopilot while you just…watched. Like you were a prisoner in your own mind, watching something on the tv screen. 

Your feet took a few steps forward before your hand was reaching for Mori’s teacup and slamming it on the edge of the table, shattering the glass. It left one big shard in your grasp. Your free hand had come up to the back of his head, fingers tangling in the long strands of black hair before yanking, forcing him to look at you with an exposed neck. 

When his red-purple hues met yours, your movements became your own. A gasp tore from your throat as you took in the sight in front of you, ragged breathing making you tremble. It was now that you were able to consciously think about your actions. 

And you thought about Osamu. 

You thought about everything he had to go through— everything Mori forced him to go through. 

You thought about that shine he had in his eyes that dulled over the years, only returning when he’d escaped Mori and the Port Mafia. You thought about the night he left, the way he cried over Odasaku and the way he cried about not wanting to leave you; you’d never seen him cry before. You thought about the hope in his eyes as you helped him leave and the genuine smile he’d given you two years later when you saw him again in the Agency. 

You thought about Mori’s sick, twisted version of affection— or ‘love’ as he called it sometimes. About the way he treated the two of you. The way he talked, manipulated, used, touched the two of you. 

As you gazed into the eyes of your tormentor- the man who was planning to drag your brother back to the darkness that had already consumed you- all that was swimming in those devil eyes was some warped version of pride; of satisfaction. 

His voice echoed in your mind, words he didn’t even need to voice aloud because he’d engrained them into you, seeping disgustingly- permanently- into your core. 

‘If I cannot have Osamu, I will gladly have you instead, my precious Y/n.’ 

With steady hands, though a trembling heart, you forced the broken piece of china into the flesh of Mori’s neck. And with a chilling cry, you dragged it across the entire expanse of his throat; his blood was now coating your face. 

It would’ve been a rather amusing sight- the horror plastered across everyone’s faces…if the situation hadn’t been so serious. 

“He…he was going to ask Osamu to be the next boss…and I couldn’t— I wouldn’t let him. Not you, Osamu.” Your voice cracked as you looked over at your brother, heart clenching when he looked at you with such…mortification. “Anyone but you.” 

And Osamu thought back to you. 

He thought back to all those times your eyes darkened in rage whenever Mori did something to him. He thought back to how you’d always yell at Mori for hurting him, whether physically or mentally. He thought back to the nights you promised him you’d help him shove down that darkness Mori festered in him. He thought about the promise you made him when he left the mafia: the promise that you’d be the one to kill Mori for what he’d done to the two of you. 

As he gazed into the eyes of his twin sibling- standing with blood on their face after just repeating the cycle, all for him- he could see the fear of what you’d just done. The determination to be better than Mori...and the love. Love for him. 

He should’ve known, his heart screams. He should’ve known this would happen, that you’d snap. He should’ve stopped you, he should’ve talked to you, he should’ve been there for you, because now—

. . .

After a haunting moment of ringing silence, the only person who dares to move is Chuuya Nakahara; the redhead kneels, sliding his hat off as he bows his head, “All hail the new Port Mafia boss, Dazai Y/n.”

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 133 }

season's call.

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

{ my beloved season calls me | because i always feel you in me. }

most people would cower in fear at the thought of walking alone in the middle of the night-

yet you could say with confidence that you were not one of those people.

despite being a young woman living in the midst of the big city like seoul, you found a strange safety while walking within the darkness of the night-

a comfort, even.

with your job requiring you to work many hours, it came as no surprise when you came home most days feeling completely drained. the exhaustion seeming to seep within your very bones as your drooping eyes could barely stay open the moment you came back to your apartment.

sometimes, your boyfriend was around, but most times, he would often be working. taking on his duties as the latest s-rank hunter and dominating various gates that appear across the city. but you would never worry too long about him, simply falling back in bed while re-reading his last message that was sent to you until your eyes could barely remain open.

my monarch 👑 [ you just go home and focus on resting. i'll be home soon, i love you. oh, and please, do dream of me. ]

those were the last words you recall reading until your cellphone slipped from your fingertips, ready to land against the hardwood floorings of your shared bedroom had it not been for a certain shadow gently catching it before placing the device on your nightstand.

it wasn't until several hours later that you finally woke up from your nap, which was what lead you to your current predicament.

being well past midnight, you felt groggy from your nap and became aware of the lack of sustenance felt within your system. after freshening up within your bathroom, you allow your eyes to stare blearily at your reflection. your hand touches at your cheeks, noticing the dark circles as you sigh and began to wash your face once more.

"my queen... are you alright?"

as you dry your face with the plush towel, you trail your eyes down towards your shadow, seeing several, glowing purple eyes looking back at you. normally, such a frightening sight would be enough to cause someone to feel an immense fear-

but not to you.

"i'm fine. since there's not much to eat here, i plan to buy something to eat for me and jinwoo at the convenience store. do you mind accompanying me?"

"of course, my queen. our king will be delighted with your decision."

with a smile painting your lips, you nod before grabbing your phone and bag, extracting your keys as you decided to explore the city and buy a late dinner for you and jinwoo to enjoy later on once he comes home. the city was bustling with activity, and you allow the sensation of the wind to course through you, humming a favorite tune as you walked with confidence across the sidewalks.

as you enjoy the sights of the city, you felt danger quickly approaching you. goosebumps were felt erupting all across the expanse of your arm as a low whistle was heard trailing from close behind you. you stiffen momentarily, but ultimately decide to stop walking.

you allow your eyes to follow the voice, seeing a man sneering at you as he came out from a random alleyway. your heart was felt racing slightly, summoning your flight or fight response-

yet your fear was short lived when several, tiny whispers were heard coming from your shadow.

"hey hey hey, what's the rush babygirl? you're lookin' a little lost."

the faint scent of alcohol was evident when you felt the man's calloused hands grabbing on to you. you had to fight back the repulsion that threatens to course through you, mustering the coldest look you could manage when you stiffly tell the drunkard, "i'm taken. my boyfriend will be livid if he sees you forcing yourself onto me."

he gives you a smirk now, his piercings glinting from beneath the moonlight while his hold on you seemed to tighten when he tells you.

"aw, don't be like that, babe. heheh, i bet you're just stiff because you need a good fuckin' to help with loosening you up, that's all."

he was about to get closer to you when he saw the wisps of shadows surrounding you. you close your eyes, already basking in amusement when you saw the panicked look within the bastard's eyes.

"w-what the hell? you a fucking hunter?"

no, but my boyfriend is one.

you keep your thoughts to yourself, allowing the cold shadows to surround you as you briefly wondered what shadow soldier would appear, ready to defend you with their life.

would it be igris? or beru?

"you." within mere seconds, you found your answer, gasping when jinwoo himself appears in front of you.

your knees were weak, feeling your heart began to pound when you were met with jinwoo's broad back. he keeps a powerful hand behind you, using his body as a shield between you and the poor bastard who dared to hit on you.

"a-a-ah..."

you hear the shakiness in his voice when jinwoo grabs a hold of his shirt, slamming the bastard against the harsh, brick wall of the alleyway with a click of his tongue. the bastard never stood a chance, losing his consciousness immediately as he slumps against the concrete.

jinwoo was breathing heavily when he finally faces you, eyes still glowing a bright purple when his shaky hands gently frame at your face.

"are you alright, sarang?" his voice was shaky, still assessing your features for any trace of fear or discomfort. "i'm sorry if i was a little late, but... when i saw that bastard coming on to you-"

he trembles, letting out a shaky sigh when you felt his hands clutching at your shoulders in a tighter manner. "i nearly lost myself to my rage, ready to rip that bastard into shreds if i had to."

finally snapping out of your reveries, you sigh and wrap your arms around jinwoo's neck, your embrace and the way your warmth seemed to surround him being enough to calm him down.

"i'm alright, jinwoo... i'm just so happy to see you again."

you laugh before pressing gentle kisses against his jawline, slowly calming down your beloved boyfriend as he basks in your presence. he lets out a sigh of your name before wrapping his arms around your back, resting his head against your shoulder while gently holding you in his arms.

"did you just finish your raid?"

you look at him with amusement in your eyes when he gives you a gentle nod against your shoulder.

"yeah, i'm done."

"then, let's get some dinner together, shall we?"

you feel jinwoo place a lingering kiss against your shoulders before moving away from you, the rage in his eyes finally dying down into a gentle simmer as you could see the clarity of his grey eyes once more.

"yes, let's go." he nods, with the two of you completely forgetting about the man who was foolish enough to hit on you, leaving his unconscious body near the alleyway he had came from.

and as you continue to explore the city while in the arms of your beloved shadow monarch, you knew that he was the sole reason you had no reason to fear the night-

for sung jinwoo would always be right by your side when danger struck, ready to protect you with all that he had.

a.n. - hhhhhh the jinwoo brainrot is real... please save me jinwoo, my daydreams for you can't seem to stop 🥹

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[vennilavee]

red card

pairing: barou shoei x reader

summary: italy is one of the most romantic places in the world. unfortunately, it hasn't quite felt like that in some time.

warnings: BLLK MANGA SPOILERS !!!

word count: 3k

a/n: happy valentine's day!! just a fun miscommunication fic to be my first bllk fic...im running away

“Working with him is such a pain, like, who takes interviews only at 4:35 AM? Who does he think he is, anyway?” 

“Well… he is the highest goalscorer in the entire league right now,” Mari counters, “I think that warrants that he can make some demands-”

“Oh, you’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you?” you roll your eyes playfully, shoving your colleague and friend’s shoulder.

“Whatever,” she shrugs, “Better start packing, considering your flight is in…seven hours.”

In the last few years, you’ve been to Turin, Italy almost too many times to count. Sometimes for your job, and sometimes for…other reasons. Though in the last six months, it’s been mainly for work, no thanks to your stupidly talented striker boyfriend who just coincidentally happens to play for the Ubers.

You wouldn’t trade your sports journalist job for anything else, but with the combination of his always hectic schedule and your growing responsibilities as a senior journalist, it’s been next to impossible to spend any extra time together.

Other than squeezing in an interview at 4:30 AM just so you have an extra twenty minutes with him before training starts.

You scoff as you try to conceal the fatigue under your eyes with concealer. You’d love to go to Rome, Florence or Venice, or anywhere really, with your boyfriend. But he’s stubborn and rigid in his routines. You’re not ungrateful to be with your handsome, protective boyfriend with a dry humor that only very few appreciate. You just want a little more.

So you’ve been to all of those places, and then some, by yourself or with your coworkers or friends. Pretty much everyone except for him.

You’re trying to be understanding. He’s a globally known soccer player and gets recognized everywhere and anywhere he goes. All he wants is a day off, a day to relax and spend time and the offseason with you. Is it awful that you want a little more?

The relationship itself isn’t terribly new or terribly old. Maybe the distance makes it feel newer than it is.  But you’ve known each other since childhood, both of your families being friends and both of you running around the soccer circuit since a young age. His days in blue lock coincided with your days of playing soccer for your high school. That man with the red streaks in his hair has been in your life for nearly as long as you’ve been in it, and you don’t want to change anything about that.

You sigh and shrug your coat on, mentally preparing yourself to ignore Barou Shouei’s attempts at kissing you before you take the mic.

“Hello, Barou-san,” you say stiffly, pushing your hand out for him to shake, “It’s nice to see you before the sun has risen.” The vein in his forehead throbs at your indifference and you grin, letting the facade melt. It’s been two months since you’ve seen him. You suppose you can wait a little longer to fight with him.

“You didn’t text me when you landed,” he says, “Or when you got here-”

“I landed an hour and a half ago and came here straight from the airport,” you roll your eyes, “Someone only takes interviews at this ungodly hour and I don’t want any special treatment.”

“If I want to give you special treatment, then I will,” Barou says, pulling you in by your forearm and wrapping you in a bone-crushing hug. You inhale deeply, immediately feeling sleepy as his warmth embraces you.

“Don’t make it sound like such a threat,” you mumble, pressing your cheek into his shoulder. Your fingers thread through his longer hair, resting at the nape of his neck. He must not yet have applied his cologne, because he smells fresh.

“Wanna take this interview in bed?” you joke, pulling away from him just an inch.

“How unprofessional of you,” he says dryly, “I’ll have to inform your superiors.”

You roll your eyes again, grinning when he pulls you in for a proper kiss. His touch makes you weak in the knees, makes you yearn for him even though he’s in your arms. For just a few short days. 

Your heart aches inadvertently.

“I got you tickets for today’s training and tomorrow’s game. I know you don’t need them,” Shouei says, sticking them in your coat pocket, “Let’s get this over with so we can go.”

He squeezes your arm, dark eyes lingering with unspoken and heavy words as he takes your hand in his towards the stadium.

Interviewing with you is always easy, despite having interviewed with you one-on-one only a handful of times. It’s the start of a new season at Ubers (and his third year with the club), and he’s eager to win the league this time. Last season, they came so close.

Barou Shouei did not become the Ubers’ number thirteen  just to come only this far.

He’d gone back home to Japan after the loss last season for a week and stayed with you. Each time he leaves you, it gets harder and harder. But despite his loss, you were promoted to being a senior sports journalist. He was so proud of you, eager to see where your career would take you.

It seemed like the tables had turned and you were the one now traveling more than him. 

But you both make it work, right? With phone calls while you both are in opposing time zones, red eye flights just to see each other for a few hours… You try to go to Italy to see him whenever you can. Even with your increased responsibilities, his schedule is far more rigid than yours.

You’re so in demand now that it’s hard to keep up with two extremely busy schedules. Still- you’re here with your bright eyes and teasing smile, and he doesn’t want to lose a single second not looking at you.

It doesn’t feel like work when it’s with you. Even with the questions about game stats, Snuffy’s leadership, his future at the Ubers and the Ubers future in the league, it never feels like an actual interview. He used to hate giving these interviews until his coach told him he had to. What was the point of it? He’s not the captain, why does he have to deal with the press and the stupid questions?

Until his first interview was with you. 

Even now, when he knows that there is a mountain to climb over with you, it still feels the way it always does. Like a conversation. You’re focused on him, cracking jokes, and Shouei has always liked when your full attention is centered on him after all.

The last time you were in Turin, you didn’t exactly leave on a bright, hopeful note with respect to your relationship. In fact, you left in tears and had changed your flight timing at the last minute so that Shouei purposely wouldn’t be able to see you off. You didn’t want to see him just to fight once again. 

It left a sour taste in your mouth and despite that things are “normal” now, you still feel the fragility of your relationship. It rests in your hands like a delicate bird.

In the last two months, neither of you had brought up the dreaded fight. It’s not the first time this topic has arisen, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. Your excuse for ignoring the issue was that you wanted to talk to him about it in person. His excuse was that if you had a problem then you’d bring it up on your own.

Your harsh words ring clearly in your head:

“Why is it so wrong to just want a little more? You live in Italy- I don’t think I’m asking for too much to go to Rome o-or Florence or Venice or literally anywhere for a few days during your offseason-”

“I can’t just go, everyone else trains during the off-season! How am I supposed to be the best striker if I’m going on vacation with you-”

“Oh, well, don’t sound so disgusted over the prospect of taking a few days off with me-”

“Come on, I didn’t mean that and you know it.”

“Do I? Do I know it? To me, it looks like you don’t want to spend any time with me outside of when it’s convenient for you. We get what? Maybe a few weekends a season? Are you good with a few weekends a season? And when you’re not playing, you don’t want to go anywhere with me. Am I your girlfriend or your sidechick, Shouei?”

“That’s not fair-”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s not fair. You want me to be happy with breadcrumbs.”

“You knew what you were getting into!”

“That’s such a cop-out and you know it!” 

Shouei looks at you with hardly any emotion on his face, save for the downturn of his lips. You close your eyes shut to calm yourself down so that you don’t say something you regret. He wants to reach for you, to comfort you even though he’s the one who made you cry. But his feet stay planted and he watches you crumple.

“Don’t cry,” he all but begs you, finally gathering you in his arms, “We’ll figure it out. Just… don’t cry-”

“I don’t know how to not be upset with you, with this,” you mumble tearfully as he rubs your back.

“I know,” Shouei says, curling a hand around your cheek, “I know.”

“Hey,” you mumble, with heated cheeks, “Happy game day, I guess.” You thrust a bouquet of fresh red roses that you picked up from your favorite floral vendor around the corner from the training grounds.

“What a loser,” Shouei says fondly, putting you in a light affectionate headlock, “You’re gonna make me late for warm-up.”

“Well, I’m such a big fan of Dortmund that this was my plan all along,” you reply, “If I can distract you, then they have a better chance of winning, don’t they?”

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes, turning you in his arms to greet you properly.

“Heard Isagi’s out for blood and redemption today,” you murmur as his lips press against the column of your throat.

His ears perk up and he’s torn between questioning you about Isagi or ignoring Isagi’s name coming out of your lips.In the end, the striker in him wins. Just like you knew it would.

“That’s insider information,” you protest when he grumbles.

“What’s the point of having a journalist girlfriend if I get no secrets out of it,” Shouei glares at you, shoving your shoulder gently.

“The point is that you get this,” you take his hand and press it against your chest, “This,” you press his hand against your crotch, “And this,” finally, you press his hand against your ass. “And my charming, stellar personality.”

“Stop seducing me, you temptress,” he scoffs, pushing away your lingering lips.

“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin your gameday ritual,” you reply, “I’ll see you later, honey. Have a good game.”

You turn on your heel to leave the locker room, but not before smacking his ass and giving him a kiss good luck.

This field, and every other field in the world, is close enough to home to you as your own barely furnished apartment in Tokyo is. Fresh grass, clean white lines and adrenaline swirls in the air as you stand in front of the camera, getting ready for the half-time program.

One of your favorite moments in front of the camera is when Julian Loki nearly bowled you over in pursuit of an overhead ball. He’d given you a quick side hug with a smug grin after the game, but ever since then, you’ve maintained a safe distance from the border of the field. The last thing you need is to cause a scene when you’re not even one of the twenty-two players on the field.

You’re wearing one of Shouei’s jersey under your emerald green blazer and you find it extraordinarily difficult to not turn your head to search for him as he walks off the pitch and into the tunnel for halftime. The Ubers are down by one goal and you can envision how tense his shoulders are while he mouths off at his defense for doing a “fucking awful job”.

It’s rare that you’ve ever gone down in the tunnel to see him while you’re on the clock. Chewing on your bottom lip, you debate on it. Should you, shouldn’t you… It’s not about you, is it? His frustration on the field? Even he could admit that he wasn’t playing at his best today.

If he was feeling unsettled about the lingering aftermath of the fight, he had every opportunity to open his stupid mouth anyway. How often are you supposed to have the same fight anyway? 

Oh, who are you lying to? In every universe, you want to have this fight with him. Because it’s him.

It’s just a rough patch.

You hope he can telepathically hear your words of encouragement from inside the tunnel.

[divide]

In the end, you don’t approach the tunnel but the Ubers end up winning the game in a comeback that has you and the entire stadium on your toes. Of course Shouei scored the equalizer and the winning goal with an insane fake out and a strike with incredible power, in true dramatic fashion.

You’re prepping in your tent to begin the post-game interviews with the captains of each team. Your heart is still racing from the last minute winning goal, seeing the strike sailing through the air behind your eyelids.

As Marc Snuffy walks into the tent with his chest heaving in exhilaration and a big grin, he’s roughly shoved to the side by none other than Barou Shouei. Before you can tell your cameraman to stop recording or before you can berate Shouei for nearly taking down your entire tent with his massive body, or for shoving his captain to the side like a sack of potatoes-

He crowds your personal space, giant hands cupping your cheeks and his thumbs rubbing your skin. His dark eyes dilate as he takes you in- his angel on the field in his jersey, his lucky number thirteen. You gasp in surprise as he presses his lips to yours cheekily, daring you to deepen the kiss.

You can vaguely hear his teammates hollering in the background, seeing their ever so serious striker kiss his mysterious, private girlfriend.

“Hey, I’ll see you at home, alright?” Shouei offers you a rare, small smile as he rubs your chin with his thumb.

All you can do is nod with a sheepish smile while your cameraman stares at you, stunned.

And when you watch the interview again, you flush at the reflection of your lovesick eyes and his yearning embrace.

Nerves oddly seize you as you approach Shouei’s luxurious apartment building. It’s about four times bigger than the size of your own. It reflects his soccer player status and salary, you suppose. He’s been here for just as long as he’s been playing with the Ubers but he seemed to only care about decorating it in the last year or so. Ever since you’ve been around.

He’d told you he’d see you at home. Implying that this was your home, too. In truth, it's not your home at all, but the notion still makes you feel funny. Like butterflies fluttering in your belly, as if you can’t believe he still wants to be with you. He never makes you feel like you’re too much, even when you doubt yourself.

You didn’t mean to make yourself almost cry as you approach his unit with hesitant steps.

Shouei yanks the door open nearly off its hinges exactly one second after you text him announcing your arrival. He immediately pulls you inside, takes your coat and your bag and ushers you out of your shoes. Then, he kisses you in greeting.

It’s different from the kiss he laid upon you at the field. It’s softer, more docile.

“I bet your dm’s are flooded after that stunt you pulled today,” you mumble against his lips, peering up at him while he scoffs.

“Yeah, my agent is getting paid her worth today. At least one of us is private on social media,” Shouei says, sighing into your embrace as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I guess I’m happy to be your mystery girl until the day comes.”

Shouei stares at you long and hard, his lips in an imperceptible line. Your heart pounds in your ears as he stares straight through you with darkened nearly red eyes, reaching into the layers and layers that you attempt to hide away from him. It’s not like you to be quiet and demure around him but you’re on unsteady ground. The words don’t come out of your mouth, wilting in your throat like dried up sunflowers.

But you look over his shoulder briefly, peering into the open space that leads into the kitchen and the dining room only to see two lit candlesticks and a bouquet of your favorite flowers at the center of his dinner table. A romantic burgundy glow illuminates the room along as the purple and orange streaks from the sunset filter in through the windows.

The question is written all over your face as you struggle not to let your bottom lip quiver. You’re usually the one who’s adept at words, but here you are unable to formulate a single one. 

“Stop crying,” he says gruffly, already wiping at your cheeks. You sniffle and laugh wetly as you hide your face from him.

“We both live in this insane world. I don’t want it to pull us apart like it has for so many others. And we can’t give up our careers but I can’t give up on you either,” you admit, feeling a weight lift off your chest.

“I know,” Shouei says simply, “We left on a shitty note last time, and I’m not heartless you know. At least, not for you.”

He grins wolfishly at you when you chuckle. He remains quiet for a beat, rubbing his thumbs into the nape of your neck soothingly until your sniffles lessen. Fidgeting with the collar of your sweater, Shouei hesitates.

“Uh,” he begins, “I got this rental in Venice, in June. It’s still a few months out, but you know…”

“You really want to go? With me?”

“No, I want to go with Isagi,” Shouei says flatly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, “If you’re asking if I want to go with you then I’ve done something wrong here.”

“At least you finally admit it,” you shove his shoulder. It’s a beautiful rental, with big windows and a great view of the city and the water. You’re already thinking about the gondola rides, the nighttime walks, the music. All of it with Shouei.

“And you made dinner and set the table,” you pinch his cheeks (he grimaces), “You are a romantic, after all…”

“Don’t make such a big deal about it, loser,” he scoffs. He kisses you gently as he wraps himself tightly around you. You sigh into his lips happily, already feeling lighter than when you landed in Turin not even seventy-two hours ago.

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply with a sparkling smile. 

Shouei makes a vow to himself to never make you cry in Italy ever again. Twice in two trips was more than enough.

[dreemurr-skelememer]

Considering the amount of Dream trauma i just saw, let me add on

I think sometimes Dream has vivid hallucinations of his body turning to stone again. It feels like his bones are hardening, he could see that sickly grey on his bones, feel his body stiffening up in response. It sends him into a panic. Dream hates it and starts to irrationally pick at the bone, digging into it to try and get the stone off like it's showing up again. He damages himself trying to get it off!!

Maybe this is partially why he covers himself up so much, if he cannot see the area then he can't see the hallucination! If he can't see it, then it doesn't exist!!

Anyway random thought i just made up <3

THIS!!! and additionally: imagine this, instead of fighting or flighting when he panics, he freezes.

and it just makes the panic attacks suddenly worse.

"why am i not doing anything?" to "oh my god, it's happening again. this can't be happening again"

his natural body response causes him to spiral into a far worse panic attack than from whatever triggered it and everything just gets so blurry and so fuzzy

and suddenly he feels like he's going to go blind. suddenly he can't breathe. suddenly he can't move. suddenly he's stiff.

suddenly he's back there agin.

[cressidagrey]

Romance is not dead if you keep it just yours- Chapter 5: Hyacinth, Florist

Summary:

5 Times Cassian thought that Azriel had feelings for somebody and then 1 time he finally met the girl his brother was in love with.

Warnings:

Rhys Bashing

Notes:

I put a lot of world building into this. If you don't recognise it from canon, I probably invented. Or I forgot that canon existed.

(thanks to @firefly-graphics for the super pretty dividers!)

Azriel showed up bright and early the day after his break ended. For a week Cassian had heard not even a peep from Azriel. 

And then Azriel walked into the House of Wind, looking none the worse for wear.

“How was your break?” Cassian asked him, taking him in. Looking no different than he ever had before. Though not relaxed. The exact opposite to be honest. 

“Can we spar?” Azriel asked in response and Cassian’s brows rose. 

Ouch. That break had seemingly not gone that well. 

“That bad, hm?” he asked, though just nodded towards the sparring ring. “How’s your Ma?” he asked and Azriel just stared at him. 

“She’s as good as she can get,” he snapped back. Right.

His expression must have shown his shock, because Azriel held still for a moment, seemingly forcing himself to take a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment...

“ I am in a mood,” Azriel warned him, finally. “Don’t go easy on me.”

“I wasn’t aware that I ever did,” Cassian quipped. 

He should have probably taken that warning more seriously. 

He didn’t. 

Azriel nearly had him tapping out within the first few minutes. 

There was an aggression behind his fighting that Cassian had only seen very rarely. An aggression that belied Azriel just “being in a mood”. 

This wasn’t just being in a mood. 

This was feral levels of aggression. This was being so upset that Azriel needed to hit something to get it out and clearly Cassian was that something of choice that day. 

Azriel won. Of course, he did. he wanted it far more than Cassian did. 

“You broke my fucking nose,” he complained afterwards, spitting out the blood. The nose was thankfully the only broken bone. Though he was definitely gonna feel the bruises for a few days. 

Azriel seemed on a more even keel though, so Cassian would gladly take the broken nose. 

 “I am sorry,” Azriel apologised earnestly. 

And that was that. 

Az seemed back to his usual levels of weirdness, no longer randomly wanting his first break after 500 years, no more comments about table linens…and sometimes Cassian even thought that he caught his brother smiling softly, pleased at something.

He didn’t say anything but he couldn’t help but wonder.

Still, Cassian had more pressing problems. Like what he should buy Nesta for her birthday…Mor decided to tag along which was decisively unhelpful. How could a female who clearly liked shopping for herself be so completely horrible at choosing gifts for her family? 

“Wait, is that Az?” Mor said suddenly as they left another shop empty-handed. Cassian’s head swivelled around. 

And it was indeed Az, standing around at a flower cart, clearly chatting to the owner. 

By the cauldron, had Cassian been right all along?!?

Mor and him exchanged a glance, both of them narrowing down to their brother just a few feet away from him. 

“Which flowers?” Azriel asked at that moment, clearly contemplating two different bouquets. The female on the other side of the card was pretty, delicate with fluttering wings resembling a butterfly, and bright blue hair that was cropped close to her head. 

A Palote Fairy. Clearly far from home in the summer court. 

Maybe that was why Azriel had been keeping her a secret. Maybe it was some unfounded worry of her being a lesser fairie. 

Did Az and her take long leisurely flights over Velaris and go picnicking? Somehow that seemed like the kind of thing she would enjoy. Their children would probably end up being the most magical thing that Cassian had ever seen. He wondered what wings would turn out to be the dominant ones. The idea of an Illyrian with butterfly wings was definitely something, that much was certain. 

“Jasmine these days. She hasn’t talked about anything since you bought them the first time,” said butterfly girl told Azriel, smiling prettily at him. 

Cassian held back a noise that Mor would have never let him life down. Something akin to a squeal threatened to come out of his throat. 

Was this the female Azriel was stupidly in love with? 

She clearly seemed to be nice enough not to turn down his advances flat out, instead both of them happily chatting. 

“Thank you, Hyacinth,” Azriel thanked her as Hyacinth , which must be her name started wrapping a bundle of dark blooming jasmines for him. He handed her a couple of coins, as she gave him the flowers, not for one moment flinching away from his scars. 

“Will you be there on Friday?” Hyacinth asked him, excitement apparent in her voice. 

Where are they going to have a date? 

“I have been told that my attendance is mandatory. Because I need to learn how to swing my hips like a proper male,” Azriel responded, his usual dry humour apparent. Cassian could still only stare. 

They were going to have a date!

“You’ll have a fantastic teacher,” Hyacinth said with a wink. 

“Oh, I expect nothing less,” Azriel agreed.

A fantastic teacher. Was Hyacinth going to be the teacher? 

Mor dragged Cassian along with a hand on his arm, calling for Azriel. “Az!”

“Mor. Cassian,” Azriel greeted them, not seeming surprised at all at their sudden appearance. Nor particularly displeased about it or hesitant. 

“Don’t you want to introduce us to your girlfriend?” Mor said, sounding giddy as they arrived at Azriel’s side. 

Yes, Azriel, introduce us to your girlfriend, Cass mentally agreed unable to keep the bright grin off his face. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the blue-haired female to burst into laughter. 

“ Hyacinth is married,” Azriel said drily. “And definitely not my girlfriend.”

And Cassian’s hopes were shattered once again. 

“I am very much spoken for. He is too,” Hyacinth responded, still trying to starve down the laughter, and failing horribly. 

Damnit. 

“What brings you two here?” Azriel asked, still holding onto his flower bouquet.  

“Well, Cassian needs help with a gift for Nesta,” Mor said brightly. “I offered my help.”

Azriel stared at him like Cassian had grown a second head. 

Quite frankly, it was understandable.

But Mor had offered her input and he hadn’t been able to politely turn her down. 

“What’s in that bag?” Azriel asked, nodding to the one lone shopping back that Cassian held, sounding like he didn’t want to know. 

“Well…” Cassian started but Azriel just shook his head. 

“You know what, I don’t want to know. Come on,” he said drily, the flowers disappearing from his hand, being whisked away by his shadows somewhere. “I’ll see you on Friday, Hyacinth!” He called over his shoulder, Hyacinth waving them off the ring to the next customer. 

“Where are we going?” He dared to ask, trailing after Azriel, who walked around the Rainbow like he knew every cobblestone personally. Maybe he did. Goodness knew what Azriel’s shadows got up to when they weren’t busy spying for Rhys. 

“We’ll buy Nesta a proper birthday gift,” Azriel said with a roll of his eyes. 

Mor stopped at a clothing store, staring at a dress in the window. “I’ll catch up with you!” she said brightly and off she went, leaving Cassian with this gift debacle.

 “Mor, really?” Azriel asked with a sigh as soon as she had entered the store.  

“Who else was I supposed to ask?” Cassian gave back defensively.

“Feyre? Elain? Emerie? Gwyn? Rhys?” Azriel suggested drily. “Hell, Amren would have been better.” He muttered under his breath. 

Azriel stopped at a smaller store, the dark blue signage proclaiming it an understated “ The Goldmine”. 

He had never even noticed the shop when he had been in the Rainbow, though a giggling group of young High Faes was leaving it. 

Clearly, it was well-liked in the community. 

Azriel pushed open the door, waving him through.   

“Good Morning,” Azriel greeted the High Fae at the counter, a rounded female with green eyes, a pale complexion, and curly light brown hair. She was very pretty in an unassuming way and greeted Azriel wide-eyed. 

The Goldmine was clearly a jewellery shop, with merchandise laid out in the glass cases on the walls and in the middle of the room. 

Cassian was already feeling slightly overwhelmed and he hadn’t even been asked to pick out anything yet. 

“Oh, I am so sorry, she isn’t there currently,” the High Fae blurted out, blushing as soon as she saw Azriel.  

“I know,” Azriel agreed, looking not surprised in the least. Cassian wondered who they were talking about. “She’s out shopping with Briony. But that’s not why I am here.” That also didn’t answer any of the questions he was having. “Cassian, that’s Penelope,” Azriel introduced Cassian.  “Penelope, Cassian, my brother. Cassian needs a birthday gift for his mate,” Azriel explained patiently. Cassian approached the counter that Azriel was leaning against with some trepidation. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Penelope greeted him. “What does your mate like to wear as jewellery?” She asked, all business and Cassian drew a blank. 

He could write whole books about what Nesta liked and disliked. He could. 

But right now, he had no idea. 

“Hairpins that double as Stiletto Blades,” he blurted out. Penelope stared at him, green eyes wide. 

“We…We don’t really sell that?” she offered up hesitantly, while Azriel next to him was silently shaking with laughter before he swallowed it down and decided to be helpful. 

“You had new hair combs coming in, didn’t you?” Azriel asked and for one moment Cassian wondered why Azriel knew what kind of new shipments a jewellery store got. 

“We did!” Penelope agreed immediately, pulling out a tray from behind the counter. 

Cassian heard the bell ring behind him, and Azriel waved off Penelope apologising as she started to take care of the newest customer. 

Instead, he took the tray and pushed it in Cassian’s direction. 

“How am I supposed to pick?” he asked with no small amount of trepidation at the dozen choices laid out before him. Every style imagination, in gold and silver and whatever other metal there were there. 

“Pick one that reminds you of Nesta,” Azriel said easily. “And if you only like the shape of one, the gems can be easily changed out,” Azriel assured him, as he picked up one comb, turning it around in scarred hands. 

Cassian went back to staring at the hair combs. 

Every single one of them was a separate work of art. Some more intricate than others. Some with careful engravings, some set with stones, others letting the metal do the talking. He didn’t dare to touch them, even when Azriel carefully turned them in his hands and checked them over. 

“This is moonstone and yellow gold,” Azriel explained softly as he pointed out one with a row of milky-white stones set in yellow gold. “This is amber. Probably from the beaches of Summer Court…This is white opal,” he said as he pointed out another two. 

Cassian’s gaze kept being pulled back to intricate designs with swirls set in diamonds and some kind of red stone, too dark to be ruby. Azriel followed his gaze. 

“You could have the garnets replaced with your siphons,” he suggested evenly. 

“They can do that?” Cassian asked surprised and Azriel gave a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“How did you find this place?” Cassian asked curiously. This wasn’t…Azriel had never worn any kind of jewellery. or at least none that Cassian had ever seen…Azriel picked out the comb that Cassian had picked, turning it over in his hands…and for the first time Cassian saw a thin bracelet stretching over his wrist. It was so black that it would would easily sink into the black of his fighting leathers, so of course that would have made sure that Cassian didn’t notice it. But right now Az wasn’t wearing fighting leathers but a simple dark shirt, and so it stood out more against his skin. 

“I know the owner,” Azriel answered the question, his voice quiet. His scent changed suddenly, to Cassian’s surprise from contentment to happiness. 

“Did you ever buy anything from here?” he asked and Azriel hummed. 

“Of sorts.”

“How can you buy something from sorts?” Cassian wondered. How did that even work? 

“If the person doesn’t let you pay in money, does that count as buying?” Azriel gave back with a shrug. 

What? “How else would you pay?” Cassian asked. How? 

“I get a special discount,” Azriel told him sagely. 

“For what?” Cassian asked and then his jaw dropped when…suddenly it…Was Azriel paying for whatever he bought with sex? 

His brother hit him on the back of his head with zero hesitation. 

“Not that ,” Azriel told him drily. 

“I didn’t say anything!” Cassian snapped. 

"It was written all over your face," Azriel replied, rolling his eyes. “I know the owner. That’s why I get a special discount.”

Fine. 

Still, the hair comb was a way better gift than anything that anything he had come up with lately, so he thanked his brother for that. 

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Azriel responded easily.

Cassian should just really give up trying to figure out who was Azriel’s special somebody. He was never going to get it right.

[marvelmusing]

Keep Your Judgement

Chapter One

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader

Summary: When the Darkling and the Sun Summoner are supposed dead in the Fold, Ravka turns on Grisha, and you find yourself imprisoned by First Army soldiers. It’s then that you realise your power as a durast has been severely underutilised and perhaps you are meant for more.

Warnings: Grisha persecution, canon level violence and death, this entire series will take place during the events of season two so there will be spoilers

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist

The angry glow of torches casts a flicker of orange light over the metal bars that encage you.

At the sound of a glass bottle shattering against the ground, the lingering dazedness from sleep leaves your body, activating your fight or flight response. But the First Army soldiers that captured you wouldn’t allow you a fair fight against them, binding your hands at the first opportunity, and the locks keeping you confined cannot be opened by your power while the shackles around your wrists are in place.

Beyond the group of soldiers that drink around their fire, the Fold towers high above. Thunder booms in the distance and the bone chilling screams of the volcra send a spike of fear through you.

Everyone knows the Fold has been shifting, swallowing towns, and leaving destruction behind in its wake. It is only a matter of time before it will reach you and the rest of the Grisha in the cages that surround yours.

Every now and then, when the soldiers are feeling particularly spiteful or overconfident, they will drag a Grisha out of their cage and walk them up to the Fold, pushing them into the billowing darkness to face the volcra.

Tears fill your eyes as you remember yesterday evening, when Fedoyr had been taken. He was your oldest friend, the first you had ever made at the Little Palace. When the soldiers had kicked and shoved him through their makeshift camp, you had pleaded for them to take you instead.

One of the soldiers had opened your cell, stood barely an inch away from you as tears spilled down your cheeks. Then he had told you that you would be the last one to enter the Fold, that they will make you watch each and every Grisha suffer and die before you meet the same fate.

Over the last few days, you have been testing the scope of your power, trying to manipulate anything around you. Working for the war effort had limited your opportunities to fully explore your power, too busy creating corecloth for keftas or new weaponry for the First Army – the same people that now hunt down Grisha and kill them.

Anti-Grisha sentiments had been growing for years now, with Zlatan rallying his forces in the West and Drüskelle attacking along the northern frontlines. Even in Os Alta, the otkazat’sya, nobles and commoners alike, had looked down on you.

With the appearance of the sun summoner, you and your fellow Grisha had been given true hope for the first time – that they might see your power as something good. After all, if they viewed a summoner like her as a miracle, shouldn’t your power own power also be seen as something extraordinary?

Though you certainly don’t feel extraordinary as you feel the pins in your shackles shift minutely, barely noticeable. As the hours drag on, the metal moves slowly as you unlock your shackles. Most of the soldiers are asleep now, aside from the two guards that circle around the camp and the cages, taking the same route every night.  

Sweat beads over your brows, every muscle in your arms strains with exertion, but you continue. As you feel the lock twisting, a hairsbreadth away from freedom, you run over everything you are about to do. Luckily, you’re wearing your kefta and after weeks of being helpless you’re ready to make them pay.

Watching the guards carefully, you wait until the moment they are both out of your sight. The shackles slacken around your wrists allowing you to slip free. In just under a minute, you will be back in their peripherals, putting you at risk of being caught.

Clasping your hands together, you lift the lever inside the lock on your cage, it moves without a sound and you step out. Silently, you stick to the shadows cast by the firelight, avoiding the guards and praying they don’t notice your cage is empty.

A heartrender is the first you manage to free, with the intention for her to dispose of the guards quietly. She nods resolutely when you tell her the plan and she disappears into the shadows to handle them. Two durasts are in the next cage, and once they are free you tell them to work on freeing the rest of the Grisha.

It’s at that moment, one of the soldiers by the fire notices movement, the purple of your kefta doing little to camouflage yourself amongst the darkness. He calls out to his friends, nudging the one closest to him as he stands, grabbing his gun and loading it.

“Get down!” you cry out as the first shot rings out.

Ducking behind a barrel, you focus on the materials around you, searching for anything that could help you. Concentrating on the barrel of his gun, you begin to twist the material, rendering it useless. He swears loudly, but you don’t have time to celebrate your victory as the others begin shooting.

The heartrender runs with her body lowered as she reaches a pile of wooden crates opposite you. She exchanges a determined look with you, and she folds her hands together, flexing her fingers in a motion instantly recognisable to you.

The three nearest soldiers clutch their chests, dropping their guns as blood spurts from their mouths, which provides you the opportunity to rush forwards. Clapping your hands together, you focus your power on the shimmering brass buttons attached to their uniforms. Twisting your palms, you curl the fingers on your dominant hand before thrusting it towards them.

The buttons snap from the thin threads tying them down, burying the metal deep into their bodies, pressing through skin and flesh into their vital organs. A few of them collapse instantly, a few stumble as they clutch their sides.

Beside you, the heartrender picks off those that had roused from sleep, joining the fight late. As one of them fires his gun, you bring your hands together before you flick your fingers to one side, casting his bullets away from the heartrender.

As she swings a punch at one who had managed to get too close, someone seizes you from behind, pining your arms back as another loops a wire around your neck, tugging hard. Instantly, your breathing becomes laboured as you gasp and thrash violently.

As dark curls at your vision, you seek out the material that’s pressing against your throat, putting every ounce of effort you have left into breaking it. Tears run hot down your face as desperation claws at your chest, frightened by the lack of air in your lungs.  

There’s a snap and suddenly you’re falling.

Heaving in air, you push yourself forwards, stumbling away from the two soldiers who had fallen back due to the momentum caused by the wire snapping. Quickly, you press your hands together, searching frantically for metal on their clothing.

One of them cries out as the metal clasps of his breeches dig into his abdomen. Red seeps over his white shirt as he writhes on the ground. When the other one stands, charging towards you, the power inside you acts instinctively. Seizing the thin chain around his neck, you tighten it around his throat.

He falls, fingers clutching frantically at the metal, but you are relentless. Stepping closer, you watch as he collapses, heaving for breath, veins bulging. With a flick of your fingers, you yank hard on the necklace. There’s a sickening crack. Then he stills.

Eyes wide with horror, the other soldier backs away, hands pressed painfully against his bleeding sides from where you had buried the metal inside him. Somehow, he stumbles to his feet and begins to run away.

Stunned by your own ability, that you had been able to kill him so easily, prevents you from furthering your attack. He almost reaches the edge of the camp before you begin to pursue him. As your power reaches for the stray coins in his trouser pocket, intending on digging them into his thigh, you sense something different. Not on the man.

The energy you sense sends a shiver over you, encouraging you to peer out into the darkness of the night.

It’s then that you see the shadows move.

Screams are the first thing you process, as the soldier you had been chasing is lifted up by a billowing column of darkness. Claws rip through his skin and a great yawning mouth sinks into his already bloody side. Once the creature is done with him, it dissolves into the night, leaving the body a crumpled heap on the ground.

The heartrender appears at your side, staring wide eyed at what had just happened as the rest of the Grisha stretch their legs and arms, cautiously basking in their newfound freedom.

As a hooded figure steps out the darkness, prompting the two of you to clasp your hands together, readying your power for a defensive measure.

“That won’t be necessary,” the advancing silhouette states calmly. A man’s voice.

As your power reaches out, you sense the corecloth draped over his body. Black corecloth, with lines of gold that shimmer lightly under the firelight. The figure lifts his hood, revealing a familiar face, sporting unfamiliar dark scars over his features.

The General. The Darkling. He survived the Fold.

For a moment, his eyes lock on yours and he lifts his chin slightly.

“I have returned.”

-

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters

[her-power]

Fixation on the Darkness (Part Two: Dark Romance! e.m. x fem! reader)

‼️❌🛑18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🛑❌‼️

Trigger/Content Warning: Dark! Somewhat Souless! Eddie! Strong sexual content, blood play, unprotected p+v, choking, hair pulling, rough intercourse, fingering (f receiving), masturbation, oral (f receiving *for now*), fight or flight responses, grief, thoughts of unaliving self & others, manipulation, violence, smut, some fluff, angst.

Summary: Full Summary on Part One

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: There will be mentions of Vecna and El throughout the series, but I'm also going to be putting my own little spin on things where a lot of the ideas will be original. Thank you all for reading!

“I didn’t run away this time, right?” The pain was unbearable, his teeth clenched. 

“No. No. No. You didn’t run.” Dustin sobs. 

“You’re gonna have to look after those little shits for me, okay?” He was fading…he could feel it. 

“No, you’re gonna do that yourself!” 

“Nah, man. Say I’m gonna look after them, say it.” It hurts so bad. 

“I’m gonna…I’m gonna look…after them.” 

“Good.” He tastes blood. “I need…I need you to tell her…tell her that I’m sorry. And that I’ll always love her, and to…” He choked on his tears and blood. “Tell her to just live her life…she was the best…part of mine.” 

“I will…” Dustin sobs, Eddie lets out a choked breath. 

“I love you, man.” 

“I love you too.” 

He didn’t feel the pain anymore, he was fading away…the darkness was swallowing him whole. 

Thunder booms, an electric shock rumbles the ground. The bats that were still alive circle around him, watching, waiting. They would’ve feasted on the rest of his dead flesh, but something was happening. His hands twitch, the red sky glinting off his metal rings. His body jerks violently, his limbs twisting at odd angles before setting back to normal, a painful groan escapes his lips, and he inhales deeply, his lungs expanding. He stares up at the dark red sky, tilting his head as his vision adjusts and he was seeing things…differently. 

The sky was beautiful, he thought. Before, this was a place of his nightmares, a place that was the cause of the death of an innocent girl. A place that inhabited creatures of the unknown, a monster that controlled those creatures. 

He felt at home here. 

He sits up straight, craning his neck to the side, he grunts when he feels his neck readjust and the bones make a loud sickening crack. He gazes at his hands, unusually pale, bloody. Lifting his shirt, he sees that the fatal wounds that took his life were now scarring, and his skin healing. 

He chuckles, and he’s surprised at the mania behind it. He died in Dustin’s arms, crying like a little girl, making him promise to tell you all those stupid fucking things that made him want to puke. He pulls the bandana off of his head, tossing it to the side. His throat burned, and his ears rang. He gracefully gets to his feet, his eyes gazing up at the sky. 

Those fucking bats. 

One makes a nosedive towards him; he snatches the thing out of the air by the throat, he grins widely at his quick reflexes. The bat screeches in his hand, he tightens his hold on its neck, hearing a crunch and something animalistic escapes his throat. He feels a rumble in his chest, the ringing in his ears getting louder. He growls, ripping into the flesh of the bat with his teeth, feeling the black blood drip down his chin, flowing to the back of his throat. He drops the limp creature to the ground, sighing loudly. A pain hits the depth of his stomach, and he falls to his knees; his whole-body jerks, he feels like he’s been branded by a hot iron. He screams loudly, his fingers digging into the solid ground underneath him. It feels like his heart is beating out of his chest but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a heartbeat. He groans again, feeling a shooting pain go through his veins now and he collapses to his back, screaming loud. Something was happening to him, was he dying all over again? He grits his teeth, trembling in pain as another wave slams into his entire body. 

As quickly as it started, it stops. His skin becomes smoother, his muscles become tighter, and he feels stronger. He sits up straight, gazing at his hands. They were his hands, but pale, and…

Whoa. 

He laughs, his fingernails grow into claws, black as night. He wills them away and they disappear, back were his normal fingernails. He flexes his fingers, and the claws extend again. He grins, feeling something sharp nip at his bottom lip. His incisors were longer, but they weren’t just a second ago…or were they? He drags his tongue over his teeth, feeling the remnants of the blood from the bat and those sharp points disappear. Mmm. Who would’ve thought they’d taste so good? 

He was hungry for more; not for the bats but something else, something he could nurse…something he could…savor. Your face appears in his mind, and he grins. 

Oh, the poor thing. He laughs. I’m dead and now she’s lost forever. Poor���poor thing. I wonder if she still dreams of me, I wonder if I fuck her blind in her dreams, or she rides me until she can’t feel her legs. Mmm, she was a good fuck. That I remember. I know whatever is left of the old Eddie inside me is desperate to return to her, to hold her, love her. Ugh. 

I wonder what her grief tastes like. 

One year before the Upside Down…

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” You feel warm lips on your cheek, and you groan, burying your face deeper in the pillow. You feel his hands caress your hair, gently kissing the soft spot on your neck. 

“Go away.” You mutter. 

Eddie laughs. “You invited me to stay, sweetheart. Come on, I promised you breakfast.” 

You open one eye to look at him, his head is tilted at you, his dimples prominent with his smile. “Blueberry pancakes?” 

“Gross but yes.” He leans down to kiss your lips. “Anything for you.” 

You move onto your back and stretch, your shirt rising up your stomach. He grins at you, kissing your stomach and you laugh as his hair tickles you. He rests his chin on your belly, staring up at you, and you curl your fingers through his hair. “If you want us to get breakfast so bad, you probably should stop staring at me.” 

“Nah, I can bask for a few minutes.” He grins, reaching his hands up to caress down your arms gently, entwining your fingers. You close your eyes, savoring his warmth, his gentle kisses on your navel. He slides up your form, catching your lips in a passionate kiss. He holds your waist, his hand glides down to your thigh and squeezes the meaty flesh tightly. You moan and giggle against his lips. 

“What about breakfast?” 

He pins your free hand on the side of your head, gently squeezing, his mouth going to your lips, and you sigh. “Mmm, we can still make brunch.” 

Your eyes snap open, tears were in your eyes as you dreamt a memory. A memory that seemed so long ago now. It was dark, you slept longer than you intended, although you needed it. You sit up in your bed, your hair a wild mess, your body sore. 

Pleasantly sore. 

You had no idea what you were dealing with. You had no idea what he was…what he wasn’t. All he did was touch you, taste you, in places you were used to with him, but there was a different feeling behind it. Like he was feeding off you, feeding off your essence, your happiness, your euphoria. Your body shudders at the memory, you feel yourself clench, pleasant tingles dance in your belly. What he did; what you let him do…

You couldn’t take his teasing anymore while he fingered you against your front door. He was taunting you, every kiss of his cold lips, every thrust of his fingers. You had gotten sick of it, twirling yourself in his grasp, pushing your body against his, molding your mouth with his. You could feel him stiffen at the change, but he only groaned, his tongue entered your mouth with such urgency that it took you a minute to catch your breath. His cold hands tug painfully at your hair, but you welcomed it, you couldn’t stop touching him. In one swift movement, he has you pinned on the floor next to the fireplace. The flames reflected off his discolored eyes, making them more vibrant, more beautiful. He leaned back on his heels, staring down at you with that same sinister smile. He peeled off his shirt and jacket, his muscles so much more defined, his skin pale. He squeezes your thighs, roughly pulling off your jeans, leaving you half naked in your underwear. A growl rumbles in his throat; and your breath hitches as you stare at him. 

He looked so sinister. 

So evil. 

But you couldn’t look away. 

Not from him. 

Not when he curls his fingers through the band of your underwear, pulling it between your sex, adding pressure to your clit with the fabric, and your back arches. He laughs, tearing the thick fabric away from you painfully, and you wince. His cold hands massage your thighs, pushing your legs wider apart. 

“Look at that.” He says, his voice low, his finger strokes the wetness at your cunt; you were so wet. He brings his finger to his mouth, sucking it gently and groaning. “Fuck.” 

He scoots back on his stomach, roughly pulling you towards his face by your thighs. 

“Eddie…Eddie…wait…” You don’t finish. Instead, a loud moan escapes you as he sucks onto your clit, pulling it between his teeth, the sensation painful but oh so fucking…wonderful. “Oh god…”

You lean up on your elbows to watch him, and he spreads your legs wider, his tongue flicking out to that sensitive area. He fucking devoured you. He meets your eyes, a smile on his face as he licks you from your hole, taking your clit into his mouth again. Your head falls back against the rug on the floor, the heat from the fire causing you to sweat, your nipples peak through your shirt and it suddenly felt so much tighter on you. You awkwardly pull it off of you, and his hand automatically reaches up to tug your nipple and you gasp loudly. He continues his feast, his grip tightening on your thigh as his tongue moves faster. He groans again, pulling his face away with a grunt and he moves up you like a snake. He grips the side of your face, while the other hand dances with your clit. His mouth was so close to yours, and he grins. 

“I wanna taste you.” 

“You already are.” You breathe out. 

He smiles wide, shaking his head, his eyes wide with lust, his cold fingers moving to your lips. “No, sweetheart. There’s something else I want to taste.” 

Your heart rate picks up, and you stare at him confused. He grins wider, pressing his ear to your chest, and something clicks. The other night…he had bit you. Bit you hard enough to draw blood, but when you had told him to stop, he seemed scared that he had hurt you, his entire demeanor changed, but before you could do anything else he had disappeared. The words are locked in your throat, the questions, you don’t know why you couldn’t tell him no, you don’t know why you didn’t want to tell him no. 

“I won’t hurt you.” He meets your eyes, and you swear you see a flash of the real Eddie for a second. “Just a little taste…right…here.” His fingers move down to your inner thigh, gripping you in his hands, and you tremble underneath him. “Please, baby. I’m craving you.” 

Your chest heaves as you stare at him wide eyed. You still couldn’t form words, but you nod, your body shaking. His cold fingers rake down your skin, he runs his tongue a long your inner thigh and you whimper. He gently nips the skin and your back arches; you meet his eyes; and you almost scream. His discolored eyes turn a shade redder, his circles under his eyes darkening like webs and you see the points of his teeth. 

“What…ohhhhahhhh…”

You moan, feeling his teeth bite into your flesh, but…it didn’t hurt. It was a bizarre sensation. It stung a little, you felt your cunt become wetter as his tongue laps up around the bite. He moans, and a hot growl escapes him. 

Warmth from your blood drips down your thighs, and you swear you felt like you were floating. His tongue traces circles over your mound, before dragging his teeth along your clit. You didn’t feel the sharp points as he sucks the bundle in between his teeth. Your orgasm was approaching, the warmth from your blood, the coldness of his lips, was enough to send you spiraling into a puddle of pure ecstasy. 

“Oh…oh my…f-fuck…” Your body jerks, feeling the peak of your orgasm hit your belly and he coos against you, his licks getting faster as your back arches, and you explode with a scream into his mouth. His hands hold down your thighs tightly, you felt a little more of your blood spill from his fingers as he continues to suck you dry, you desperately try to close your legs around his head, but he keeps them open. The orgasm was too much, but it was so damn good, you kept screaming in pleasure until he finally pulls his face up with a gasp. His lips and chin were covered in your blood, your juices, and his saliva. He licks up your navel, you watch as a trail of blood snakes up your stomach and cover your breast as he sucks your sensitive nipple. You groan, pulling his face up to yours, crashing your lips against his. Not caring about the blood, not caring about anything really. You could taste the iron from his mouth, the sweetness of you. So intoxicating. He cups the side of your face, pushing his body against yours as his tongue fucks your mouth and you devour every second of it. He pulls away with a lick to your lips, and your chest heaves as you stare up at him. He grins, like the Cheshire Cat ready to fool you with a riddle. His cool finger goes to your chin, gently wiping away something from your chin. He pulls his finger away, and you tremble seeing a little pool of your blood on his finger, he licks it clean and chuckles. His eyes still a shade of red; full of lust and a hungriness you’ve never seen before. His lips move to your ear, his breath cold as he says lowly, “Now and forever, you belong to me.” 

He made you feel things you’ve never felt before. Even when he was…himself. You swore you could feel his love for you with every kiss of his lips, the way his cold hands touch your cheeks, but you’re probably just wishful thinking it. And at this point, you don’t believe it’s love, but hunger. You were trying to convince yourself that the sharp points of his incisors that bit into your flesh weren’t real, that you’re just imagining this whole thing. You didn’t know where he went when he disappeared. Before he left, he had taken a shower, and you heard him hum Moonlight Sonata. Something about the way he was humming it had sent shivers down your spine; it sounds so haunting, and it was almost like he knew it was a scaring you. His clothes were different when he came out, he was in all black. The contrast of his skin with the darkness made him look so much more beautiful you didn’t know how to look away. You felt an energetic pull towards him whenever you met his eyes; it brought you back to a time where you could just stare into those chocolate brown eyes and get lost in them. 

It scared you that he said that you were his, now and forever. 

But it also made you crave him and desperate for answers and what exactly he was. What exactly he meant by that. The following day at work was a drag, you spent most of the day organizing the records alphabetically. Your boss could tell something was off with you, but he didn’t ask questions, you knew he probably figured you were going through a weird grief thing and kept his distance. 

“Hey.” 

You gasp, almost toppling over, but Steve Harrington grabs you by your forearm. You held your hand to your chest as you gaze at him. 

“Whoa, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” He says gently and you shake your head, trying your best to smile. 

“It’s fine. Just been jumpy lately.” You chuckle. “I’m surprised to see you. You’re either slaving away at Family Video or holed up in your house.” You didn’t mean for it come off the way it did, hurt flashes in his eyes and you sigh. “I’m sorry. Are you doing okay?” 

He shrugs, running his hands through his hair. “Hanging in there, I guess. I saw Dustin the other day; he said he saw you.” 

You nod, filing through the records to place Pat Benatar in her respected spot. “Yeah, I try to see him as much as I can.” 

You could feel his eyes burning into you. He used to be your best friend, someone that was like a brother to you, now he felt like a stranger. You hated that feeling, hated how alone you felt, and how he probably felt that way too. “Are you okay?” He asks you gently. 

You smirk, looking up at him. “No.” 

“I’m sorry…I know I should be there for you more…it’s just…there’s things…”

You raise your eyebrow at him. “What things?” 

He shakes his head, sighing. “Nothing.” 

You almost laugh. “I swear you and Dustin are notorious for keeping things from me. I didn’t find out you guys were protecting Eddie from the cops until a month after his death. I didn’t know he literally died in Dustin’s arms until Wayne told me about the necklace and even though he died in his arms, there was still no body…”

“The earthquake happened…Dustin was hurt…”

“Yeah. I get that.” You snap. “What I don’t get is why he or you or anyone else couldn’t have told me any of this. Why he didn’t come to me when the murders happened, why he went and got himself killed for a town that still hates him.” 

That Eddie is still dead. Your heart aches at the thought, because you had him back in some sense, but not all of him. He wasn’t whole. He was just an evil entity inside a body that looked like the man you were in love with. 

Steve sighs, gently taking your hand, you try to pull away, but he tightens his hold. “Listen to me. He didn’t want you involved. The way Jason was acting after the murders, he was afraid he was gonna find you and hurt you. He was willing to hurt 14 year olds. He couldn’t stomach the thought of something happening to you.” 

“He should’ve just told me.” Tears fill your eyes, and you rip your hand away. “I would’ve gladly given my life to save him. I still would.” 

Steve groans. “That’s why he didn’t tell you! Because he knew exactly what you would do.” 

“Well, too bad it wasn’t me. He’s dead. And I’m here, living, breathing, while he’s rotting somewhere.” 

Steve flinches, and he sighs. “He really loved you.” 

“If he loved me, he wouldn’t have risked his life for this shitty town.” 

You turn away from him but freeze when you overhear the reporter on the small television speakers:

…unfortunately there is not enough information to label this as an animal attack or an attack by a human. What we do know is that two bodies were found by Lover’s Lake, in brutal condition. Crime scene investigators are doing a thorough search of the area as well as getting updates from the medical examiner. No names have been released on the identities of the two bodies…

Steve was stiff behind you as he stares at the screen. You felt the hair raise on the back of your neck and bile rise in your throat. Was he capable of this? Was he capable of murder? 

Not back then, but now you had no idea what he was capable of. 

Steve seemed to be shaken up as well as you turn to look at him. “Steve?” 

“I…I have to go.” He turns away from you but stops at the door as you stare at his back, you watch his shoulders slump. “Give me a call in a few days. Please? I want to catch up.” 

You nod but you couldn’t shake the feeling something was scaring. “Steve…what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, it’s good. It’s all fucking good.” He leaves you standing there; you’re not entirely sure what just happened. What spooked him, why he seemed so cryptic. Either way, you planned on finding out, even if the information you got was from an undead version of Eddie. 

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

This is something I’ve had in my mind for a while but I may I ask if the skelebros of different aus were to give their S/O a hug from behind but accidentally scare them instead and get absolutely uppercuted in the jaw because their S/O has a fight not a flight response- preferably no gender specific pronouns  for S/O if that’s okay ;w;

Undertale Sans - He panic dodges the attack by teleporting two inches on your right. Damn. He didn't expect you to fight this early in the morning. He sheepishly apologized for scaring you. He didn't mean it. Now he's warning you by making some noise when he does this.

Undertale Papyrus - He falls on his butt, surprised. He's not hurt, he has tough bones, but still, that was something. You know you could enter the Royal Guard with a punch like that? He can train you to use it on Undyne if you really want to hit something.

Underswap Sans - He instinctively stops your arm and pins it behind your back like he's going to arrest you. Uh... He didn't mean to do that, you spooked him just as well. He thought he was at his job. You decide both to not talk again about what just happened.

Underswap Papyrus - He falls on the floor like a dead sea star, in shock. He dramatically stares at the ceiling for long minutes, before looking at you like a kicked puppy. Why? He didn't do anything! That hurts! :(

Underfell Sans - He dodges by moving his head out of the way and then angrily pushes you onto the floor. The hell is your problem? Ya're trying to hurt him or something? He's already not a big fan of hugs but like hell you're having another one if you treat him like this. 

Underfell Papyrus - He has a fight response to your fight response. He grabs your arm, makes you fly above his head, and slams you on the floor. He then gasps in shock when he realizes what he just did and panically apologizes to you, trying to make you stand on your legs. You scared him, he's sorry!

Horrortale Sans - He quickly backs away, hisses at you, and then leaves to pout in a corner. He doesn't want to talk to you the rest of the afternoon lol. You hurt his feelings, now he's mad. You better bake him a cake to apologize.

Horrortale Papyrus - He stops your hand in his huge hand with ease before you can land a hit on him. He stares in shock but quickly lets you go. You are glad you didn't hit him but also terrified because you just realized he could easily crush your whole arm if he really wanted to. Willow tries to warn when he wants a hug after that.

Swapfell Sans - He gasps as you hit him, offended. The hell?! You dare to hit him? You dare to hurt him! Scandalous! He's leaving the room, gasping at you. Then you hear him gasp on the stairs. And then in his room. He can't believe it! You can tell he's dramatic. You barely touched him lol.

Swapfell Papyrus - He high-pitched screams as you suddenly punch him in the face. He falls on his back, feeling a bit dizzy. Damn, that was something. Maybe put a little less force in the hit next time. He sees everything in double for a few minutes, half knocked out.

Fellswap Gold Sans - He stares at you, shocked, then puts a hand on his hurting cheekbones. He then growls at you, makes your soul blue, and yeets you through the living room, before going to pout on the couch, falsely upset. Nope, he doesn't regret one second doing that.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He whimpers, then looks down like a child. He looks at you with sad eyes, wondering what he did wrong. You feel so so guilty right now. So guilty that you're going to come to bed to cuddle with him for two hours without complaining. As soon as you're in bed, Coffee goes back to normal. That's when you realize you actually didn't hurt him at all and that he tricked you.

[cambion-companion]

Hi! So I’m a nurse and my husband doesn’t like anyone helping him but me and I find it oddly romantic. I was wondering if maybe you could do a story where the princess is also a trained healer and Aemond comes home from war with an injury that he should have had a Maester look at but he only wants his wife touching him 🥹 like nothing super life threatening but perhaps she’s cleaning one of his scrapes and he’s feeling her up and she swats his hand away playfully and says “no feeling up the healer” with a teasing grin and he’s like it’s why I fell in love with you in the first place, you take such good care of me and other people and I just 🥹

I love this idea! I sort of took liberties with these requests and did a short story based on the idea of Aemond and Y/N having unspoken feelings for one another till this point. Aemond has been closed off to Y/N for a while now and it takes him falling down a flight of stairs for him to open up.

Aemond x reader | taking care of an injured Aemond | healer!reader

"Hold still Aemond."

"I'm perfectly fine."

"Oh really?" You glanced skyward, uttering a silent prayer for patience as the silver-haired prince shifted uncomfortably in your grasp. "What if I put pressure here?"

Aemond cursed, trying to yank his arm away from your touch. "Gods be damned, Y/N! Why would you do that?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" You quirked an eyebrow at his scowling face. "You sure took a tumble. Did Aegon really put up that much of a fight?"

Aemond shrugged in response, wincing as he gazed into the flames of the sitting room fireplace. You resumed applying healing salve to the quickly blossoming bruises on the shoulder and arm where he'd landed.

"Are you in much pain?" You tried reading his stoic expression, the prince avoiding your eyes resolutely.

"I have the blood of dragons running through my veins." Aemond sniffed. "Pain is a foreign-ouch!"

You looked up at him from under your brows. "You were saying?"

"I don't need you fussing over me, Y/N."

You sighed, wrapping the worst of his injuries as best you could manage. "I insist Aemond." You sat back on your heels from where you knelt next to him on the floor. "Where else does it hurt?"

"I've already told you..." Aemond's lilac eye found yours at last, his lips pouting slightly. "I need no assistance; I am perfectly capable of dealing with this myself."

"You don't have to be alone Aemond." You spoke the words before truly registering their meaning, they lingered heavily in the air between you and the prince.

Aemond was silent, his eye flickering over your face from your eyes to your mouth and back.

"My ankle." He said, finally breaking the loud silence. "I don't imagine I can put much pressure on it."

You hesitated, looking at him for permission before rolling up the pantleg where he was indicating. His ankle was indeed swollen, the injury attempting to shield itself from further trauma. When you grazed your fingers lightly along the bruised skin Aemond flinched away and hissed through his teeth.

"I don't think it's broken, thankfully." You measured the set of the bone with practiced eyes. "Though you should elevate it."

You grabbed several pillows, creating a raised cushion for Aemond to rest his foot upon at the end of the couch. "I'll need you to lie down."

Aemond looked you over once before nodding curtly. "Very well." He allowed you to help guide his leg atop the pillows, scooting back so he lay prone upon the sofa.

You tried your best to not become overly distracted by the way his hair fell like a silken waterfall over the edge of the couch or the way his long fingers clasped together atop his abdomen as he watched your movements closely.

You gingerly began smoothing ointment onto the swollen skin of his ankle, Aemond grunting in pain as he attempted to keep still for you.

"What was that about being 'fine' and not needing help?" You teased, giggling as Aemond grumbled in protest.

"Perhaps I miscalculated slightly."

You shook your head, a fond smile tugging your lips as you continued tending his injuries. After you had finished wrapping his ankle you sat back to admire your work.

"Why do you ask for me?" You asked, breaking the comfortable silence. "Whenever you're injured you send for me. Why?"

Aemond sat up on his forearms the better to observe you. He took a short breath. "I trust you." Such simple words seemed to cost him a great deal and he looked away, pursing his lips.

"I'm honored." There was no sarcasm in your voice, and your face was open and honest when Aemond's eye snapped back to look at you.

You moved up to where a bruise was beginning to darken his collarbone, keenly aware of his breath on your hands. You made the mistake of looking him in the eye, his scorching gaze causing the air to stop catch in your throat. Your fingers stilled atop his warm flesh, Aemond's hand rose to gently trace the inside of your wrist and forearm. You held his intent gaze, unaware that you were leaning into him until you felt the tickle of his breath on your lips.

"I'm sorry." You snapped back to attention, jerking away from him, trying to regain composure of your flaming cheeks.

"Don't be." Aemond's voice was coarse, his hand found the back of your neck, pulling until you yielded.

He guided you close once more, brushing his lips against your own carefully, as if handling something delicate, afraid it would break. He seemed to be waiting for you to give him permission, lingering with his mouth barely touching your sensitive skin.

You nuzzled your nose against his, pressing further into him, giving him your acceptance as you deepened the kiss. Your mind was lost to bliss, feeling his mouth moving against yours, the wetness of his tongue skimming the swell of your bottom lip. He nipped gently at you until you opened to him, allowing him to explore you, his tongue languidly entwining with your own.

Your hand touched the bruise on his shoulder and Aemond pulled away with a short huff of pain, the spell of your embrace broken like a soap bubble.

"Gods, I am sorry." You shook your head as if that would help clear it.

"Stop apologizing, Y/N." Aemond rasped a short chuckle, sweeping his fingers through his hair, moving it off his face.

Blushing furiously, still feeling the fresh memory of his lips, you tried to refocus on applying the last of the salve to his injuries.

Aemond's hands began to wander, caressing their way along your arms and tracing your sides down to your waist. There was a small smile playing on his plush lips as he watched your face, drinking in your reactions with relish.

"I do love those little gasps you make when I touch you, Y/N." His hands came to rest purposefully atop your hips. "You've always had little tells."

You batted away his searching hands as they sought lower along your body. "No feeling up the healer, Aemond."

Aemond gave you an aggrieved look, but his hands fell away from you all the same. You immediately missed their warmth.

"I'm glad my feelings were so obvious to you." You finished dressing his injuries, corking the bottle of salve and setting it aside before giving him your full attention. "Why make me wait so long? I thought you were indifferent to me."

Aemond shifted, clasping your hand and tugging you closer. "You asked me yourself why I always send for you when in need of a healer, Y/N." He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I am ill accustomed to letting people close." His eye followed the movement of your lips slowly parting as you registered his words. He brought your hand closer, placing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "You mend broken things. Perhaps that is why you are drawn to me as well."

"You aren't broken Aemond." He snorted and turned his head, you tucked your finger against his chin, guiding him back to look at you. "Not to me."

Aemond seemed caught between a sneer and a laugh, his eye becoming glassy as he looked at a point over your shoulder. He did not speak for quite some time, the two of you lapsing into silence as you both fought with your emotions.

"Stay with me tonight." He spoke softly, almost a whisper.

"Aemond..."

"I don't have nightmares when you're with me."

You didn't know what to say, your brow furrowing as you read the unguarded expression on Aemond's face. Slowly you nodded, "Would you like me to remove this?"

Your fingers traced the leather band of his eyepatch, but Aemond flinched away. "No." He said shortly, taking a steadying breath before trying to smile. "No, I will be alright with it on."

You didn't press the issue, disliking the sudden tension your suggestion had brought. "Tell me more about the dragons."

Aemond's lips twitched. "Where did we leave off last time?"

"You were expounding on Balerion the Black Dread."

"Oh yes, I remember you were quite fond of hearing about him." Aemond's thumb traced circles to the back of your hand as he began retelling stories of the great dragon, his eye alight with the fervor only speaking of his passions brought.

You listened, spellbound, asking questions as they came into your mind. The two of you leaning into one another, equally entranced by the other's presence.

You had unwittingly fallen for a dragon and only fate would decide if you ended up being protected or burned.

Either way you were on fire.

[kingdaddydaichi]

☆ title: redefining (ch. 11) | ( ch. 10 ) ☆ ( ch. 12 - wip )

☆ pairing: cop!daichi sawamura x single mom!reader

☆ wc: 2.5k

☆ synopsis: four years after leaving your toxic ex, you find yourself a single mom to a 11-year-old boy named musubi, who harbors a lot of misdirected anger. you hear from his fifth grade teacher, mr. suga, more often than your own mother and a resulting friendship is born. meeting suga’s best friend wages a war between your head and your heart - one that challenges everything you think you know about love and police officers. neither are to be trusted. both have left you lost and scared when you needed them the most. so, when a cop comes knocking at love’s door, just how strong is your resolve to keep your heart under lock and key?

☆ warnings/notes: sfw. cop!daichi. mutual pining. angst. domestic disturbance. fear. idk like, the way daichi talks to subi might come across as patriarchal? but it's the way i feel like daichi would speak to him under the specific circumstances, how he knew he would get through to him. i am deeply sorry for the massive real-life time gap between chapters //sob. but i'm committed to finishing this series. my love for daichi and this story is settled deep inside my bones. I'M BACK BITCHES /aff 🫶🏼

she's falling in love now losing control now fighting the truth trying to hide but i think it's alright, girl yeah i think it's alright, girl

losin control - russ

Life can be a rip-roaring bitch sometimes, y'know?

The first week or so after your fallout with Daichi had been relatively easy. The fact that you were still angry at him helped a lot more than you'd have liked to admit. The battle to get him off your mind was constant, but all you had to do was remember the way his eyebrows angled inward when he yelled at you. You’d never seen him like that before and it had scared you, triggering your fight or flight response on top of the heart-wrenching pain of seeing him being a little too friendly with his ex.

But what you kept pushing down with all of your might was the fact that daichi was right. He had called you on everything you’d worked so hard to hide from him. The fact that he’d seen you so clearly scared you more than the look in his eyes when he raised his voice at you. He had been angry, yes. But a lot of hurt had weaved its way into his words as well.

Halfway through the second week, however, things started to go downhill. You found yourself reaching for your phone a couple of times to tell Daichi about something ridiculous or funny that had happened only for your fingers to stop short as your heart sank.

Oh. right. I'm not supposed to do that anymore.

You’d even tried venting to Suga about Daichi in hopes that he would validate you, but he wasn’t as sympathetic towards your plight as you would’ve liked: “But isn’t this what you wanted?” he'd said. “You’ve been saying that whatever the hell was going on between you two had an expiration date…” “You’re right. It’s probably better this way so you and Daichi can each find the people you wanna be with...” That last one had really dug deep - the thought of Daichi with anyone else made your heart splinter and your stomach wretch. But you had swallowed your heartache down with the lump in your throat and nodded with a meek “Yeah, exactly,” knowing deep in your bones that you didn’t mean a word of it. Suga knew it too.

The week after that was the week from hell. Crying in bed every night because you missed Daichi so much was made that much worse by your shitty week. Life could’ve just given you a normal week but NOPE. Every single day, multiple times a day, you’d pick up your phone to send him an angry text about your boss or the rude ass lady at the grocery store. Or the fact that some really, really important notarized legal documents got lost in the mail. Three trips to UPS, two trips to the post office, and $91.00 later the paperwork finally reached its intended destination via next day air. You wanted to ask him to arrest the incompetent twat who put your mailer on the wrong truck in the first place and then smile at his reaction. To top it all off, your son’s behavior had hit an all-time low. You’d been hoping that it would’ve improved after the disciplinary hearing, which Subi had attended as well but, if anything, his behavior at home had gotten worse too.

You wanted to call Daichi. You wanted him to come over and hold you as you curled into a ball against his chest. To feel his hands in your hair and his lips on your forehead telling you that ‘everything’s gonna be okay’. Because you’d believe it If Daichi was the one saying it. He’d make sure of it. But you couldn’t do any of those things and it made you cry. Like getting kicked when you’re already down.

Daichi didn’t have it much better. 

He’d called and apologized to Yui, who had called him a “fucking asshole”. There was the drunk driver who had puked on him while doing his field sobriety test (he probably deserved that, he’d guessed). Then there was the day he got stuck directing traffic in a torrential downpour. The police-issued waterproof ponchos had done nothing for his wet socks and the sloshing in his shoes. 

There were also all the little annoying things that kept happening to him - his washing machine quit working (mid-cycle, no less), he got a flat tire (in a different torrential downpour), he stubbed his toe one morning while getting out of bed (talk about a rude awakening) - nothing too serious but just enough to piss him off. 

The worst of it was finding out his mom had to be hospitalized for Covid. She had to be on oxygen, but the prognosis was good. She was expected to be okay and eventually make a full recovery, but of course it made him worry about her nonetheless.

And through every bit of it, you were on his mind. He missed you something fierce. But some of the things you’d said still weighed on his heart:

“...how cruel can you be?” “You’re not even my type.” “Just go back in there and fuck your ex-girlfriend!”

That last one had hurt the most. Did you really think that lowly of him to think he’d do that to you? 

To be fair, he also remembered some of the things he’d said to you:

“Would you have liked it better if i’d introduced you as my fuck buddy…?” “What? Not toxic enough for ya?” “...you don’t have to be a jealous girlfriend about it…!”

They made him cringe every time he remembered. Sometimes the words you had thrown at each other kept him up at night.

Tonight was one of those nights…

Daichi was reading in bed, trying to take his mind off of you when his phone buzzed on his nightstand. Thinking it must be work-related at this time of night, he picked it up to see who was calling. When he saw your name on the screen, his heart wanted to claw its way out of his chest. What could you possibly want? Best case scenario was you wanted to apologize, but that could wait until tomorrow. If you didn’t want him to make you a priority anymore, he was going to honor that. Worst case scenario was you were reaching out to him for another booty call, and he was done with that. 

Either way, he let your call go to voicemail, but just as he was about to put his phone back down, your text came through as three little numbers:

911

Daichi sat bolt upright and immediately tapped the call button. Halfway through the first ring, you answered. “Daichi?” You were crying and he could hear a young man’s voice yelling in the background.

He sat forward in his seat, wide brown eyes darting this way and that. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Subi,” you cried. There was a loud bang accompanied by a muffled sob from you. “He threatened to hurt me and now he’s throwing things…”

Before you could say anything else, daichi was on his feet, throwing on a pair of sweats and a hoodie before heading for his front door. “You at home?”

“Y-yes.” you were crying so hard you were wheezing. “Daichi, please…please help?”

“I’m on my way.” His voice was remarkably low and stern and comforting as he told you to go inside your bedroom, lock the door, and stay there. He made sure you didn’t have any injuries and stayed on the phone with you for the 10 mins it took for him to get there. It normally took twice that long to drive from his place to yours, but he had his blue lights on, going well over the speed limit. 

“Daichi, I’m so scared,” you sobbed. 

“I’m almost there, (y/n). Just five more minutes. Come on, deep breaths.” He talked you down enough that you weren’t crying as hard. “Alright, I’m here. Do you know if he’s still in the house?” 

“Yeah, I can hear him. But the front door is locked.” 

“Do you feel safe enough to come out of your room and open it?” 

You’d heard Subi’s voice getting further away and the slamming of his bedroom door. “Yeah, I think so.” 

You slowly came out of your room and hurried to the front door, nearly collapsing in Daichi’s arms when you swung it open. He hugged you and told you everything was okay. He walked inside slowly, noticing some broken glass and other, obviously thrown, objects on the floor, and called your son’s name. Your pre-teen came out of his bedroom to find a man he didn’t recognize standing in the living room. 

“Who’re you?” he asked. 

“I’m Daichi, a friend of your mom’s. You must be Musubi.” 

Musubi narrowed his eyes at him and shrugged in response. 

“What’s been going on, man?” 

Your son crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe it’s none of your business.” 

Daichi’s dark brown eyes remained steady on him. “Well, seeing as how your mom is my friend and she’s scared and crying, I’d say it is my business.” 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’s not that big of a deal-“ 

“Wrong again. Your mom doesn’t feel safe in her own home. That’s a problem. It’s just the two of you living here, right?” 

Subi shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

“Then that makes you man of the house, doesn’t it?” 

Your son’s eyes met Daichi’s for the first time since he first spoke to him. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“And as the man of the house, don’t you think it’s your job to protect everyone in it, including your mom?” 

The boy didn’t respond, but his facial muscles relaxed as he maintained eye contact with Daichi. He had his undivided attention now. He was speaking to him man to man and your son was listening intently. 

“It’s a big responsibility to be in your position,” Daichi went on, nodding towards you. “Your mother and her safety are under your watch. She doesn’t feel safe with you when you’re the one who’s supposed to be protecting her.” The off-duty police officer's voice remained calm and even as he tilted his head. “So tell me, Musubi: do you really think you’re qualified to be man of the house?” 

You watched and listened with awe as Daichi took command over the situation, showing Subi what it means to be in full control. He leveled with your son while making him feel validated and understood. Rather than telling Subi how he should talk to you, Daichi did far more by showing him what it means to be a good man; he was teaching Subi how to treat others with respect in the way he spoke to him - by demonstrating to him that you get respect from others by being respectable.

Your son’s gaze fell under the weight of Daichi’s words. His beliefs about what it means to be a “man” had just been challenged and shaken to the core. He thought it meant being loud and aggressive, lording over others, calling the shots and expecting others to submit to him - no doubt all the tactics he’d learned from watching his father. 

“You think you’re in control here? Because, from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it.” The boy’s gaze followed Daichi’s as he looked around at the broken items in the room before looking over at you, still trembling and sniffling. “If you lose control, it means you don’t have it, Musubi. It’s that simple. Do we have an understanding?” 

The boy’s eyes locked with Daichi’s again and he nodded. 

“Good man. Now,” Daichi said with quiet authority, “Clean up the mess you made.” It wasn’t a request.

“Yes, sir,” Subi murmured as he started picking up the pieces. 

You couldn’t believe the words that just came out of your son’s mouth. Yes, sir? You looked up at Daichi - The Musubi Whisperer - wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Never even raised his voice and had him under his complete command. 

“(Y/n), can I talk to you for a minute in the kitchen?” Daichi said it just loudly enough that your son could hear how his mother should be talked to - by asking, not demanding. 

“Of course.” You followed Daichi until your son was out of earshot, then whispered, “How the fuck did you just do that?” 

Daichi shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of experience. Oldest of 5 kids. Team captain. Cop.” You smiled and nodded, wiping the last of your tears away. He put a tentative hand on your shoulder. “You okay, (y/n)?” 

“I think so,” you sniffed, wiping your freshest tear away with your shirt sleeve. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you, but you were the first person i thought of-” 

Daichi shook his head and pulled you into his arms. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad you called me.”

Whether it was the catharsis from the highly charged situation or your need to feel Daichi close was irrelevant when you fastened yourself to him. Before you could think, your arms were around his waist and your head tucked against his chest. 

“Thank you,” you said, your shaky voice muffled by the warmth and weight of Daichi’s arms wrapping tightly around you.

“If it happens again, call me again. If you need anything at all, call me,” he said, rubbing your back. This was the Daichi you’d known all along and fucking hell, you missed him.

You tightened your hold around his waist. You were so immensely relieved to hear him say that. Maybe he still wanted to be the one you called. Just maybe he wanted to be the one you needed. 

“I will,” you said, nodding against his chest.

Before he left that night, he shook Subi's hand. “Take care of your mom.” 

“Yes, sir.” Holy hell, there it was again. Daichi hadn’t even told him to call him sir. Leastways, not with words. How did he do that?

“Do I have your word?” Daichi asked, squeezing Subi’s hand. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, I’ll stop by in a couple days to see how things are going," he looked at you, "...if that's okay." 

Your son’s lips pursed as he fought back a smile as he watched you nod. “Okay.” 

After Daichi left, Subi said, “You should find a guy like him, Mom.”

Your mouth dropped open, your heart skipping a million beats. Your son had no idea who Daichi was, what he did for a living, or the highly complicated nature of your relationship with him. Finally, you smiled and said, “Yeah? He’s a good guy, huh?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “He’s alright.”

Your son turned to you with his shoulders slumped and tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.” 

Your body shook with tears as you nodded against his shoulder. “I know, baby. I love you so much.” 

Subi squeezed you tighter as he told you he loved you too.

ch. 10 ☆ ch. 12 (wip)

series mlist | daichi mlist

☆ taglist: @chaoskrakenuwu ☆ @ceo-of-daichi ☆ @honeybunny-sawamura ☆ @yuujispinkhair ☆ @luvkun4 ☆ @briokayama ☆ @mrs-sawamura ☆ @heroesfan101 ☆ @millenialfanfictionaddiction ☆ @citrustsuki ☆ @darthferbert ☆ @crystal-lilac ☆ @hannas16 ☆ @cookiesandmilksx ☆ @strawberrystepmom ☆ @anejuuuuoy ☆ @maexc ☆ @little-ms-awkward ☆ @patheticliesblog ☆ @strawbmarma ☆ @lomons ☆ @victorianhorrors @gazzybums ++ ask/dm/comment if you wanna be added to or removed from a taglist

[lordeemailarchive]

how I’ve been, revised

(20/09/2023) (Solar Institute Bulletin No. 22) (From London)

Aftershow quiet in Helsinki

Hey,

I just finished writing you a long letter, catching you up on how I’ve been. It ended neatly, tied with a little bow. I chose my words well, but I didn’t tell the truth. So I’m starting again, gonna type and not look back, and send what comes out.

I’m in London, have been since May. Things feel clear here. I haven’t seen many friends; mostly, I’m alone with my thoughts. I go swimming, I go to work, I walk home or take the train, I eat in my kitchen, I go to bed thinking about what I’m making. I’m starting to miss my friends and family, like a vitamin I’m deficient in. Soon I’ll be going back to New York, and then home.

I’m living with heartbreak again. It’s different but the same. I ache all the time, I forget why and then remember. I’m not trying to hide from the pain, I understand now that pain isn’t something to hide from, that there’s actually great beauty in moving with it. But sometimes I’m sick of being with myself. I eat chocolate to try and manipulate the endorphins, bring back the sweet happiness of Easter morning. I sit in the time machine and wait for it to move, but it hasn’t been invented yet.

My body is really inflamed, it’s trying to tell me something and I’m trying to support it but nothing seems to help and I get frustrated. My gut isn’t working properly, my skin is worse than ever, I’ve gotten sick half a dozen times. I realised earlier this year that listening to my body is hard for me, it’s something I never really learned how to do. I’ve been trying to teach myself that this year, but it’s been hard actually, pretty confronting, has made me fully aware of all the times I ignored it or didn’t give it what it needed, shamed it for a fight or flight response, took a handful of pills and pushed through. The little yellow pill I took every morning for thousands of mornings since I was 15, I stopped taking it 5 days ago. Gonna see how it goes.

I go online and look at everyone. Beautiful people sing to me. Everyone’s gotten really good at the same thing. I look at arched backs and wet flower mouths, the right bag, the right sunglasses. I wonder if it feels as good as it looks, it’s been so long since I chose the best picture from a hundred, lined it up like pulling an arrow taut in a bow, and let it go. Everyone looks very thin. Just thinking that makes me feel tired and far away. I’m not sure if it’s having an effect on anyone else. I keep spending money, wondering if what’s in the package will make me feel right, but I guess I buy the wrong things. I was gonna go to fashion week in Paris, had all these grand plans, but this week I txted my manager and pulled out. At the start of my career I promised myself I’d never be one of the people in the light smiling if it wasn’t real.

Earlier this year, I ate two handfuls of mushrooms, solid doses that tasted like green dirt. I got a lot of information about what my body had been through in our time so far, what it needed, where God was and where God wasn’t; I felt in my bones how destabilising it is to leave home and start a new life the way I did. I also saw that my body is completely magnificent, and that hating it is as futile as hating a tree; that I truly, truly love doing my job, and that my life is like a beautiful tapestry, and every inch of it is precious and has meaning.

It might seem funny or be easy to forget, but I make records because I need to. The songs are spells; a spell to let go of something, a spell to unlock a door. Every time I put something into words just as I see it, set it to the right music, a knot comes loose in me. But it hurts too, confronting the knots. I’ve made enough records to know that this feeling of my skin coming off is part of it. I know I’m gonna look back on this year with fondness and a bit of awe, knowing it was the year that locked everything into place, the year that transitioned me from my childhood working decade to the one that comes next — one that even through all this, I’m so excited for. It’s just hard when you’re in it.

So in this state, I went out on a short European festival tour. We built a cool new version of the show in a couple days. It was good to change gears and get out of my head. I put effort into the show, changing the setlist and arrangements, it was cool how you picked up on that, and it felt good dancing to the new versions with you, looking out at you, all sweaty with your friends, all on the same drugs. I felt the throb of history that’s under this music now, how each year makes these songs feel more like collectively written and sung pieces. I left my body and merged with yours and it was ecstasy. Then I went home to a business hotel and washed the glitter and smoke out of my hair.

Lauren took some beautiful pictures — sharing a few with you here.

Backstage in Portugal.

Cute Polaroid series of the 6pm, 8pm, and 10pm versions of me on a show day.

I’ve read some great books recently, including Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk, Speedboat by Renata Adler, Motherhood by Sheila Heti, Rough Translations by Molly Giles (brought into my life by sweet angel bookworm Chris Chang), Birds of America by Lorrie Moore; am waiting on my copies of ĀRIA by Jessica Hinerangi and Te Ana Ata: Menstruation In The Pre-Colonial Maori World by Ngāhuia Murphy. Was given Wawata - Moon Dreaming by Dr. Hinemoa Elder which I’m loving looking to as the Maramataka evolves.

It was Te Wiki o Te Reo Māori last week, I loved listening to this from London. This vid from Hemi showing the similarities between te reo Māori and ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi is so sick.

Been meaning to tell you about The Kindness Institute too, a mental health resource for Māori rangatahi that has recently lost government funding. Go check out the beautiful, necessary mahi they’re doing — I know the cost of living is cooked for Kiwis right now and pop stars asking people to donate sux, but if you work at a good sized company maybe you can wrangle a donation from your employers?! I’m gonna email my record company about it.

Other bits that have inspired lately:

Dieter Rams’ principle of “as little design as possible”. This fantastic interview with Thom Yorke. Maddie’s unbelievably beautiful Melo inspired tattoo.

Loving the beautiful new Troye songs and vids, Kelela’s Raven hitting right on the e-bike rides home, late to the magic of Frou Frou but glad I’m here, and the rest of my brain is M.T. Hadley, this great Te Whanganui-a-Tara based band Womb, and Talk Talk. And for those it concerns, have been pilled by parasocial big cousins Jason and Chris. My mum just sent me a Sylvia Plath poem that feels like it sums up the above, I’ll copy it here:

They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her— The mausoleum, the wax house.

Sylvia Plath, "Stings"

Hope you’re taking care of yourself. Don’t worry about me, I still laugh every day, it’s all moving, even when it goes slow. I’ve accepted the mission — I have a self to recover.

Speak soon, E X X X X X

(source: received this email)