#it devolves into more noise than anything

[gotwcird]

"you did just now," ripley pointed out, cheeks ruddy with knowing, smile coy. had accidentally watched brett fuck his last conquest within an inch of their life for far too long before they ran away, a comedy of errors that included noise cancelling headphones — but it ended them down here on their knees for him, so they supposed it wasn't that bad. "always thought of you fucking me silly, using all my holes." knew he wanted that, for them give over more of themself. was happy to do so with the knowledge it would encourage him to match them in his own way. "i wouldn't tap out early like the others." ripley sighed softly at the feeling of his hand on their head, letting out a content sound akin to a purr and they kept their tongue lapping over him, covering brett's cock shiny with their spit. "i did," they answered his question about finishing, "but i'd keep going. i wouldn't stop until you did."

ripley pouted, a little defiant. "i don't want to share you." and that came out much more earnest than intended. was selfish in that way, they supposed. suckled on his head as he angled his hips up, liked the feeling of him completely hardening to their mouth. kept their tongue swirling and flicking at his flushed head, wanted to indulge in his cock as much as they could. brett's noises only encouraged them too, had them whimpering, "i love it." moved in as he pulled them forward, let his head poke up into their cheek, letting the shape of his cock push up there as they looked at him. felt their head go fuzzy just from the sight of his grin, licking the pre he smeared on their lips, lapped it up like it was honey, before they took to his command far too well.

they opened up their mouth as wide as it could go, sticking their tongue out faithfully. waited patiently for his next action, next instruction. next anything. felt so pathetically tied to him already in every way that they needed brett's attention in any way he could spare, their head devolving into that state where they were a little useless and far too needy.

"yeah?" brett let out a low, approving rumble. still, the honesty caught him off guard, sweet and fucked-up at the same time. he could get off on that—his roommate, his lifelong friend, listening through the wall, jerking it for him, wishing they were in this exact spot. "did you now?" brett asked, voice rasped with hungry pride. he liked the sound of himself bouncing off walls, always had. "i'd have left the door open if you asked." a tease he hoped landed right where it needed, an invite to more of their perverted thoughts and fantasies. he was more than ready to share his. truthfully, they were so much more than he’d expected. he had to watch every move with a greediness that turned his head empty. this was an entirely new, unfamiliar version of ripley. one he often heard, often imagined between their shared walls; one who was hungry and shameless. his mouth parted in a groan as ripley fed from him; seemingly happy to service, happy to cater to his ego. perhaps for their own amusement and selfish curiosity, too. his thigh twitched as soft lips slipped below to kiss and suckle. he reached out to stroke ripley's hair, just rewarding the obedience, the desperation—the way their mouth had already mapped out the terrain with a hunger he'd been missing in his previous conquests.

brett sucked in a breath and let his head tip back, and his thighs tensing unconsciously. "did you ever finish before me?" eyelids turned hooded, but never lost sight of the way they worshipped his body. he angled his hips up, inviting. there was something in the way ripley handled him, devoted and focused, like everything about his body was a prize to be examined and claimed. "either way, you never asked to join. that's rude. you know i get bored easy." his stomach flexed with the effort of not letting his hips thrust up into ripley’s mouth. it was a rare mercy, but he wanted to draw out the moment, wanted to watch ripley completely unravel themselves for him. the sensation was good, yeah, but the image—ripley kneeling between his legs, getting off on just being here—made it irresistible.

"shit—" he watched, indulgent, as ripley devoured him, the tip of their tongue tracing a line along his shaft, sending a shiver rocketing up brett’s spine. ripley wasn’t shy; their submission was noisy and determined, a show all for brett, and he loved every second of it. "you like that?" he huffed, half-mocking approval. the sight of his roommate tonguing at him made his jaw clench; for all the wild, perfect bodies he'd let inside, none had made him this hard this fast. brett’s fingers tangled in the back of their hair, dragging their face closer, greedy for the heat and pressure of their mouth. "is this all you've wanted, all this time?" brett let his lips split into a grin, his own chuckle sliding out. the tip of his cock pressed against their mouth, and he traced the curve of their lips, a smear of pre-cum glistening there like gloss. "can’t believe you held out this long." his face twisted in this perfect blend of command and awe. "open."

[get-back-homeward]

April 1960: John and Paul record a band practice on a Grundig reel-to-reel recorder at the McCartney home. Contributors are in dispute but are thought to include at least Stuart Sutcliffe on bass. The tape of this practice ends up in Astrid Kirchherr's possession and may have been a practice tape for Stuart as he was learning bass. It’s later released as part of a bootleg, The Braun-Kirchherr Tapes.

[sigmasoyboy]

The primary mean of thermoregulation.

A while ago one of you asked if I would ever write something about Coeus and Hunter's drunk (first) hookup and I'm happy to say I finally finished the drabble I started on this very topic ! Now you can read about this scrawny scientist getting pounded into a sopping wet mess, you're welcome (?)

cw: explicit description of sex, alcohol abuse, mention of fever-induced corpse abuse, poor hygiene, self-hate, ableist language, yearning, pathetic men

Anything gets you wet nowadays. The faintest touch, hell, even when he pushes you around, brutalize you in a primitive show of dominance, you can feel it: the dark spot in your boxer brief. And yet you had not craved sex in months, maybe even years.

The last time you did you were more mad than aroused, fever and desperation guiding your hands like a cat feasting on it’s owner’s tender flesh by instinct after tasting the first drops of blood on it’s raspy tongue. Stress licking, stress kissing, stress rubbing flaccid, rapidly cooling body, as if your burning skin could bring him back.

But the mouth kisses back, and the lips are pleasantly hot, if nearly as raspy as yours. You weren’t calculating anything when you started brewing this piss, neither to attempt an escape or to lower the inhibition of your unwilling housemate for nefarious purposes. Only a bottled up excuse, one to hide behind in case your shoulder lingered a bit too much against his. It’s what drunkards too, that’s all.

You got more than you bargained for. Full, soft chest pressing against your ribcage, heavy weight almost knocking the air out of you, getting lightheaded from forgetting to breath. Swapping spit like teenagers, your tongue runs after his when he pulls away, hands too busy ridding yourself of your underwear to keep him close, closer, anxiety swells in your chest, a pathetic noise escapes your mouth, half moan half cry. Language has long devolved back to the primeval vocalization, like a starving infant begging for it’s mother’s breast, you��ve gone without that skin-to-skin contact for too long, wishes he would rid himself of his clothes already. He doesn’t, but he makes you forget about it, hand disappearing under the fat pressed against your bones. Sparks fly behind your corneas at the first brush, fingers tentatively feeling their way against your flesh, making you bite down hard on your flaky lips, strangled cry shooting straight through his eardrum, but you don’t notice him doing a face, and he doesn’t bicker, or shove you, though you’d let him take you by the neck, call you a bitch.

You can’t focus on anything, toaster dropped straight into your swimming mind, too much and too little at once. You gasp for air, gasp for his mouth, kiss haphazardly, mouthful of stubble and scarred cheeks, tasting sweat and salt and the daily grime, you don’t care, he doesn’t either even though it’s been a while since he threw you in the shower, threatening to forcefully strip you, if only, if only.

He lifts your leg, prosthesis uselessly squeaking, piece of trash like you are, to be soon discarded once you’ve served your purpose. Not right now though, no. You could almost mistake it through the haze of moonshine and the explosion of dopamine in your brain, like it did back then; a cocktail of chemicals that spells feelings you know aren’t there: he hates your guts, probably just felt pent up, cooped up with no one else to look at but you and your stupid experiments, a hole is a hole and you don’t know how you didn’t cry out from the pain when his thick finger slipped in, thumb still teasing you. You smile, just for a second, an annoying factoid about nerve endings wanting to slip through, but all that does is more obscene gibberish, a cry for an entity you never believed in, clinging to his shirt so hard you surely are going to warp the fabric.

Maybe you did get brain damage, malnourished and feverish, huddling in the dark like a feral animal; maybe you’re getting some right now, that brilliant mind reduced to slop with just one hand, the other holding you so tightly you could mistake it for an armlock. Can’t be a hug, could never be with this guy, but you lean into it just like one, cling to his fist like he’s dangling you above the precipice and you're holding on for dear life. But he coos sweet words into your ears when your voice hitches, barely registered through the mist, and doesn’t even bite back when your teeth sinks into his thumb, swallowing down the wail that’s building at the back of your throat. You don’t remember when he slipped another one in, too soaked to notice; it’s dripping everywhere between your quivering thighs- did you piss yourself ? Or is it all transudate and cervical mucorrhea ? That shit used to leave the inside of your panties discolored, alien queen with a cunt that could melt steel or whatever the hell was this movie your peers at university invited you to watch, the details blur as your mind wanders away from this building itch behind your breastbone and between the legs that desperately want to meet each other because you know once it spills over it's over, but he’s holding you fast and well while his fingers pound into you with such ease, as if he was holding a rabbit by the legs, or more like a weird, fucked up hare; he must be really shitfaced for willingly going knuckle-deep into someone like you, curling fingers caressing your innermost blindspot as these adolescent thought resurface like your brain purging itself of all the pus that was hiding out of sight, silly insecurities reserved to the simple minds, the pleb, who cares about the body that houses your brilliant neurotic genius, it’s a mean to an end, the vehicle that allows it to transcend humanity again and again and again who cares about jutting bones dull skin huge nose crippled one-eyed FREAK that’s what he usually mutters under his breath but right at this moment as you hyperventilate he’s calling you baby and the sickly-sweet pet name makes a bark of laughter bubble up your throat but all that leave is a sob eclipsed by the scream that blindsights everything: bone-shattering convulsion, throat raw, toes curling, iron on your taste-buds, shorting the connections between your synapses contained by strong arms that barely budge through the climax and for a second you get it, like really get it, not jacking off with your pants around your ankles still sitting at your desk high off your own genius or too late during the night chasing sleep through masturbation but the deep secret to the only study you ever abandoned that still throbs even after your body goes slack, spent and exhausted and utterly empty.

The clarity sets in, dulled by alcohol but present enough to register the kiss he presses to your cheek, not hungry but something else you dare not even hope think. You chase after it though, fighting with the exhaustion that has been clinging to your frame ever since you were dug out of your quarantined grave, missing more than a limb and an eye. Burying your face in his damp chest like the spoiled child you were you resist being put to bed, pleading for just a little bit more, greedy, starving, annoying thing.

He relents, encircling your shivering frame with his maddening warmth, and you pretend it’s sweat, it’s just sweat.

[toournextadventure]

our little secret pt.vi

Summary: Life has a funny way of coming back around. Maybe, for the first time, it's actually going to come back around for the better.

Word Count: 10.9k Warnings: swearing, homophobia, HIV/Aids crisis, religious trauma, excessive smoking Pairing: Lorraine Day x Fem!Reader (Masterlist)

The sun was just starting to rise by the time you finished letting the cattle into the field. Fall was coming in nicely, and the spring calves had more than come into their own by that point. They were rather mischievous at this age. They reminded you of such as they continued to butt their heads into the back of your legs every chance they got.

Adorable little bastards.

The crops surrounding the small gathering of buildings were looking pretty damn good, if you said so yourself. You let your fingers trail over a few peas as you squatted down to look for pests. They were almost ready to harvest. Not too much longer and it would be market season, and with any luck you would have enough harvest to make a little more to put back.

As you stood up, you picked two pods off the vine. One went straight into your mouth. The crunch was superb. Definitely ready. You tossed the other pod to Hank, who was lying in his spot on the porch, more than ready to start sunbathing. He was a useless cowdog, but you’d be damned if you didn’t love him.

“You’re doin’ great, buddy,” you said softly. He continued to crunch on the pea pod as you scratched behind his ear and walked inside.

Based on the noise echoing through the log cabin, everyone was already in the kitchen. Good, you wouldn’t have to chase them down. Not that you had to do that much anymore, everyone had fallen into a rather comfortable rhythm. A schedule, if you will. A routine fit for the veterans you now called your family.

“Thank god,” Jane sighed as you walked through the doorway into the kitchen. “Roy’s burning breakfast.”

“Course he is,” you mumbled.

“I’m not burning anything,” Roy called back. He still stepped aside without protest when you walked up beside him.

“Yet,” you said with a raised brow.

“Morning,” was all he said in reply before walking back to sit at the long kitchen table.

The whole crew was already up and ready to go while you finished saving breakfast. A wonderful array of eggs, bacon, sausage, and… well, whatever they could get out of a can. For some unknown reason - it wasn’t entirely unknown, just unconfirmed - they made it a habit to steal cans from an old military warehouse not too far away. They’d grab whatever they could carry, come back, and barter them amongst each other until their next run.

You weren’t sure why they didn’t just share, considering they all lived in the same place.

“Are you working today?” Greenback asked from where he was sitting on one of the counters.

“Yes,” you said with a nod. You turned and gave him The Look, as they all dubbed it. “Which means I can’t bail you out today. So unless you want to spend the night in jail,” you look back down, “don’t get arrested again.”

“Yes mom,” he mocked. “You don’t have to remind me every day.”

“Sure she does,” Hippie said. Unlike the others, he was waiting patiently for breakfast. “She didn’t remind you last week. Remember what happened?”

There was an awkward silence. You bit your lip to keep from laughing because you certainly remembered. So had your savings, quite frankly. And he was paying you back for it dollar by dollar, so he remembered too.

“I got arrested,” Greenback finally answered, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

“So maybe she does need to tell you,” Hippie said.

“Now listen here-”

-the noise of their argument died out. It was a skill you had learned after only a year of being there. All of them were wild, constantly arguing and occasionally devolving into screaming. Terrifying at first, considering each of them had killed someone at least once in their lives. Now you knew better.

They just needed someone to care.

“Here.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Roy held out a cigarette. You mouthed a silent “thank you” before taking it, waiting patiently for him to flick his lighter open. Smoking was a nasty habit. Yet, when everyone around you imbibed, it was easy enough to fall into it with them. In a strange twist of fate, Camels were preferred over Marlboros. Peculiar.

Disgusting.

“Going to the hospital this morning?” Roy asked.

You nodded and exhaled the ashy smoke. “Wanna go with me?”

He was already shaking his head. “Those are your people, not mine,” he grumbled before leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms.

“Some are vets,” you said, looking at him with a raised brow. “Just cause you don’t claim ‘em don’t mean they’re not yours.”

“Tell that to our old man,” Roy said, all joking aside.

“Yeah, well.” You exhaled the last cloud of smoke before you put the cigarette out on one of the many trays around the house. “I got a few other things I’d rather say to him.”

“You and me both,” he said, patting your shoulder and pushing away from the counter with his hip.

He was doing better, you thought as you told everyone breakfast was finally ready. He was much better. Maybe it had something to do with being around a bunch of other people who understood. Everyone in the compound - or commune, as Hippie called it - except you had been in Vietnam. They knew each other’s struggles and fears. As much as your daddy hated the term, it was everyone’s safe space.

“Hey Preacher, you’ll bail me out if I get arrested tomorrow, right?”

And unfortunately, you were everyone’s Commune Mother. Who would’ve thought?

—---

“Morning, Richard,” you said once you saw the kind doctor behind the desk.

“Good morning, Preacher,” he said with a smile that hid behind his mustache. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

You smiled to yourself and gripped your bag tighter. Dr. Richard was a sweet man, not too different from Huck. If Huck was closer to your father’s age than yours, that was. His smile wasn’t as crooked, but you supposed some would find it attractive.

Not you. But someone.

“Who do you have for me this mornin’?” You asked, instinctively leaning over the counter.

You weren’t supposed to, you knew it was against policy. Richard had said it was something against patient privacy or something like that. The first few times, just the thought of violating someone’s privacy was enough to send you home. The last thing you wanted to do was read something they didn’t want you to. You knew that better than most.

Now though? Oh, now they could tell you to your face if they wanted you to back off.

The long list of names was almost as recognisable as the Bible itself. You visited a very specific type of patient. A type that had gotten you ostracised your first few months. You knew every single patient that came in, and every single one that Robert - you adamantly refused to call him daddy anymore - condemned to hell. If they were going to hell, you were going with them.

“Here we go,” Richard said, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Mr. Baker.”

You leaned further across the table, almost touching foreheads with Richard. Mr. Baker was new, if you remembered correctly. In his 50s, grumpy, determined the world was out to get him. Maybe it was, you knew the feeling. Hell, the world had been out to get you. It wasn’t too far-fetched to believe it might be the same for him.

“He gonna throw anything at me?” You asked as you finally dropped back to the floor.

“He’s been advised not to,” Richard said with a sigh.

“Oh thank the lord, he’s been advised.”

“I’m sure he’ll behave,” he said. His smile was always nice. Kind.

“I’ll go see,” you said. You pushed yourself away from the desk but didn’t get very far before you heard Richard call after you.

“Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

You looked at him for a moment, your head tilted. This wasn’t a new question. In fact, he asked nearly every week, if memory served you right. Part of you wanted to tell him yes, just once. Just once to see if you could change. It would certainly make the world a lot easier to deal with.

It wouldn’t be fair to him.

“I have to work,” you said with a soft smile. He kept getting smaller as you walked backwards.

“How about a drink?” He leaned forward on the desk.

Oh, he was charming. And yet, you still felt nothing but a platonic admiration for him. Nothing you did would “fix” you. If you couldn’t fall for someone who was inarguably a perfect match, with the only issue being he was a man? Nothing would work. And for the life of you, you still couldn’t decide if it was because you were broken?

Or perhaps nothing was wrong with you at all.

“Ask me again next week,” you told him.

“Will you say yes?” He asked as he stood up straight. It was the same old song and dance, week after week. A routine. Comfort.

“No,” you said with a cheeky grin. You managed to see Richard shake his head and smile to himself before you turned around and continued your walk through the hospital halls.

As unusual as it sounded, there was something comforting about the hospital. Yes, it was filled with disease and death and despair. An unfortunate consequence of the times. But with all the time you had spent between the walls, you felt at home. No one judged; they didn’t have the time nor capacity. You felt welcome. Wanted.

Mr. Baker’s door wasn’t hard to find; you knew the layout like the back of your hand. Though you would admit, you didn’t think you had been to that particular room before. Not that it mattered, they were all the same. At least it would be easy enough to find for next time.

You knocked on the door three times, gave it a moment, and walked in.

“Good morning, Mr. Baker, I-”

“-Get out of my fucking room,” he said before you could even close the door. “I don’t want some fucking priest in here.”

Your mouth snapped shut. In your mind, you checked off the boxes as you studied him. Grumpy? Judging by the set of his mouth, check. Older? His balding head of grey hair was a check. Sick? Well, he was in the hospital, so check. Scared?

Check.

“Good thing I’m not a priest,” you said slowly. He could hear perfectly well, but you didn’t want to make him more angry. A skill you had learned rather quickly.

“I can see a bible thumper from a mile away,” he continued. “It’s sticking out of your damn bag.”

Slowly, you looked down. Damn. He was right.

“I’m not a bible thumper, Mr. Baker,” you tried to say.

“If you’re not some priest, what are you?”

“Would you like my name?” You asked.

“I don’t give a fuck what your name is.” He shook his head. “I want to know what you are.”

“What do you want me to be?” You asked as you took a step further into the room.

“You some kinda prostitute or something?” He asked. You finally noticed his thick Yankee accent.

“Is that what you want me to be?” You asked again, taking another step.

He opened and shut his mouth twice before looking away from you. The very first few weeks you had started coming to the hospital, you remembered what everyone had told you. They’re like cornered animals. You had initially taken offense at the sentiment. They were scared, and the staff had the nerve to compare them to animals?

Until you remembered when you were cornered. You had been just as angry, just as scared, and just as vicious. Those first few months alone without the three people you knew would have protected you. Those were the most terrifying months of your life. Each time someone looked at you, fear raced through your veins. Did they know? Would they try to kill you too, just for the crime of existing? Were they angels, coming to personally drag you to hell for the sin of love?

Only once you had someone who cared did you feel any sort of comfort in your skin. Roy and his entire gang would fight heaven and hell for you. They didn’t care who you loved, they just cared that you were safe. That you were loved, unconditionally. It wasn’t a feeling you were accustomed to.

Everyone you visited in the hospital just wanted to be loved, not feared or ridiculed.

You took another step closer.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” you said softly. “Just say the word.”

Mr. Baker continued to look out the window. It didn’t feel right to stay if he didn’t want you, and you wouldn’t blame him. You waited a few more seconds in awkward silence before nodding slowly to yourself. He didn’t want you there, and that was okay. You backed up and turned to face the door. It was alright, you could always try again next-

“-you can stay.” You smiled to yourself while still facing the door. “Since you’re already here.”

It was a lovely visit with Mr. Baker. He had been a lawyer, back before the epidemic scandal. Hell, he had been a lawyer less than a week ago. All until he had gotten too sick, and got fired for being gay. He complained about his wife leaving him, but he didn’t seem all that upset by it. You could understand.

“If you’re not a priest,” Mr. Baker said, “why carry that damn book?”

“Cause it used to bring me comfort,” you said as you flipped aimlessly through the Bible. “It’s the last thing I have of home.”

“You get excommunicated?” He asked.

You turned and gave him a sad smile. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Do you feel free yet?”

No. Not entirely, at least. That feeling of guilt that had weighed on you throughout your entire adult life had eased, but you weren’t free. Free would be living with Lorraine, and Beau and Huck. Not a care in the world, just living off together and doing whatever you all wished. Yeah. Yeah, that was freedom.

“Not yet,” you finally answered.

Mr. Baker chuckled humourlessly. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t stay much longer. He made you promise to come back next week. Well, he didn’t so much make you promise, it was more like you can come back, if you want. But you had been around enough people to know what that meant, so you said you’d come back.

Without your bible, of course, that was what he emphasised.

“Hey Mama.”

You smiled at the words. “Hey baby.” Quietly, you closed the door behind you. “How are you today?”

Eric smiled back at you. “Better and better each day.”

You both knew it was a lie. From what Richard had patiently described to you, Eric was at most a few months away from dying. No more than a boy at only 19, he was going to die without any of his family around. All because they thought he was gay. Perhaps that was why he had attached himself to you as quickly as he had; there was no time to be picky.

“Come sit with me,” he said as he patted the spot beside him.

Without hesitation, you placed your bag at the end of the bed and crawled in with him. The television was situated directly in front of the bed, on a rolling cart that you often found yourself moving. It was some western, but you couldn’t be bothered to know which one. All knowledge of westerns had been forcibly shoved out of your mind the moment you had been displaced.

If anyone from home would have seen you at that moment, they would have keeled over. Not only were you in bed with a suspected gay boy, but one with AIDS? The devil’s disease? The thought of their disgust alone was enough to warm your soul. You hoped they would find out, and you hoped it killed them.

You wouldn’t bother going to their funerals.

“You bring the goods?” Eric asked.

You were already nodding your head as you leaned forward to grab your bag. “If you tell anyone I got these for you, I’ll never buy them again.”

“My mouth is shut,” he said.

He watched with hungry eyes as you pulled out the contraband. The first was a pack of cigarettes; Lucky Strikes. Eric claimed he liked them for the flavour. You knew it was because his grandfather had smoked them during the second world war. Second was a pack of baseball cards, unopened, directly from the corner store a few blocks away. Rumour had it they carried the best cards around.

Third was a Playboy, which you quickly handed over so you wouldn’t have to touch it anymore.

“Oh, you’re the best,” he mumbled to himself as he ripped open the pack of baseball cards with his teeth. “Bet there’s something special in here.”

“I hope there is,” you said with a barely concealed laugh.

While he pulled the cards out, he handed the pack of smokes to you. As much as you knew better, it had become a nice little routine of yours. You would open the smokes and get one started for both you and him. He would look through the cards and show you the “good ones,” going on about every little detail. Once your cigarettes were nothing more than a filter, you would sit back, enjoy a bit of company, and watch whatever you could find on the television.

“Oh this is amazing, wanna hear about it?” He asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer before starting talking.

You slipped the light cigarette into his mouth while he talked. His enthusiasm was contagious. You had not the slightest idea who he was even talking about, but even you were impressed with the person’s statistics. Not enough to remember any of it, but that didn’t really matter.

Eric carried on, and you just sat there and watched him. He reminded you of Jimmy. Young, eager, excited about the little things. It was good to be young. Good to be excited about things that others would consider silly or inconsequential. Maybe that was why you had such a soft spot for him. You might not have had Jimmy, but you had someone that gave you hope in the world.

It wasn’t enough. But it would do.

“Oh shit,” Eric said in a hushed voice. You looked down to see the Playboy in his hands. “They’ve got Miss Minx in here.”

Your brows pulled together as you looked down at the magazine. Admittedly, you couldn’t have cared less about the issue. Your small window into the world of smut had closed that night Lorraine had left. It didn’t have anything to do with you anymore and, quite frankly, perhaps it was all for the better.

But nothing could have prepared you to see a full print of Maxine in a Playboy.

“She made it,” you whispered to yourself with a small smile. “The crazy bitch made it.”

“What do you mean?” Eric asked. His eyes grew wide as he looked up at you. “Wait, did you know her?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Her and her whole crew.”

“You knew her early stuff?” He asked excitedly. His body turned to face you.

You nodded.

“Like Bobby-Lynne?”

Another nod.

“And Jackson Hole?”

And another.

“And-”

“-Yes, I knew them all,” you interrupted. 

You couldn’t hear her name coming from someone else’s lips. It would have been sinful to speak of the woman you would have worshipped day and night. Something about hearing someone else talk about her felt wrong. Blasphemous even. It was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

At least out loud.

“Think you can get me an autograph?” Eric asked, still as enthusiastic as ever. “It can be my, uh,” he exhaled harshly. “What’s it called,” he mumbled. His eyes lit up before he looked at you again. “That Make A Wish thing.”

“Ain’t that for kids with cancer?” You asked.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m a kid with AIDS, so I think I count.”

“Don’t think it works that way, baby,” you chuckled.

“Just one autograph,” he begged. “I won’t ever shoot up again, I promise.”

“You already can’t shoot up again,” you said not unkindly. “That’s what got you here in the first place.”

“Oh come on, please?”

You sighed and shook your head. You always had been a sucker for big brown eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you said dejectedly.

The rest of the visit went exactly as it always did. Eric talked non stop about everything that crossed his mind, and you listened. From what he had been “forced” to eat last night, to what he was looking forward to you bringing next week. He very much wanted a burger from your bar. You couldn’t argue; it was the most sensible thing he had asked for in months.

“Don’t get in trouble before I come back,” you told him as you walked to the door. It was past time for work.

“I promise on my life,” he said with a smile that showed off the purple lesions on his gums. “Love you, Mama!”

“Love you too, baby,” you called out, shooting him one last smile before leaving the room.

The first tear fell before the door clicked shut.

With a shake of your head, you made your way out of the hospital. Richard gave you a quick goodbye, and you were off to work. It was some sleazy gay bar on the outside of town. You knew better than to try and take a cab out there. If Roy or Jane couldn’t grab you from the hospital, you would just walk the 30 minutes to get there. Safety first.

Unfortunately, it was far too hot for the walk. It was nothing you weren’t used to, but that didn’t make it enjoyable. Sweat was dripping into your eyes and keeping your shirt stuck to your back by the time you finally walked through the doors of the bar. Thankfully you kept a change of clothes in the back.

“Thank god,” Jessie groaned when you came back to the bar in much cleaner clothes. “I was about to panic.”

“Don’t be a dick,” you whispered in his direction as you smiled at the man on the other side of the bar.

“Is your doctor coming in tonight?” He asked with far too much excitement.

“Go serve your drinks, pretty boy,” you told him before turning back around to start working.

There was something surprisingly enjoyable about working at a bar. Or perhaps it was technically called a club, you weren’t entirely sure. Regardless, you loved it. It was freeing in a way. No one expected you to act a certain way, or pretend to be something you weren’t. You could just laugh, have fun, and genuinely thrive.

“Can I buy you that drink now?”

You smiled to yourself before sitting on the other side of the table. Richard had made himself at home - as he usually did when you worked - and was still nursing his singular drink. His usual doctor’s coat had long been abandoned, instead replaced by a flowery shirt and some cargo shorts. Something that made him stick out tremendously among the group of gay men and women.

“Not on my break,” you told him.

“How about a smoke?” He asked, pulling out a fresh pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. With skilled fingers, he opened it and pulled a single cigarette out.

“Oh, you’re my hero,” you mumbled, leaning forward to wrap your lips around what he had dubbed the “cancer stick.”

“Those are bad for you, you know,” he said even as he lit it for you and slid the pack and lighter across the table.

“I stopped caring about that a long time ago, Rich,” you said.

As the patrons continued to mill about and enjoy their night, you sat quietly with Richard. He really was a good man, and a part of you wished you could love him. Hell, he had helped you through a lot, the least you could do was give him the one thing he wanted. If you had any belief that you were capable of it, you would have taken him up on his offer long ago.

But you couldn’t in good conscience marry a man that you couldn’t properly appreciate. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. You had watched Lorraine go down that road with RJ, and it hadn’t gone well. She was miserable, doubtless, he had picked up on it as well, and neither one ended up being happy. That was no way to live.

You put out the smouldering cigarette on the ashtray and immediately lit another. That train of thought was not going to end well. You hadn’t painstakingly forced yourself to keep going just to end up thinking too hard one night at work. No, you simply needed to feel the sticky burn at the back of your throat a few more times.

“Is Roy taking you home tonight?” Richard asked.

You hummed affirmative. “No need to play taxi cab,” you teased.

“Will you be back in the hospital soon?” You nodded again. “The men love you.”

“How ironic,” you said with a humourless laugh. “If we had loved each other to begin with, all our lives would’ve been different.”

“Don’t be cynical,” Richard said. He reached out and placed his hand on top of yours. It was warm. Soft. So very different from Beau’s.

You thought for a second before answering. “What do you want me to be?”

“Don’t start that,” he said, quickly pulling his hand back. You couldn’t help smiling at him. “That trick doesn’t work on me, sweetheart.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” you said. Another inhale, another ache in the back of your throat, another satisfying cloud of smoke. “Jessie said I need to quit usin’ humour to cope.”

“He’s not wrong,” Richard said. His voice was soft over the sound of the music playing in the bar. “Do you need to talk about it?”

He really was sweet, you thought. Truly a shame.

“I’m alright, Rich,” you said. “Really.”

“I know, just,” he sighed. “I know we aren’t compatible, but I do care for you.” He, too, had irresistible big brown eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know what to say. It was all entirely too much, and you were still feeling emotional from hanging out with Eric earlier. The last thing you needed was for Richard to get emotional on you. If you were being honest with yourself, you needed him to mind his own business.

“You need to go home,” you said with a smile. It was a poor attempt at teasing. “Jessie works tonight.”

“Oh shit,” Richard mumbled. His back straightened and he looked around frantically. “Yeah, I had better go.”

“You should say yes sometime,” you said as you both stood up from the table. “You’d make his year.”

His eyes got big before he undoubtedly noticed the crinkle by your eyes. “I couldn’t dare lead him on like that.”

“Go home, Rich,” you laughed.

You leaned up on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. It was scratchy; he needed to shave again. Roy had told you not to give the man hope, but you weren’t. From the beginning, you had been very clear with him where you stood, and he had never pushed you for a different answer. A kiss on the cheek was nothing more than kindness.

“Get home safe, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

You bid him goodbye and walked back to the bar. If you put all your attention into work, it wouldn’t be long before you closed and you could go home. Tomorrow would be calm until you had to go back to work later that evening. There should be plenty of time to start harvesting crops and getting everyone set up for the next few weeks.

“I’ll get that man to love me one day,” Jessie said. You followed his line of sight to see Richard walking out the door.

“Sorry, Jess,” you said with a shrug, “but I don’t think he’ll budge.”

“Then he can tell me no himself,” he said. “I can wait.”

“You’re gonna get you in trouble one day,” you said as you started preparing a drink for one of the usuals that had just walked in the door.

“So are you,” he said from his spot beside you. “Someone was asking for you while you were with Doctor Handsome.”

You slid the drink across the bar. “And what did you say?”

“We don’t give out that information,” he repeated like he had so many times before. “I know the rules, I’m no amateur.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as you continued working. Who could have come asking for you? Perhaps it was one of the Vets; Jessie didn’t know all of them. Vulture was quite the intimidating character, maybe it had been him. He was the least likely of the crew to remember your work schedule. Yeah, it was probably him.

The rest of the night was reasonably quiet. Those were some of your favourite nights. There were fewer expectations and interactions. You could simply do your job, get paid, and go home. No stress, no need to overthink, nothing. It was wonderful.

Like clockwork, Roy walked into the bar after everyone had left and you were finishing cleaning. He sat down at the bar, resting his arms on the cool wood. Without stopping your movements, you slid the pristine pack of cigarettes over to him, which he swiftly opened and lit.

“How was the hospital?” Roy asked.

You leaned forward so he could place a smoke between your lips. “Same as always,” you said. “Eric’s magazine had Maxine in it.”

An exceptionally tough stain captured your attention. Having something to focus on was nice, you didn’t want to think about seeing Maxine. In fact, you already regretted bringing it up. You knew Roy had liked her too, even though he had only met her once or twice. It wasn’t fair to either one of you for you to have brought it up.

“Well hello, Roy,” Jessie said as he sidled up next to you.

“Hello, Jessie,” Roy said politely. And nothing more than polite.

“You ever going to party with us?” Jessie asked. He was not helping you clean. “I think you would be good for business.”

“It ain’t really my scene,” Roy said with an unsure smile.

“It could be,” Jessie said. The flirt.

You quickly shoved your hand towel into Jessie’s hands. “Think you can finish closin’ on your own?”

Roy took that as his sign to head out, telling Jessie a short “good night” before heading to the truck waiting on the street. You loved Jessie to death, you really did, but he was going to get himself into a world of hurt if he didn’t stop. Roy wasn’t homophobic by any means, but the man still wasn’t consistently stable. He was not the one to play with.

“Quit flirtin’ with my brother,” you hissed as you grabbed your Camels, lighter, and cash tips. “And my doctor.”

“Quit bringing handsome men to the bar,” Jessie called after you. “It’s not fair, you know.”

“Night Jessie,” you shouted. He answered as the doors swung closed behind you.

If there was one thing you could say about Roy’s truck, it was that the interior was as pristine as a farmer’s truck could get. Everything was in its place, and everything had a place. The car lighter was always ready, and he kept one pack each of three different smokes in the center bucket. In the glovebox was his pistol and a few spare rounds in an unmarked cardboard box.

“You didn’t share a cigarette with that boy earlier, did you?” Roy asked once he pulled off onto the main road to get back out to the compound.

“No, Roy, I ain’t stupid,” you huffed. “I lit his, then got my own.”

“Don’t get testy,” he defended quickly, “I just don’t want you gettin’ sick too.”

“Oh I’m fine,” you mumbled more to yourself before looking out the window.

It was because he cared, you reminded yourself. Maybe a bit too much, but he did. Even though you both considered the other Vets your family, you still only had each other. No one understood you like he did, and vice versa. You wouldn’t be who you were without him, and he was protective to a fault.

That did not mean you had to enjoy his line of questioning.

“Make any new friends?” He asked after a bit of awkward silence.

You told him all about Mr. Baker; not that there was much to say yet. He listened intently, nodding along with your tale and mumbling encouragement when appropriate. It was a pretty one-sided conversation, but that didn’t matter. He listened, and you got to say a bit. Hell, he even laughed when you complained that Mr. Baker had called you a priest.

“Hey Roy.” You waited until he grunted for you to continue. “Did you ever think maybe Robert was wrong? With his preachin’?”

He laughed. A big laugh, one that would put anyone else to shame. It caught you off guard and you frowned at him even though he was focused on the road. He didn’t need to be so rude.

“I knew he was wrong the day I was drafted,” he said after calming down. “Why d’you ask?”

You looked down at the pieces of paper you were slowly picking off the pack of Marlboros in your hand.

“I’ve just been thinkin’ about it lately,” you said with a shrug.

“What exactly have you been thinkin’ about?” He probed.

“You think God is ashamed of us?” You asked.

When Roy was silent, your fingers pulled at one of the cigarettes in the pack. Maybe Richard was right, you needed to slow down. But with all the thoughts running through your head day and night, the last thing you were worried about was a smoke. That sounded like a problem for the future, if you ever got to it.

You exhaled smoke before continuing. “Think He saw us and decided it was easier to turn his back?” Roy was silent. “Cause He don’t talk to me anymore.” You turned to face Roy, who was still looking straight ahead. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“You did nothin’ wrong,” he said quickly. If you looked closely, his knuckles were paling from his grip on the wheel.

“Just what I’ve been thinkin’ about,” you said quietly. “Sometimes I feel like I did somethin’ wrong.”

The truck pulled up to the front of the house you shared. The lights were on downstairs and in the kitchen. Hopefully Moose wasn’t drunk again. The last thing you wanted to do was deal with his nonsense so late at night. Honestly, you just wanted to go get in bed and start a new day.

“Guess we should head inside,” you mumbled.

You put the cigarette out on the heel of your boot before putting the now-cool butt in your pocket. Everyone knew better than to leave trash in Roy’s truck. But when you went to open the door, Roy’s arm reached in front of you and pushed down the lock.

“Why’d you do that?” You asked with a small laugh. “We’re already parked.”

Both of his hands stayed on the wheel. He still wasn’t looking at you. You knew the look on his face. It had never led to anything good.

“Remember when we first got here?” He asked quietly.

“What?” You asked. He didn’t move. You sighed and shook your head. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You didn’t get out of bed for two months,” he continued.

“Why are you askin’?”

He exhaled slowly. “I wrote a letter back home not long after we arrived.”

“What?” You asked incredulously.

“I didn’t leave a return address, but I wrote to Ma that we were safe,” he said.

“You never told me that,” you said.

“I didn’t want them to hear from Mr. Dylan first and think badly of you,” he said.

Finally, he turned to face you. He wore a troubled look, one you so often saw when he was having a hard day. It usually accompanied a bit of crying, perhaps some yelling, and a lot of nightmares before that look of his went away. You didn’t like that he had it again.

“A few weeks ago, I got a letter from someone,” he said. “Through the circuit.”

You vaguely remembered him explaining that to you. Some backroot way Vets were talking with each other. A system they had all created with a bunch of different towns. If you sent a letter through the circuit, some way somehow, eventually it would find who it was supposed to. You didn’t question it much since none of your Vets used it.

But only other Vets knew about it.

“Who sent you a letter?” You asked.

Roy looked at you with pathetic puppy dog eyes.

“Roy,” you said, more stern, “who sent it?”

“Jackson.”

You looked back at the house. And the silhouette of someone now standing in the window. Perhaps they were looking out, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. You knew that silhouette. Knew it like the back of your hand; better than that, actually.

With shaking hands, you put another cigarette between your lips. It took far too many tries to start the lighter, and even longer to keep it still long enough to catch a light. The smoke and ash didn’t hurt enough. It didn’t quell whatever was going on inside your chest.

“Unlock the truck, please,” you said softly.

Roy didn’t move. 

“Unlock the fuckin’ truck,” you said more forcefully.

The moment you heard the lock click, you threw the door open. Heavy boots hit the hard ground, and you gripped the door handle until you were sure you could stand on your own. The ground tilted beneath you, like a ship on the sea. Back and forth in front of your very eyes. Or maybe it was still.

You started walking away from the house. It would be a decent walk, but that was okay. Long enough for you to clear your head, get a grip on reality, and rest. You knew where to find a warm bed, and no one would do anything to you. Everyone knew not to mess with you, you had friends in high places.

“Where are you goin’?” Roy called out to you.

You took a drag of the cigarette. “I’ll stay the night at Richard’s,” you called back. You sounded pathetic. Weak. Broken.

“You ain’t just walkin’ away-”

“-why not?” You interrupted as you spun on your heels to face him. “Why can’t I just walk away?” He looked at you intensely. “That’s what we did four years ago. Why is this any different?”

“Because you could’ve died,” Roy said quickly. “When I walked in, you were about to be fuckin’ executed.”

“Better than bein’ lynched,” you said. “At least it would’ve been quick.”

“Don't act like you weren't scared.”

“I've been scared every day of my adult life,” you admitted. There was a lump in your throat. “How would you even know how I feel anyway?”

“Because,” he laughed, “none of us are stupid. You're not as good at hidin’ your feelings as you think”

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. “You're full of shit.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked, standing taller. “Then how come everyone always saw you as a bigger suicide risk than me?”

You froze. 

“Yeah, now you're listening,” he continued. “You think no one talked behind your back? Even Ma would ask me if you were alright, if you and Beau were good.” He shook his head. “Everyone was worried as all get out about you.”

“If y'all were so concerned, you sure knew how to hide it,” you argued.

“What were we gonna do, Y/N?” Roy asked. “Potentially out you to the whole town? You're right, they would've lynched you outside the church.”

“I already told you, I wasn't scared of dyin’,” you said as you walked closer.

“Don't act like you gave up in that church because you weren't scared,” he said harshly. “You gave up to protect Lorraine.” His finger jabbed into your chest harshly. “If you died, no one would've ever known about her and she could've lived happily ever after. You gave up because you love her,” he practically hissed.

You took a step back. The burn of a lit cigarette inched closer to your knuckles. It was a feeling you could live with because at least it was a feeling. A better feeling than whatever Roy’s words had done to you. They were carving out your insides, scraping you off the edges until you wanted to cry and scream and hike into the woods until you couldn’t remember your own name.

“We missed Gramma’s funeral.” You shook your head. “We missed our baby brother’s wedding.” It wasn’t true. “I ain’t lettin’ you miss anything else.”

It was too much. Everything was just too much. What did he mean? Gramma had been in perfect health when you had left. Hell, you all swore she would live forever. And what about Jimmy getting married? Sure, you had expected it sooner or later, but without you?

He got married without you?

“I’ve spent four years workin’ on movin’ on, Roy,” you said. The lump in your throat only grew bigger. “I’ve worked day and night to try and live without her.”

“And look where you are, darlin’,” he said. “You still have nightmares from that damn church. And Jessie told me how many women you’ve turned down.” The cigarette butt fell from your fingers. “Think someone who’s moved on would do that?”

Damn Jessie. Damn him for talking with Roy. Though, he wasn’t wrong. Over the course of working at the bar, more than your fair share of women had asked you to dinner or to buy you a drink. They were all nice, and attractive. But you told them no time and time again because of one flaw that wasn’t their fault.

They weren’t Lorraine.

“You’ve been through some shit,” Roy said softly, and you looked up to meet his eyes. “Don’t go throwin’ away your shot at happiness.”

You wrapped your arms around your body and looked at the house. The silhouette was still in one of the windows of the living room. If you looked closer, you could see the scene you had always wished for. Holding Lorraine close, in a house you called your own, drinking coffee and watching the sunrise. No fears, no shame, just love.

It was what you wanted more than anything.

“I don’t wanna lose her again,” you whispered.

For the first time in a while, Roy smiled at you. “I promise you won’t.”

His hand rested on the small of your back before gently pushing you forward. Right, you needed to move. Okay, you could do that, you could move. All you needed to do was get to the house, right? Get to the house and get the girl. That’s what Jimmy would’ve told you. It’s what Beau and Huck would’ve told you.

Each step closer to the house forced your heart to beat harder and harder. Roy had seemed pretty confident, but what if he was wrong? What if Lorraine was there to officially end it? After all, she had been engaged to RJ. Not happily, but she had been. Without you around, what need would she have to break it off?

Oh, that wasn’t a good train of thought. Not good at all. Maybe you didn’t want to see her again. You didn’t think your heart could handle rejection, not after everything it had already been through. It would be less painful than jumping in front of the train that ran through the outskirts of town.

But what if she said yes?

Now that. That would be worth the risk.

Roy’s footsteps could be heard around the porch. There was a side door that lead to the second half of the house, the one that had originally been its own building. After everyone had knocked the middle wall down to make one house, they had still treated it as separate. That’s where the Vets stayed more often than not.

Which left you alone.

You couldn’t stay outside the door forever. Well, you could. Maybe you should. Would that really be so bad? Just sleep outside for the night, you could go find Hank’s dog house and rest. Moose had built it big enough to fit, well, a moose. Yeah, you could fit, it might be a good idea just to stay in there.

Someone shuffled around inside, and you couldn’t take it. You needed to know if it was her. You needed to know for sure, and you needed to give your heart a break. Whatever the outcome, it would bring some sort of closure. Anything was better than the limbo you had been living in.

The door creaked as you pushed it open. It pierced your heart like the splinters outside. Your palms could not have been more clammy. The floor was solid beneath you. It swayed beneath you, but at least it didn’t feel like it was falling out under your feet. That was always nice.

You faced the door as you closed it. The shuffling behind you - it was in the kitchen - came to an abrupt stop. The wooden door was rough beneath your fingers. If you scratched it, you could flake off the paint. Some scratched paint was the least of everyone’s worries in that house.

Turn around. If you could just turn around, it would be okay. Roy said it would be okay, and you trusted him. He wouldn’t lie to you, not about this. With a sigh, you let your forehead rest against the door. Come on, you just needed to turn around. Right. Something weighed heavy in your stomach. You felt sick.

One slow breath in.

Slow breath out.

A splinter pricked your finger as you pushed yourself back and turned around. You focused on that, looking down at the sliver of wood. Tired fingers picked at it, and you used it as a distraction. Work at the splinter, and get your breathing under control. Once you were ready, you could look up.

But you couldn’t wait. You had waited so long already. Within your chest, your heart was aching. Reaching out for its other half. Scratching at the confines of bones and flesh to escape and relish in its freedom once again. To drown itself in the love that it so desperately desires.

You just needed to look up.

The moment you saw those brown eyes again, you knew it was over. All the pain and suffering and rejection. The fear of being found out, or being ostracised for a love that was no different than anyone else’s. It was over once you locked eyes with her.

She looked tired. The bags underneath her eyes rivaled your own; no small feat. If she had lost weight, you wouldn’t have faulted her. You had certainly lost your fair share. It was difficult to keep yourself well fed when you didn’t see the point in continuing. You knew that well.

Should you say something to her? She was looking at you like it was expected, but what could you possibly say? A simple hello wouldn’t suffice, not after everything you had both been through. Not after you had nearly been killed. What could you say to the woman you loved? What could make up for those years apart? Those years spent denying something serious was taking place within your hearts for the sake of peace?

Turned out, all you had to do was breathe.

One inhale was all it took. Lorraine’s body slammed into you before you could do anything else, knocking all the breath out of you in one fell swoop. Her momentum carried you, and before you could steady yourself, the floor rushed up to meet your back. It should have hurt, should have stolen the breath from your lungs and ached for days to come.

But you didn’t feel anything besides her body against yours. You had forgotten how well she fit in your arms. Like you were supposed to be together, two halves of the same mould. She was warm, and soft, and her heart beat rapidly against your chest. If you listened closely, your heart was in sync with hers. Like it should have been. Like it always had been.

With your back to the floor, she couldn’t properly wrap her arms around you. But you could. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her tighter. Her breath tickled against the hollow at the base of your neck. When you inhaled, she smelled of spring. She always smelled of spring.

“I knew I’d find you again,” Lorraine mumbled against your skin. Her lips were soft.

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing at all. You just pulled her tighter against you. If you could keep her where she was, it would be impossible for her to disappear. No running off to go on some film shoot, no leaving to save face with RJ. She would stay right there in your arms where she belonged.

Where she was supposed to be.

“Baby?” She whispered. You hummed in acknowledgment. “This is getting uncomfortable.”

An ache shot through your hips when you tried to move. Clearly, she was right. Your girl was always right. But you weren’t going to let her go, not so soon. Instead, you kept your arms wrapped around her and struggled into a sitting position. It was like instinct for her to maneuver herself so she could sit in your lap and rest her head between your collar and jaw.

“They said you and Roy ran off,” Lorraine said softly. Small fingers played with the buttons of your shirt. “First it was a vacation, then he kidnapped you, then y’all were dead.”

A low rumble cleared your throat. “Weren’t no vacation, that’s for sure.”

“Missing the fourth of July gave that away,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into her hair.

“Beau lost his mind,” she continued. “Huck couldn’t even keep him calm.”

“Are they-”

“-they’re still good,” she said quickly. “Just worried about you.”

“And you?”

You knew she cared. God, you knew. But you needed to hear her say it. All your feelings had been put aside day after day because you couldn’t ruin whatever pretend lives you had on display for everyone. She needed to say it, to confirm that yes, she does love you, she did miss you, you weren’t imagining everything.

“Every day, I prayed to find you,” she said softly. “And if that wasn’t possible, then I prayed for God to just kill me.” Her breath tickled your neck. “When every beat of your heart hurts because it longs for something it can’t have, you start to wish for the worst.”

You didn’t have any sort of reply for her. What would you say? If they had all been that concerned without even knowing what had happened that night, you couldn’t in good conscience tell her the truth. I’m sorry you were worried, baby, but we left because I was almost murdered. How would that help anything? Besides, you were more than content to try and forget the whole night anyway.

In your lap, Lorraine shifted until her back was pressed against you and your hands rested in her lap. Naturally, your chin rested on her shoulder as you looked down. Her warm hands played with your own, twisting them this way and that. Gently, of course. It was then you noticed something different, and you rubbed your finger across her bare ring finger.

“I broke it off,” she said.

Hell, she didn’t need to say more. Those four words were enough to have your stomach rolling. Those shackles you had both been bound by were gone. No need to pretend you were nothing more than best friends. Friends. The word left an ashy taste in your mouth. No, you would never be her friend again.

“Was he upset?” You asked.

She was silent for a moment. “I think he saw it comin’.”

“Damn,” you said. “I was hopin’ he was devastated.”

Lorraine laughed. A big laugh. God, it was beautiful. The sound of her laugh warmed your chest from the inside, spreading down to every nerve in your body. Only she could make you feel like that. You had always known it, but this just proved it even further.

“I missed you,” she said softly. Her fingers continued to gently pick at yours. “Missed just bein’ with you.”

“I missed you too,” you answered.

Hesitantly, you turned your head to place a ghost of a kiss on her cheek. If you thought about it for too long, you believed you felt her shiver. It could’ve been a figment of your imagination, but you didn’t think so. She leaned back with what little space she had left, leaving no room between the two of you.

“I think you need a new ring,” you said as you ran your thumb over her ring finger again.

“Buy me dinner first,” Lorraine said without hesitation. Her voice sounded sleepy. “I’m still recovering from a failed engagement, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” you said. “I bet you’re devastated.”

“Heartbroken, really,” she said as she turned around, placing her legs on either side of your hips, keeping you trapped. You were done when her arms wrapped themselves around your neck.

“You have my condolences,” you said. Her eyes were mesmerising.

“Thank you.” Her fingers played with the hair on the back of your neck. It tickled. “I think I just need some comfort.”

“Well lucky for you, that’s my job,” you said. “I can bring you all the comfort you need.”

Her smile was contagious. God, it was so pretty. She was so pretty, scars and all. You had missed her, in every way you could imagine. Being able to sit with her, tease, joke, enjoy just being with her? You had missed it all. And when she leaned forward to rest her forehead against yours? You were in heaven.

“I think I just want-”

“-oh shit.”

The voice forced your body to tense up. Lorraine’s hands gripped the back of your shirt tighter before she hid her head in the crook of your neck. Across from where you were sitting, at the bottom of the stairs by the kitchen, was Bull. A monster of a man if ever you saw one.

If you ignored his Garfield sleep shirt.

“Sorry, Mama,” he said with a smirk. “Just came down for a snack.”

Of course he did. Out of everyone, Moose and Bull were the ones who snacked in the middle of the night. None of the other Vets came down. They would wander, sure, but they wouldn’t get the munchies. For Moose, it was from the weed. Bull? Well, he was just a big guy.

“Cookies are in the cupboard,” you said with a gesture of your head.

Lorraine gripped you tighter.

“Chocolate chip?” He asked even though he was already digging for them.

“Shortbread,” you answered.

“Fuck yes,” he mumbled once he found them. “Thanks, Mama.” He froze at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at you. “Night, you two.”

“Night, Bull,” you called back.

The two of you must have been quite the sight to see in the middle of the night. Sitting on the floor, not moving, holding each other like your lives depended on it. Which maybe they did, you couldn’t be sure. It certainly felt like they did. Like Lorraine would disappear if you gave her any sort of space. You had lost her too many times, you wouldn’t risk it again.

“Sorry,” you mumbled into her hair. “The guys get restless.”

“Mama?” She asked. You could feel her smile against your skin.

“Someone’s gotta mother them,” you defended. “It ain’t like they’re grown or nothin’.”

Lorraine giggled. “I like it, it’s cute.”

Your fingers traced every inch of her skin they could find. When they ran out? They trailed under her shirt. Nothing scandalous, you just wanted to touch her. To feel her and confirm that yes, she was with you. She wasn’t gone, she wasn’t someone else’s, she was yours. Only yours. Your girl, your Rainey.

“Don’t they care?” She asked, pulling back to look into your eyes.“About…” she trailed off. You knew who she was talking about.

“No,” you said with a soft smile, “not at all.”

“Can we-” she stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes drifted down.

You stayed silent to give her time to focus on her words. This whole situation was… difficult, to say the least. Disappearing for years, lying to everyone for years before that. The years had flown by, and who knew how many you had left. But you could give her a few more minutes to get her thoughts in order.

“Can we stay here?” She asked, finally looking back up at you. “All of us? Together?”

That was all you had ever wanted to hear. All you had ever desired from the moment you had realised your feelings for her. To be able to be with her forever, in any capacity, as long as you could call her yours. Lorraine was the only one your heart and body and soul yearned for. 

And to have your guys with you? The ones who had been with you both through thick and thin, who had supported you even when things were tough? They were as much your loved ones as Lorraine. Your happily ever after included them too, and you knew Lorraine felt the same.

You leaned forward to capture her lips in a kiss. Soft, gentle, slow. But no less passionate. It was a kiss to make up for the years apart. To make up for all the secrecy, and hiding, and shame. A single kiss to confess your devotion to her and her only. It was enough to have your heart beating so fast you swore it would explode.

Even though she chased after you, you pulled away until you could look into her eyes again.

“Buy me dinner first,” you said, repeating what she had told you earlier.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she said with a smile that stretched across her face in the most delectable way.

“You’re lucky I love you too,” you said, leaning forward to give her another kiss. One that held no shame. It tasted of freedom.

“I need to hold you,” she whispered against your lips. “Take me to bed?”

Well that. Now that you could do.

“I’m your Huckleberry.”

—---

The sun was hot on your back, scorching whatever piece of skin it could find. If you didn’t quit soon, you’d be burned to hell and back. And if you were sunburned, you knew there was an entire compound full of people that would make it a point to hit it. A bunch of sorry bastards is what they were.

The joints in your knees ached as you stood up straight and stretched. A pop here or there released some of the tension. Enough, at least, to start walking back to the house. With a towel in hand, you started scrubbing the dirt off your ring. The last thing you wanted was Lorraine to see you had dirtied it all up.

“Your wife is making cookies,” Huck said when you stepped onto the porch. “Something about you havin’ a sweet tooth?”

“Legally she’s yours,” you said with a raised brow that intimidated no one. “And I don’t have a sweet tooth, that’s Tack.”

“Can’t be, he’s out at the barn with Beau,” he said.

He held out a beer, nice and cold, and you took it with a mumbled “thanks.” His lazy ass was in the same spot it had been all day; on the rocking chair beside Hank’s little dog bed. The moment he had seen Hank, you knew it was love. If it had been up to him, the dog would’ve been sleeping in the bed with him and Beau every night.

Beau shut that down real quick.

“Beau and I got competition in two weeks,” Huck said as you quickly sat down on the porch in front of him. “Think we can harvest in time?”

You took a swig of your beer and pulled out the pack of cigarettes from your shirt pocket.

“Probably not,” you said before inhaling the smoke. “But Greenback’s arrest last week means he owes me.” A slow exhale. “We’ll get it done while you’re gone.”

“I think Hippie wanted to travel with us,” he continued. “Said he was curious.”

“He’s been curious for years,” you chuckled. “At least he’s finally askin’ instead of mopin’ while y’all are gone.”

“Be nice to him,” he said. “At least he likes hangin’ around.”

“Course he likes hangin’ around, the four of us do everything for ‘em,” you teased.

Huck laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile with him. “Ain’t that the truth. Where would they be without us?”

“Gettin’ arrested,” Beau said, appearing beside you. Tack was nowhere to be seen.

“Speak of the devil,” Huck mumbled.

“You only show up when we’re gossipin’,” you claimed.

“I heard your wife’s makin’ cookies,” he said. You smiled to yourself and took another drag of your cigarette as Beau fell gracefully into Huck’s lap. You also ignored the sound of him kissing him.

“Know how you only call Beau my husband when he’s in trouble?” You asked, turning back to look at the both of them. “You do the same with Lorraine, so what’d she do now?”

“We just think you should be the one to test her cookies first,” Beau said.

“Make sure she don’t poison any of us, again” Huck continued.

“Y’all better hush before she hears,” you whispered as you reached out to slap one of the four legs that you could reach. You didn’t know who it belonged to, and you didn’t really care.

“Her cobbler the other day poisoned Roy,” Beau claimed. “Said so himself.”

“Roy don’t even like peaches,” you said, “so he’s full of shit.”

“He said he- oh hey, Rainey.”

Beau changed his tune quickly when Lorraine walked out onto the porch. Judging by the look on her face, she had heard the gossip. Damn her and her good hearing. You certainly didn’t have it, you would have been ignorant to everything if it had happened outside the door. And that was just fine by you.

“Jane helped with the cookies,” she defended, “so no one is gettin’ poisoned.”

“Told you it was fine,” you called back to them.

Lorraine sat down beside you and pulled you into a quick kiss. You didn’t think you would ever get used to the feeling. Every time she even looked at you, your stomach twisted and turned into knots in the best way. Let her ring be in sight? Oh god, it drives you crazy. She was your wife. And everyone knew it.

“You goin’ to work tonight?” She asked.

“Nah,” you shook your head. “I’m free till tomorrow night. Why?”

“Max and the crew are comin’ by later,” Lorraine said as she rested her head on your shoulder. “Wanted to make sure we’d be home.”

“Course we will be,” you said as you pressed another kiss to the top of her head. “There’s nowhere better.”

The four of you sat on the porch and continued to look out at the home you had all built. A full barn, trailers, and bales of hay waiting to be moved. Across the way were the fields full of more crops than you could reasonably harvest, but that was alright. You would just prepare better for next year. Out to the left was a field you had claimed as your own. It housed the crosses for all the patients you met at the hospital. In the very front was Eric’s. You kept some Lucky Strikes and a pack of baseball cards by it.

Never in your wildest dreams had you ever imagined you would have everyone together and actually living the lives you had all hoped for. To think, it had all started off messy. Now, you all had lives, and hopes and dreams that you didn’t fear would be squashed just for existing. You could love. You could be loved. Out there in the East coast where your dreams had always led you.

With Lorraine’s fingers intertwined with your own, you exhaled another cloud of smoke and looked out.

There was something relaxing about spending a day outdoors on your and your loved ones’ farm.

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔

Summary: Reassuring Noah that he is a good boyfriend, even if he is not always present because of his job.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Tw: angst, comfort

It had been days, perhaps even weeks since you first started to notice the shift in Noah. You hadn't thought much about it at first. You knew what came along with dating someone like him: the long nights at the studio, irregular hours, and constant pressure of the music industry weighing down hard, and great responsibility to front such a band as he did.

Of late, however, it had been much more than that. His absence had become as much physical as it was everything else. You'd notice how he'd zone out when you spoke, how he would sit with you and yet his mind would be somewhere else. You'd catch him sometimes staring ahead, his jaw clenched, the weight of the world resting on those tense shoulders.

You would try to ask him how he was doing, but he always deflected, gave you a smile that never reached the eyes, and muttered something about being fine.

But you knew better. You knew him better than anyone.

Tonight, though, was different.

The band was over for dinner, and Jolly, Nicholas, and Folio were no different: loud, boisterous, filling the room with laughter and stories. Nights like that always had you having a good time-it seemed like a chance to see the boys unwind and laugh along with them, being a part of what makes this band more like family than just a group of musicians.

Normally, Noah was right in the middle of it all, joking around or playing along with ridiculous stories, but tonight, he'd been quiet. Too quiet.

You looked over at him as you were seated at the dinner table and felt him staring down at his plate, shoving food around with his fork listlessly. He'd barely taken a bite and his usual sarcasm or sharp wit was utterly absent. The night wore on, and this funny feeling you had-you couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was amiss. Every now and then, you caught him looking at you, his brow furrowed like he was lost in thought. And every time you glanced back, he quickly looked away into some other direction, as if his eyes had been engaged somewhere else all along.

Over dinner, as the guys moved into the living room, sprawling across couches and settling in for what would inevitably devolve into a late-night hangout, you felt Noah's hand brush yours under the table. It was a fleeting touch, one that you almost missed, but nonetheless it caught your attention. You look up at him, and for the first time that night, he meets your gaze directly.

"Can we talk in private?" he asked quietly, his voice soft but laced with something that sounded like hesitation-or maybe fear. Your heart skipped a beat.

There was something in his tone, something that made the air between you feel heavier-like this conversation was going to unravel something big. You nodded, giving him a small smile in an attempt to reassure him, but he didn't return it.

Instead, he stood up and walked you out into the night, out of earshot of the band's laughter and chatter.

The cool night air caressed your skin, while the clear sky above was scattered with stars. The porch was dimly lit, the soft glow of the house reaching out to it, casting long shadows across the wooden boards. It was quiet out here, with only the distant hum of the city and a complete contrast from the noise inside.

You could feel the tension radiating off Noah, standing with his back to you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his posture stiff.

For a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched out between you, and your heart began to race while you waited for something, anything, to happen. You wanted to reach out, to say something, but there was something in his demeanor that stopped you. He looked like he was struggling-like whatever was on his mind was tearing him apart from the inside.

Finally, after an eternity, he turned to face you. His eyes, once bright, full of life, had dimmed and clouded over, heavy with a sadness that pushed against your chest. He let out a weighted breath, running a hand through his dark hair before he dropped his gaze to the ground, unable to look at you.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," he started, his tone low, barely above a whisper. There was a rough edge to it, as if he was holding on by a thread. "About us."

Those two words sent a jolt of anxiety through you as suddenly your mind spiraled. Was he breaking up with me? Was this the moment everything I'd built together crumbled? You opened your mouth to speak-wordsshall remain stuck in your throat, too tight in your fear.

Noah must have sensed your panic because he quickly shook his head, stepping closer. "No, no- it's not what you think," he hastened to say, finally meeting your eyes, his expression was pained.

"I'm not... I'm not breaking up with you, but..." He trailed off, obviously searching for words. You waited, your heart still racing in your chest. He looked so very vulnerable standing there, so unlike the confident, composed frontman you were used to on stage. "I just... Fuck, I don't know how to say this," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I feel like I've been a terrible boyfriend lately. Like, I haven't been here for you. Not really." He glanced up at you; his eyes were riddled with guilt.

"And it's been eating at me." Your heart went out to him when he was so torn up. You took a step closer and reached out, gently taking his hand in yours.

"Noah, what are you talking about?" you asked softly and tightened your grip on his hand. "You're not a bad boyfriend."

He gave a harsh laugh and shook his head. "Yes, I am," he persisted in a thick voice. "I've been so wrapped up in the band, in the new album, in fucking everything, that I've barely been around. I feel like I'm always distracted, like my mind's always somewhere else even when I'm home, and that's not fair to you."

He glanced away, swallowing hard, and you saw his jaw clench with his attempt to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to break through. "You deserve someone who's actually there for you. Someone who can give you the attention and time you need. And right now, I'm just... I'm not that guy.".

A tear escaped the corner of his eye, and your heart broke at the sight of it. Noah had always been the strong one, the one that held everything together, and seeing him so vulnerable, so broken, was almost too much to bear. Without thinking, you reached up, gently brushing the tear away with your thumb.

"Noah," you whispered, your voice soft yet firm. "You're enough. You're more than enough."

He shook his head, looking away as if not able to believe you. "I have barely been at home in the past weeks. I missed so many things that were important to you and I have let you down over and over again, and—"

"You haven't let me down," you cut him off, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. "I know how hard you're working. I see everything you're doing and I understand. I get it Noah, I know how much pressure you're under with the band, with the new album and I'm not expecting you to be perfect. I don't need you to be here 24/7. I just need you, Noah. However you come."

He stared at you searching your face for something, or maybe reassurance, maybe hope in. "I feel like I've been so absent. Like I've failed you too many times."

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face in your hands.

"You haven't failed me. You've never failed me," you said in a quiet, hushed voice. "I know things have been tough lately, and I know you've been busy. But I'm not going anywhere, Noah. I'll wait. I'll always wait for you, because you are worth waiting for."

Again, his beautiful brown eyes welled up with tears, but this time he didn't fight it. A couple fell loosely and you softly wiped away each one as it slipped down his cheeks.

"I love you," he whispered, shaking. "I just… I don't want to lose you."

You smiled softly, your heart swelling with all the love you felt for the man standing in front of you. "You're not going to lose me, Noah" you promised. Your voice was steady, sure. "I love you too, more than anything".

He closed his eyes, puffing out a trembling breath as he leaned into your touch. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close while he tightly hugged you, his face buried in your shoulder as he let out a deep, shaky sigh.

You didn't say anything, just stood there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between them. But as moments dragged by, you could feel the tension in his body melt away, his pain replaced by relief and comfort.

"I'm sorry," he whispered after a while, his voice muffled against your skin. "For everything."

"You don't have to apologize," you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.

"We'll figure it out. Together." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, you saw the light return to his eyes. It was faint, but it was there-a glimmer of hope, of love, of the man you knew so well.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with appreciation. "For everything."

You smiled, leaned up and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.

"Always," you whispered against his mouth.

Noah's fingers tightened around yours, his eyes steady now, no longer clouded with doubt.

"I don't know how I got so lucky," he whispered, raw in his voice yet full of sincerity.

You didn't get lucky," I said, with a soft, hard smile. "We chose each other. And I'm still choosing you."

Noah smiled softly back at me. He did choose you. And he was so damn glad he did.

[hannahbarberra162]

Imagine Showing Izou Your Appreciation (Izou x Reader, fluff and smut)

I originally wrote this just for a silly but I really liked how it turned out.

Imagine you want to show your appreciation for Izou. Just as he wants to spend solo time together, so you do. You see all he does for everyone, how high the standards are he holds for himself and others, how hard he works….show your man some love! Does devolve into smut....

WC: ~1.2k

You invite Izou to join you in a private room you've prepared in the infirmary. Normally they're well, clinical. Cold. Sterile. But you've put the massage table in the room, covered it in a clean sheet, moved things around, set up candles and an ambient noise snail to give off soft sounds. You've spiced the room with lavender incense. Not too much, just enough to give a subtle scent, just the way your lover likes it. Izou knocks and enters and you can tell he's a touch surprised. He doesn't show it in his eyes or his expression but the abrupt turn of his head is a small sign. You're wearing a loose fitting garment and give him a kiss when he enters the room, putting your arms around his neck.

"What have you been scheming, my little Blossom?" he asks, looking you in the eyes.

"No schemes this time. I simply want to show you my affection. Let me massage you," you say simply, already rubbing the back of his neck with your strong fingers. Working on a ship had its benefits, namely your fingers of steel. Izou gives no resistance as you guide him to the prepared massage bed, taking off his kimono and folding it up the way he prefers. He allows you to undress him slowly, your touch lingering but still with purpose. Once he's down to his fundoshi, you lay him on the massage bed.

"I must say, this is quite a pleasant surprise," he murmurs, laying his chin on his crossed arms. You kiss the middle of his back and sweep his long, silken hair off to the side, revealing his impressively carved back. "You deserve it. Just relax," you reply, rubbing massage oil into your hands and starting to work on his scarred form. Izou is a man who generally keeps his feelings to himself but as you work into his tight back, shoulders, and neck and feel him loosen, he lets out a small moan. You don't say anything about it and the sound doesn't repeat but you know you've got him in the palm of your hand. You take your time, enjoying the glide of his skin under yours, the feeling of someone so strong and powerful submitting themselves to you, even if just for a moment in time.

"All done on the back," you say, running just a fingertip down his spine.

"Flip over," you purr, putting more massage oil on your palms. You're naked underneath your garment and already oiled yourself up before he entered the room. The wetness between your legs is just adding to the slickness of your skin. He grumbles a little, having been so relaxed under your touch. But needless to say, he adjusts and turns so he can see you getting on the table, throwing one leg over him.

"Mmm. Full service massage?" Izou asks, not even bothering to arch an eyebrow at you. He doesn't seem surprised you're naked underneath, but then again, he does know you well, you've been together for some time.

"Only for you," you say, rubbing massage oil down his front. You do spend some time rubbing his tired shoulders, arms and pecs but you also adjust so your slick folds are rubbing over his hard cock . Leaning over to knead his sore muscles automatically has you sliding over his twitching cock and you do everything in your power to accentuate the action. Normally Izou does not tolerate being teased for longer than a moment but right now he's allowing you to rub back and forth on him, never allowing penetration just stimulation for the both of you. It's like a jaguar allowing you the pleasure of petting its dense fur. He groans a few times as you lean over to massage his scalp, his tip nearly entering your sopping hole when you lean back. You're massaging his trapizeus muscles when he finally snaps and holds you by your hips.

"Sit down," he orders softly, pushing himself into you. You moan as he begins stretching you, the slickness of both your bodies allowing for faster movement. You put your hands on his pecs to start to slide down his cock before Izou clucks his tongue at you.

"I didn't say to stop massaging. You do you work and I'll do mine," he offers, rolling his hips.

You should have known it would end like this, you thought as you tried to continue massaging his muscles. Even seemingly docile under you, Izou is always in control. He rocks his hips into you in such a way that you're not too jostled as you continue to massage with shaking fingers.

"Come now little Blossom, let's see who finishes first, hm?" he says languidly, his supple body now at ease. You nod but in your mind you're not sure you're in control anymore. Maybe you never were, you think as Izou fucks up into you. One of his hands moves to rub at your clit, making your legs twitch.

"Can I r-ride?" you ask, tossing your head back. You really want to but Izou saves it for special occasions, like when you're not being bratty. So basically never. "Hmm. You've been quite selfless, giving me such a treat. I don't see why not," he muses, still rubbing your clit.

"Th-thank you Izou," you say, leaning down to give him a kiss. Izou allows you to bounce yourself on his cock, your squelching filling the small room over the sound of the ambient sound snail. His cock fills you to the brim as it hits you in all the right places. You switch from bouncing to grinding as he continues to gently rub your clit. Now you're the one moaning as he looks up at you with half lidded eyes. You love being on top of Izou, the view of his hair spread in front of you never failing to make you thank the stars you were blessed to be with this beautiful man.

"Izou, p-please? Can I come?" you whine, hoping he allows you. "Hmm," he says, drawing out the time before he answers.

"I h-have hot stones I prepared for you -" you grit out, willing the orgasm to halt until you get permission. You wager that Izou might be more inclined to let you if there's an additional surprise for him. Massages, hot stones, nothing will save you if you break his rules.

"What a thoughtful little Blossom. Go on then, seek your pleasure," he says benevolently, stroking your ass cheek with his hand. You rock yourself on Izou's cock rapidly, your high fast approaching. Between running your hands all over his muscled body, feeling him relaxing under your touch, knowing that you're providing him something he needs, it doesn't take much for you to get close to orgasm.

Just as you're about to come, Izou reaches down and opens the bucket of hot rocks on the floor and grabs two. He pushes them into the small of your back, making you arch even further and the coil in you finally snaps. You wail your pleasure, the heat from the stones nearly too much. But they rapidly cool off as you come down off your high, leaving you a slick, oily, sweaty mess. Izou kisses your forehead as you lay down on his chest, his softening cock still inside you. "Thank you for the surprise, Blossom. I could not ask for a better or more attentive partner. Seems we've found another use for your rocks, hm?"

Ace, elsewhere: tilts his head and frowns Thatch: what's up, buddy? you alright? Ace: it's….I just had a feeling that someone was doing……it's probably nothing.

[heartcal]

overflow; c.h.

summary: calum breaks up with you over text instead of talking things out, but you're not settling for that. pairing: calum hood x gn!reader word count: 1,055 words warnings: mentions of stress, arguing, probably some swears (as usual), angst :^) (but some comfort), largely unedited + not proofread (written around 5am pls forgive me)

a/n: hi :^)) this is a lil piece i wrote after spending an entire day fixing my old laptop (that has been "dead" for 5 years) -- i used this laptop to write A LOT back then. since i have it working again, i had the motivation to write so i wanted to write and this is what came out :^) not for rejected (sorry :^( it's coming though!) but it's something! this was more like a writing exercise to get me back into things, so enjoy!

masterlist!

“I told you,” Calum scoffs, gripping the door handle to stop himself from shutting it in your face, “we’re done.” 

You shake your head, “Over text? Really?” 

He shrugs in response, eyes shifting behind you on a car passing by. He’s doing what he can to avoid any more direct eye contact. 

The everyday stress weighed on him, you note, as the dark circles under his eyes make any indication. There’s a slight redness surrounding his eyes and he’s blinking slower than normal. His shoulders are slumped, and you can hear it in his voice. He’s exhausted. 

You push past him and into the house – a home you once felt comfortable in – and it isn’t a welcome sight. Papers crumbled up and strewn around the living room, and various beverages in both cans and bottles littered the coffee table along with the end tables. Ash trays with countless cigarettes, used tissues, a slight musty odor tickled your nose with every other inhale. 

“What the hell, Calum?” You turn back to him, still standing by the now closed door, still avoiding your eyes. 

You sigh, your gaze shifting back to the mess in disbelief. 

You knew the stress was getting to him, and despite your best efforts to comfort him, it wore him down. The requests for him to take it easy, to take a break, to go for a walk with you to help clear his head; pointless, stupid, not helpful. His responses were pitiful, then they were disappointing, and eventually, maddening.  

You couldn’t take the pity party anymore. You wanted to be a good partner and be there for him but it was hard when he constantly pushed away any of your support. You didn’t want to watch Calum self-destruct when you were there to offer a shoulder to lean on. 

It started with a few snarky remarks here and there, originally going unnoticed by him (at least you believe they did, since he made no noise of acknowledgment). Then it evolved into quick albeit small retorts, which would then lead to you giving a few of your own.  

Was it petty? Absolutely, you’ll admit, and so did all your friends when you showed up to one of the latest get-togethers. They offered words of encouragement with their criticism of the situation. It’s just a small bump in the road, one said, patting your back gently, you both will get over it. 

Except neither of you did. The small bump devolved into a pothole, and your relationship went south. 

One snarky remark, then another, then another, and then another until it became name-calling and playground insults. The weight of everything poured over and you said something you didn’t mean. 

You were tired, too. You had your issues going on and he had known, and it was the fact that he was in his own world, too busy to notice you slipping like he was. 

It came to a head a week ago. Both of you spitting vitriol towards each other, too engrossed in trying to hurt the other to notice the look of heartbreak.  

“You know what? I’m done,” you breathe out, hands up in exasperation. 

Calum doesn’t say anything, rolling his eyes whilst nodding, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

You left the house that day, opting to stay with your friend hoping to clear your head in preparation for The Talk. But the days passed, and you received a text from Calum the night before. 

I can’t do this anymore. We’re done. 

It was stupid, you thought, to break things off over text. Childish, even, and you wanted to tell him that to his face. 

So the next day, you made your way over with a full speech ready to go. He was going to listen to you for the first time in a while whether he liked it or not. 

But the speech and any witty jabs were gone when you arrived, and upon walking into the house you were in just a week ago, the gravity of the situation dawned on you. 

You gulp, turning to face Calum. His eyes jumped up to look at the movement before moving down to look at his nails as he picked at the dirt underneath the fingernails. 

Your mouth opens, ready to speak, but it snaps shut as Calum’s stance changes. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t even say anything.” 

“You were going to,” he steps away from the door, “and I know what you were going to say.” 

He knows you’re starting to pity him. He knows and he hates it. 

Your jaw clenches. You won’t get anywhere with him if he’s acting like this. You sniffle, warmth beginning to surround your eyes, “No, Calum, let me speak.” 

He inhales, ready to open his mouth to respond, but his mouth doesn’t move. 

“You’re digging yourself into this...this hole. I mean, look at this place--” your hands gesture to the living room, “--it’s a mess, Calum! This is unhealthy, physically and mentally. I’m worried about you.” 

Calum still says nothing, but his eyes finally make contact with yours. Your breath hitches, noticing the redness in his eyes has spread, unshed tears dance around his lower lids. There’s a slight tremble in his jaw, his breathing starting to pick up. 

“I’m worried about you, Calum,” you repeat, taking a hesitant step towards him, “I care about you. I just want you to talk to me, and I mean really talk to me.” 

He doesn’t move as you inch closer. He doesn’t move when you reach for his shaking hands, holding them in yours.  

His tears finally fall once you squeeze his hands, reassuring him that you’re here. 

He shakes his hands free from yours, bringing them up to wrap you in a tight hug while mumbling numerous apologies. 

Apologies for the insults, his attitude, his silence, and his behavior overall. He’s near inconsolable, hands tightening on your shirt, not caring about the tears staining it as he nuzzles his head into your neck.  

You soothe him, gently scratching his back. 

“Let’s talk, yeah?” 

He pulls away after a beat of silence, agreeing with puffy eyes, one hand still on your back. 

It’s not going to be an easy conversation, but it’s sure going to be a hell of a lot better than keeping everything in again.  

[vcepsis]

Saw this fantastic post from @thebigchoo and it would NOT leave me alone so I had to put my beautiful boy into a Situation. I've been going insane about JJK for the past few months so here is 3.5k of Gojo suffering!! Set in some kind of future AU where nothing bad happens <3

----

Satoru shifted against the chair, the thin felt covering doing nothing to stop the cheap plastic from digging into his back. Even with three layers on, he could feel every sharp, uneven edge, each dull bump and knob. 

Shifting again, his glasses fell just slightly down his nose, letting in the faintest beam of light from the overhead fluorescents. With a bitten off groan, he shoved them back against his eyes with more force than necessary, wincing as the headache spiked anew. 

This had been such a good idea–two weeks ago, when Suguru had first suggested it. He'd asked, then, if Satoru was interested in going with him to some mall in Tokyo with a new clothing store. And Satoru, ever ready to give his opinion on things, solicited or not, had happily agreed. Having Suguru as his own personal model to dress up had sounded like the perfect way to spend their day off. Of course, that had been before Satoru had managed to somehow catch the damn plague.

It had been over a week and things were not improving. Typically his immune system was better than this. He had hoped he'd be on the mend by now, but it had been so busy–his usual three hour, four a.m. nap had been cut to barely thirty minutes between missions. It wasn't surprising that he'd only managed to get worse.

Unfortunately, today was the only day their schedules lined up for a day off for another month. Suguru had offered to take a rain check that morning, frowning at the dark smudges under Satoru’s eyes and the skin rubbed raw around his nose, but Satoru had waved him off. It was fine. He was fine. 

Now, two train rides and three hours later, Satoru wished he'd taken the out when it was offered. 

Sniffling into the dark face mask–swiped from the infirmary on their way out; hopefully Shoko wouldn't mind–Satoru let his eyes flutter shut. Not that it helped; Six Eyes continued to feed him information, stimuli that was very much not asked for. They tended to act up when he was sick, either taking in too much or not enough. Today they were somehow doing both at the same time. The noise of the store pounded at his senses, and he was actually glad he couldn't smell anything–one less thing for his overstimulated brain to deal with.

Something in his chest shifted, and then he was coughing again, the sound ratty and violent. He pressed a shaking hand to his face mask, hoping to smother the sound–because Suguru did not need a reminder of just how sick Satoru was–but it was no use. They could probably hear him three stores down. He cringed at the thought.

Sensing Suguru’s cursed energy, he managed to sit up in time for the door to the changing room to open, Suguru stepping out. Part of the reason he'd invited Satoru in the first place was to get an unfiltered opinion, which Satoru absolutely excelled at. He willed the perpetual fog in his head to clear long enough to at least be somewhat helpful. 

Suguru looked almost embarrassed, though Satoru couldn't understand why. His latest outfit was a crop top that showed off just enough of his abs to be tasteful, the hem of the high waisted pants creating something almost teasing. Satoru could feel how the three other people in the store stopped dead at the sight, and Satoru couldn't blame them one bit.

Clearing his throat, Suguru raised an eyebrow, though there was a faint blush across his cheeks. “Well?” 

“You look hot,” Satoru rasped and–yikes. Suguru winced.

“Were those even words?” he asked, though the spreading blush suggested he heard it perfectly well. 

Satoru coughed again, trying to clear the gunk out of his chest without devolving into another full fit. But his throat was on fire, like it was coated in glass wrapped in barbed wire.

“We'll go to that juice stall you like after this,” Suguru suggested, and Satoru flashed a quick thumbs up. Truthfully, the idea of any kind of food made him nauseous, but he wasn't about to mention that. Not that he would be able to taste it anyway.

“Seriously,” Satoru said after a minute, trying to push past all the crap in his lungs, “it looks good. You should buy it.”

Suguru hummed in response, still distracted. His enthusiasm for this trip seemed to be dissipating at the same rate as Satoru’s deteriorating condition, and it made something like guilt pool in his stomach. This was supposed to be fun, Satoru reminded himself. He tried to sit up straighter, tried to conjure up some more of his usual energy, but his head was pounding and he couldn't breathe through his nose which was somehow running and congested and everything hurt. 

But dammit, it was their day off. “Try the blue one next.”

Suguru frowned, not looking convinced, but Satoru waved him off with a flap of his hand. 

He leaned his head back against the chair as the door to Suguru’s changing room closed. Letting his eyes shut, he sniffled again, groaning softly as it did nothing to help the congestion. His head felt like it was stuffed with concrete, and he rubbed his nose through the mask with the palm of his hand, grimacing as it only exacerbated the wet feeling around his nostrils. A sneeze had been hovering somewhere in his sinuses since the morning, and he took a hitching breath in anticipation as the feeling surged, but it backed off at the last second, somehow adding to the congestion.

Letting out a sharp sigh, Satoru blinked his eyes open, shifting against the chair again in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. But every notch and groove was digging into his skin, the fluorescent lights were like needles in his eyes even through his blacked out glasses, and every spike of cursed energy around him was clocked by Six Eyes in excruciating detail. Maybe this was hell.

The door to the changing room swung open then, Suguru stepping out in his street clothes. Picking up his head where it was still resting on the back of the uncomfortable chair, Satoru raised his eyebrows. “What–”

“I'm over this,” Suguru cut him off, a few of the things he'd tried on draped over his arm, including that crop top, Satoru noted. “Let's pay and get out of here.” 

“If you're sure,” Satoru replied after a beat, too tired to argue. The relief at leaving mixed with the guilt of cutting the trip short, causing his stomach to churn. 

At the counter, he offered to pay, but Suguru just scowled at him. “I didn't bring you here for your money,” he said sullenly.

Satoru didn't know how to express that he knew that. He wasn't trying to baby Suguru or patronize him. It was just the only way he knew how to apologize for forcing them to leave early. Originally he'd planned on hitting a few more stores, then getting dinner together, somewhere nice, but that plan had been thrown out the window when he'd barely been able to drag himself out the door that morning.

So instead, he just shrugged, stepping away from the counter so the clerk wouldn't have to hear his incessant sniffling. 

The cough snuck up on him this time, and he stumbled out of the store as it ripped through him, pressing his fist against the mask. His lungs burned with the effort, the coughs crackling and painful. Leaning against a wall, he desperately tried to catch his breath as the fit subsided, pushing up his glasses to wipe at his watery eyes.

A hand touched his back, making him jump. Whirling, he turned to see Suguru, hand still outstretched and eyebrows raised in surprise. 

Ugh. So Six Eyes had to tell him that there were exactly four people in the store across the way, but not that someone was coming up behind him? What the fuck. 

“I–uh–are you okay?” Suguru seemed at a loss, and Satoru couldn't really blame him. When was the last time anyone–anything–had gotten the jump on him? 

God, he was tired. The noise of cursed energy surged around them, smothering him like a tidal wave, pounding relentlessly against him. Somewhere nearby, a glass broke, and he winced as it felt like the shards were lodging into his brain.

The bag from the clothing store crinkled in Suguru’s hand as he took a step towards him. Suguru touched his elbow, and Satoru tried to focus on it, letting it anchor him in a sea of stimuli. 

“Come on,” Suguru said softly, wrapping his long fingers around Satoru's arm in a loose hold, gently tugging him along. Satoru went willingly, doing his best not to trip over his own feet.

The noise started to fade as Suguru led him away from the busiest stores, taking him towards a more secluded part of the mall. They passed a bathroom, and Satoru took his arm back. Turning, Suguru raised an eyebrow in question.

“I'm gonna–” Satoru jerked a thumb towards the bathroom, not waiting for Suguru’s response before making his way in. Six Eyes told him it was empty–he could only hope it was right, though he didn't fully trust them today. Wasting no time, he practically ran inside, desperate for a moment to himself.

He pulled down his mask, relieved as the sensation of material on his face eased. Swiping a few paper towels, he blew his nose, though it didn't put a dent in the congestion and just made him cough in the aftermath. The paper towel was rough, scraping across the sensitive skin. Why hadn't he thought to bring tissues? 

The urge to sneeze spiked again, and he tilted his head back to–nothing. Not even pushing his glasses onto his head to look into the ugly lights of the bathroom helped tease it out. 

Tossing the paper towel into the garbage with more force than necessary, he caught his reflection in the mirror. No wonder Suguru had volunteered to leave early. His already pale complexion was a shade or two lighter, making him look downright lifeless, though there was a faint flush developing high on his cheeks. His nose was pink, except for around his nostrils, which was an angry red. And his eyes–ugh. Red rimmed and watery, their usually bright sheen was now dull and dark, which was obvious even behind his glasses. 

Fuck. He shouldn't be out in public like this. 

It was embarrassing, honestly, how easily he was falling apart. He was supposed to be the strongest. How his family would sneer at him if they saw him now, undone by something as mundane as a cold. 

He sniffled aggressively, but still had to snag another paper towel to angrily swipe at his nose as it threatened to run down his lip. His throat burned, his eyes throbbed, he couldn't breathe right, his chest felt heavy, he'd been on the edge of a sneeze since he woke up and it was all driving. Him. Crazy.

A door in the women's bathroom slammed, and Satoru had to bite back a groan. The surge of cursed energy was back, and even if this part of the mall had fewer stores, it was enough to overwhelm him. Three teenagers walking by, their energy wild and unrestrained. Low level curses crawling around the women’s changing room twenty feet away. A child crying across the hall a spike in energy two stores down as a couple bickered the dripping water of the faucet in front of him the rattle of the pipes in the walls a sudden wave of energy from the food court–

“Satoru?”

Whipping his head up, he saw Suguru standing by the entrance to the bathroom, concern in his dark eyes. 

“You've been gone for a while,” Suguru said, gaze flickering from his face to his hands as he walked slowly towards him.

It was only then Satoru realized he was gripping the edge of the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white. 

Something wet rolled down his face, and he only had a second to be horrified at the idea of his nose running before Suguru’s hand cupped his cheek, his thumb wiping away–a tear, it was a tear. Oh. Was he crying? 

“Satoru?” Suguru said his name so tenderly. When was the last time he was treated softly when he was sick? He remembered being ill as a child, receiving the best medicine and the finest doctors, every need taken care of. But had anyone held him, or offered any kind of comfort? Maybe a few of the maids, if they were feeling particularly sorry for him, but never his parents. Had anyone touched him with gentle hands the way Suguru was now, like he was something precious? Not a commodity to be cultivated or a god to be shaped?

“You're a bit warm,” Suguru murmured, brows furrowed. 

Satoru went to reply–maybe with something cheeky like I'm always hot or something embarrassing like can we please go home–but instead, all that came out was a choked sound. He felt another tear run down his cheek, and Suguru dropped the bag he was holding, bringing up his other hand to fully hold Satoru’s face, eyes wide in alarm.

“Satoru?!” he said again, more urgently.

“I–” The cursed energy surged again as a group of people walked by the bathroom, and it was all too much. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too raw to handle it. His hands flew to his head, knocking his glasses off in the process, and he couldn't hold back a frustrated sob.

Suguru acted immediately, wrapping a hand around his arm and tugging him into the bathroom stall, bag forgotten on the ground. Kicking the door shut and throwing the lock closed, Suguru yanked the cover of the toilet down before pulling them down to sit on the top. Despite Satoru being taller, Suguru managed to maneuver them so his face was pressed into Suguru’s chest, one hand on the back of his head, the other around his shoulders.

The tears came hot and fast. Satoru surprised himself by how many he had to shed, sobbing into Suguru’s shirt, clutching chunks of fabric like a lifeline. Suguru just held him, saying nothing, not even as Satoru stained his shirt with a disgusting mix of bodily fluids. But he couldn't stop, too miserable to even try. The noise was endless, his eyes throbbed, his head was too heavy to lift. His sobs burned through his scratchy throat, quiet and painful. Everything felt wrong, and even his clothes–his softest shirt, his most comfortable sweater, his warmest hoodie–were like sandpaper against his skin. 

The only thing that felt right was Suguru’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, the other holding his head gently but firmly. Satoru tried to focus on that. He practically begged Six Eyed to cool it for a goddamn second, tried to direct their perception to hone in on the warmth of Suguru’s arms around him, but it only marginally succeeded. 

The crying was not helping his congestion in the slightest, his whole face feeling gross. And wet. Suguru would need to burn this shirt, fuck. Satoru would buy him a replacement. Or ten replacements. Whatever he wanted.

It took a few long minutes, but the tears eventually slowed, Satoru left making sad, broken noises as he tried to breathe through the gunk in his head. 

“Let's get you cleaned up,” Suguru said softly, “and then we'll get out of here, ok?”

Satoru could only groan at the thought of the train. Another three hours to get back. The idea made him dizzy.

“I called the school,” Suguru said, as if reading his thoughts. Satoru looked up at him, lashes wet, trying not to think about how pathetic he must look. “They'll send someone to pick us up.”

Satoru nodded, running the back of his hand across his runny nose, trying in vain to fix himself up at least a bit. Thankfully, Suguru’s shirt was black, any gross stains that Satoru left behind hidden. Not that Suguru seemed to mind. 

Chuckling softly, Suguru reached over and unlocked the stall door with one hand, pulling Satoru up with the other. 

“Come on, I got you.” With the patience of a saint–or maybe God himself, at this point–Suguru led him to the sink, but Satoru pulled back.

“S-Suguru, wait–” The crying had shifted the congestion just right, finally, and he was spinning away from Suguru to catch the resulting sneeze in his cupped hands. Then another, and another. The groan he let out afterwards was half disgusted, half relieved. He winced at the wet feeling in his palms, then shivered as a sudden chill went through him.

Behind him, Suguru sighed, but it sounded affectionate. “Come on, let's make sure your brains are still in your head.” 

“Gross,” Satoru replied, voice crackling with the effort.

Suguru touched his back with one hand, guiding him towards the sink. Digging into his pocket with the other, he fished out a travel pack of tissues, peeling open the package and pulling one out. 

“Here.” He offered it to Satoru, who was still hiding behind his cupped hands. 

“Why d’you have this?” Satoru asked, snatching it out of Suguru’s hand as fast as possible. His shoulders hunched as he blew his nose again, the soft material of the tissue leagues better than the rough, horrible texture of the paper towels.

“Because you're sick,” Suguru replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Oh. Satoru held his hand out for another one silently, hoping Suguru couldn't see the way the blush extended all the way to his ears. 

It took half the package before Satoru felt somewhat human again, though his reflection in the mirror told a different story. His eyes and nose were even redder, his cheeks ruddy from crying. 

Ugh. He felt disgusting. All he wanted was to take a hot shower and then pass out. 

It was only when he was washing his hands, with Suguru retrieving his glasses and the dropped bag, when he saw it–the cursed spirit at the entrance to the bathroom. Once again, Six Eyes couldn't be bothered to let him know. Before he could completely freak out, though, he finally noticed Suguru’s residuals on it.

“One of yours?” Satoru asked, somewhat unnecessarily. Ugh, his voice was officially shredded.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Just noticing now?” he asked playfully, the smile dropping off his face when Satoru didn't react. “Holy shit, are you seriously just noticing now?” 

Scowling, Satoru returned his attention to washing his hands, scrubbing a bit more aggressively than necessary. It was embarrassing to be so caught off guard, even worse to be so called out about it. The cursed energy was all mixing into a confusing mess in his sludgy brain, making it harder to tell everything apart. Turning off the water, he flicked his hands into the sink, snagging a paper towel and refusing to meet Suguru’s eyes.

“Hey.” Suguru touched his cheek, pulling his face towards him. Satoru went willingly, despite his annoyance. “Sorry. I was just surprised.” Suguru touched Satoru’s forehead with the back of his hand, frowning. “You're really not well, Satoru.”

Satoru just shrugged, tossing the paper towel over his shoulder, where it landed in the garbage can despite the fact that his vision was going fuzzy. 

Suguru was beside him before he could sway, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I got you.”

He shook out Satoru’s glasses with his other hand, gently sliding them into his face. They rested just the wrong way on the bridge of his nose, igniting the lingering tickle, and he just managed to pull the mask up in time to sneeze into it.

“Ugh”, he couldn't help but moan. 

“Bless you,” Suguru said, amusement in his voice, though he squeezed his arm tighter around Satoru’s waist. “Let's get out of here.”

-----

“I'm sorry.”

Satoru blinked his eyes open, looking up at Suguru from where he was nuzzled into his side, Suguru’s arm around him in a way that could almost be called protective. The drive so far had been quiet, save for Satoru’s sniffling. Luckily the driver hadn't said anything when they came to pick them up, even if this was a gross misuse of school time and property. “For what?”

“I should have insisted we stay home,” Suguru said, sighing softly, the guilt in his voice unmistakable. “I shouldn't have dragged you out like this.”

Satoru hummed softly. “It's okay,” he said, hardly even audible with the way his voice kept cutting out. He coughed softly into the mask, but snuggled up closer. “I like spending time with you.”

Suguru’s arm tightened around him.

“Y-yeah,” Suguru said, a bit breathless. Then he smiled down at Satoru, warm and affectionate. “I like spending time with you, too.”

“Even when I'm all gross like this?” It was supposed to be a joke, but it came out more sincere than Satoru meant.

“Always,” Suguru responded, without hesitation. “Though I would rather you weren't feeling so shitty.”

Satoru hummed in response, letting his eyes close again. He rested his head on Suguru’s shoulder, and Suguru’s hand came up to card through his hair. 

“It was worth it to see that crop top,” Satoru murmured, and Suguru just laughed, the sound low and affectionate. 

[hygienic-soap-dispenser]

Hws Nordics as University Students Headcanons

Because I am a suffering student and you need to suffer with me <3

Denmark

The clown of the group

Has trouble focusing/paying attention

Will use other Nordics in group study session with the goal of body doubling to keep each other in check and focused, but often devolves to laughing and banter instead

Offers good moral support and asks a lot of questions in class, has great participation marks, but can go off topic

Rallies people to meet when need to discuss group projects, again he is great moral support

When writing he either cannot write anything or speed types and hyperfocuses, no in-between

Appears self-confident and social but can actually struggle with self esteem and seeming like he's incompetent or "too much" for people, tries to compensate by being extra likeable and useful

Bonds with people over humor, socializing and making friends are more important than grades to him

Only chooses classes that interest him, does surprisingly well as a result

The most likely of the Nordics to be late for class

Goes to a lot of college parties

Sweden

The mom of the group, always checking in on people and making sure everyone feels included

Reformed high school bully, but still gossips with Norway about classmates and faculty

Has very high standards for himself and his work, will force people in his group projects to do at least 2 rounds of editing

Can really get in the zone and hyperfocuses when studying, but to do that he needs his noise cancelling headphones, his stim toy, perfect room temperature, comfy study clothes, and his daily ritual to actually start

Refuses to pull all-nighters to finish assignments, sleep is more important to him (king)

Is professional with group projects, is calm and good with delegating work

At the same time, he is very opinionated and loves to debate people in and out of class. Often argues with specific students

Easily overwhelmed from noises, activities, and group projects, needs to find quiet places to hide

Gets good grades, professors either love him or forget he exists

Is part of some interest clubs, like for art and woodworking

Norway

The mysterious hottie who sits in the back of class

Hates group projects, doesn't contribute much to them unless it's with his favourite people (other Nordics, specifically Sweden)

Doesn't contribute much in class, but when he does it is good

The class health nut, goes out for 6 am and 11 pm jogs (he is insane)

Also tbh he gives off the vibe of someone who'd be a health nut but also really into drugs at the same time?? Like he does sports and yoga and tracks his water consumption and macros but at the same time experiments with drugs to "expand his spiritual worldview"?

Is fine with concentration, doesn't really struggle unless there's a lot going on in his head at the time

On that topic, he frequents the counseling and medical clinic. There have been rumors about his frequent medical visits...

His writing is okay, nothing to write home about, but then sometimes can get very poetic and profound, especially when it's a personal topic

Gossips a lot with Sweden, they like to people watch together

Skips a lot of classes, somehow still passes

Finland

Perfectionist and an over-achiever, bases a lot of his self-worth on grades. Will get upset if he gets anything below an A-

Can feel like he's in a competition with classmates for good grades and approval from professors, will ask a lot of questions and tries to start discussions in class

Will talk to the professor right after the end of the 1st class to introduce himself and establish dominance

Tries to humble brag about school and his work ethic by telling classmates how often he crams and pulls all-nighters

Very anxious about grades, always does well (at the cost of his mental health)

Mostly sustains himself on energy drinks and coffee

Doesn't like group projects because he thinks no one else cares about doing well as much as he does

This isn't helped by the fact that he has trust issues and thinks others will let him down

Frequents the counseling center and medical clinic on campus. The former because of stress and trauma which worsens school stress, the latter because of medical issues as a result of said stress

Professors either love him or hate him

Despite how he acts in class he's actually a people-pleaser, but his over-achieving nature can be hard to deal with

Goes to the campus gym at least once a week to lift weights, probably part of the school hockey club

If he survives, will pursue graduate school

Iceland

The freshman, trying to figure things out

Thinks that because he did well in high school he'll have an easy time in university (he won't and will be humbled)

Sits in the back of class but secretly wants to sit up front with the "nerds", doesn't want to risk making a fool of himself

Overanalyzes group projects and panics. Double/triple checks his work before sending in his contributions because he wants to seem competent in their eyes

Usually reserved but once he opens up will say the most out of pocket things, sometimes it slips in his quiet phase

Surprisingly, is among the worst of the Nordics in terms of grades. This is mainly because he is unconfident in his own work and views, so he often ends up self-sabotaging his work or doing the bare minimum

His friends are his main priority in school, not grades

Like Fin, is a people-pleaser. Unlike Fin, he is easy to get along with

[wil-o-wispy]

The Wife, the Lover and the Bastard Son - Part 6

Pairing: Chris Redfield x FEM!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 (you are here)

Summary: You're out of time.

Content: Canon typical violence/swearing, descriptions of blood, references/spoilers for RE5, spoilers for RE6, descriptive parasite body horror, descriptions of Uroboros infection, possessive behavior. Reader is referred to as 'Doc' and is the wife of Albert Wesker and is a former Umbrella scientist.

a/n: Oh look my love of horror is finally shining through. Also, I kept changing my mind on how to split everything up and this chapter ran much longer than I intended but I don't think I'll hear any complaints about that. Enjoy!

w/c: 11k

You feel like you’re being stretched thin.

Between redirecting Albert to other parts of the lab through the announcement system, answering Chris’ questions on the computer system, keeping an eye on Jake’s progress through the lab searching for the G-Virus, weapons and Youju’s office, as well as keeping nervous vigil on the poor soul that got infected by Uroboros in the hallway Jake explored, your attention is scattered to say the least.

And what’s worse, you’re growing tired. 

It’s a preposterous problem on the surface; monsters are mulling about, you’re counting down the minutes until Chris’ team arrives and you’re on high alert for any potential danger for you or Jake. How could you possibly have the capacity to doze off?

The problem and answer are one and the same: you’re human.

You’ve been awake and in survival mode for the better part of a day and a half.

Your tongue becomes stubbornly slow.

Your words to Jake on the walkie are sluggish and you have to make a conscious effort to articulate your words so they don’t run together.

Your eyes grow heavy.

You lean your head on your fist and blink longer than you should, only bolting upright when Jake’s voice comes through on the walkie or Chris’ voice emanates from the computer system with an updated ETA. Flipping through the cameras to redirect Albert or check on the creature keeps you awake for a few minutes, until you start drifting off again just as quickly. 

Your mind is exhausted.

You start to make small mistakes directing Jake to parts of the lab he hasn’t explored. The numbers blur together and you say them out of order. Your directions become jumbled. The momentary respite from responsibility from closing your eyes for too long becomes irresistibly inviting. 

“You doin’ okay Doc? You sound distracted.” Jake questions through the walkie nestled in your hand. You jerk upright once again, frown, then unsuccessfully try to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Despite the soulless white LED lights illuminating the room, the darkness that envelops you behind your eyelids in this moment is more inviting than any bed or embrace. The buzzing from the same lights would normally grate on your ears, but now serve as infuriatingly soothing white noise. You pick up the walkie and put it to your lips.

“Fine. You haven’t found any energy drinks have you? Coffee? Epinephrine?” You mumble into the walkie, only half joking about the last one. The last thing you need to do is fall asleep while so many things are relying on your eyes and ears. To your relief you hear Jake chuckle. 

“Can’t say I have, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled. 805 through 820 are also bust. A lot of offices, but not with the one we’re looking for.” Jake says through the walkie. You fumble picking up your pen and haphazardly cross out those rooms. Your purposeful marks have devolved into barely thought out scribbles. 

“Ridger that.” You reply, not even noticing the small mistake in your speech as you flick the pen across the paper.

“You wanna try saying that again Doc?” Jake says, the shit eating grin evident in his voice.

You huff and put the walkie back to your lips, making a conscious effort to enunciate your words. “Rodger that. Find anything remotely useful?”

“Old matchbook. Flimsy, but it’ll do. Could be useful if there’s a can of gas laying around to keep our friend in the hallway warm.” 

You think for a moment too long, flicking through the cameras to quadruple check the pile of Uroboros is still in the same hallway before answering into the walkie and yawning. “As long as everything is burned away, then it’ll work. I could try directing you to the hangar to look for one if you need a change of scenery?”

“I’ll take you up on that once I finish here.”    

The buzzing from the fluorescent lights overhead and the whirring from the computer systems are the only sounds in the room for a long moment until you hear Jake’s voice through the walkie again.

“Hey Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on with you and Redfield?”

You frown and let out a breath through your nose, hating that your pulse sped up at his question. You’re silent for a moment. There was no way in hell you were digging into that can of worms now. You especially aren’t going to voluntarily divulge having an intimate encounter with Jake’s father’s killer.

“Difference of opinion.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was vague enough of an answer that you hoped Jake would get the hint and drop it.

“On what?” Jake asks through the walkie. You can hear a grin in his voice.

“Nothing important.” You quip shortly, fighting back a yawn.

“Sounds important to me.”

You roll your eyes and bring the walkie to your lips again. “I will answer any questions you have about your father with full honesty. But anything about me outside that? Case by case basis. Difference of opinion.”

There’s silence on the walkie and you think that Jake’s finally gotten the hint, but then his voice comes through again. “Alright then. How’d you meet him?” Jake says casually.

You pause. 

“Wesker?” You utter.

“Yeah. Umbrella?”

You nod, even though Jake can’t see it. “Yeah.” 

Another pause. “That all you got for me?”

You shrug. “It’s not terribly interesting.”

“Then bore me.” You can hear Jake rummaging through something on the other side of the walkie for a moment before the frequency cuts out.

You think for a moment, then figure why not? If Jake wants to know more about his father from your perspective, then so be it. “On my first day the scientist training me was out sick, and Wesker was the only person not stuck in a meeting who knew how to run all of the equipment that I needed to use.”

You watch Jake walk out of a room and back into the hallway on the cameras. You see him nodding his head. “So you two got to talking and got together a while later?”

You snort. “I thought he was an ass actually, so no.”

You see Jake do something like a snort or a chuckle on the cameras. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah he wasn’t happy about ‘wasting his time’ showing me around. He had an attitude so I gave it right back to him.”

You lean back in your chair, thinking back to those simpler times.

“First he thought I was a pain in the ass, then I started moving up in the department and we were rivals, then we started being placed on overlapping projects. That rivalry eventually turned into something more and he put a ring on it.”

There were more salacious details in between those events; lots of late nights in the labs and office rendezvous that would have gotten both you and Albert in a lot of trouble with management if you’d been less discreet about it. 

“You work on bioweapons together?” You see Jake disappear into another room.

“No. I worked in vaccines. He was in special projects. Occasionally those two things overlapped.”

“You know about the viruses or monsters or anything?”

You lean forward in your chair, flipping through the cameras while answering. Albert is still wandering and the corpse infected with Uroboros is still where it should be. You have to consciously remind yourself to open your eyes after blinking. 

Focus.

“I knew it was top secret and government funded. I thought he was working on combat enhancing drugs or something related to it.”

Chris’ voice emanates from the computer system in the corner of the room. “Redfield for Doc. You read me?” His voice sounds clearer than before. A sure sign that rescue is close. You put the walkie to your lips.

“Chris is calling, I’ll be back.”

“You two play nice.” You can hear the singsong grin in Jake’s voice and you have to bite back saying something defensive.

“And you do your part while I try to keep you alive, yeah?” You quip, tossing the walkie next to a security monitor. You roll yourself over to the computer system while sitting in your wheely chair and unmute yourself.

“You’ve got Doc. Any updates?”

Even though his voice is laced with determination and professionalism, Chris’ voice sounds much too soothing as it flows out of the computer system. “I’m happy to inform you I have a tanker about 100 miles out with supporting aircraft on standby”

“Thank God. And you’ve got weapons? Good ones?” 

“Affirmative. With all the bells and whistles and then some.”

“Good…good…” You start to trail off, deciding to rest your eyes for a moment in the chair.

“Has he broken character?”

Not on camera.

Not having the security cameras glare into your eyes is doing wonders on your ability to stay conscious. The chair feels much cozier than it did a few hours ago. 

“Doc? You read me? What’s the status on Wesker?” Chris’ worried voice breaks through the fog of sleep.

Your head shoots back up. You shake your head and rub your eyes. You have to stay awake. People are depending on you. Your voice comes out in a tired mumble. “Yeah! Yeah I’m here. Still holding down the fort. Not on camera, but I think he did in one of the blind spots about an hour ago. He had more blood on his face than he did before.”

“So that’s twice?” Chris asks, his voice a soothing balm to your nerves, bringing you dangerously close to relaxing a little too much. You force yourself to focus, lightly slapping your fingers on your cheeks to will the tempting blanket of sleep to dissipate. It doesn’t work.

“Correct. He’s still responding to my voice though.”

You can almost imagine Chris nodding his head on the other side of the call, mentally categorizing the information for later. His next words come out softer.

“And are you doing okay? Do you need anything when we get there? Water, food, medical attention?”

You look down at the dried blood on your clothes, thinking back to Albert mowing down the Neo Umbrella scientists back in the chamber. You wrinkle your nose in discomfort. “Change of clothes would be nice? I’ll take literally anything you have.”

“I’m sure we’ve got some extra flight suits around here somewhere.” You can hear a fond smile creeping into Chris’ voice.

“Those can be pretty cute jumpsuits with the right accessories.” You tiredly joke, unable to resist the comforting familiarity in his voice and not even realizing your mind is starting to drift.

Chris responds in an easy, low tone. “I’ll make sure to get you a couple options then. Can’t have our resident scientist not looking her best.” 

You let out a quiet, tired laugh at his light teasing, the sound barely escaping your lips as you lean your head back on the roller chair again. You can almost imagine leaning on Chris’ shoulder and falling asleep like that in his comforting arms. Your head feels so heavy. You need to stay alert, but sleep calls to you from the darkness behind your eyelids like a siren’s song.

“Doc?” Chris questions after your continued silence.

“Hm?” You mumble, barely conscious.

“Doc... Stay with me,” Chris’s voice cuts through, still warm but firmer now. “We’re getting close, but I need you sharp. Just hang tight till we get there, alright?”

“I’m awake… I’m awake…” You mumble to yourself, forcing yourself to open your eyes.

“Good. I need your capable eyes and ears at full throttle, alright? We-” Chris is interrupted by another soldier talking to him on the other end. In either your haze of exhaustion or radio static, you can’t hear what needs Chris’ attention. You know by the murmuring under his breath that it can’t be anything good.

“Doc, I’ve gotta take care of something really quick but I’ll be back, okay? Don’t hang up, but do a few laps around the room you’re in. Get your blood pumping.” Every word Chris speaks is like honey in your ears, seeping slowly into your bones and making your current situation a distant, dangerous memory.

“Hm.” You utter, blinking slowly. “That’s a good idea.”

Chris’ heavy footsteps are the last thing you hear before your body finally gives way, and your consciousness drifts into darkness.

You jolt awake when you hear gunshots, frantically looking around the room to see where the source is.

You fell asleep you damn idiot.

They’re coming from the security cameras. You roll your chair over with so much force you have to stop your body from being clotheslined by the end of the table. Your eyes quickly find the correct camera angle, and they widen when you see Jake shooting at a monstrous amalgamation of Uroboros. You smack your hand over the walkie talkie, struggling to hold down the correct button in your panic. You finally find it.

“Jake you need to run!” You bark into the walkie, eyes glued to the screen.

Despite your order, Jake stands his ground and continues to unload the clip into the writhing mass of bio-matter. He can’t hear you over the gunshots.

You slam your hand onto the security panel to speak into the announcement system.

“You’re wasting ammo you need literal fire to stand a chance against that thing! Run!”

You see Jake’s lips move on the screen saying some kind of curse before he darts down the hall, the writhing creature just barely keeping up with him.

For a moment you sit there just watching the chase unfold as you try to formulate a plan. Jake can’t run forever. The creature will easily outlast Jake in terms of stamina. 

You frantically look around the security panel, trying to find the controls for the security doors to try and trap the creature in a hallway that Jake isn’t going to need later to at least give him some time to get away. You find the controls and try to get your bearings on where Jake is running, and you realize he’s running back towards the hallway you two got separated at. You look down at the panel; GAS is clearly marked under a button close to the hallway security door locks.

Your mind goes back to the knockout gas. The matches that Jake found. You have a plan.

“Run two halls down, turn right and run all the way to the end! Prepare to light some matches and throw them when I say so!”

You command into the walkie, turning up the gas release all the way, then having your finger and thumb hovering over one of the security door buttons and the other over the knockout gas. You don’t know the exact type of gas this mechanism uses, but a lot of gas canisters you’ve seen over the years have the KEEP AWAY FROM OPEN FLAME warning in bold letters on it. You’re hoping this one is something remotely flammable and you can saturate the hallway enough for it to ignite.

You watch with bated breath as Jake sprints into view on the security monitor, sliding and almost falling over on the sharp turn but quickly regaining his balance by pushing his upper body from the floor with one hand and beelining down towards the opposite end of the hallway. The creature writhes into view a few seconds after. As soon as it crosses the threshold of the hallway you close the security door behind it and turn on the gas, finger poised to close the other door.

Thick white plumes of gas creep from the middle of the floor grating as Jake’s feet glide over it, following even closer on his heels than the pursuing creature.

You see Jake make it to the end of the hallway and expertly strike one of the matches, then light up the rest of the matchbook for good measure as he keeps sprinting.

“Light it up and run like hell!” You bark into the walkie, and Jake wastes no time tossing the whole flaming matchbook into the hallway behind him like he’s throwing a frisbee and high tailing it in the opposite direction over the threshold of the security door. At the same time you slam your hand on the other security door button.

Everything that happens next happens in an instant.

The matchbook doesn’t even make it to the ground before you see the gas ignite on the camera in the hallway. You see the creature slam up against the security door when the flames hit it. It writhes and shivers from the unbearable heat before the hallway feed is overtaken by white and replaced with static, along with a dozen or so other camera feeds that were displayed on the security panel.

You can feel your heart beating in your ears as you try to find a camera that’s still operational so you can make sure the creature will no longer be a problem. After another moment, you finally find one in a connecting hallway that gives you a glimpse into the now decimated one. The gas appears to have been connected to some of the neighboring halls, causing a chain reaction of explosions as a result. You can see bits of grate, security door and wall paneling scattered like shrapnel in the unaffected areas that you can still see. Piping from below the grated floor that you couldn’t see before the chase faintly glows red like dying embers.

To your relief, a pile of bio matter lies in lifeless black ropes, gradually melting away into the grating below with small flames clinging to it on all sides.

You sigh, shoulders relaxing as you let yourself melt into the wheeled office chair you’re sitting in. You speak into the walkie. “Jake, I think you got it.”

No answer.

“Jake? Do you copy?”

You’re frozen, waiting for a proof of life that doesn’t come, then your eyes flick back up to the security panel, your mind quickly putting together the general location of the cameras that went out after the explosion. A numbness comes over you. The cameras that are now static are located where Jake was running to.

“Jake!” You shout into the walkie, assuming the worst and shaking the walkie in your hand as if it will help you get an answer more quickly.

Suffocating silence.

You’re about to call into the walkie again, but you hear something to your right and you stiffen. You slowly move your eyes over to the door without moving your head, your heartbeat already speeding up again and dread creeping into your bones. The sound is faint, but the familiar walking cadence of your husband that you’ve been observing for the past few hours on the security system is unmistakable. 

Thump and drag. Thump and drag.

With your eyes still on the door, you slowly reach down to the volume knob on your walkie and turn the dial all the way down.

A shadow creeps along the bottom side of the communications room door, larger than a normal man. You already know with dreaded clarity the danger you’re in. You don’t move. You barely breathe.

Albert heard you. Stay quiet. Stay calm.

Maybe if you’re quiet enough he’ll get bored and go away. Even though you know your husband is more receptive to your wishes with the Nemesis parasite piloting his body, the brief moments of clarity and rage from the real Albert are enough to make calling out to him a risk you’re unwilling to make.

It feels like he’s standing outside the door for an eternity. You can hear the heavy breathing, the wet drag of the Uroboros arm on the wall neighboring the communications room that’s been your safe haven for the past few hours. 

Chris’ voice pierces the air like a death toll.

“Doc? You there?”

You feel your heart drop to your stomach. A sound similar to a growl emanates from the other side of the door followed by a single hard rap on the door that rings through the room so loudly that it makes you jump in your seat and you pray to whatever deity may be listening that Chris gets the message that you’re busy and can’t talk right now.

For a moment you’re frozen in your seat, the stillness in the air hanging over you like an oppressive fog. Then, the inevitable happens. Chris’ voice shatters the silence.

“I know you’re busy with Jake over there, but we’re about an hour out from your current location…”

The more Chris talks, the angrier the sounds on the outside of the room become, the more frequent the banging on the door rattles the wall, and the faster your heart beats as you scramble out of your rolling chair and frantically try to silence Chris’ voice.

Where the hell is the off switch?

You fumble trying to find the button to terminate the frequency, but the panic short circuiting your rational thinking and making it impossible to read the labels on any of the buttons. You do the next best thing and smash every button you see, but you press them in the exact wrong order because you unmute yourself and raise the volume unintentionally.

Chris finally hears the commotion on your end, and speaks in a low serious tone.

“Doc is everything alrigh-”

“SHUT UP!” You screech, on the verge of tears still trying in vain to turn off the communications device. At the same time, you hear the sounds of wailing, crumbling metal at the entrance to the room. You look over your shoulder just in time to see a coil of writhing biomatter piercing through the metal door, and Albert pulling it right out of its resting place and discarding it without a thought of where it will land.

With a feral sound that can only be described as an incensed roar, Albert bounds across the room towards you. Survival instinct takes over and you dive out of the way just as Albert takes a swing at you with his Uroboros arm. 

No.

Not at you.

At the computer system. 

At the source of Chris’ voice.

Albert swings at the computer system and nearly bends the whole thing in half on the diagonal, breaking the screen but not the audio system. Chris’ voice warbles though like a bad record, his worry for you evident in the tone of voice even if the words themselves are unintelligible, and it only incenses Albert more. Albert rips and tears and pierces the system with manic movements, as if picturing his nemesis dying by his hand and not a piece of machinery long after Chris’ voice is no longer heard.

For good measure, he wraps his Uroboros arm around it and rips the whole system from the wall, with sparks flying and the sounds of protesting metal not ceasing until he flings it across the room and the whole thing resembles a crushed and hole ridden crushed soda can rather than a high tech piece of equipment.

The whole time this is happening, you can’t even take the opportunity to escape. Albert’s large body has effectively cornered you into the area with all of the storage boxes. You can’t get around him without having your body touch his in some way. That’s not the only thing that stops you though.

You can tell Albert is lucid.

His eyes are glowing red slits when he stares at the destroyed machine. He breathes heavily with beads of sweat dripping down his face, brown from dried blood leftover from hitting his head against the wall some hours ago. Or is it the remnants of blood splashback from all the scientists he killed? 

Leaning on the wall for support, Albert takes advantage of his momentary lucidity to reach behind his ribcage with his more human arm towards the regulator. His fingers fumble against the device, unable to get a good grip from the smoothness of the outer shell and the black secretions from Uroboros which causes him to growl in frustration. You see his eyes start to dilate once more as the Nemesis parasite attempts to regain control, but Albert realizes it early and is quick to act before that happens.

He doesn’t try reaching for the regulator like before. He doesn’t slam his head against the wall. Instead, he uses nothing but his fingernails on his non-Uroboros covered arm to dig at the flesh at the base of his hairline on the back of neck. Albert grimaces and shakes from the pain and the struggle to stay in control, but continues to force his fingernails into his skin, blood leaking around the intrusions until he has some purchase in his grip on the layer of skin. 

His hand closes in on itself and he slowly rips the sensitive skin downwards with a breathless cry and the skin tears away from the muscle underneath in one jagged flap. Blood spurts down the length of what you can see of his spine underneath the writhing worms of Uroboros. Albert wastes no time digging his fingers into the knots of revealed muscle to grasp strings of something decidedly alien with a shaking fist. Albert only wastes a few seconds to mentally prepare himself before you see him ball his hand into a fist and yank the strange strings violently to the side until the muscles of his good arm grow taught and he lets out a blood curdling cry of agony.

Knowing how powerful he was all those years ago, seeing Albert locked in a battle of wills for control of his own body is a harrowing experience.

You’d become fairly desensitized to the blood and gore that accompanies your profession over the years as a consequence of simply witnessing it; blood and the pallid flesh of the freshly dead, the decomposing death masks of the undead and the aftermath of the gnashing teeth from any number of genetically engineered monsters hardly made you bat an eye anymore. 

But this? 

This horrifies you.

Scientifically you could attempt to imagine the unsurmountable pain Albert was experiencing. The Nemesis parasite attached itself to the individual nerve endings on its host along the spine with extra tendrils eventually migrating to the hosts limbs, as well as a handful attaching themselves to the brain stem outright so the subject could be given orders without question.

As a result, the scene before you is gruesome. Albert’s ear piercing scream as he wrestles a fistful of the parasite at the base of his skull inch by painful inch is nothing short of stomach churning as you can almost hear the individual nerves around the bone of his neck snap and tear one by one as Albert continues the arduous feat of ripping his true jailor out of his body with nothing but his enhanced strength and his will to never be at the mercy of another ever again. The tendrils not exposed to the air grow taut under the layer of skin between his shoulder blades and cause it to tent away from his spine more and more as Albert keeps pulling with a trembling fist. Any other person in his position would have passed out from the pain and at least released the tendrils of the most sensitive attachment site. Instead, Albert only grits his teeth, the pain apparently aiding his fight to stay lucid, and pulls even harder.

You can only imagine the feeling would be something similar to acid burning over the whole expanse of his nerve endings. A dull knife twisting into the skin and attempting to cut away skin from flesh over and over. Burning from the inside out as if forced to swallow lava and boiling oneself alive.

The parasite tendrils aren’t indestructible by any means. Flesh is flesh no matter the creature. But the parasite has the advantage of not experiencing the pain of being ripped apart from the inside out. Having not to tear into itself in a desperate scramble for free will. Having to rip out an intelligent new body part that insists it belongs there. Having a prefrontal cortex that would remember every excruciating second of self-mutilation and partial dismemberment. Albert has the unfortunate character trait of never backing down even when it’s to his detriment in the face of insurmountable pain if it means he’ll once again be in control of himself in the end.

With a final yell that makes you understand the definition of a war cry, Albert makes a final yank on the handful of alien bonds and they finally break with a sickening, fleshy snap.

Albert collapses against the wall of the communications room, breathing heavily and groaning in pain, as well as blocking the only exit. His chest heaves for oxygen, and his fist finally relaxes and drops to his side. His face falls into something that resembles relief and subdued rage. 

You watch him like prey analyzes a predator, heart in your throat and frozen in hopes that he’ll forget you’re even here if you stay still enough.

You’re not so lucky.

His snake eyes open, red and faintly glowing with a mixture of emotions when they perceive who you are; anger, annoyance, intrigue, then finally they land on something not even you can definitively describe. 

For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, the room is silent except for his shaky breathing and the fluorescent lights overhead. Then Albert finally pushes himself up off the wall to stand at his full height over you.

“You’ve been very naughty dearest.” Even when Albert is panting for breath, his commanding presence can’t be understated. He’s still just as intimidating as he was on the day he supposedly died, except his piercing gaze isn’t focused on the destroyed computer system Chris was speaking from anymore. They’re focused on you. Albert was in a vulnerable state and you took advantage of it for your own gain, and you know very well from your years being married to him that he doesn’t take kindly to people who seek to control him.

But you know when he looks murderous, and that’s not the unreadable expression on his face at the moment.

Albert catches his breath and leans in closer to you. Your back is already to the corner, so you can only watch as his face leans away a few inches from yours to stare you down.

“But I suppose given the unique nature of the circumstances, I can give you the luxury of earning my forgiveness.” His words hold no trace of warmth, only an unsaid warning: come willingly or else.

You quickly weigh your options. You’re cornered. You have no weapons to defend yourself with. Your only contact with the outside world has been smashed to bits. Jake is MIA. Even in Albert’s weaker state, it wouldn’t do you any favors to make him angrier or risk him being able to catch you before you even cross the threshold of the door out of the communications room.

So you do the only sensible thing and nod in agreement.

“Good.” Albert replies in that same cold tone.

Before you can even blink, tendrils of Uroboros wrap themselves around your torso and armpits, lifting you up from the ground and carrying you as Albert exits the room.

“Your assistance is required in the lab, dearheart.”

You and Albert don’t speak on the way back to the inner sanctum.

Of all things to be on your mind, your focus is on the worms of Uroboros holding you tightly to Albert’s side. You can’t decide whether or not Albert has full control over his Uroboros mutation. The tendrils writhe like serpents in a way that indicates they’re doing it on their own, yet they’ll bend to Albert’s command when he wants them to. The black fluid dripping off of them seeps through your clothes and makes a chill run down your spine; the feeling of your wet clothes sticking to your skin only makes the feeling of Albert’s presence all the more suffocating.

He carries you through the desolate halls, your feet dangling in the air, and you both finally arrive at the inner sanctum. Albert’s foot catches slightly on a guard’s body that he’d mutilated back when he first woke up. He scowls from the intrusion, then kicks the corpse to the side.

Before you can even consider a path to escape once you're out of his grip, a few tendrils on Albert’s Uroboros arm unravel from your arms and whip a fallen metal cabinet in front of the main sliding doors. You know it won’t prevent them from opening, but you have a feeling the measure is more to keep you in than to keep others out. The tendrils return to their original position binding your arms to your sides.

To your surprise, there are no indications that Albert wants to put you down yet. He keeps carrying you when he steps over the threshold of the broken observation window and into the observation chamber, then towards the cylindrical tank where he breached containment. Without a word, he steps back into the tank and pulls you to his chest. Your face is only a few inches from his. Instead of having butterflies, your stomach churns with the uncertainty of what Albert has planned in that diabolical mind of his. 

He pauses to stare at you, his eyes roaming over your messy hair, your bloody clothes, and finally your face like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with your features. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but you swear you see his slitted pupils inflate slightly when he looks down at you. 

Then just as quickly as it started, you observe his head twitch subtly and the pupils return to normal.

Albert makes a soft, “hmph,” and tilts his chin to the outside of the tank. A tendril immediately slithers out and presses something on the outside, then retracts. A metallic clunk resounds through the chamber and the tank lowers itself into the grate flooring below. 

The room below is much more cavernous than expected. The tank descends about two stories below the original chamber, finally stopping at the bottom in the middle of another room filled with more equipment. You notice storage cabinets, more observational equipment, some spare tanks like the one Albert was confined in, and an unusual assortment of large speakers lining the perimeter of the room. Youju’s words echo in your head: We’ve tried snippets of your voice and they’ve yielded positive results. It’s clear Youju and his team invested a lot of funds into setting them up. If it weren’t for the lab equipment and the emergency ladder jutting from the wall on the side of the room, the space could easily pass as an immersive rock concert space.

When the tank is finally on ground level, Albert steps out with you in hand and makes his way over to a section of the lab with a metal table and a console of some sort behind it. An intimidating contraption resembling a laser gun straight out of a sci-fi blockbuster hangs over the table. Your heart is in your throat, your mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusion, but to your relief Albert drags himself right by the metal table and sets you down in the chair behind the console.

His firm grip on your shoulder and downward pressure are a silent command: stay seated.

Albert makes his way over to a specific set of refrigerated cabinets, the door hissing out mist as an Uroboros worm opens it. There are several rusted cases with handles on them, similar to a briefcase roughly the size of a laptop bag. They look out of place in the pristine whiteness of the metal chamber. Everything else is modern and sleek like the equipment was upstairs before Albert destroyed everything. Several tendrils pick up different cases. Albert examines each one closely, scowling when it doesn’t meet whatever standard he has in mind, then places it back before moving on to another. Then another. Then another.

He’s looking for something.

It takes you longer than you’d like to gather yourself. “Why am I here?” Your voice resonates through the metal chamber and up to the grating above with no effort.

“You are going to be a good wife and assist me in eradicating this damned parasite from my body.” Albert answers pragmatically, like you assisting him whenever he requested is still the norm now like it was back at Umbrella. He lifts another case up to eye level and examines it. Albert doesn’t scowl, so this one appears to be satisfactory.

You can’t help but scoff at his answer. “And why would I do that?” You utter with revulsion. 

Albert’s head snaps toward you and you freeze. His eyes glow like embers, signifying his lack of patience with your attitude as he makes his way back over to you. He stares you down for a menacing few seconds, then gently places the case next to you on its side.

He clicks open the case and you can’t stop your eyes from going wide and your breath being stolen from your lungs. The case is rusted and dated because it’s an Uroboros syringe holding case from the Africa tanker. The syringe glints menacingly in the low light of the lab, similar to Albert’s cold anger underlying his next words.

“Disobey me, and that’s going in your arm whether you want it to or not. Understood?”

Despite your fear of Albert injecting you, there was always the protection of you not giving consent. Albert wanted you to want to take Uroboros all those years ago. As frustrating as your continued resistance was, in his mind, the eventual prospect of you submitting to his will of your own accord was too irresistible a possibility to abandon all together for something as trivial as his impatience.

Based on the burning embers of malintent in Albert’s demon eyes, you don’t have that luxury anymore.

What else can you do besides agree when your head is in the maw of the beast?

You nod, and steel yourself before you flick your gaze back up to him as you slip into a mask of neutrality. “What do I need to do first?”

Albert gives you an approving hum and turns his attention to the monitor, reaching over your shoulder and typing in specific parameters for whatever he’s about to have you do next.

“Targeted radiation on the parasite. I’ll handle the regulation device.” Albert replies shortly, not taking his eyes off of the computer system and typing away with surprising accuracy. After a moment, he’s finished typing and logs the data into the machine. You hear the sound of machinery whirring to life as he walks around the computer system and lies face down on the examination table. He looks somewhat comical with his disproportionately large Uroboros arm hanging over the side of it, with more than half flopping to the side to rest on the floor.

You briefly consider “missing” the parasite to radiate the back of his skull, but you decide against it. You and Albert know the Nemesis parasite doesn’t go that far up into the brain. Radiation isn’t painful in unaffected areas anyway.

“How did you know all of this was here?” You ask, moving the joystick so the radiation gun is directly over Albert’s spine between his shoulder blades, but due to the Uroboros overtaking the expanse of Albert’s upper back and the placement of the regulation device, it’s proving difficult to get direct access to his spine. His neck is no better. The flap of skin he ripped away has already started healing, but the skin is still red and angry from the stress of the injury and the blood that has trickled down against his pale skin. You keep having to adjust the placement of the radiation device due to the constant movement of the Uroboros on his body.

“I heard everything those degenerates were planning in my slumber. This new Umbrella will take any warm body into their ranks it seems. ” Albert replies bitterly.

You only nod and keep trying to maneuver the radiation device. After yet another adjustment, Albert snaps at you in annoyance.

“Pray tell, what is causing your hesitation?” 

You frown. “There’s biomatter in the way of your spine-”

“Irrelevant. Proceed.” 

You let out a sharp breath through your nose. You know this is going to be painful, but then again Albert isn’t one to shy away from pain. You turn your attention to the monitor. Albert had set it to measure heat, and it’s clear why. There’s a clear separation between the Nemesis parasite and Uroboros. The Nemesis parasite runs through Albert’s spine with smaller strands running through his limbs like burning crimson highways. The Uroboros strands run through the entirety of Albert’s torso and left arm like individual lazy rivers that intertwine into one unnatural, nauseating ocean.

You take a breath to steady your hand and begin with the left arm.

At first, Albert seems relatively unbothered from the Nemesis parasite disintegrating in his palm and fingertips. The Uroboros covering the afflicted areas only shiver and vibrate as the radiation passes through them. Occasionally, a strand will wither significantly, but most bounce back within a few minutes after the initial shock of the radiation passes. The weaker ones wither off and fall to the floor, melting away into a puddle. None of this seems to bother Albert. A necessary sacrifice. You see the muscles in Albert’s back contract when you guide the implement up the forearm and through the bicep.

When you finally make it to his spine you can hear Albert breathing heavily, no doubt with a gritted jaw trying and failing to look unaffected by the pain. He only starts to lose his composure when the radiation meets the angry skin at the base of his neck. His body shakes with Herculean effort to stay still, but it seems like Albert is reaching his limit. You frown. With how much he’s unintentionally moving, you can’t quite get all of the Nemesis parasite burnt away.

You pause the radiation to give Albert some time to regain his composure “Hold still. You’re going to make me fry your brain stem if you keep squirming.” You say coldly, still focusing completely on the monitor.

He sits up to glare at you with significant effort, breathing heavily from the lingering pain with a few tufts of blonde hair sticking to his forehead. “Do I get not an ounce of understanding from my own spouse?” He utters lowly, clearly losing patience.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle. “And why should you? It’s your own damn fault you're like this.” Your face drops into something less amused. “What was that thing you said about Birkin after Antarctica? He was a victim of his own hubris and deserved no sympathy?”

Albert slams his Uroboros arm on the ground with so much force that it cracks the tiles and the sudden sound makes you jerk in your seat. 

“You never did know when to stop , did you?” He growls, striding over behind the console before you can even think to get up from your seat to move away from him. Albert looms over you, his eyes slitted and annoyed as he uses his Uroboros arm to trap you in your chair, a few of the tendrils wrapping around your torso and jaw to keep your eyes on him. You try to swat them away with little success.

“I will not be lectured like an unruly child by you.” Albert ignores your attempts to keep him from touching you at first, but his expression hardens a moment later.

“Where is it?” Albert says lowly, an Uroboros tendril grabbing your wrist to maneuver your forearm into his line of sight. His eyes glow faintly as he looks at your left hand.

You look at Albert with a tired expression. “I’m not a mind reader Al-”

“My ring. Where is it?” 

Oh.

Truthfully, you hadn’t worn that ring in years. You don’t even know where it could be at this point. You’re silent for a moment, but then decide to just spit it out. “I sold it.” You say with a straight face.

Albert’s face twitches. “What? ”

You take a breath and continue. “I sure as hell wasn’t going to dip into your blood money to survive. Not that I could access it anyway. The whole thing was mysteriously donated to the B.S.A.A.”

Albert sets his jaw. “That ring was a symbol of our partnership-”

“Oh don’t pretend there was any love lost those last few months. Hell, those last couple years we were together. That ring represented a dead marriage, no pun intended.”

“A temporary falling out because you couldn’t see reason.” Albert growls.

“By willingly taking a virus that would statistically kill me? Huh! It’s a wonder I didn’t see ’reason.’ ” You bite back, putting air quotes around the last word to emphasize how ridiculous you saw his claim even while the additional appendages from said virus are still holding you in place in your seat.

Albert takes a sharp breath from his nose. “When we get to the mainland you’ll get another one.” There’s no warmth in his voice; only the cold pragmatism that seemed to seep itself into every interaction, as well as an underlying impatience.

“No.” You utter firmly, your previous fear replaced by an unresolved anger that’s been boiling below the surface for years.

“No? You made vows, sweetness. In sickness and in health.” Albert recites the words like a binding contract.

“‘-and til death do us part.’ You died. I’ve already fulfilled that. And if you think I’m willingly going to put on another ring of yours, you’re senile! You have no idea how unnecessarily difficult it’s been to live my life because of what you fucking tried to do!” 

“Oh life’s been a bit hard, has it? Oh poor thing. I wouldn’t know anything about hardship.” Albert spits in a mocking tone, tendrils tightening slightly around you.

“You tried to destroy the world, failed, and now have to suffer the consequences. Boo hoo, you have it so difficult. Do you hear yourself?” You mock back.

“We would have been gods.” 

“You would have been god of nothing except the ashes of civilization, and maybe my corpse if I didn’t turn into a pile of worms first!”

“You are better than them. We would have ruled above the rest. We are destined for more than mere mortality!” Albert insists with frustrating conviction.

“And what is so horrible about growing old together?” Your anger softens into something more hurt and vulnerable. “You talk about making a new world like our old one was insignificant but Albert I liked our simple life!” Your words ring in the air and dissipate, only emphasizing just how different you and your newly resurrected husband have become.

Albert stands there in silence, still looming over you, then slowly takes a few steps back so he can look at you fully. The Uroboros around you unfurl from you in an almost caressing manner as Albert stares down at you, the mutated arm resting at his side. His expression isn’t kind, but it’s not mocking. It’s almost tender, but still guarded enough so that he doesn’t show you anything that could be interpreted as weakness.

“Spouses are meant to strengthen one another.” Albert murmurs, his ruby eyes gazing at you with something akin to longing before he continues. “I’ll just have to show you the error of your thinking. You’ll forgive me later once you witness its power.”

You sigh, closing your eyes and shaking your head, disappointed. “If you wanted a partner in crime, you shouldn’t have killed Excella.” You utter, resigned to the fact that your future will never include the man the progenitor virus took away.

The mere mention of Excella’s name makes the tenderness in Albert’s expression vanish and become replaced with something volatile. “You are the only one worthy.”

“Excella would have gladly taken my place without batting an eye. You didn’t seem to mind. She seemed pretty worthy when she was feeling you up and you didn’t push her off.” You accuse with a frown. After seeing the security footage, you’re positive he only allowed Excella to touch him to get under your skin. Why not use it to get under his?

“Don’t pretend you’re innocent in all this.” Albert growls lowly, his eyes flashing then dying down into their normal brilliant red.

You have to steel yourself for a few seconds to keep up the facade of strength. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“You helped them.” Albert interrupts, staring you down and taking a step towards you. “You helped him. You’re going to tell me why.”

You keep your mouth shut, mulling over your options for how to get out of directly answering him.

You know what Albert’s really asking: Why did you help Chris Redfield of all people? Thorn in his side, Chris Redfield. Representation of everything Albert sought to destroy, Chris Redfield. Mortal enemy Chris Redfield. Apart from him and Sheva being your only options for rescue and escape, deep down you knew you couldn’t do what needed to be done yourself. The Uroboros plan was Albert’s twisted culmination of Spencer’s ideals and you knew when you were rescued from being strapped to that chair that Albert would succeed at his plan or die trying. You’re no killer, but it was surprisingly easy on your conscience to willingly give the keys to Albert’s demise in Chris’ capable hands to ensure the world lived another day. 

But you know that answer will enrage him, so you do the next best thing. 

You lean over and swipe the Uroboros case so it falls to the floor, and you make a beeline towards the chamber’s pod elevator in the center of the room. Within seconds you hear Albert’s tendrils catch the case and feel a couple others wrap around your waist. You try in vain to rip them off, groaning in frustration.

“Tsk, tsk. How very naughty and disappointing. I’ll have to rectify that.” Albert tuts in a condescending tone.

He reels you in with more and more Uroboros worms until once again you’re lifted off the ground until you’re face to face with him, trying in vain to squirm out of the tenderil’s wet grip. Albert holds the Uroboros case up, then plucks the syringe out of the case and dangles it within your line of sight while giving you a stern look.

“Choose your next words very carefully my sweet. You wouldn’t want my hand to slip. Would you?”

Before you can think of a clever retort, high pitched feedback rings from one of the speakers on the other side of the room which causes both you and Albert to wince. As quickly as it starts, it cuts out and you hear the clash of something small and metal landing on the tile beneath Albert’s feet. The world goes white from a flash of light and there’s ringing in your ears. Then, a gunshot shatters through the air and Albert lets out a pained, angry snarl. 

“Little late for a family reunion, huh Wesker?” 

Your vision clears as you look up towards the voice and you can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. Jake is almost all the way down the emergency ladder with holsters of weapons all across his body, a smoking magnum revolver in his hand and a pin from a used flashbang hanging off his thumb.

His clothes are scorched in places from the explosion, he has a few cuts and scrapes and minor burns, and he looks much worse for wear than when you last saw him, but he’s alive.

“It appears I missed one.” Albert grunts in annoyance, looking at Jake like he’s a mere pest and not a viable threat against him. To your relief, Albert places the syringe back in the case, shuts it, then places it back on the radiation console. He plops you in your chair. You briefly think about running again, but then Jake shoots at Albert again and Albert lunges at Jake and all you can do is watch the chaos unfold.

You’ve seen Jake fight beforehand you know he’s skilled in hand to hand combat, but it’s clear that Jake has underestimated just how fast Albert can be when he’s not inhibited by a parasite. Albert’s speed isn’t anything close to what it was in Africa, but it’s fast enough for him to anticipate Jake’s moves and land several unforgiving blows to his stomach before Jake can even line up another shot to fire.

After a particularly brutal jab that leaves Jake gasping for air, Uroboros wraps around Jake’s neck while Albert grips the holsters and yanks them off Jake’s body. Several guns and flashbangs clatter to the floor while Jake holds up the magnum, only for Albert to grip the barrel and aim it at the ground as another shot rings through the air like thunder. The tendrils squeeze harder around Jake’s neck and he begins coughing and clawing at the appendage in vain. While Jake is distracted. Albert rips the magnum from his hand and tosses it aside, then wraps his own hand around Jake’s neck to join the tendrils and lifts Jake up so his feet are no longer touching the ground.

Seeing the flash of fear on Jake’s face makes you come to your senses and dart out of your chair and shout across the chamber, your words echoing off of the metal walls. 

“Albert stop, he's your son!” You blurt out in panic. In a perfect world, you would have never willingly admitted that to Albert. However, between Jake having his neck snapped or experimented on by his own father, you’re taking the latter in hopes of buying him more time.

Albert’s arm stills. Jake is left barely able to breathe with his feet kicking air. Albert tilts his head towards you, a sign that he’s processing your words. 

“He’s your son. Put him down. He’s of more use to you alive.” You repeat in a wavering voice, your eyes darting between Albert’s stiff posture and Jake’s grimacing face.

After another moment of mulling over your words, Albert scoffs and tightens his grip. “You never had a child. I would have known.” Albert states coldly.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “He’s your son. Not mine. You and the Edonian woman’s.”

To say Albert’s expression softened would be inaccurate since that would imply he holds some kind of affection for the son he’s never met. Instead his expression becomes less hardened in annoyance, and more appraising; similar to how one turns over an apple to check for bruises or how one looks at a screwdriver to ensure it’s the right tool for the job.

“How-” Albert starts his sentence like he’s going to ask a question, but he stops himself to examine Jake’s facial features more closely.

“-unanticipated.” 

Albert continues to stare at Jake’s face, only slightly loosening the Uroboros around his neck so he doesn’t choke. He seems to be making mental notes about Jake’s face; the eyes and facial structure are his, the stature is his. Looking at them side by side, it’s impossible to deny they’re father and son. The only major differences are Jake’s slightly leaner build and buzzed red hair.

Albert tilts his head, letting out a barely audible “hmph.” He makes his way over to the spare pods near the radiation console, unceremoniously opening one of them and depositing Jake inside it and quickly shutting the door. The door hisses and beeps, signaling successful pressurization.

“Stay there. I have more pressing matters to attend to.” Albert states, making his way back to the examination table. The Uroboros enveloping his upper back shivers and shifts around the circular regulation device on his back, looking for some purchase in the metal.

“Hey!” Jake chokes out, coughing a few times before he can catch his breath. “Hey! Get back here I’m talking to you!” Jake bangs on the reinforced glass with his fist, not making any progress in getting out or getting Albert’s attention. Albert replies with his focus on the regulation device.

“Not to worry boy. You’ll have my undivided attention in due time.” Albert says, his voice practical and cold as he continues to try and get a good grip on the device with his tendrils, but they only slide off the metal without getting much purchase on the device. 

“We have so much catching up to do after all.” Albert grits, getting frustrated and letting out a sharp breath through his nose, then turns his gaze to you.

“My darling, twist the release mechanism.” Albert commands, his voice deceptively calm. Not seeing any viable way to refuse him and with a hesitant glance at Jake, you do as he commands.

With surprisingly steady hands, you twist the regulator on Albert’s back counterclockwise until you hear a click and a hiss. Underneath the mechanism, you see the hauntingly familiar sight of a glowing organ when you let the cover fall to the floor; his weak point. However, unlike Africa, there are thick bands of Nemesis parasite covering the body part.

So this is why the radiation hurt him earlier. 

You hear a soft hiss of air releasing behind you, and before you and Albert can react, a knife you didn’t see Jake carrying plunges into the glowing organ and Albert snarls in pain. Jake quickly grabs your arm in a vice grip and whisks you away behind some machinery while Albert attempts to remove the intrusion. Jake leads you behind a big machine with several monitors.

“You alright?” Jake whispers, eyes darting over your form checking for any injuries.

“I’m fine! How the hell did you-” You start to ask, but Jake puts up a hand to silence you.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than a candle to snuff me out, Doc.” Jake quips with his usual smirk.

Jake reaches into his pocket, then puts a remote in your hand. You look at him with a confused expression. “It controls the speakers, and it has a microphone. I need you to distract him.” Jake whispers with a determination that makes you immediately nod in agreement. You don’t know what his plan is, but you’re more than willing to follow along. 

You hear Albert let out another snarl across the room, then the clatter of metal on tile as he throws the knife to the side..

“My darling, you’re a smart girl. Can’t you see how necessary this is? The world is long overdue for a cleansing fire.” Albert announces loudly, scanning the room for you and Jake as he prowls around the center of the room.

With an encouraging nod from Jake, you press a button on the remote and see a green light illuminate on a speaker on the other side of the room.

“Do you hear yourself? What kind of husband insists on giving their wife a death sentence and calls it love?” You utter into the remote.

Jake gives you a thumbs up, then whispers, “Keep him busy, I’ll be back.” Then, you see him disappear behind some equipment. Albert makes his way towards the speaker with alarming speed, frowning when he doesn’t see you hiding nearby and then plunging his Uroboros arm into the speaker to render it useless, tossing the ruined equipment to the side. 

“What kind of husband would I be if I was against making my wife better and stronger than the rest?” Albert growls back, his red eyes glowing and scanning the room for your hiding place. He stalks the room, walking right by your current spot. You wait until he’s a safe distance away before scurrying to another position behind some shelves. You hit a button to activate a speaker on the other side of the room you can’t see from your hiding spot and speak into the remote again. 

“Do you not realize what you’ve done to yourself? You’re slow and weak. I don’t remember the last time I saw you this lost!”

You hear Albert’s heavy footsteps glide across the room, then the sound of electricity and a more aggressive clash of metal. His voice is low; a fake sweetness coats his words.

“Do you not remember how much I’ve done for you? How much I’ve provided for you? How much I loved you? I only want what’s best for you my dear.”

You change the speaker output. “So I should be indebted to you for doing things a good husband should do anyway?” You retort, speaking into the remote once again before crawling to your new haven of safety, switching the output to another speaker early since you’ve moved yourself into a tight spot under a table with not much else around that provides sufficient cover. 

Once again, Albert whips his Uroboros arm towards the speaker to clear away the equipment, which groans and breaks from the force of it. You hear Albert let out a frustrated “hmph,” then forcibly rip the speaker from the wall and fling it into the opposite wall. Despite his visible frustration, his voice is still even and persistent as he eyes the chamber for your hiding place.

“Come now dearest, don’t you want a taste of being divine? Your brain has always been your greatest strength. Don’t you want your other qualities to be just as insurmountable? Don’t you realize how special you could be?”

You speak into the audio system before you think about the consequences of your words. “What’s special about me didn’t come from a syringe!”

Tendrils wrap around the speaker and explode against the adjacent wall before you can even blink, followed by a frustrated growl from Albert. “Even when presented with the path to godhood, you throw it back in my face by wagging that smart mouth of yours. I think it’s high time I remind you who has real power here!”

It’s clear Albert’s patience has run out when he rips and destroys every speaker he can see from their respective positions one by one. The room is filled with the clash of metal, high pitched audio feedback, and the sound of electricity being freed from the confines of their cables. 

One of the speakers crashes against the wall above your head and you let out an involuntary shriek from how close it comes to hitting you. You slap your hand over your mouth, but it’s already too late. Albert pounces across the room, sneering at you when he sees you cowering under a table.

“There you are!” 

You try in vain to crawl away, but the tendrils are quick to coil around your ankle and drag you back out into the open. The tendrils once again bind your arms to your sides as they dangle you in the air where you’re eye to eye with an unamused Albert.

“As much as I enjoy indulging you in a game of hide and seek, I tire of these childish games.” Worms of Uroboros pluck the virus case from the table across the room and time seems to slow down as you realize what’s about to happen. You try in vain to wiggle from the grip of the Uroboros enveloping your body.

The tendrils hold the case next to Albert’s free arm, opening it for him and reaching inside. They search for a moment too long, then Albert looks down. You do as well: the case is empty. A growl emanates from Albert’s throat, confused and with angered annoyance bubbling below the surface.

“Looking for this?”

Yours and Albert’s heads whip towards the voice. It’s Jake aiming a heavy duty magnum revolver at Albert in one hand, and the Uroboros syringe in the other. He’s holding the syringe in between his fingers, playing with it like he’s spinning a pen for a moment before grasping it in a fist and holding up the magnum a little higher like he’s aiming straight between Albert’s eyes.

“Do us both a favor and put the lady down pal.”

Albert doesn’t move. He stands there with you tightly in his grasp, weighing his options before he forcefully tosses the case to the side into some smoldering rubble. 

“You will surrender that to me, boy.” Albert utters lowly, demon eyes faintly glowing with malintent.

Jake’s confidence morphs into a protective scowl. “So you can infect her?” Jake’s aim shifts from Albert’s head to the syringe in his hand. “Fat chance daddio.” 

A long silence falls over the room, only broken by smoldering equipment and the occasional burst of escaped electricity. Eventually, the silent standoff is broken by a chilling chuckle from Albert.

“Well yes.” Albert tightens his grip around your throat. “But you should know that there are consequences for defying my wishes.”

Jake’s eyes dart between you and Albert, his brow furrowing even more. “You’d kill her? After all that trouble to drag her here in one piece?”

Albert releases a chilling laugh that embodies disbelief and smugness all at once. “I can bring her back in other ways. After all, there are so many viruses and parasites to choose from. All I have to do is decide which one is worthy of my insolent wife.” To emphasize his point, black tendrils wrap around your throat and squeeze. It’s not enough to choke you, but it’s enough to dent the skin of your neck and make breathing just a little difficult. Despite the very real threat, you’d much rather suffocate than the alternative. You look Jake in the eyes and shake your head.

Destroy it Jake.

Jake’s eyes flick between you, then Albert, then the dreaded syringe in between his fingertips. He’s silent much too long for your liking, seemingly mulling over all the possibilities that could unfold if he pulls the trigger. He looks from the syringe to Albert, then you. His face morphs into something more relaxed and you know he’s about to do something stupid. Jake turns his gaze back to Albert with a cocky smile, holding the syringe between his fore and middle fingers.

“You want this? Then come and get it.” Before anyone can react, Jake uncaps the syringe with his teeth and plunges it into his neck.

Tag List: @killerwendigo @appreciativemediaconsumer @kaymarnun @chucklefak

a/n: Thank you all for being patient! The pacing for this part and the next was bothering me so I split it up and the next part should be ready much sooner than this one! Thanks for reading!

AO3 Link

[deputyrook]

Prompt Fill- Lucanis/Rook, Fluff Drabble⭐

Word count: 622

---

With a metal spoon, Rook scraped across the bottom of the skillet as she attempted to stir their dinner. Something had gone horribly wrong. The food was quickly solidifying into a layer of crust, and panic was beginning to set in, especially when she thought of the incredible Arroz Con Pollo Lucanis had made the night before.

Why had she tried to impress him, picking a recipe she'd only made a few times before? This was no doubt going to have the opposite effect. He was going to think she was a moron.

"This is so fucked," Rook whispered, with mounting dread. The bubbling sauce was beginning to look more like hot tar than anything edible.

As is sensing the violence being done in the kitchen, Lucanis' head popped out of the pantry door to stare at her in horror.

"Are you using metal utensils on our only good skillet?" Lucanis asked, sounding physically wounded.

"Uhm," Rook replied with a wince, "Well, I'm not sure the wooden utensils would have been able to...make a dent in this."

Lucanis' eyes widened. He made his way across the dining room faster than Rook had thought possible, stopping dead in his tracks a few feet away from the stove. He stared at the monstrosity in the pan, and then at Rook.

"What... are you making?" He asked, voice tight, as though afraid of the answer.

"It was supposed to be pineapple, chicken and rice. But something went wrong with the sauce- maybe it was because we didn't have cornstarch, so I substituted in flour. But I think I used too much, because it's so thick it's becoming, like, some kind of quiche," As Rook rambled, Lucanis approached cautiously, to stand beside her and look upon the nightmare she'd created.

"Mierda, there's chicken in there?"

Rook smacked him lightly on the shoulder, turning off the burner. Taking the food (?) off the heat, and pinching the bridge of her nose, she sighed, avoiding Lucanis' eyes.

"Maybe we can save it?" She suggested hopefully, sneaking a glance at Lucanis. He made an offended noise of protest before he could stop himself. "Okay," she said, "Maybe we can't save it."

"Rook, I appreciate your determination, but there's no saving this," He murmured, turning to her, "I think I would rather eat something cooked for me by Viago."

"Maker, don't sugarcoat it," She snapped, but when she looked at him, Lucanis was staring at the pan, with his hand covering his mouth. At first she thought he was so offended by the mess, and the potential ruination of the skillet, that he was stunned into silence. But just as Rook opened her mouth to apologized, she saw Lucanis' shoulders start to shake.

He was laughing. And trying to hide it, poorly.

"It's not funny," She protested weakly, "I really tried," which elicited a bark of laughter from Lucanis. As he devolved into snickers, Rook couldn't help but chuckle herself- mostly from relief, that he wasn't put off by her inability to cook, or the strange chunky puddle which was supposed to be dinner.

Shaking his head, and still smiling, Lucanis started to bustle around the kitchen. With the same efficiency that he used as an assassin, he began to pull out various meats, bowls, and spices.

"What're you doing?" She asked, as Lucanis scooted around her to grab a pot.

"Making us something else. Come, you can help. I'll teach you," His smile was so fond, so gentle, that Rook couldn't help but feel warmed by it. Rolling her sleeves back up, she gave him a professional nod, moving to stand beside him.

"Alright," She murmured to him, "One sous-chef, reporting for duty."

And that's how the cooking lessons between Rook, Lucanis, (and occasionally Bellara) began.

[ghostieblr]

Secret Life of Stiles & Derek

IT IS FINALLY HERE! Inspired from this post of mine (of which i posted a sneak peak here)... now i bring to you, the FULL FIC ON A03.

Thank y'all for showing interest in it <3

Here is a little bit of sneak peak:

*

He settles beside Cora, stretches there so his legs open to create space for Stiles. Stiles, who doesn’t even glance at Scott calling his name, too busy in arranging the snacks, and then finding the remote. Derek waves it once, and Stiles beelines for it.

“I want it! I get to choose the film, ok Sourwolf, because I called this pack night!” As he says it, he’s moving forward, and it makes Derek’s heart soar that there’s no second thought before he plops himself down between the V of his legs. Derek hands over the remote.

And of course Stiles puts on Star Wars, Episode III.

“Why.”

“Inflection, Der, use them. They’re the souls—”

“—Souls of language. Yes, I know, Stiles. But I love to—”

“—love to fight against period, commas and question marks because I love to see you squirm.” Stiles recites perfectly, thanks to the number of times they’ve had this argument, and then corrects himself, “I mean, you love to see me squirm, you asshole!”

Somewhere distantly, he hears Scott mutter, “Yeah he is. Come here Stiles.”

Derek puts his free hand around Stiles’ waist and pulls him backwards into his chest, and Stiles lets him do it. He settles firmly in Derek’s lap, like this is the easiest thing to do. It makes Derek happy.

“Now shush, let me watch the credits in peace!”

Derek takes the remote and fast-forwards it.

“Nephew…”

“You’re an idiot,” Cora tacks on to their uncle's reprimand, and then, “Why do you never learn?”

Stiles simply takes the popcorn bowl from his hand and puts it in Cora’s hands. She swats away Boyd’s hands from taking any of it, and then sighs loudly as Derek and Stiles devolve into a wrestling, writhing mass of degenerates beside her.

Stiles emerges victorious and wins the remote, so Derek pulls him in by his hips and wraps his arms around his chest. Puts his head on Stiles’ right shoulder and groans when he rewinds the film back to the starting point.

“Idiot,” Cora mutters, and hands back the bowl of popcorn to Derek. He isn’t really sorry about it, though. And both Cora and Peter know it, so they send him knowing looks which he steadfastly ignores.

The movie begins again. Stiles cuddles closer to him, Derek’s hands on his chest, his hips. Enclosing him in. He turns his head, and their faces are so, so close. Their noses touch. Their eyes are cross-eyed they’re so infuriatingly, blessingly close. Stiles says, “Der.”

He pulls back and picks up a handful of the popcorn, more salty ones than tomato flavored ones — they’re more his favorite, not Stiles’ — from where he’d kept the bowl between him and Cora, and feeds Stiles one by one.

Once the handful of popcorn has been eaten, Stiles turns back, and Derek picks up his own handful. A couple minutes pass by, the world on the screen the only noise, but then Stiles turns around again. He doesn’t say anything, but Derek understands anyways and feeds Stiles. It makes him satisfied in a way he’s both thrilled and concerned about, which basically sums up his life. But in this moment he focuses on Stiles, and the intimacy of their trust, the way Stiles allows him to provide for him. The way Stiles trusts him with these small things, and when it matters, with the big things. Like Stiles’ life.

This time, a murmur kick starts between the betas. Mainly Isaac and Erica, who are trying to tamp down their curiosity but are unable to do so. Boyd isn’t into the gossip, but Derek sees him watching them a couple of times.

On the other hand, he can smell Scott silently fuming, and Allison’s gentle scraping along his scalp, his arms. Trying to control him. Anchoring him. Derek smirks, unable to help the way his chest expands with possessive pride.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks, without turning. His eyes are locked onto the screen.

“Nothing. Just the popcorn’s almost over.” It is. They’re down to two handfuls each.

Stiles pauses the film, never one to miss even a second of it, and scans the coffee table. It’s still full with food. He frowns. “Nobody is eating?”

Nobody is replying, either. Stiles stands up and hovers beside the table, looks at Derek helplessly. He’d brought everyone’s favorite and some extra — he’d planned this down to every last detail. Except, of course, realizing that they don’t know about his and Derek’s history, or their current friendship.

*

You can continue reading it here on AO3.

Tagging the people who wanted me to tag 'em once i posted this fic:

@demonicfaery @lovehahajk @emilyinhouston @jadezdominion @sterekloverforever @hogwarts-starship @deliahale @princecharmingwinks

[enviedear]

save the date ⟶ james potter

DESCRIPTION ⌙ after an innocent suggestion that james potter is horrible at relationships, he feels inclined to prove you wrong. PAIRING ⌙ james x fem!reader CW ⌙ mention of food, eating food, petnames WORD COUNT ⌙ 2.3k

❛ ֪ ׂ shenanigans? is that what you call your love life? ֪ ׂ ❜

join my taglist | request | masterlist

for the second time this month, you’re spending your friday evening trying to drone out an argument. hilariously large and bulky headphones sit upon your ears— and yet you can still make out the aggravatingly grating noise.

if you’d known being james’ roommate would have entailed you hearing multiple fights from different girlfriends, you may not have signed the lease.

may not have— because a rent controlled apartment in the city is far too good to pass by.

truthfully, you felt a little bit bad for james. he was so good at picking gorgeous, captivating women. you could never fault his taste, no, you faulted his ability to be a boyfriend.

take this instance, a disagreement that started over dinner plans, only to devolve into a full blown argument. over what currently? you’re not exactly sure. but by the way the woman was yelling at him, you were sure he had said something stupid.

seconds later you can hear her huff, slam his door, walk down the stairs, and leave the apartment.

slowly, you remove your headphones, the noise of your music now being the only thing you can hear. you wait, looking expectantly at your door.

almost on some cue, james opens your door with a counterfeit smile on his face, “any plans tonight?”

you roll your eyes at him, “let me guess? non refundable dinner reservation and two tickets to the movies.”

he walks into your room, plopping down on your bean bag chair, “act nice or i’ll take sirius instead.”

you ignore him, “be honest, what did you do this time?”

“absolutely nothing.” he grumbles, shaking his head.

you didn’t believe him for a second. you’ve known james for four years now and you’ve lived with him for two. you knew in your soul that he, despite trying, always managed to do something.

he had a strange ineptitude for romance. it was as though he couldn't make it a week before his stupidity turned from endearing to unbearable.

he sighs, "she kept asking me if i had anything planned for our date— and i didn't want to ruin the surprise, so i just kept saying no. 'no, honey, i figure we'd wing it.' fuck— i didn't think it would blow up like that."

you gape at him, "but you did tell her, right?"

he shrugs, "by the time i thought to she was already leaving."

this was james, unable to keep a relationship purely because of his own doing.

"you're going to end up alone." you chuckle, fiddling with your phone to turn off your music.

james is silent, so you go on, "i'm saying this from a place of love, but you're horrible at relationships. almost criminally bad at them." your finger points at him, mocking.

he glares at you, tousled curls falling into his eyes, "i am not."

you grin, "yes— you are."

he ignores you, plopping down onto your bean bag, "and still i get more dates than you," he pauses, muttering out, "brat."

"you do not!" you don't mean to, but your voice comes out childishly.

james finally rids himself of his frown, smirking, "fuck's sake, calm down." it takes everything in you to not pelt him with whatever's near you. he has such a chuck-worthy grin.

it was often that the two of you would have these petty disagreements. mostly due to the close proximity of sharing the same space, but sometimes, you honestly didn't understand why both of you were so worked up.

you get off of your bed and squat down to his level, "i'm so close to throwing you out."

he smiles, and lazily pulls you down with him, "i didn't mean it, don't be mad."

you narrow your eyes, despite the grin on your face, "you're temperamental, potter."

he chuckles, eyes now closed, "and you're wrong."

you hum, arm touching his, "about what?"

he looks at you, "'bout me. that i'm bad at relationships."

you almost laugh at him, because if there was one thing you knew as fact— it was that james had a ninety-nine percent fail rate.

so you're easily coy when you speak, "oh, then please, prove me wrong."

your tone is playful, but james' eyes make you pause. he looks eerily\ honestly, determined.

"with pleasure." he says simply.

you don't say anything after. not for a few moments. you try instead to ignore the strange tightness in your chest at his words. wordlessly, you rise from beside him and open up your closet door.

"what time is this reservation?" you ask, subtitling watching his face brighten.

james smiles, "you'll come?"

you shrug, "i'll never turn down money spent well."

he laughs, "and you think my funds are best spent on you?"

there's a mischievous glint in your voice, "aren't i always the best cause."

he feigns annoyance at you, but goes to leave your room so that you can change. as you watch him go, and note the way his dress shirt hugs the curves of his toned back. often, you’d catch yourself admiring him. it was silly, but despite your usual chagrin of him and his antics, you found him so beautiful.

you’re barely concentating on the clothes he's wearing now, thinking instead to the half-awake version of him from last night, wearing only his plaid boxers and leaning against the fridge, a glass of water in his hand, eyes half-lidded.

and then, the james you so often see after a shower. his face flushed, hair tousled, and towel always riding just low enough.

of course, you noticed him and you tried not to lie to yourself about it. you found him attractive, sure, but that was all. you knew there was nothing else there, and you’d be an idiot if you let your mind even think there was.

putting your fascination with him to the side, you scour your closet for something presentable. reaching the back of your closet before finding anything, a flowy little number you had apparently hidden from yourself for god knows how long. you inspect it, and slip it on once you decide that the small wrinkles at the bottom of the skirt are inconsequential.

you do your makeup in the bathroom, james butting in often to try and hurry you along, "how many coats of mascara more? can we please leave?"

you shush him each time until you're finally ready, "there— see? that didn't take so long did it?"

he rolls his eyes, "felt like bloody years."

you chuckle, opening the door for him, "i don't even think i reached an hour, you brat."

he jingles his keys in your face, his assortment of keychains slapping against each other, "play nice."

it's safe to say you do not 'play nice' for the entire duration of the car ride. you take immediate ownership of the radio instead, queuing all your favorite songs. james protests for five or so minutes before shaking his head with you and singing along.

the restaurant he's chosen is a suedo-modern fusion steakhouse— horribly expensive— and you can't help but feel a little out of place as you step inside. james, however, seems right at home. he greets the hostess by name and leads you to a private booth in the back.

as you sit down, you eye him, "what?" he asks, sipping his water.

"how often do you come here. i mean, they seem to know you." you're smirking, finding it quite funny.

james shrunches his face, "no, actually, my parents have insisted on eating here for my past six birthdays."

you hum, "i forget mommy and daddy are wealthy, you should really advertise it more. as an incentive." you're kidding of course, james reeked of rich kid. in the nicest way.

he gestures at you with his butterknife, "you think i haven't pulled that? c'mon honey i'm not completely daft."

you chuckle, taking a sip of your own water. watching as james continues, dwelling into a story about work. you've already heard it but you'd feel wretched to tell him. so, you listen, watching his brown eyes and strong use of his hands with each adjective used.

you've almost blocked everything but him from your sense when the waiter returns, placing down an appetizer you're sure the two of you didn't order.

you look to james, who's in the middle of placing his order. he sends you a wink.

you fumble through your own order, cursing yourself for not looking at the menu more thoroughly.

"do you even know what that is?" james asks when the waiter walks away.

you roll your eyes, "yes james, i'm well aware of the french word for fish."

he shrugs, "can't hurt to make sure." there's a pause, "d'ya like the wontons?"

your face morphs into a smile, "you ordered this?"

"yeah when i made the reservation, don't feel too special." he's got a shit-eating grin on his face, freckles more prominent in the overhead light.

you tease, "i'll remember this next time you're in need of my assistance."

he leans back, feigning innocence, "hey, i'm just trying to create a memorable dining experience."

the conversation continues to flow, easy and familiar. it doesn't surprise you, how comfortable you are with james, even when he's being his usual cheeky self. the food arrives, and you both enjoy the meal, trading bites and sharing stories. it's one of those moments when you forget about the world outside and just relish in the company of a friend.

as dessert arrives, james leans in a bit closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. "you know, i appreciate you putting up with my shenanigans. not just tonight, but all the time."

you raise an eyebrow, a playful grin on your face, "shenanigans? is that what you call your love life?"

he chuckles, but his gaze is sincere, "yeah, that and everything else. you've been there for me, and i don't say it enough, but i'm really grateful."

you feel a warmth in your chest at his words, and for a moment, the playful banter fades away. "you're not so bad yourself, potter."

he smiles, a genuine one this time, "i'd hope so."

an hour passes by, and you're both lost in conversation when you realize the restaurant is beginning to close up. with a sigh, you both gather your things and leave. the night air is cool as you step outside, and you find yourselves walking down the quiet streets back to his car.

as you stroll, james looks over at you, his expression soft, "you know, i might not be great at relationships, but i've always liked what we have. you're more than just a roommate to me, you're like my confidant, my partner-in-crime, and my closest friend."

you feel a flush of emotion at his words, a mix of happiness and something you can't quite put your finger on. "you too, potter. just don't let it get to your head."

he grins, slipping his hands into his pockets, "wouldn't dream of it."

the two of you continue your leisurely walk, the city lights casting a warm glow around you. it's a somewhat quiet night, but the silence is comfortable, the kind that comes from years of shared experiences and unspoken understanding.

as you approach the car, james stops and turns to you, his gaze searching yours, "you know, i might be awful at relationships, but there's one thing i'm certain of."

you raise an eyebrow, curious, "and what's that?"

he opens his car door, soft smirk on his face, "i'm pretty sure i've already found the best thing in my life."

your heart skips a beat, but your eyes roll, "smooth, potter. really laying it on thick."

he chuckles, a hint of nervousness in his eyes, "i mean it, though." he proceedes to give a light shrug before getting into the car.

you chuckle and follow him, "you're insufferable."

he smiles, turning to head to you, "you can say whatever you want, but you know deep down you love me."

you slide into the passenger seat and playfully roll your eyes, "maybe i just have a high tolerance for insufferable people."

james starts the car, and as he pulls away from the curb, he glances at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "ah, so you're admitting it now, are you?"

you laugh, shaking your head, "i said high tolerance, not undying affection."

he grins, focusing on the road, "well, that's progress, i suppose."

the drive back to your apartment is filled with lighthearted banter and comfortable silences. when you finally arrive, you both step out of the car and make your way to the entrance.

as you approach your apartment door, james turns to you, a playful grin on his face, "you know, i have another surprise for you."

you raise an eyebrow, curious, "oh really? and what might that be?"

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box, presenting it to you with a flourish, "ta-da! a box of chocolate-covered strawberries, your favorite."

you take the box with a surprised smile, "well, well, james potter, you're really pulling out all the stops tonight."

he chuckles, "just trying to prove that i'm not a lost cause in all things romantic."

you open the box and take a strawberry, popping it into your mouth with a satisfied hum, "i have to admit, this is a step in the right direction."

james grins, looking almost proud of himself, "i'll take what i can get."

you both head inside, and as you settle back into your apartment, you can't help but reflect on the evening. despite his usual antics and relationship mishaps, there's a side of james that you've come to appreciate more and more—a side that values your friendship and makes an effort to show it.

as the night winds down and you both prepare for bed, you find yourself sitting on your respective beds, sharing a comfortable silence. you glance over at james, who's focused on scrolling through his phone, and you can't help but feel a sense of contentment.

"hey, potter," you speak up, breaking the silence.

he looks up, raising an eyebrow, "yes, my dear roommate?"

you smirk, "you know, you might be onto something with this whole 'proving me wrong' thing."

he grins, setting his phone aside, "oh, am i winning you over, then?"

you shake your head, a teasing glint in your eyes, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. but maybe, just maybe, you're not as hopeless as i thought."

james leans back, looking satisfied, "i'll take that as a victory."

you both exchange smiles, and in that moment, you're reminded of why you agreed to be james potter's roommate in the first place. despite his esoteric personality, he's genuine and loyal, and always there to bring a smile to your face—even if it's through exasperation.

with a smirk you get up, making your way upstairs before calling out, "I'm free this sunday, might as well give you a second date."

[willows-peak]

*･ﾟ✧ Choso Being Sensitive

tags: virgin! choso, fem! reader, very short ramble, crying (choso), nicknames (baby), squirting

MDNI

a/n: choso who cries when he cums inside you,,,,yeah,,, not very long but ill def write more of this in the future bc choso lives in my head 24/7

word count: 0.5k

⋆｡˚ ♡ Choso was incredibly inexperienced, something he never bothered to worry about before he got together with you.

It's not like he was clueless, of course, he knew the basics of sex and that a lot of the acts were learnt in the moment with your partner, and none of that knowledge ever mattered. Until right now.

Right now, where he was thrusting into you with a sloppy and shaking pace, groans and cries of your name almost being punched out of his gut with how good every thrust inside you felt. He was so ashamed, so embarrassed about how his body seemed to go against what he wanted. Trembling, making noises without his permission, unable to keep at the fast and hard pace he wanted to fuck you from how overwhelming your pussy felt.

"Oh- my god- baby, please, baby, i- oh god-" Every time he tried to speak, either whispering dirty talk into your ear or tell you how wonderful you were doing, all devolved into those filthy mashed together chants of your name and prayers to a God he hoped never met him. He didn't need anything more pure than what he had with you.

Your hands on his face was the only thing that could clear his mind, even for a moment so he could get a good look at you.

And Lord did you look delicious. With your hair splayed across the pillows, your perfect and bruise covered tits bouncing to the rhythm of his body against yours, and with your gorgeous eyes rolled back. With a sight like that, there was no hope he could last much longer.

His thumb lowered down to your clit, hurriedly stroking the underside of it while he felt your pussy be stretched taut from his cock. "C-close, close, please-" He scrambled out, lowering his head as his body lit with new found sensitivity. His abs felt like they were on fire from the constant movement, but there was no way he could stop. Even if he tried. He whimpered, feeling his eyes start burning as he got closer to his orgasm. Everything was so much, feeling your thighs shake against his waist and watching your hands cling onto anything that you could.

He could feel how close you were, your wetness flowing down to his balls like the tears forming and cascading down his cheeks. You were so good, so good, so so good, he couldn't, he needed to cum inside you, he needed you, more than he could ever hope to say aloud.

"Gon-na cum- fuck, oh god, yes, yes, just like that, fucking cum for me, please baby please yes yes yes yes-" He rambled out as he felt you rapidly throb around his cock, squirting against his thigh and the mattress beneath you two. He came almost immediately afterwards, a hand covering his mouth as he came hard and deep inside you. "Y-es, yes, yes yes, ohh goddd" he mumbled out, his voice acting on its own accord while he rested his heavy body down against you.

[cantalouupe]

having thots…..of cockwarming puppy luc……perhaps as a punishment…..

so sorry for this, it is not great but i wanted to post something and i've been eyeing up this ask since it was first sent to me </3

if there are mistakes i am sorry

nsfw!!! puppyboy!diluc x gn!reader

cockwarming, "punishments", diluc has ears and a tail and is referred to as a "hybrid" once, PUPPY DILUC

It was a little cruel, maybe. The tight crushing heat, enveloping him in a warm, wet cocoon that set his body temperature perilously high—gods, he wouldn’t accidentally set anything on fire, would he? He always feels like he has no control over himself when he’s with you, brain gone haywire like a computer being reprogrammed; or worse, like a virus, taking over the entire system and destroying everything, devolving until all that was left was you. 

He’s impatient, always in haste to get moving, to get off. You were surprised he’s lasted as long as he had. Usually, he would be ceaseless in his squirming and whining, asking you over and over if he could have you the way he wanted. Today, he seemed caught up in the current situation, sitting hard and still beneath you, not speaking until you deliberately shifted atop him, jostling him inside slightly.  

“Please,” he begs, “let me.” 

“Not yet, Diluc.” 

The tone of his voice twists into something frustrated, hands balling into fists, kept uselessly by his sides. You warned him when this had begun, a tsked “no touching” when he’d try to mold his hands against the smooth curve of your body. As touchy as he was, you note his restraint in not lifting his hands above his thighs, and mentally praise him, almost going to press your own hand against his face, touch his soft ears atop his head, and tell him how good he was being—no, there would be another time for that.  

Still, you can’t help but admire him. His obedience was something you reveled in; knowing someone as big and powerful as he is, willing and eager to wait for your permission, work for your rewards, and live for your praise. He could overpower you quite easily, if he wanted to. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor would it be the last, but despite this piece of information you are both aware of, he chooses not to. The need to be good outweighed the limited, finite pleasure he could chase for him. Though he’d been a little slow, mind lagging behind from all the time spent with the constant pressure of you around him and perched atop him, he understands that there would be consequences, ‘worse’ than that which he was being subjected to now. An unsatisfying, incomplete pleasure is more favorable than none at all. 

You begin to grow suspicious of him, though, when time ticks sluggishly by and his begging does not evolve into something more desperate. With careful movements you shift again, and you hear it, the hitch in his uneven breath, like a gasp at the unexpected movement. He waits for it, anticipating each subtle gyration and adjustment and meeting it with a small noise. You realize, a little too excitedly for someone dishing out a punishment, that he was even more affected by this than you could have imagined—he would end up coming from this, from you punishing him, cockwarming him for minutes and minutes and minutes, until time felt endless and the place where the two of you joined together became a fuzzily comfortable sensation. You thought he’d cry, make his sweet, pathetic noises while trying to convince you to let him have his way, but he’d managed a way around it, phasing through the punishment as if it wasn’t one in the first place. 

“You’re not supposed to be getting off on this.” 

If he does hear, he doesn’t respond, too busy preparing himself for the inevitable fall that he craves so badly. He starts to tense, head tilting back ever so slightly, body arching and growing taught as the pleasure mounted and overwhelmed him. His mouth is parted a bit, just enough for him to pant out hot puffs of air while he struggled to breathe properly, and it entices you, pulling you in until your breaths were mingled. You shouldn’t kiss him, really, not when you’re supposed to be disciplining him—it wouldn’t matter much now, seeing as this is barely a punishment any longer—so you don’t, but you stay close, leaning into his space. 

He whimpers a strained “’m g’nna come,” and you know that it’s too late to stop it. Pulling yourself off him would only push him there faster, the side of you slick and stimulating on his sensitive cock after being still for so long.  

Despite your plans being foiled, you’re a little awed. With just the sensation from him being inside you, no movement at all, he managed to reach his end easily; almost as easily as if he was fucking you normally. You’re still while you watch it, but decide to lift up a smidge so he can grind up while he works through his slowly built orgasm, letting him have these ending moments to move. As he rides out the waves, filling you to the brim with everything he had to give, you belatedly realize that that you’ve practically rewarded him, let him get away with exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do throughout this. He would never learn at this rate, with the way each punishment turning into a reward for him, a newly developed kink that’d be crossed off the list of potential ideas of acts that could work as a form of discipline.  

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (11)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 8.6k

—  Warnings: Physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, trauma, violence, abduction, blood, hurt/comfort, tenderness, patching up wounds.

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! — 

(92 days before, Yoongi)

Yoongi can’t see you as much as he’d like.

There are just too many things to do, family factions to check up on, disputes to settle that almost devolve into blows or burials. Headache after headache and bruised knuckles that Yoongi tries to hide from you.

He doesn’t want you to think he’s like them.

He wonders when what you think of him started to matter. Unable to place the exact moment or thing that makes him even care. He imagines Seokjin tapping the space over his heart, ‘not empty yet?’ A dizzying daydream and a sweet one.

The only sweet reprieve he finds these days are either his dreams or the afternoons he slips away to you. Only when Geumjae’s not there, only when you won’t be seen together, and his presence won’t be suspicious. Yoongi is allowed to move about as he wants, you on the other hand are not. Kept under lock and key.

“Geumjae doesn’t let me leave. He’s worried that I’ll- he’s just protective- and-”

“And possessive?”

“And possessive.” You agree, tipping your head to Yoongi in deference. “You know how alpha’s get.”

Yoongi doesn’t mind coming to you.

Monday and Wednesday afternoons are reserved solely for you. Mostly because those are the days that Geumjae regularly steps out to handle the family business. The Min’s have always been in charge of guns, ghost and stollen, distribution and protection, everything else is just background noise, though occasionally Yoongi knows Geumjae trades in bodies and blunts. Nothing he can’t move quickly, nothing that sticks around.

Wednesdays are the day that Geumjae checks in with his men, checks who’s paid their ‘rent’ this month and who hasn’t. Yoongi knows Geumjae checks over the shipments personally and those come in on Monday.

Usually, you have a good block of time to spend with Yoongi. And he can reassure himself you’re not hurt. Even if that double checking starts to feel more complacent as the weeks drag on.

Smuggling and secrets, hidden hurts and bruises. Yoongi doesn’t know when he started to sort of plan it in his head, all the way’s he might be able to convince Geumjae to let you go and the ways he could get you out.

He doesn’t brotch the topic with you, that’s too risky. But when he’s not with you Yoongi’s planning. It’s one of a dozen goals he has at this point to disrupt the movements of the family and dismantling the empire.

But that’s a pipe dream, they’re too well organized, you could never take it down from the top or the bottom, it would have to be unilateral. Yoongi has thought about how he’d do it time and time again and every time he tries to think through it he runs into the same road blocks.

There is too much loyalty, too much mutually assured destruction. One house falls and another would take its place and absorb their business. You couldn’t go house by house without the others becoming too strong.

And no one can second guess Yoongi’s motives. To cause even the slightest suspicion would be a death warrant, it has to look like he’s helpful and incompetent even if he aims to be anything but.

Helping a head’s wife escape her husband would certainly be cause for suspicion. Not enough to kill Yoongi outright, but probably enough that all of his actions, including returning to the pack would gain further scrutiny. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the family took a closer look. The pack must stay uncontacted. Yoongi will not drag them into this.

One life does not equal six. But Yoongi has to try.

Faking your death is an easy option. Yoongi could easily say you couldn’t be trusted and procure a body that looks like yours and plant it. Fire could take care of DNA and dental records. No one would question it if Yoongi was at the helm of the operation. No one would question if Yoongi made it look like it was him who killed you.

That way- you might be able to slip away unscathed.

He’s got a fair bit of money set aside that he could give you. Not enough to buy you a new life but certainly enough to start. He could make sure you disappear into the hazy backdrop of the world. To some faraway seaside cottage that he could come and visit. He could fix it up maybe. Live in it possibly. If the pack doesn’t take him back.

There are a lot of ‘ifs’ in all this.

The rest of the houses jostling for power gets worse as the days count down, and they grow restless. The Callender trudges closer to the 120-day mark. The gala planned at end of the season is for the lunar new year but also for the new Don. It will be the last official family gathering and once the clock strikes midnight, Yoongi will make his choice on who will rule. It has more than one grandma in a tizzy- there’s a lot of planning that goes into it.

“It’s the year of the rabbit,” someone whispers,

“Not a good year, a year for prey animals.”

“Surely it’s bad luck.”

Yoongi grows antsy too. Too often the business of the family drags him away from you.

He helps the Ahn's carry out a deal that almost goes south and misses two meetings with you in a row. You do send some pastries to the cottage, chocolate ginger cookies with powdered sugar tops- but they’re cold and a little mushy by the time Yoongi gets to them. The cinnamon still reminds him of Tae. It seems like you’re trying to make one pastry for each of them, if the coffee cake and vanilla bean scones are anything to go by.

When he can’t get to you, your text messages are his constant companion.

Mrs.Min (1:26am): if you have a sweet tooth like me, I don’t know why you’ve never learned to bake.

--- (1:31am): Seokjin bakes bread sometimes but anything with a filling he kind of fails at.

--- (1:31am): We tried to make hot pockets once.

Yoongi swears he can year you stifle a laugh over the phone. Across the city sitting downstairs because you didn’t want to fall asleep next to Geumjae upstairs. Happy to have a rare evening where he doesn’t…require you.  

You feel like you sort of know his pack already. It’s nice to talk about them. You’re the only person who Yoongi can talk to about them. The only person who doesn’t make talking feel scary.

Yoongi changes your contact in his phone.

--- (1:32am): could you teach me how to cook shit like this?

Her (1:32am): Don’t call my cookies shit

Yoongi sends a selfie of himself eating one, face dotted with powdered sugar like snow.

 --- (1:32am): they sort of look like shit.

Her (1:33am): they’re double chocolate caramel!!!!

Her (1:33am): …

Her (1:33am): Alright fine, I’ll admit they’re not visually appealing.

Yoongi laughs curling over the plate of cookies. It’s the first time he’s laughed in weeks, the first laugh that he’s had here that wasn’t fake. Yoongi looks at his phone and feels such a pang in his chest it winds him. Tae's voice whispers in his ear.

You’re going to miss her, aren’t you? If this goes south, you’d miss her.

Yoongi’s heart is in his throat when he reads your text message.

Her (1:34am): We might not have a lot of time until new years, but I can probably teach you a few recipes before then.

~-~

(87 days before, Yoongi)

More and more of the families want to have Yoongi supervise, want him to see how each of their candidates behave in hopes of swaying him in their direction. But a good portion of them are either too young, too stupid, or too disinterested in actually leading. Guided to Yoongi’s quiver by their parents and heads of house.  

The Ahn’s are in charge of weed and meth, the Miyazato’s cocaine and heroin, the Jijon’s prescription drugs and organs (kidneys mostly, but there is the rare lung transplant and the even rarer hearts), the Lucchese’s for smuggling and laundering, the Moon’s diamonds, the Camorra’s prostitution, Another for cybercrimes and counterfeiting, on and on again until Yoongi’s mind is dizzy with keeping track of who works for who.

12 families in total. A few of them have intermingled enough that there are blood relations on both sides. Yoongi’s mother was a Moon before she married his father. The title of ‘cousin’ for Moonbyul’s isn’t just that. The blood mixing is kept track of carefully, with no need for unintended incest, it’s a hobby of the auntie and uncle omega’s. There is a dating pool of eligible young omegas and alphas. The more they intermarry the stronger the bond between houses grow.

Yoongi doesn’t know what he’d rather do, play kingpin or matchmaker.

There are a few arranged marriages each year. One gets announced at a family dinner almost halfway through Yoongi’s stay. The Ahn head of house and the Luchese head of house shake hands, the perfect picture of a business deal. Both of them wishing for more grandchildren.

Which is probably why most of the grannies don’t like you.

Yoongi see’s you sneered at and tripped, notes when the houses switch to their native tongues, more often than not Korean, when you come close to hide their words from you. You’ve squashed their plans of having their third or fourth in line omega grandchild marry a head of house. Yoongi doesn’t have to ask himself why Geumjae chose you. It’s clear.

You’re as beautiful as you are easy to get along with, more than one man has been tempted to possessive anger by a countenance as graceful as yours. When Yoongi comes to check on you you’ve always got something prepared.

You need too, because that’s the only sure-fire way you’ve ever found that made Geumjae’s anger immediately subside. A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach (and between his legs) and it’s your only way to safety.

Geumjae doesn’t eat your sweets anymore. He hasn’t since the Don and Beta died. But Yoongi eats them and that’s enough to encourage your shy smile.

You learned after the first day you don’t have something prepared, that Yoongi doesn’t mind if you don’t have the food ready when he walks in. “I-I’m sorry- they’re taking too long to cook- they don’t look pretty, and I haven’t even made the ganache yet- I don’t know what went wrong and-”

Yoongi’s presence is so soothing, like a fresh breath of air as he swoops into your kitchen, opening the oven and checking it while you watch anxiously. Ready to be scolded.

“It looks like it needs a minute, do you want to teach me how to make frosting? It can’t be that hard to make ganache.” His casual tone leaves you spluttering.

“Gnash and frosting are like so not the same thing.”  

It’s the first time anyone cooked with you in years, and Yoongi dons your apron so easily. There are little strawberries embroidered along the hem, and it contrasts with the dark silk of his button-down. He lets you tie it behind his back. He always wears the scarf when he comes to see you, it’s like your little secret. Sometimes, at the family dinners on the weekend you see it tied to his wrist, the hint of red peeking out from his suit jacket.

Some days Yoongi doesn’t take it off.  

“Is there anything you don’t like? Any desert I shouldn’t make?”

Yoongi thinks for a moment, humming, turning away to tap at his phone, sitting on the countertop. Someone is calling him, but he taps away the contact the second it appears. “I guess the only thing I don’t really like is pumpkin pie.”

You lift your lip, nodding in agreement, “so mushy.”  You show him how to chop the chocolate, putting it in the double boiler, watching him while he stirs it, giving him instructions that he follows obediently.

A man, obedient for you. How strange.

He’s got nice shoulders, you realize. They’re wider than you first thought. A warm vision pops into your head; more of a string of images than a daydream. Your arms around his waist, a hug from behind. Your front pressed to his warm back, burying your face in his shoulders and rubbing your nose along his spine.

It’s brief even if it is sweet, you shake it off before it has the power to make your scent sweet. Narrowly stopping the chocolate from burning with a hand on his wrist. His scent sweetens. Like the chocolate on the air. You avoid touching Yoongi for the rest of the day. When Yoongi’s not looking you press your cold hands to your cheeks to try and calm down.

~-~  

(70 days before, Yoongi)

It’s the 6th Wednesday that Yoongi has gone over to your house, and when he checks his phone for a text from you, he finds nothing.

It's not all that abnormal. Two Mondays ago Yoongi hadn't gotten a text at all until nearly 4 o'clock. You'd apologized and told him that he should just come over if it happened again. So he heads over, hood up in disguise and to protect his face from the wind. A gnawing feeling in his chest that feels an awful lot like worry. 

There are no staff here today, none. Not a single car in your modest wrap-around driveway or 3-car garage. Yoongi knows Geumjae has a collection of supercars somewhere across the city, but knows better than to suspect he’s home. He always parks out front and leaves either the red Lamborghini or the black Spider where anyone can see and envy it. Geumjae never misses an opportunity to show off. 

Yoongi lingers outside, the windows are dark, but he can see a light just on, not in the entranceway but further inside. He sends you a text, tries to call you, and even knocks on the front door, only for it to go unanswered. He hesitates just briefly before he lets himself in. 

He doesn't have to go far to find you. You are in the powder room just off the foyer. The only lit-up space in the whole house, you are slumped over the sink, hardly able to hold yourself up. You look up in the mirror the second you hear someone behind you.

You flinch, face turning, bloody cheek catching the light. 

“Holy shit.”  

He hasn’t taken off his jacket or his shoes, he hasn’t even bothered to make sure you’re not being watched as he crosses the short distance. You flinch back again, backing up against the door.

 Your face is...a mess, a bruised cheek, the corner of your lip split, and the top of your cupid's bow swollen. There is blood on your lips, the inside of your mouth when you open it. Your chin is speckled with it as is the side of your face.

Your shoulders go down, and you speak, words muffled from the blood in your mouth. The sink is soaked in it from wall to wall. A bit drips out.

“I thought you were Geumjae.” 

Yoongi bristles, but rage makes him quiet. You pause, spitting blood into the sink. “Bit my cheek when he slapped me. It’s alright, it's fine, I'm-” you sway, teeter there and Yoongi stops you from falling over. Woozy from blood loss? From a minor concussion?

It’s anything but alright, and it’s anything but fine. Yoongi knows. Feels it in his hands, shaking with rage. He lifts his hands, hesitating before he touches you. He lowers his hand and settles for grabbing yours, tugging you through the house to the kitchen.

Yoongi does not like touching you when he's angry. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel right, even if it's not you he's angry at.

Face wounds have a habit of bleeding a lot, and mouth wounds even more so. There is a trail of blood from the bathroom to the kitchen speckling the black and white checked floor. 

It’s no better there. In the kitchen, there’s a small pool of blood on the floor. Smudged like something- your cheek maybe- had been pressed into it and dragged or pushed through it. Dried and dark.

A bowl of flour sits upturned, dotting the counter like snow and turning everything dusty. Yoongi wonders what you’d been making, what you’d almost tried to bake before your interruption.

It had been for him; you'd been baking for him and Geumjae had been there and he'd- 

Yoongi picks you up at your waist and sits you on the countertop. So angry he can hardly speak. The touch is brief, only a few seconds on your waist. But you make a small noise in surprise. “Sit.” He commands, and you follow, perfectly obedient. 

Blood dribbles out of your lips. Onto your lap. You're in your pajamas, matching blue and grey silk toile. There's blood on your collar too.

He wets a cloth underneath the faucet and dabs it against your cheek, round and swollen, ever so gently to wipe at the blood on your cheek, holding his hand under your chin to catch the blood. Your split lip. Until your skin is mostly clear. You wince and Yoongi gently cajoles you. “There you go- I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Yoongi leaves you with the cloth and goes to get cotton rounds and raid the bathroom. There is hydrogen peroxide and Vaseline, it’s not ideal, and it's not a trip to urgent care or a call from a family doctor but it’s all Yoongi can do.

"I'm going to fix your mouth, but I have to put my fingers in there. Is that okay? Is that alright?" you nod, mouth too full of blood to speak.

Yoongi washes his hands before he grabs the Vaseline. He hooks his finger into it grabbing a glob on his index before he holds his other hand out for the cloth. "Spit" You spit into the cloth. "Open" you open your mouth.

Yoongi finds the interior gash warm, Warm and wet and hot to the touch. He swipes the Vaseline over it as gently as he can but you still wince. Breath hot around his knuckles. Yoongi does not keep his fingers in your mouth longer than necessary. Taking it out and whipping the blood and Vaseline on another cloth. "There you go, good, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Try to speak with your lips more, I know it hurts, but this will help it clot and stop bleeding. Leave it in for an hour and then you'll be good." 

The Vaseline tastes gross. Leaves oil on your tongue, but your mouth immediately stops filling with blood. Yoongi's fingers are out of your mouth as quick as he puts them in. You nod, eyes downturned. 

Yoongi takes the cloth from you and continues to clean. It's the softest anyone's touched you in a long time. You're selfish enough to let him do it. Is it affection or selfishness? Wanting or guilt? You can't read Yoongi's expression. Can’t read his eyes at all.

You’re wearing makeup to cover other bruises, this close, standing between your legs, he can see the spots where your skin turns gummy. He continues to wipe it away. Going farther than the blood. Down to your chin, your shoulder. Your neck, Your fingers. Your wrists. More and more horrified the more he uncovers. 

You don't stop him. You could stop him. You should. But being touched like this. The cold cloth feels so pleasant against your bruised skin. It feels a bit too good to be safe.

You have fingerprints, hand marks, whatever you want to call them. Around your neck. Big finger-shaped bruises. More around your wrists like someone has been holding you down. Your eyes are screwed shut tight like you can’t bear to keep your eyes open. Yoongi’s rag is a mess of makeup and blood. 

An uncharacteristic growl builds in his chest because- because- 

He can tell that the bruises aren’t fresh. You have to have been hiding them for days or maybe weeks because they’re already yellowing. Yoongi didn't notice them. Geumjae had tried to strangle you. To kill you. He could have, he could have done it, with his hands around your throat.  

Yoongi wonders If the abuse started before or after your marriage. Knowing Geumjae- he probably waited to show you his true colors. Married, locked in, and trapped. He must have waited until you knew too much, until you didn’t have a hope of leaving without losing your life.

The family doesn’t allow divorces. 

You immediately go into damage control. Yoongi doesn’t even have to ask where you got them before you’re defending your husband. “There are worse things. He wasn’t trying to kill me this time. He was just so angry.” Looking at them all Yoongi can think is that Namjoon would sooner cut off his own hands than lay one finger on Jin in anger. “-and you know how alpha’s are, it’s my fault, I make him angry.”

You keep saying that and Yoongi’s starting to hate it.

Yoongi can barely hear you over the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. He knows he probably smells like the ocean right now. That he should be putting more effort into smelling gentler so that he doesn’t spook you but-

“This time?”

If he smells like the ocean when he’s sad or upset, then you smell like rain. Together you are a typhoon, a hurricane. Wind whipping, cold and fridged. The type of storm that melts cities and peels off warmth like nothing. The kitchen is full of that smell, rain, salt, and bloody brine.

You shake your head at him, looking away. You take the cold cloth from him. All but wrench it from his fingers. “Don’t, just don’t alright.”

Yoongi pushes back from the countertop and Yoongi raises his hand to run a hand over his face, realizing what he’s done wrong seconds later. His words of ‘don’t defend him’ die in his throat when he sees you prepare to be hit. Flinching and closing your eyes again.

If you’re getting abused by your husband, it stands to reason that his brother will do the same. No matter the kindness that you’ve come to expect from Yoongi, no matter the gentleness you’ve seen. He could always change. People can always change. No good will is guaranteed and no safety is forever.

His touch on your chin is gentle but you still recoil from it. Opening your eyes looking up at him. Eyes wide in surprise.

You’re beginning to realize that Yoongi is nothing like his brother. You feel like you’re always expecting him to do one thing, only for him to say and do the opposite. You wait for him to shame you when he teases you, wait for him to lie to you when he tells you the truth. He’s a man of contradictions.

You’ve never known a beta before. 

You’ve seen the way he acts around the others in the family, watching, always ready to offer an encouraging touch to the young pups or a helpful hand to the old grannies. He might complain and bitch and moan, but behind closed doors, Yoongi is as intense of a man as he is kind.

You think that out of all of them, he’s the only member of the family that you could ever learn to genuinely like.

Not love, because love isn’t something you’d ever get. Not without paying for it. 

Geumjae is always careful to remind you of an omega’s place in society, especially one like you who came from nothing and is worth comparatively little. How many times has he reminded you that you’re not worth the money it takes to house and clothe you? That you are more of a bother than you’re worth.

You need to fit the part assigned to you. The wife, pretty and young and doting. 

Your husband likes it when you’re dressed to impress, in Burberry and Balenciaga. It sends a pointed message to the other families, even if it makes you feel like an accessory. 

Feeling like an accessory is better than feeling like a nuisance, like the dirt under his shoes- like earlier, your nose shoved into your blood like a pet would be shown a mess. Geumjae's boot on the side of your face, pressing you into the floor so hard you felt your jaw creek. You take what you can get. You have been trained to accept violence where there should be love. It’s your job to look and act a certain way. It's your job to take it. 

But it’s harder with Yoongi, harder when he doesn’t seem to expect anything from you at all beyond the conversation. But maybe you’re just naive.

He’s still a man after all. 

You know best what men are truly like. How many times has Geumjae told you your only value is between your legs? The other slight comforts you provide are simply nominal.  You’re as much for decoration as the fancy designer couch or the crystal chandelier. You complete the picture of the perfect life. Powerful men like Geumjae should have pretty young wives, demure and obedient. 

You don’t know when you started to believe the horse shit that Geumjae shoves down your throat. That you were lucky he didn’t treat you worse. That his job is stressful enough to make the abuse justified.

That you deserve it. 

But Yoongi makes it hard to believe Geumjae’s lies. Especially when he talks about his pack, especially when he reacts to your bruises. You bruise easily, it’s not Geumjae’s fault he leaves marks on you. 

Yoongi cradles your face in his hand, thumb on your bruised chin. So, light it doesn’t hurt. It’s dangerous. If Geumjae saw the two of you right now, standing closer like this, Yoongi standing between your parted thighs he might-

“I will never hurt you; you don’t have to be afraid of me.” You stare at him, keenly aware that no matter the empty this house is there could always be eyes.

You could never call the brownstone home. No matter that you sleep and eat and shit here. This house is not a home, that you are sure of. It is never truly safe and there could always be someone watching. Someone who could tell Geumjae that Yoongi had put his hands on you. However gently. it doesn’t matter when it comes to your husband.

His promise tastes rotten. It's not safe for him to be around you. And yet, he holds your face so gently, that you cannot help but lean into his touch.

His hair brushes your brow, long, in your face. “I’m never going to hurt you. I promise.”

Your skin belongs to Geumjae; your body belongs to Geumjae. Every molecule in you promised from the ring on your finger and the bracelets on your wrist. When you find time to feel something other than fear- you hate it. That he’s made you into this thing. This object. You hate the man you once said you loved. No matter what your family and friends had told you about your boyfriend, then fiancé, and now your demon.

Your family and friends have long stopped asking after you. They don't come around anymore; you haven’t spoken to them in years. Whenever they call, Geumjae gets a notification on his phone. You know he has it tracked as well to keep an eye on you. And it’s easier to just not pick up than have him question you and demand you turn over your phone. Even if nothing is telling in your text messages, he’ll find something to be mad about.

Why are you downloading Instagram again? I told you I wasn’t comfortable with you downloading it, people only use it to cheat and look at pictures of other alpha’s. Why did you delete this photo from your camera roll? Did you send this selfie to someone else? See this is why I can’t trust you- you’re so fucking Nieve it blows my mind sometimes. Why would anyone be interested in you if they weren’t going to fuck you? You think she really just wants to be your friend? You’re so fucking boring baby. She’s an alpha. You know alpha’s only want one thing.

Your husband is as possessive of you as he is violent. The first time another man had touched you- just a hand on the small of your back- Geumjae had carved the skin away and cut off the other man’s hand. One finger for every second spent touching something that was his.

That is what we do with filth. We cut it out. He’d said, trailing the knife up the inseam of your tights. You should be careful you don’t dirty yourself. He’s done a lot to you over the years, made you stand under cold water until your lips where purple and the water felt like fire, made you kneel, kept you awake until you were worried about passing out, forced you to crawl, forced you to be sick. Forced you to do a lot of things you’re not proud of, that make you feel dirty.

Yoongi cradles your face so delicately, like he’s not worried about getting his hands dirty.

The scars would have stuck if you hadn’t used scar cream, and really- it wasn’t that deep or that bad, you hadn’t even needed stitches. If he’d been truly angry, he would have cut you deeper. Even in your own mind, you make it out as less bad than it is. 

There are other things that are worse than the scars. You hate the way that your husband watches you, the way that his eyes roam. You feel like he's cutting your skin off, fileting you alive with every spot his eyes touch. You would cut it out if you could- whatever makes him stare so long.  You’d cut your hair and scar your face; you’d smash all your makeup if only he would stop looking at you.  

But beauty is currency. Would Yoongi be helping you right now if you weren't beautiful? You’re not sure you want to know the answer to that question.

(Yes…he would.)

You’ll get nowhere with that line of questioning. As much for your safety as for Yoongi’s- He can’t get close to you or else risk Geumjae’s wrath. You step away from him and his touch. Returning to the floor and stepping out of his grasp. Yoongi has his blood on your fingers when he takes them away, rusty and diluted from water.

It won’t be the last time he has your blood on his hands.

“Yoongi,” you say his name chiding, like you’re scolding a small child. “Don’t you know better than to make promises you can’t keep?”

~-~

(68 days before, Yoongi)

Group dinners are routine, and while Yoongi could find an excuse to see you during the day, he’s also often pulled in 50 different directions by the expectations of his family.

He finds himself readying for dinner in a hurry most nights, eager or maybe a little panicked to check in with you. The family dinners are tense between the two of you. You maintain none of the easy friendships you've cultivated in private. You avoid him like the plague and his eyes never hover on you even once.

Both of you are good at pretending.

Geumjae sticks to your side like glue too. A hand that probably looks protective to anyone else but looks possessive to Yoongi slung around your waist constantly. Yoongi sees the harshness and pain in your body when Geumjae’s hand tightens digging into the swell of your hip. You're plush in the way that all omega's are plush, as pretty as it is distracting.

Yoongi does not let himself look distracted. Not yet. There are too many maneuvers to make, too many decisions and plays, and each of you is like a piece of a chess board.

Yoongi eats his food and quietly begins to plan Geumjae’s murder.

Knight to A1, Rook to A3, (Queen to E4, Pawn to D5).

Sometimes when you stand close Yoongi lets his fingers brush yours. Sometimes you even brush back.

~-~

(64 days before, Yoongi)

Checking up on everyone in the family during mourning times and making sure they’re all obeying the rules is one of his responsibilities as beta but fuck if it’s not annoying.

Yoongi is a different person when he's around them. He has to be.

He doesn’t know how many more aunties or grannies or omegan uncles he can handle crying into his shoulder about how the last Don was so and so, did such and such great thing, or was remarkable in this way. Only to have them compare the late Don to their grandchild or husband, conveniently eligible for the throne.

Everything is a tool. Even mourning. Even misery.

Yoongi's glad you don't try anything, not that he thinks you would, not that you'd ever defend Geumjae. Regardless of where you stand with your husband. His presence in your house will always be easy to excuse an account of how suspicious the others are of you.

He just wants to make sure the newest member of the family isn’t a mole. That excuse satisfies everyone.

Even Geumjae.

None of them suspect what he’s planning, Yoongi isn’t just a good manipulator, he’s the best.

He makes a show of it, and it has the double purpose of undermining Geumjae’s position in the family when they have a meeting. Only the heads of house and him. 13 people sat around the big table. Moonbyul has her Chelsea boots propped up on the edge of the table. Yoongi standing at the head. He infuses his words with more venom than a rattlesnake.  

“I cannot believe you’re foolish enough to bring in someone as incompetent and as stupid as you did brother,” Yoongi lies. They’re all lies lies lies- “You clearly haven’t been making decisions with the family's best interest in mind, I expected better from you.”

5 out of the 12 heads nod at Yoongi’s words. Moonbyul levels him with a cool look. Calculating. "It would have been safer for a head of household to pursue someone from within the family, let alone an outsider who had a clear lack of money or relevant connections." That much is true. “She has no use to us. It’s clear that this matter requires my personal involvement.” Geumjae won’t contradict Yoongi in front of the other heads of household. He merely nods at Yoongi somberly, accepting his criticism.

It’s not the last criticism that Yoongi has for them. Not by far. Yoongi was taught to do this job and damn it if he's not fucking good at spotting their weaknesses from a mile away.

“The sector by the docks is so leaky it couldn’t hold a fucking cup of water. You cannot be moving products in the light of day. I get that you're fucking ancient Mr. Choi and that you're grieving but switch your schedules over before you get all of us fucking caught. You won't last in jail, and that’s a promise."  

“Are you thinking with your dick or your brain Meimei? Or do you just scoop anyone off the street these days without bothering to check if they’re the cousin of the fucking mayor? It’s a good thing your son realized who she was, or else that might have made a mess that not even I can clean up. How is the donation to his next campaign coming? Is there anything else we know that we can use against him? If he asks for more than a million it's coming out of your coiffeurs not the rest of ours. I don't care if you have to sell your house in Aspen or your own fucking omega, get it done.”

He tosses insults like they're change, and the sneer on his face is not fake. “Bury your bodies, don’t prop them up at your dinner table and make them a plate. Get rid of this or I swear to God you’ll be next on my chopping block.”

And if someone dares to ask him if he's made his choice yet, he all but bites their head off. "In the last 70 days, I've witnessed nothing but profound mediocrity from you and everyone else in your line. If you have any more stupid questions, I'll gladly replace you as head of house, maybe the next one won't make me feel like I'm blowing my fucking brains out while I'm holding their goddamn hand."

Yoongi is a good actor, he wonders what they think he’s going to do with you, maybe interrogate, maybe torture, whatever it is- it’s a far cry from his twice-weekly visits to you. Knocking on the door before he lets himself in. Wiping his hands through his hair. Making himself presentable before there’s that pitter patter of socked feet towards the door. His heart beating in time with the quick steps.

You’re already pink-cheeked and smiling shyly, ready to take his coat. “I’ve got it- I’ve got it” he tries to insist. But he suspects it has more to do with your trained countenance than any real want to take care of him. He lets you hang up his coat.

The scarf on his wrist remains tied. Your fingers skim it when you help him take off his gloves.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner- grannie was a little distraught” In truth- the old woman had cried into Yoongi’s arms for a good two hours; it had eaten up most of his morning. You never fail to smile at Yoongi when he appears in your kitchen. Practically bouncing on your heels.

Maybe he can give you this, just this.

Your house always smells sweet. With vanilla, with melted sugar, with milk. Scents that make Yoongi ache. You bake every day, unaware of the fact that the scents you conjure with your hobby make Yoongi think of people he loves and misses daily.

He doesn’t know what his family thinks he’s doing with you, but letting you chide him gently over the way he's folding the egg whites probably isn't it. "They're so fluffy, are you sure they're not like whipped cream." Yoongi slides his finger through them.

"Don't. Trust me, egg whites are yucky." 

He spends his afternoons with you munching on the sweets you’ve created and tea and coffee, once you learn that’s what Yoongi likes- you always have a pot ready when he comes knocking. Warm and thick on the air like Namjoon's scent. Imported beans from Taiwan, Thailand, and everywhere until you find the one that Yoongi likes best.

And on the days where it doesn’t hurt as much- when you don't feel prone to jealousy or worry or when you need a bit of hope, you ask Yoongi about his pack.

It's always small questions. Idle and not too deep. It’s not exactly a safe topic and you try not to get into scary territory.  Tip-toeing here and there around things that you really want to say, really want to know, filling up on lemon tarts and custard-filled pastries, on cranberry orange biscuits and jammy cookies.

You know them by name and by scent. And Yoongi only brings them up when he feels like he can handle the pain. Or when you bake things that smell particularly like home, like the den, like them.

It helps that with every day away he makes them safer. With every day gone he brings more distance between them and him and the possibility of the pack getting wrapped up in this gets slimmer and slimmer. The odds are never non-existent, but they are better. He’s a dangerous man to love and Yoongi knows that. He was always on borrowed time. He knows they probably don’t see it that way, but it makes Yoongi feel better about leaving them.

He’s going to have a lot to explain to them if he ever makes it back. Yoongi puts his odds at 20- Maybe 10%.

“The one who smells like honey?” You clarify, “Your honey? Jimin.”

“Jungkook," he corrects easily, Yoongi tips his head good-naturedly. "Jimin smells like vanilla, Jungkook's honey.” The sweetness coats his tongue, almost conjuring Jungkook in thin air by how much Yoongi yearns.

"Your honey?"

"Yes, my honey." Your fingers are sticky, your smile too. Yoongi reaches up to wipe your cheek. “He would love stuff like this, he’s a total muscle pig but he only really works out so that he can eat as much food as he wants,” Yoongi says the words hushed. Like they’re a secret. He doesn’t mention anything about Jungkook’s seizures.

You hide your smile in the lip of a teacup. “I’ll have to make it for him one day then.”

It’s a soft sentiment even if it’s another impossibility. The promises are just another way that you and Yoongi play pretend.

~-~

(57 days before, Yoongi)

Regardless of the Don’s position remaining unfilled and the rules imposed, bloodshed can’t always be avoided. It's always something, a gun that accidentally goes off at the wrong moment, some bad product that finds its way onto the streets and sends the media into a tizzy. Today it's a dock worker who doesn't want to pay the usual fee, who foolishly thinks that things will change now that there isn’t a sole person in control.

But he's wrong, Yoongi is in control.

He's called in to help, and he’d had to leave the man in a bloody heap, barely breathing. He'd heard more screams while he was leaving. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about how painful it must have been. Walking away with heavy footsteps.

He’d made sure to wash the blood off of his hands and change his clothes before coming over, but he’d forgotten about the bottoms of his shoes, walking all over your rug and tracking blood into the house. You don’t level it or him with any distaste, no matter how much he apologizes. He can tell you don’t really mind.

He wonders how many times you’ve had to clean up blood in this house and how many times that blood has been your own. You have the cleaning ladies who move through the house like wraiths’. But they're in your husband's pocket. You clean it up before they have a chance too.

Yoongi gets on his hands and knees with you, no matter that you tell him he shouldn't.

"I'm your equal when it's just the two of us, you don't have to act like that- subservient," he says, "I'm not Geumjae."

Oh, if only Yoongi knew how painfully aware you are of that.

Both of you scrub the floor in companionable silence. Not too worried about leaving evidence that anyone with more than a wandering eye would find. The quiet seeps in until you ask him.

“Did you kill him?” Yoongi can’t breathe around the tension in his chest. You touch his hands, and somehow- you don’t expect them to be as warm as they are.

Warm monsters cannot survive the coldness of hell.

“No. But I could have.” He closes his eyes, admitting it after a moment. “I left that for someone else but I probably shouldn't have, they-”  he breaks off, hums, “I doubt they made it quick."

You trace along with one of the bruised knuckles delicately, making a small noise in the back of your throat.

It feels too close to forgiveness, but Yoongi cannot move his hand away.

~-~

(49 days before, Yoongi)

It’s an uncommonly warm day for December, uncommonly sunny outside too, as the light cuts through the barren trees. He can’t help by notice the way that you look towards the open windows, cracked to let some of the stale air out by the cleaning ladies who left before Yoongi arrived. Letting in the distant sounds of the city.

A car horn blares and slips over the stone wall like a tantalizing promise, the sound of people on the sidewalk talking is gentle and sweet. Your house is big, but there’s no real distance that separates you from them here. Maybe 10 feet of driveway and another 10 feet of garden.

Yoongi wonders, not for the first time, if the walls are to keep the world out or to keep you in.

He sees you lean your cheek against the side of the couch and stare over the edge of it, a empty teacup abandoned in your lap. Eyes closed against the tantalizing breeze that slips through the open window.

“We should get out of the house, go somewhere.”

Your eyes open, and you blink, sleepy. You must have a nest upstairs, Yoongi is struck all of a sudden, by how he’s never seen it. Omega’s nest to feel comfort. Collect blankets and soft things and pillows. He imagines you must need a great deal of that- comfort and rest. He’d like to see it, if you’d let him. But it’s an intimate thing to ask, an even more intimate thing to see. If Yoongi where an alpha, the question would be akin to asking for nudes.

But Yoongi isn’t an alpha. He puts his coffee cup down.

“Geumjae doesn’t like it when I leave the house without him, he’ll be angry.”

Yoongi stands up from the settee and holds out his hand for you.

“If he finds out, we can tell I made you.”

You hesitate, staring at his open palm before you take it and let him pull you to your feet.

The two of you raid the coat closet for mittens and scarves and dash out onto the city streets with a breathless giggle. Dodging passersby and pressing close in your own little bubble. Your hand isn’t in his yet, but it brushes his often.

It feels stolen, savored, like a penny that you find on the sidewalk, round and coppery golden.

He drags you through the narrow city streets, treating you to gelato at Venchi. He gets pistachio and you get strawberry. Even though it’s winter, the hot cocoa he gets you warms you up enough that you hardly even feel it. Yoongi’s smile makes you feel like it's summer. You sit at the back of the shop and talk about everything. You talk about the wedding he missed, about the family, about anything but your husband.

You rarely meet eye contact but you’re both good at steering the conversation into safe territory. You like a lot of the same music- and once Yoongi gets started talking about it, he really can’t shut up. You’re a fan of the same drama that Tae and Seokjin like to watch. That’s the first time Yoongi sees your face light up.

You don’t have great proprioception. You’re always reaching for something, always hitting your hip on the table as you walk by. You almost step into the street at one point, teetering off the edge of the sidewalk so close that he has to grab you back from the edge.

You lean into his space a little, blinking at the sudden loud noise, the car speeding past and honking at you to get out of the way. His hand is a vice around your upper arm pulls you in closer than should be proper. You whisper a small thank you with wide eyes that look up at him like you’re surprised that he thought to make sure you weren’t in harm’s way. Yoongi doesn’t know how you almost walked out into traffic, how you didn’t see the car coming. 

“Are you dizzy or something?”

“A little,” You confess.

You remind Yoongi of a clumsy baby kitten or maybe like an alley cat that hasn’t yet committed to a life of kibble and wet food. Like you want to trust him but can’t. You look at Yoongi like you’re half scared of him and half hopeful. He remembers feeling that way, so desperate for something good to hold onto but so conscious of the fact that to hope means to invite disappointment. That to trust is to be betrayed. That anything good, cannot possibly stay for long.

He understands it. Yoongi is a patient man.

(He thinks of trying to make up for the bloodshed he’s caused. Life by life. Yoongi is not absent of blame. Yoongi is still a cog in this machine that helps it run. He’s at least partially responsible for all the carnage the family has caused. At the end of the day, he only tries so hard to limit their destruction. 

But if he was going to make amends in some small way, you'd be a good place to start.)

Yoongi actually does manage to find a small gift for Seokjin. Delicate gold rings that should fit the omega's hands. At a little shop that you find tucked between the eyes of a bougie bakery and a store that sells designer lampshades (if you can believe that there is a market for such a thing).

“You know his ring size?” You tease, Yoongi nods. Blushing. Yoongi has known Seokjin’s ring size since the second month he knew him. Has kept that information in his back pocket. Somewhere in his things back home there is a wedding ring that he’d never given Seokjin, a cheap diamond, small, just a singular star in the center of a thin band. It's all that Yoongi could afford at the time.

He'd always had it in the back of his mind, Proposing. Marrying Seokjin. But then Seokjin met Namjoon and then Yoongi fell in love with him and really, alpha's and Omegas belong together. Mating isn't the same as marriage.

Maybe, when he gets back- if he gets to go back, they can talk about it. If Seokjin even wants him anymore.

“Must be one lucky omega then.” Yoongi blushes and you smile. Yoongi pulls you closer under the guise of staying warm. It's a cold night, the sky is bright and clear.

"You'd like him, I think he'd really really like you too."

“Tell me about Seokjin again.” Yoongi happily obliges.

The two of you walk home, the nighttime darkening and sweetening as you stand close. Yoongi holds the bag to his chest. Neither of you looks up, but above you in the night sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

~-~

Yoongi walks you home and then heads back to the cottage, a pip in his step. A lighter feeling than any he’s had in months fills his heart till it swells too full. Halfway to happy. He walks up to the front of the cottage, thinking of what to text you.

What’s your favorite song? Do you have a favorite food I could teach you how to make? How about tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow? Can I steal you away again? Can I steal you away for good maybe? Would you let me?

Yoongi texts you, and you text back. He's got his keys in his hand. Fingering the scarf tied to his wrist. Smiling softly to himself. Completely unaware of the danger that lurks just beyond the edge of the shadows.

Yoongi is just getting his keys out when he feels the gun press to the back of his head.

Yoongi turns, training kicking in, but before he can see who it is the person hits him in the back of the head. A pistol whip. Brutal but effective. He hits the concrete, and a sweet-smelling rag gets pressed over his mouth. Knees pressed to either side of his hips to keep him down.

Everything goes dark.

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

-The part where Yoongi’s talking about how he’d take down the family if he could reminds me that in the version of the story where the m/c stayed with Moonbyul- she’d have managed to take everything down on her own. She would have managed to do what Yoongi couldn’t.

- I am very very heavily considering renaming the first arc of bily when it does get put into print. I think the story (chapters 1-11 in the og version) would be called ‘prey animals’ but idk yet. Let me know what you think of this name.

- Yoongi calling the m/c ‘her’ is like…ugh I kind of love it. It’s so simple but so like- romantic. Like if you asked him “do you love her” at this point he’d be like no, but he’d know exactly who you were asking about. It’s just an itty-bitty crush at this point. I don’t think he truly realizes he has feelings for her until after two chapters from now.

- The red Lamborghini that Yoongi mentions is actually the same car that the m/c gives Hobi later in the story just fyi,

- Okay so I know that like- mma fighters seal up wounds with Vaseline and I’ve had to do it on occasion too, but I’m not exactly sure if they can be used on interior mout wounds. Honestly in the office where I work, we just pack it with gauze so! Maybe this is a big fanciful but it is indulgent to me and I like the scene so I’m not changing it.

- Ah reading these parts where the m/c talks about herself and thinking of how the pack and Tae in particular start to love her is so <3 I’m so sad for her I just want her to be there already.

- (trigger warning; sexual abuse.) tbh, I think that the m/c’s ed started when Geumjae used to make her vomit on his dick after she at too much. He’d purposefully wait until just after she’d eaten. And he started to shame her for eating a lot and not being able to put out. So, she’d stop eating so that he wouldn’t make her vomit and then maybe a few times- he’d praise her for getting smaller and it was a vicious cycle. I also think that occasionally he probably fucked her very very gently, almost lovingly and normally, just to fuck with her head. It was still rape, she still wouldn’t have consented to it if she’d had a choice. But Geumjae was really one fucked up motherfucker, he really did her in. I could go into further detail about all of it, because a lot of what the m/c went through is also what I went through, but I think I can leave it at that. You should know I’m doing okay, that no one’s touched me in 6 years and that is so good! Other people view celibacy as a bad thing but tbh, I’m so happy that my body has been mine for so long. I’m so happy that when I want pleasure it’s my choice and my choice only. Wow this note turned into more of a diary entry lol but what else is new.

- OH I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT IT BUT- meimei is actually my older brothers nickname. It’s relevant to this that you understand that my whole family speaks Chinese but me, like- both my siblings and my mom are fluent but I never learned. And meimei or 妹妹 means ‘little sister’ in mandarin- ie what my older brother would call me. And ofc I didn’t know it meant little sister so I called him that back, like I still call him that more than his real name. And it wasn’t until years later when he moved to China and I went to visit and called him that in public and at a very fancy meeting with all his bosses and coworkers and they absolutely died laughing. From what I understand that was his nickname for the rest of his time working for that company. it was a very funny ‘Li is not bilingual’ moment in my life, he’ll always be Meimei to me though. I wrote it in as a little tidbit here. My brother might be a bit of an asshole sometimes, But he’s never corrected me and has never asked me to stop calling him that.

- The line ‘twice as many stars as usual’ is a reference to the poem the two headed calf- If you haven’t read it already I very much encourage you to seek it out. It makes its rounds on the internet every few months but sometimes I feel like a two headed calf. I may not be around for long, I may be a freak of nature, but that which makes me different makes me see the world in a fantastic way. There are twice as many stars for me. Twice as many reasons to hope. I know love exists because I can write about it.

- Ooh did you like the new plot twist? This wasn’t in the first version of the story.