#it has 12 darts in it so far

[its-tim-time]

At this point I think you could sue for emotional damages with this Christmas music

(Also Tim just curious is Elias’ picture on a dart board in the break room yet? because I feel like it’s only a matter of time)

Maybe, might try that, also of course not we would never do that to our boss.

[reiding-writing]

may i request getting stuck in an elevator with early season Spence after hours at the BAU and the lights go out and obviously him being terrified of the dark he starts panicking and reader has to comfort him until he eventually explains his fear of the dark in relation to something happening in his childhood. just some angst and hurt/comfort ig? I live and breathe your content <3

malfunction [ s.r ]

Summary:

You and Spencer end up staying late to finish some paperwork after a case, when you finally vacate into the elevator to leave it breaks down, revealing some secrets harboured by both of you and strengthening your relationship in the process.

WARNINGS: claustrophobia, nyctophobia, arachnophobia, mentions of spencer’s bullying

pairing: s1!spencer x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

wc: 3.2k

masterlist!!

a/n: glad i’ve curated an audience of angst and hurt/comfort enjoyers <33

It was late.

12:06AM to be exact.

Silence riddled the bullpen, making the usually bustling office stand completely still.

You might’ve found it a little disturbing if not for Spencer sat a few desks down from you, his mere presence stopping your mind from running rampant with irrational fears of ghosts or demons that might lurk in the dark corners of the room.

It was a little stupid sure, your lanky book-genius of a coworker held no chance of being able to physically protect you from whatever your brain could conjure up, but the mind works in wonderous ways, and he offered you an unintentional blanket of security nonetheless.

You could hear the loose papers of his files rustle as he closed the manilla folder, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses with a sigh.

Looks like Spencer was done for the night. And by that logic, so were you.

You mirror Spencer as you shut your file, packing it away in your messenger bag and tucking your chair under your desk as you stand, the two of you silently acknowledging each other’s presence as you reach the elevator.

You could practically feel the fatigue surrounding the both of you as you stepped inside, your tiredness bouncing off each other and making you more desperate to crawl into bed and knock out for the night.

It didn’t last for very long.

A loud clunking sound echoed through the metal walls of the elevator, followed by it jolting to a stop, and you had to grip onto the metal bar lining the wall so you didn’t lose your balance.

Your eyes turn first to the small screen above the door, flickering between the numbers 2 and 3 as if it can’t decide what floor you’re currently on.

Then they turn to Spencer.

Spencer's breathing is uneven and his body tense, eyes darting around the tiny enclosed space with a distinct air of panic.

“Reid? Are you alright?” You raise an eyebrow at him, your expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

"N-No, no! I am not alright! This is my worst nightmare come to life." Spencer presses himself against the far wall, as if plastering himself to it will make him part of the elevator and therefore unable to be injured if something goes wrong.

“You do know how unlikely it is to actually get any sort of injury from an elevator accident right?”

"One out of ten point five million. I know that. But this isn't about logic this is about fear." He turns away as he speaks, taking a few breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. "I'm-I'm claustrophobic. And this is not helping."

“Okay- okay- let’s just calm down for a second,” You hold up a hand in Spencer’s direction. You never took him as somebody to have irrational fears like this. You always figured that he’d just use his knowledge to rationalise what was happening and move on. Apparently not.

Spencer looks back at you and nods, taking in another deep breath.

“I'm trying. It's just-“ The elevator makes a rumbling sound that elicits what you can only classify as a whimper to leave his throat. “I can't do this. I can't be stuck in this tiny space for an unknown amount of time. I can't. I just can't. Please. Please, someone. Someone has to know we're in here. They have to.”

“Reid- Calm down.”

You let go of the bar you were holding onto to walk over to Spencer, placing your hands cautiously on his shoulders.

"I-I'm trying. I'm trying."

But he doesn't actually seem to be any better than he was before. His body is shaking, his breaths shaking and uneven.

He's getting very close to having a full blown panic attack.

“Sit down,” You push gently against his shoulders to encourage him to sit, following after him yourself to sit in front of him with your legs crossed underneath you.

Spencer lets out a trembling breath. "What if we die in here? What if no one comes? What if something goes wrong?"

“We’re going to be fine,”

You hold out a hand palm up in your lap as open invitation for him to take it if he needs to.“just take slow breaths Reid,”

"I-I'm trying." He looks down at your hand and almost reaches out for you, but hesitates before yanking his hand back.

He looks away and forces his breath to slow down again. "What if we're in here for hours?"

“Elevators have failsafes Reid, it’ll sort itself out don’t worry,”

Spencer takes a shuddered breath in through his nose, closing his eyes as he repeats your words in his head.

It’ll sort itself out. He doesn’t need to worry.

He meets your eyes with a small nod and you sigh, giving him a sympathetic smile that reassures him he’s going to be fine.

Unfortunately, all of your efforts to calm him down are quickly reversed as the lights cut out, sending the elevator into complete darkness.

His sudden blindness brings a startled cry from Spencer, his body instinctively trying to protect himself and in that split second of shock he grabs your hand.

He clutches at it tightly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Everything’s fine-“ You return his startled grip with a light squeeze of your own.

The grip around your hand feels firm and shaky but the contact helps to ground him, bringing some of his panic down a notch or two.

“It's not f-fine. It's dark. I don’t like the dark . I hate it.”

“You’re scared of the dark?” You sound more surprised than you mean to, and although you can’t pinpoint all of his features in the shadows, you’re sure you can see his eyebrows knit together.

“11% of the US adult population is afraid of the dark.” His tone carries an air of defensiveness through his fear, although he doesn’t seem offended enough at your comment to sacrifice the physical comfort that your hand is offering in his.

“Oh- no- I didn’t mean it as a bad thing-“ You shake your head despite the fact that he can’t see you, tightening your hold on his hand as an offer of reassurance. “I just- didn’t see you as somebody to have a fear of the dark is all-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You can hear the slight waver in his voice as he speaks, clearly trying to distract himself in your questions so he doesn’t have to think about his current situation.

You’d also wager he has his eyes shut, as ironic as it is.

“I just meant- you know- your brain rationalises everything so quickly that I figured you just wouldn’t have fears like this?”

He chuckles nervously, the sound echoing in the darkness. "Well, even the most rational minds have their quirks, I suppose. Fear doesn't always follow logic." The tension in his voice begins to ease, and he opens up a bit more.

“Is there a reason you have a fear of the dark?” You could understand his claustrophobia to a certain level, but nyctophobia wasn’t something very common in adults, especially ones who work as field agents for the FBI.

“I uh- it was just something that happened when I was younger, it’s stupid really-” Spencer skirts your question with a half-truth, not divulging any details of his seemingly irrational fear of the dark.

He shifts slightly, adjusting to find a more comfortable position on the floor, his hand tugging yours and in the process forcing you to change your seating position as well.

You squeeze his hand gently. "Do you wanna talk about it? People usually find it easier to rationalise their fears if they voice them to another person,” You use Spencer’s own intelligence against him in the hope that it’ll get him to open up.

As much as you had learned about him in the past two years, you still knew surprisingly little about Dr. Spencer Reid and his life outside of the office.

You knew all about his academics, how he liked his coffee with as much sugar as humanely possible, how under normal circumstances he would rather lick a toilet seat than shake someone’s hand.

But you didn’t really know him; And you figured this might be a good place to start.

“I… It’s not something I like to dwell on,” He tries to shut down your questioning once more, clearing his throat to try and rid of the lump that forms when he thinks back to the origins of his fears. “It’s not exactly a nice thing to remember,”

“I get that, some of my childhood memories aren’t the best either,” You let out a breath that could almost constitute as a laugh of exasperation. “But it might help, and i’m sure that just getting it off your chest will give you piece of mind nonetheless,”

You can hear Spencer take in a breath through his nose, and through the small adaptation your eyes had made to the darkness you could just barely see his lips purse into a line, debating whether or not to divulge his childhood to you.

It’s not like he didn’t trust you with it. Quite the opposite. He’d come to enjoy your presence over the time you’d spent working together.

You didn’t judge his intelligence, nor did you reduce him to it. You just saw him as another person and it was something that he was incredibly grateful for.

He knew you wouldn’t make fun of him if he told you, but he wasn’t worried about that. He was worried that you’d pity him.

That you’d treat him like some fragile object that would break if you spoke too loudly in its presence.

That’s something that he’d never want.

“I- don’t want you to think of me differently…” His voice was still laced with fear as he spoke, but this time it wasn’t a fear of the dark metal box he was trapped in; It was a fear of how your view of him would change.

“Reid…”

“I don’t want to be pitied or have people walk on eggshells for the sake of hurting my feelings…” You can practically feel his apprehension through the way his hand tenses in yours.

“Reid-“

“I’ve just managed to get people to treat me normally and I don’t want all of that to go down the drain-“

“Spencer.”

You can see his eyes snap upwards towards yours as you raise your voice, and you pull his left hand into your own to hold both of them in your lap, eyes chasing his in the darkness to maintain eye contact. “You’re human. Humans have fears and they have bad memories, and it’s not going to change anything about how I treat you.”

“Tell you what,” You give his hands a squeeze, leaning forwards slightly towards him to try and get a better look at his face. “I’ll tell you one of my childhood tragedies if you tell me yours, deal?”

He goes silent as he ponders your offer, ending with a small nod that you can only half see. “Okay…”

“Okay,” You return his nod with your own, running your thumbs over the backs of his hands. “So, i’ll go first,”

“When I was eight, my cousin thought it’d be a good idea to let his pet tarantula crawl all over my face whilst I was sleeping, and I woke up with it half in my mouth,” You practically shudder at the memory. “Needless to say I developed arachnophobia after that,”

You laugh breathily, shaking your head slightly. “It was not very fun,”

“Why would he do that?”

You shrug slightly, arms moving enough that he can feel it where your fingers connect. “He was a bit of a bully if i’m honest, but he’s matured since then thank god,”

“Are you- still afraid of spiders?” Spencer’s eyes practically shine in the darkness, big, round and glistening with curiosity as they scan your face from beneath his glasses.

“Promise not to make fun of me?” Your question is answer enough, but he still nods softly nonetheless. “I think they’re terrifying,”

“Almost 20% of the US population has arachnophobia, it’s a very common fear to have,”

“So is a fear of the dark,” You bring the conversation back to Spencer’s fear once more. “Willing to tell me its origin story yet?”

Spencer sighs, his shoulders slumping and his head leaning back against the wall of the elevator. “It’s-“ He exhales through his nose, his eyes diverting from yours to stare at your interconnected hands.

“When I was in school I was bullied a lot…” He purses his lips and you nod. As sad as it is you’re not exactly surprised.

Someone as insanely intelligent as him was unfortunately bound to be tormented by those who were academically inferior to him, it’s a by-product of jealousy.

“They uh… stripped me down and tied me to a goal post, and- then they just left me there-“ Spencer’s throat catches as he speaks, and you can see through the way his eyes flicker around that he’s replaying the memory in his head.

“I- managed to untie myself after a while, but I spent over an hour searching for all of my clothes and ended up walking home in the dark half dressed…” Spencer’s lip quivers as he reaches the end of his explanation.

“I don’t think i’ve ever been more scared in my life…”

“I’m so sorry they did that to you…” Your eyebrows furrow with sympathy, and you shift your hold on his hands to intertwine your fingers with his. “Nobody should have to experience that…”

Spencer exhales, and you can hear the shake in his breath. “I thought if I just buried it that i’d forget, but I still remember it like it happened yesterday…”

The curse of an eidetic memory you suppose. Destined to remember every detail of the worst experiences you’d ever had.

Although you’re sure that Spencer wouldn’t need an eidetic memory to have what happened to him burned into his brain.

“Spencer…”

“I’m sorry-“ Spencer shakes his head, attempting to pull his hands out of yours. “I told you it was stupid-“

“Hey. No.” You close your hands around his to stop him from pulling away. “That is in no way stupid at all.”

“You went through something awful and developed a fear because of it. That is the furthest thing from stupid Reid,”

“I just-”

You cut off Spencer’s attempt at a rebuttal with a pull of your hands in his, separating them only to wrap your arms around him in a hug. “No excuses.”

Spencer is stiff in your embrace, unsure of what exactly he should be doing. Should he hug you back? Should he pull away to regain his personal space?

He wasn’t exactly sure. He did however, feel like he was going to cry.

He could feel the tears welling up behind his eyelids, squeezing his eyes shut to stop them from falling down his face and hiding his face against the curve of your shoulder so that you wouldn’t be able to see the shadow of his expression.

God he was pathetic.

Sat in his coworkers embrace because he was scared of the goddamn dark.

On the verge of tears because of something that happened twelve years ago.

A twenty four year old man. A fully grown adult.

His shoulders begin to tremble as he thinks about it, and you can feel the way his breath catches in his throat as you bring your hand to the back of his head to hold him closer to you.

“This is pathetic i’m sorry…” He shakes his head against your shoulder, hindered slightly by the way his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose.

“Shhh,” You shake your head in tandem with his, leaning your cheek against the side of his head as you rub your hand over his back. “Don’t be silly,”

"You're not pathetic, Spencer," You reassure him, your voice gentle. "Everyone has their own fears and struggles. It takes strength to open up about them."

He takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "I just never thought I'd be so affected by it for this long."

"Trauma doesn't have a set expiration date," you say softly. "It's okay to still be working through things. And you don't have to face it alone."

Spencer finally relaxes a bit in your embrace, allowing himself to accept the comfort you're offering. "Thank you," he mumbles, his voice barely audible against the fabric of your shirt.

“No problem-“ You don’t finish your sentence before the lights come back on, causing you to squint from the sudden brightness.

The sudden light flooding the elevator exposes the position the two of you had found yourself in, your legs tangled together as Spencer sits in your embrace with your arms around his torso and his hands resting limply by your waist.

“See?” You pull his face away from your shoulder gently, leaning back to finally get a fully clear view of his face. “Nothing to worry about,”

“Yeah…” He nods softly, eyes still a little red from holding back his tears, and he sniffles as he pulls away from you properly when the elevator starts moving downwards again.

“Do you want a ride home?” Your invitation is obvious as you two of you pick yourselves up from the floor, your eyes silently encouraging him to accept your proposal.

“I-“ The elevator came to another halt, this time thankfully opening its doors on the ground for the two of you to leave.

He had his train ticket in his pocket, but he was willing to forget it for now.

“That would be great, thank you…”

“No problem Spencer, let’s get outta here,”

He tries to brush aside the way he feels when you call him by his first name, nodding softly with pursed lips.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here…”

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 12 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, allusion to smut, contractions, water breaking, labor and delivery, and Eddie wasn't there, epidural, medical emergency, lots of fluff

WC: 4.3k

A/N: I could not have written this piece without @the-unforgivenn 💚 everything accurate in this fic is because of her, and everything inaccurate is because of me. I love you, Annie. Thank you for asking my random birth-related questions at all hours.

Divider credit to @saradika

November 4, 1999

At nine months pregnant, everything hurts.

Perhaps that’s why when you wake up for work with an extra pinch in your back, you cast off any worries. Or maybe it’s because you still have over a week until you’re due, and first babies tend to take their time arriving, so there’s no possible way that today is the day.

You shrug on a sweater and your most comfortable pair of maternity jeans, your body heavy with pregnancy and fatigue. Your movements are sluggish, even more so than usual, and Eddie notices as he stands out the counter, shoveling a spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into his mouth.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” he asks, tongue darting out to swipe a drip of milk from his lower lip.

Nodding, you massage just above your tailbone in a meager attempt to ease the pain. “Mhm,” you lie, grabbing two granola bars from the pantry. You unwrap one and take a big bite, letting the chocolate chips melt in your mouth. “Just ready to have this baby.” Another lie, or possibly a half truth; while you’re eager to have your body to yourself again, the prospect of labor and delivery terrifies you.

Eddie presses a kiss to your forehead, his palms gently rubbing your bump. “Eleven more days and then we’ll be a family of four.”

“Baby Brother is taking forever to get here,” Harris laments from his seat at the table, spearing a banana slice with his fork. He glances at your stomach with impatient eyes. “Can’t you do something to hurry him up?”

You cough as your husband’s cheeks flush pink; he rakes a ringed hand through his curls. No doubt he’s remembering last night when he’d innocently lifted your belly to relieve some of the pressure, only to find himself hard as a rock as his fingers lightly dug into your skin. I’ll go slow so I don’t send you into early labor, he’d remarked with a teasing wink. 

“Gotta be patient,” Eddie says now, seemingly having recovered from the brief flashback. He slurps the remaining milk from the bowl and stifles a belch, reaching for his jacket and keys. “Have a great day at work,” he kisses you, smiling against your lips, “and school.” He ruffles Harris’s hair, and just like that, he’s out the door. 

Harris finishes his breakfast, placing his empty plate in the sink and scampering to the door to put on his sneakers. You watch enviously as he ties them with ease; you’ve been relegated to slip-on shoes until your feet are no longer swollen. 

“Come on, Mommy,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulders. “I don’t wanna miss the bus.”

You silently pray that the short walk to the bus stop will ease your muscle tension, taking careful steps as you trail behind the far-too-energetic-for-8 AM little boy. 

Eleven more days. Only eleven more days, you tell yourself. The reminder has tears prickling along your lash line in a double-edged sword. You don’t think you can handle eleven more days of this discomfort, but will you truly be ready to have a newborn baby in less than two weeks? Once you give birth, you can no longer shield your baby from the world’s dangers and cruelties. Will your love be enough? Will you be enough? And how can you possibly figure it all out in just eleven days?

Your mantra of eleven more days turns out to be just six hours. Since Will became a teacher two years ago, the two of you have made it a habit to spend time together after the students’ dismissal. You’re preparing art materials for tomorrow’s class when you feel it—a trickle of liquid sliding down your leg. 

Your eyes widen, heat crawling up your neck and into your face. I peed myself at work. It had happened once last month, but it was preceded by a sneeze, and you were already in the parking lot about to go home. When you’d told Eddie that evening, the two of you laughed so hard that you’d wet yourself again. 

But this feels…different. 

“Oh, no.” There’s another small stream, but it isn’t accompanied by any relief on your bladder. Your worried murmur gets Will’s attention, and he looks at you with concern. “I think my water broke, but I don’t know…it might just be pee…” Your voice trails off before you can speak in circles. 

Will leaps to his feet. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” The pair of scissors he’s been using to cut out paper stars clatter to the table as he rushes to your side. 

“Call Eddie,” you mumble, gripping your bump as a cramp—most likely a contraction, you realize—squeezes at your pelvis. “Tell him to—shit—to get my bag from the apartment and bring it to the hospital.” You bite your lip to stifle a groan. “I’ll call Wayne and ask him to get Harris from the bus.”  

He nods, dialing from the classroom phone as you rattle off the record store’s number. You pull your own Nokia cell phone—a purchase Eddie had insisted upon after you got pregnant, wanting to make sure you and Baby Munson stayed safe. 

“So, um,” Will hesitates after you’ve hung up with Wayne, ending the conversation with a promise to let him know as soon as the baby is born, “Eddie was in the middle of a guitar lesson, so I left a message with one of his employees—”

Please don’t say Ev, you wordlessly plead. Anyone but the stoner who can barely remember to show up to work on time. 

“Ev, I think?”

Shit. 

Will hooks his arm with yours, providing you with the stability to stand up. “Let’s get you to the hospital, all right? Maybe it’s a false alarm or something.”

You nod, but deep down, you know that this baby is on his way. Call it mother’s intuition, you muse wryly. 

After a quick stop in Principal Sinclair’s office to explain the situation, Will helps you into his Chevy Impala, grimacing along with you when another contraction hits. “Should we be timing those?”

You grit your teeth. “Shit, y-yeah. I completely forgot.” All those birthing books you’d read cover to cover to prepare for this moment, and you hadn’t even remembered to time your own damn contractions. “We need to track how long they last and the amount of time between them.”

Will remains unfazed. “We’ll just start now,” he says simply, flicking his wrist to check his watch. “It’s 2:32. Let me know when you get another one.” He turns the key in the ignition, taking your hand before putting the gear shift into drive. “It’ll be okay. Eddie’s gonna get the message, and he’ll be here soon.”

It’s as though he can read your mind, and you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He’s right; if you are in labor, it’s still early enough that Eddie won’t miss the birth. 

You hope. 

Your contractions are one minute long and twelve minutes apart by the time you reach Hawkins General Hospital, growing slightly stronger with each wave. Will relays the information to the receptionist, his voice wavering with nerves and excitement despite his best efforts to remain calm. 

Before you know it, you’re being wheeled into a room, a laminated bracelet with your personal details dangling from your wrist. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s just past 3 PM, which means that Eddie should be here in a few minutes. 

As if on cue, the cell phone in your purse chirps its familiar ringtone. Harris had insisted that you change it from the standard option, choosing one that sounds like birds chirping. It normally reminds you of springtime mornings; right now, you’re ready to throw it through the window. 

Will passes it to you, and you punch the answer button with an impatient, “hello?”

“Hey, Sweetheart,” Eddie’s carefree demeanor wafts through the speaker, “just wanted to check in and see if you’re feeling any better. Did you want me to pick up something from the store on my way—?”

Dammit, Ev. “Eddie, my water broke at work. Will called earlier and left a message,” you manage, maneuvering around the heart rate monitor to brace for another contraction. “I’m—ughhh, shit—I’m at the hospital.”

“What?!” You can hear his sudden shift to panic; the phone drops from his grasp and clatters on the counter before he retrieves it, uttering a slew of swear words. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Your bag’s at home, right? Oh, and Harris! Shit, let me—”

“Wayne’s on it,” you tell him, hopefully putting an end to his mile-a-minute thoughts. “I just need my bag and my husband.” 

There’s a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. “I can provide both.” His humor peeks through his fear in subtle reassurance. “Be there ay-sap. I love you so fucking much.” 

“Love you, too.” A soft click tells you that he’s on his way, probably simultaneously scrambling for his keys and shouting at his employee. 

Nearly an hour later, there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will blots the perspiration on your forehead with a cloth; out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s watching the clock as well. “He’ll be here,” he says as though reading your mind. Or maybe he’s scared that he’ll have to stand in for Eddie throughout the entire process. “In the meantime, I’ll flag down a nurse so we can get you that epidural.” His words are even, but his smile is uneasy, both of you well-aware that he is out of his element. Though he’ll deny it vehemently, you know you owe him. Big-time.

“Why don’t you grab yourself some food from the cafeteria?” You’d heard his stomach growling just before, and he can certainly use a break. 

Will nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do you want anything?” he asks out of habit, cheeks tinged pink as you shake your dismal cup of ice chips. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He ducks out of the room as a nurse walks in. 

“Are we considering an epidural, Mrs. Munson?” she asks. Her bright smile is one you’ll be unable to return until after the pain medication takes effect. 

“Y-Yeah, please.” You shift uncomfortably while she examines you and announces that your cervix is four centimeters dilated. Part of you is relieved that labor is progressing at a pace where Eddie should arrive in time for the delivery; another part just wants this baby out of you, now. 

The nurse makes a note on your chart. “I’ll let the anesthesiologist know.” Another unreciprocated grin and she’s gone, off to poke and prod the next patient. 

Alone for a moment, you relish the quiet, save for the soft beeps of the machines you’re connected to. With great care, you caress the swell of your stomach where your son has developed from a microscopic speck to a full-term baby. 

“Your daddy will get here soon,” you murmur to your sensor-covered belly, “hopefully before you do.” You laugh for a second until another contraction squeezes you from the inside, shifting your expression from amused to pained. 

The anesthesiologist and Will arrive at the same time, the former pausing to let your impromptu birth partner enter first. He walks with more enthusiasm now that he’s eaten, though his meal threatens to reappear when he sees the doctor pull out the comically oversized needle. 

“Just lean forward,” she says to you, “you’ll feel some pressure, but once the medication kicks in, it’ll be worth it.” She offers you a kind smile before turning to Will and explaining, “you may need to help her.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Will mumbles, avoiding looking at the needle. You clasp your hand in his so you can sit up. The cool air raises goosebumps on the sliver of flesh no longer covered by the gown, but the chill is quickly replaced by a stinging sensation that has you gripping Will’s palm. You don’t realize the strength of your grasp until you hear him mutter, “ow,” but you don’t let go until the burning ceases. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, watching him shake out his hand. “About all of this. I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.”

He shakes his head and guides you back against the pillow. “Maybe not, but I’m glad I can be here for you.” Now that the threat of broken fingers has passed, he truly means it. 

5:46 PM. 

You’ve been in the hospital for nearly three hours, and there’s still no sign of Eddie. Will’s casually flipping through a copy of People magazine that’s so outdated, Nick Nolte was just crowned the Sexiest Man Alive. He’s visibly more relaxed now that the medication has eased your pain, chattering teeth a welcome replacement for your anguished moans.

Your concern that Eddie will miss the baby’s birth has hardened into pure fear that something has happened to him. What if he lost focus while driving and got into an accident? The weather was overcast when you’d arrived at Hawkins General; it could have started raining since then and created slippery roads, perfect for hydroplaning. The thought of him hurt while you’re unable to help him has your insides churning, and for the first time, you’re grateful for an empty stomach.

Maybe you should call Wayne and find out if he had heard from his nephew. But if he hadn’t, then both of you would be stuck worrying and answerless; even worse, if he had and didn’t want to relay bad news while you’re in such a vulnerable state–

“I’m here!” 

Relief surges through your veins, Eddie’s panting voice music to your ears. You roll from your side onto your back to see your husband standing by your bedside. Sweat drips down his temples and pools under his arms with the pungency of someone who’d just completed a marathon. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, a jacket haphazardly tossed over his shoulder and your bag clutched in his hand.

He swoops down and places his lips on yours in a series of frantic kisses, his free palm cupping your cheek as though ensuring that the moment is real. He only pulls back when you do, getting a glimpse of your face.

“Where were you?” Not an accusation, but a question threaded with genuine care. 

His nose nudges yours as he sneaks in another peck. “Did you know that Chief Hopper retired?” Your brows furrow in confusion at his non-answer to your question. “Well, he did, and the sheriff’s department decided to throw him a parade. Today. Closed off a bunch of the side streets and backed up traffic on the main ones.” He coughs out a terse laugh. “Glad I quit smoking, or my lungs would’ve given up before I hit a half-mile.”

You mull over his response for a moment before it finally clicks. “Wait…did you run here?”

He tugs at his shirt fabric in an attempt to create a breeze that will cool him down. “It was more like a walk-run combo, but…yeah.” He shrugs, no big deal. “Parked my car in a random lot and just…booked it.” His shoulder gently sag as the adrenaline from his adventure wears away. “I gotta sit.”

It’s then that he notices Will, rising from the chair and placing the gossip rag on the table beside him. “Byers, holy shit,” Eddie looks at him incredulously, “have you been here with her the whole time?”

“He has,” you answer for him, managing a grateful smile in your friend’s direction. “And I can’t thank him enough.” Will returns the gesture and pulls Eddie in for a hug, wishing you both luck before slipping out the door.

Eddie brings his full attention back to you, lacing his fingers with yours. His thumb brushes the side of your hand, bringing small but strong comfort with each gentle touch. “Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry–”

“Eds,” you interrupt before he can continue his apology, “you’re here now.”

“Yeah.” Soft, distracted, overthinking. You can practically see the gears in head spinning, His second child and the second time he’d nearly missed the birth. He clears his throat and shakes away the thought with a toss of his hair, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. “How are you feeling?” He takes in the sight of you, his wife, the most beautiful being his cynical eyes have ever seen. “You look pretty damn good for someone about to have a baby.”

You laugh. “That epidural is a miracle from above.” You’ll gladly take the chattering teeth and the itchiness over the sensation of your pelvis imploding. Eddie doesn’t share in your amusement, still focused on his own shortcomings. “Hey,” you say quietly, pulling him out of his mind with just one word. “Don’t think about the missed message or the traffic. We’re having our baby today.” You bring his hand to the apex of your stomach in the final few hours that it houses the life you two created together.

“I love you.” 

His eyes shine with emotion. He’s here, not only in this moment, but throughout the entire pregnancy. He didn’t bury himself in music or booze or other arbitrary distractions. He’d read What to Expect When You’re Expecting cover to cover, had gone to all of the doctor’s appointments, made sure to keep the kitchen stocked with your cravings and free of your aversions. He’d picked up the household chores (and delegated some to Harris) to ease your workload and wiped your tears when you’d cried while watching two squirrels play in a tree. 

You never asked him to do any of it; you never needed to. 

“I love you, too.”

It all happened so quickly. 

One minute, Eddie’s watching the monitor spike with a contraction, utterly bewildered by the power of pain medication. 

“You really can’t feel that?”

“Just some pressure, but nothing like earlier. I told you; it’s a godsend.”

After hours of strategic breathing, a plethora of ice chips, and a steady outpouring of love between you two, you’re about to tell him that you feel the urge to push. 

And then a nurse rushes in. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson,” he begins, urgency evident even through his calm exterior, “your baby is experiencing late heart rate deceleration. We need to begin delivery immediately.” He glances at Eddie, then at you. “I’m going to check your dilation to see if we’ll try a vaginal delivery or prepare for a cesarean birth.”

 The blood drains from Eddie’s face as he processes the information, the lighthearted energy completely zapped from the room. “Is…is she…are they…”

The nurse finishes the examination, removing his rubber glove. “Ten centimeters,” he announces. “I’ll page the doctor.”

It’s a whirlwind, with almost no time for panic to set in. The doctor and the other nurses arrive immediately, and when Eddie takes your hand, you can feel him trembling. 

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to be strong for you. Your face says it all: you’re terrified, and you need him to be your rock.

“You’ve got this, Sweetheart,” he whispers fiercely, pushing past the lump in his throat. “You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and I’m so lucky that you’re having my baby.” He kisses your forehead; out of the corner of his eye, he sees the medical staff preparing for delivery. His heart skips a beat, and the realization hits that he’s about to be a father of two.

You’re exhausted, a salty mixture of sweat and tears decorating your face. Gritting your teeth, you push while Eddie coaches you, reminding you to breathe and allowing you to swear at him without even batting an eyelash. It’s mostly a blur, with all of your energy concentrated on getting this baby out, but you vaguely recall telling him that he’s not allowed to even think about touching you again.

“Almost there,” he cheers, flashing an awestruck smile so wide that his cheeks ache. “C’mon, you can do it! Oh, my god, you’re a goddamn superhero.” 

Three giant pushes later, you hear the telltale newborn wail as a nurse coos, “Happy birthday, little man! Here’s your mama!” She gently places your tiny baby on your chest, quickly wiping off the vernix covering his body. 

“He’s here!” you manage through simultaneous laughter and cries. You carefully hold him against you, kissing the wisps of curls on his scalp. “Hi, baby boy!” Turning to Eddie, you blink away the mist coating your eyes. “We have another son,” you choke out.

He just nods, relishing in the wonder of becoming a father again. His pointer finger grazes the baby’s little half-closed fist, only looking away when the nurse asks him if he’d like to cut the umbilical cord. “Y-Yeah. Please,” he awkwardly adds, doing exactly as he’s instructed. 

As the baby is lifted from your torso to be assessed and measured, Eddie kisses you with a passion you’ve never felt before, even from him. You can see that he’s crying, too, and he wipes his cheeks haphazardly.  

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, punctuating the statement with another kiss. “I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for my kids.” His nose rubs yours tenderly. 

You smile at him. “Do you want to call Wayne? I won’t be up for visitors until the morning,” you add, “but I just want to let him know that the baby’s here, happy and healthy.”

“In a bit,” he murmurs, watching the nurse carefully swaddle his newborn son in a hospital blanket. “I just wanna hold him first.”

Eddie takes your baby from the nurse, shifting to support his head. “Hey, buddy. I’m your dad.” His body slowly sways as he rocks back and forth. “You gave us quite the scare just now. I see you’re following in your big brother’s mischievous footsteps.” He swears his heart melts when the infant opens his mouth to yawn. “Yeah, you’ve had a busy day. Same here. But it was worth it, huh?”

He wears fatherhood so naturally, so perfectly. You wish you could capture this feeling in a jar and save it forever. For now, you settle for watching him fawn over his newest son, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is Eddie murmuring, “and let me tell you: you have the best mommy a kid could ever ask for.”

Morning arrives after a restless sleep. You know the nurses are just following protocol when they examine you every hour, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it. 

But the next knock on the door is one that you welcome willingly. Harris and Wayne stand there, waiting for permission to enter. You smile when you notice Harris shuffling his feet and shaking his hands in an attempt to expel some excess energy. 

“Come on in,” Eddie whispers, beaming, “there’s someone very special we’d like to introduce you to.”

Harris rushes to your bedside, peering at the bundle in your arms. “My baby brother!” he squeals, jumping up and down. 

Eddie puts a finger to his lips. “He’s sleeping, so we have to be quiet, okay?” He ruffles Harris’s hair as the boy nods. “Do you wanna hold him?”

“Yeah! I mean, yeah,” Harris lowers his voice, sitting down on the bed. You scoot over, careful not to move too quickly, and he melds into your side. He’s always been small to you, but compared to his baby brother, he seems so grown up. 

“Okay, hold out your arms like this,” Eddie instructs, demonstrating the correct position, “and you’re gonna make sure to keep his head nice and safe, because he can’t hold it up on his own yet.”

Harris sports a look of concentration as you and Eddie work in tandem to place the baby in his arms. “He’s got the teeniest nose I’ve ever seen.”

Wayne laughs at this, watching his older grandson snuggle his youngest. “Does this little fella have a name yet?”

“Oh, right.” Eddie chuckles. “Gentlemen, this is Hendrix William Munson. ‘Hendrix’ after one of the most talented guitarists to grace this planet, and ‘William’ after an amazing friend and substitute birth partner.”

“Hendrix,” Harris repeats incredulously, never taking his eyes off of his brother. “I’m Harris. I talked to you when you were in Mommy’s tummy, remember?” Hendrix lets out a long exhale, like he’s acknowledging the question. “I know you’re still too little right now, but when you get big, we’re gonna play together all the time. Except when I’m at school.” He looks over at you expectantly. “Can I bring him to school with me? Like for show and tell?”

“Maybe when he’s older,” you say, lacking the bandwidth to point out the logistics of his request. 

Harris wrinkles his nose, but his expression quickly softens. “Yeah, you’re right. He can’t even do any tricks yet.”

It’s quiet for a moment, everyone focused on the two Munson boys. Surprisingly, Wayne is the one who breaks the silence. 

“You two have one beautiful family,” he muses, an arthritic finger grazing Hendrix’s blanket. “Y’should be proud of yourselves.”

Eddie gives his uncle’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Couldn’t have done it without ya, Old Man.”

Wayne knows this, accepting the compliment with a bashful grin but saying nothing further. 

Peacefulness surrounds the five of you, soft conversation seamlessly weaving its way into the calm. You can’t kid yourself; most days will be pure chaos, balancing spit-up and school plays, field trips and feeding schedules. And once Hendrix starts walking—and running—you’ll need all cylinders firing. 

But today, right now, you soak in the serenity. Just you and your boys. Your family. 

--

[eoieopda]

darksided (myg)

Min Yoongi adored you. He'd simply never hurt you - unless you asked.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader | Darksided AU Type: One-Shot - SMUT (You must be 18+ to ride this ride.) Sequel to foresight, but can be read as a stand-alone fic. Word Count: 4.4K Content: established relationship au; soft bf yoongi turned mean!dom!yoongi at the request of sub!reader; p in v penetration; unprotected sex/creampie (be safe, y'all); oral sex (m receiving); brief face-fucking; v fingering; squirting; a lil degradation and spit kink, as a treat; harsh language; after-care; also cavity-inducing fluff A/N: This was nine (9) pages in Word - my longest smut ever, all because this man-bun era has got me FUCKED up. Barely proofread (sorry ily). Check out my other fics here. Listen to the playlist here. 12/11/22 A/N: The sequel, blindsided, is finally here! check it out when you're done here :)

“When I signal you, that’s when you press the button, okay?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared down at his recording equipment – a galaxy in its own right, lit up like a Christmas tree. He may as well have asked you to defuse a bomb, except you couldn’t even identify the bomb. “There are approximately three thousand buttons in front of me right now,” you whined. 

He was exhausted and you knew it – you could feel it – but his patience with you was, as always, limitless. His fondness for you still shone through his eyes, overpowering the dark circles looming below, as if he hadn’t made a mistake in inviting you into his office. Then there was his laugh, surprising enough to smack you but so soft that it cradled you. “It’s the only one that says ‘record,’ jagiya.” 

A quick survey of the landscape before you indicated that this was a criminal oversimplification. There was a minimum of four options fitting his description, and all of them looked both breakable and expensive. You blinked down at the sound board, then back up at him, dumbfounded. “I think you made a mistake letting me in here.” 

Again, with the laugh – knocking you prone, nudging you closer to an early grave. Somehow, out of all of time and space, you got to exist in the same lifetime that he did. How lucky you were to have him, and his wind chime laugh all to yourself.  

You were lovesick and it was chronic. 

“Look down at your left hand – no, baby, don’t move it – that knob above your middle finger?” He was standing on tiptoe inside the booth, gesturing as if he was landing a plane. Your eyes darted up to follow the path of his fingers, then back down to the board. “Go diagonally up from that knob for two rows. Do you -” 

Overcome with a sense of unearned pride, you pressed down on the button, beaming. You certainly had not been signaled, but nonetheless, your efforts were rewarded. Importantly, that reward was now recorded for prosperity. Your favorite mixtape, the soundtrack of your racing heart, a lullaby: “I really couldn’t love you more if I tried.” 

His wide smile, like his tone, was sweet enough to cause a cavity. You were folded up like a pretzel in his chair, but somehow, your knees still seemed to wobble.  

You were lovesick and it was terminal. 

“Should I shut it off now until you’re ready to start?” You asked with cheeks glowing pink. 

He shook his head, still grinning. “I can cut it down. I do need you to cue the track, though – when I signal you.” He stated the last bit of his sentence slowly, shooting you a pointed look and then a wink. 

You were once lovesick and now you are dead. 

Finger hovering over the ‘play’ button, you watched him wide-eyed, anxious to avoid another mishap. His faith in you may have been unshakeable, but yours wasn’t – and this third mixtape was his magnum opus. You’d rather explode into a cloud of dust than mess up the tireless work he’d put into it so far.  

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, centering himself. Without looking, he raised his hand and pointed silently to you. Within seconds, your mind was blown. 

Min Yoongi contained multitudes. Despite your years together, it never ceased to amaze you how your beloved introvert – who said more with actions than anyone could communicate with words – could transform the way he did. Moments ago, his voice was a blanket, fresh out of the dryer, but now? Now, his presence electrified you. There was an unapologetic confidence – callousness, even - that you only saw when he rapped. 

Even his body language changed, like he’d evolved right before your eyes. You couldn’t look away because there was nothing else worth looking at – just him, top to bottom. The way he held his head, lips nearly touching the microphone, highlighted the deadly curve of his jaw. Carved from marble, luminescent and sharp. The strain of his neck, vibration visible in the column of his throat as he growled out his bars. Then down, down, down to his hands. His rings caught the light from above him, refracting slivers of white as his fingers moved with the beat.  

Oh, how you wanted them wrapped around your throat. 

Seeing him like this had you spellbound – feral, if you were being honest. As you watched, bottom lip clamped hard between your teeth, a heatwave crashed over you; it burned you from the inside out. Sometimes, you dreamt about this version of him. Your Yoongi adored you. He showered you with affection, respect, and praise. He’d never dream of hurting you. 

But would he, if you asked? 

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear him finish the take. 

“Aegiya?” There was a hint of concern in his voice that told you he’d called out to you more than once already. 

You swallowed hard and shifted in his chair. “Yes?” 

He slid his wireless headphones down until they rested around his neck. The bright red band leaned against his cheekbone as he tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Are you alright? You looked like you were in a trance.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You were hypnotized, and it was entirely his fault. 

When you merely hummed in response – too distracted by his features to form a coherent sentence – he opened the door to the booth and stepped out. He pulled the headphones off completely and set them down on the counter before walking straight to you. 

You were vibrating. Could he feel it? 

The trembling only intensified when he reached you. Looking down at you, he ran the pad of his thumb over your cheek. 

“Tell me.” He said, as if that brief touch informed him of the maelstrom spinning circles in your brain. “Something’s got you dizzy.” 

Psychic. 

Suddenly, you were shy. This man knew and loved every single aspect of you, and still you felt embarrassed. If you begged him to fuck you – not just make love to you – would he laugh at you? Even worse, would he be offended? You didn’t want him to think that what you had wasn’t already perfect because it was.  

His eyes scanned your face, narrowing just slightly as he tried to read your mind. The two of you were silent for what felt like hours before you saw it – his pupils dilating, offset by the spark of silent understanding. The corner of his mouth twitched when he cracked the secret code. The hand caressing your cheek lowered slowly until it came to rest on your throat, thumb harshly directing your jaw – and your gaze - upwards. 

“Is it me, baby?” He teased with a voice like velvet, cocking his head to the side with a smirk that left you stupid. “Have I got you dizzy?” 

Involuntarily, you whimpered. So stunned by his stare that you were speechless. Melting into a puddle. Dripping. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose – a cruel, quiet laugh - and his eyes darkened further. “I can’t give you what you want if you can’t tell me what that is.” 

Once again, you shifted in your seat. You were suddenly so painfully aware of every nerve in your body, each one tingling like a live wire. Even your thighs clenched, trying desperately to apply pressure where you needed it most. You craved him so badly that it ached. 

“I don’t want you to be gentle with me,” was your answer, though it sounded more like a question. “I - I know that you -” 

His hand shifted quickly from underneath your jaw. He now had your cheeks pinned between his thumb and middle finger, squeezing hard to cut off your sentence before you could finish it. There was a microscopic pause as his eyes searched yours for permission. You blinked and nodded to the fullest extent you could within his grasp. 

“Stupid girl. You know nothing.” 

Muffled by his hand, your weak moan was barely audible, but he could feel the way your breathing quickened. The rise and fall of your eager chest. The way your nipples, yet untouched, made themselves known through the fabric of the t-shirt you’d stolen from him. Draped in him but smelling like you.  

Blackcurrant, orange blossoms, vanilla. 

He leaned down, mouth now hovering beside your ear. The heat of his breath on your neck was maddening, but it was the way his lips brushed against your ear that proved fatal. When he spoke, it echoed in every one of your bones. A whisper heavy enough to bruise. “Get up.” 

You followed the lead of his hand over your mouth and rose to your feet. Sharply, he redirected your gaze to the seat you’d just left. It was inexplicable how something so faint could be so blatant. That nearly imperceptible spot, snitching on you; showing him how your body begged for him. 

“Such a messy girl, ruining my chair like that.” He tutted. “I should punish you, shouldn’t I? Should I ruin you, baby?” 

Held so still, your knees still trembled. Without his hand gripping your cheeks, you would’ve crumpled at his feet. Before you could do so yourself, he forced you downward. After all, your knees couldn’t buckle if they were digging into the hardwood. 

He released his grasp and used that same hand to push his hair away from his eyes. Your heart raced as if you were sprinting, and yet you were frozen in place. You didn’t know where to begin because you wanted everything.  

Your indecision prompted him to roll his eyes. “Do I have to do everything for you? Say it. What do you want?” 

“T-to touch you. Please,” you begged, “I want to feel you in my throat.” 

He beckoned you silently with a curl of his finger. You sat up further on your knees and reached out tentatively for the drawstring tied at the waistband of his joggers. 

“Stop.” He ordered, and you did. Looking down at your wide eyes, his smirk deepened. Your hands fidgeted uselessly in your lap as he began untying the drawstring himself – his slow pace was torturous. You'd have ripped them off his body if given the chance. “Open your mouth” 

Again, you did as you were told. 

It took everything you had not to drool when he lowered the waistband of his joggers just enough for his cock to spring out. Already throbbing, beige tip glistening with pre-cum in the half-light. He took himself in his hand and began to pump himself as he took a step towards your waiting mouth.

"Stick out your tongue."

Now, you couldn’t help it – and when he saw the string of saliva spilling from the tip of your tongue, he growled. 

“Fuck,” He breathed, sliding the fingers of his free hand into your hair and tugging. “Look at how badly you want to be used - you're begging without saying a word.” 

You couldn’t speak, but your eyes were screaming at him. Please. 

Teasingly, he tapped the tip of his cock against your tongue, hissing as he felt the wet heat of your mouth. But when you went to close your lips around him, he pulled your hair – and you – away. 

“Spit on it – slowly. Keep your eyes on me.” 

You felt a twinge between your thighs as he delivered his orders. You’d undoubtedly soaked through your little sleep shorts already, but his tone just then made a mess of you. You squirmed as you kneeled, feeling the rivulets of slick begin to trail down the innermost part of your thighs. And he hadn’t even touched you yet. 

Looking up at him from under the curtain of your lashes, you saw the wicked fascination flicker in his eyes. The way his breath hitched as he watched your spit fall from the ledge of your lips until it connected with his shaft. In your peripheral vision, you could see his cock twitch at the contact. 

“Now open.” Finally. 

A low moan broke from the depths of his chest as he slid into your mouth, and you couldn’t recall a more beautiful sound. As you pushed yourself further onto him, you hallowed your cheeks, following the vein running along the underside of his length with your tongue. 

You stared up at him through wet eyes. So full, you pleaded with yourself not to gag, to breathe steadily through your nose. Tip pushing past your soft palate, he grunted as he bottomed out. Without softening his gaze, he watched for your reaction – always so concerned, even when he was pretending not to be. To his surprise, you swallowed, allowing the tightness of your throat to squeeze him.

“You’re fucking filthy.” He muttered with his eyes screwing shut. His jaw fell open when you slid off him, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock once you reached it. His eyes followed suit, blown out pupils fixated on the spit dribbling down your chin; darkening at the obscene sound of him sliding through the suction you'd so masterfully generated. 

Pulling your hand from your lap, you reached out slowly for his balls. As your fingers massaged him, his grip on your hair got tighter. Almost imperceptibly, he began to roll his hips against your mouth. 

His panting was interlaced with curses as he fucked himself into your warmth. “Fit so fucking perfectly in your throat,” He grunted, “Like you were made to be my toy.” 

It startled you when he suddenly removed himself from you. Thoughtlessly, you whined – and then, immediately, you froze. Eyes darting back up to him, the anticipation of consequences prevented you from closing your mouth fully. You waited there on your knees, trembling, while your mascara pooled uselessly in the wells beneath your eyes. 

“Somebody feels entitled,” He scoffed as he glowered down at you. “You better be careful what you wish for.” 

Before you could process the speed of his movements, his arms hooked under yours and pulled you from the ground. Your legs ached, but as he loomed over you, you followed his unspoken order, backing yourself into a corner. With your shoulder blades pressed flush against the wall, he stepped forward and used his knee to push your legs apart. 

For a moment, it seemed like his façade was cast aside. He raised his hand slowly to caress your cheek, swirling soft circles into your flushed skin with his thumb. Out of habit, your eyes drifted shut and you leaned further into his touch. And when he leaned in, just as slowly, your slightly parted lips waited for a kiss that never came. 

“You’re just begging to be filled, aren’t you?” He asked in a whisper so sharp it stung. “Not loved but fucked.” 

You nodded shyly. “Y-yes,” You stuttered, “Please.” 

His lips still lingered closely enough to touch yours, to send shockwaves shooting down your spine, but he continued to withhold his affection. This was the first time – ever – that Yoongi had turned down an opportunity to kiss you. Until now, he didn't seem capable of doing so. 

“Please what?” 

“Fuck me. Please -” You keened as his hand began to drift from your cheek, down your neck. In the blink of an eye, every word you knew disappeared from your vocabulary. The tip of his index finger trailed down over the fabric of your stolen shirt, between the valley of your breasts, and came to rest at the hem.  

He pinched the seam between his fingers and tugged. “Part of me wants to tear this off you,” He mused with his head tilting to one side. His eyes remained locked on yours; the amusement in them was clear, even in the darkness. “But most of me wants to see you fucked out and stupid - in my shirt.” 

Your legs threatened to give out yet again. He was devastatingly handsome under normal circumstances, but this newly unearthed cockiness was ruinous. You bit down hard on your lip as he raised your shirt enough to access the waistband of your shorts. With his help, you shimmied them down until they dropped quietly at your feet. Quickly and clumsily, you stepped out of them and kicked them aside. 

Yoongi’s hand rose again to your face. His middle and ring finger were extended; the others curled down towards his palm. You didn’t need to be asked to open your mouth – it was the only response your eager mind could conjure. His fingers were cool against your tongue as you closed your mouth around them. And when he was satisfied with the lubrication you’d provided, he slid his fingers out from your hollowed cheeks with a lewd pop. 

“How badly do you want to come all over my fingers?”  

It’s a wonder there wasn’t a puddle beneath you, considering how those words made you gush. “I need it,” You pleaded with fluttering eyelids and bated breath, “Please touch me.” 

You whimpered and closed your eyes as you felt his fingers dive into the pool between your thighs. Every nerve lit up like a switchboard as he slipped through your soft folds. He scoffed at how wet you were – so soaked that it was audible in each millimeter of his movement. 

Simultaneous to his middle finger penetrating you, your head rolled back until it rested against the wall. Your mouth fell open, but you were too entranced to do much more than breathe as you acclimated to his presence inside you. He started slowly, curling his finger upwards as he pushed further inwards. Even at this pace, the otherwise dead air was filled with the sound of your sodden cunt. 

“You’re dripping already?" He let the tip of his finger rest against the spongy spot behind your pubic bone; the pressure was incredible, but he stayed torturously still. “And yet you’re so - tight.” Achingly slow, the pad of his finger spiraled against your g-spot. “I’ll have to stretch you out before I can bury my cock in you.” 

As his ring finger plunged inside of you, you cried out, head slumping forward against his shoulder. Sensing that you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself up for much longer, Yoongi grabbed the back of your right thigh with his left hand and pulled your leg up to rest against his hip. With this new angle, his fingers ventured even deeper until they bottomed out at the knuckle. He didn’t give you much time to adjust to the new sensation.  

As he fucked his fingers into you at a feverish pace, he continued his mind-numbing assault on your g-spot. Over and over, he toyed with you; thrusting, stretching, scissoring, and teasing as your arousal trickled into the palm of his hand. There was an intoxicating – unbearable – warmth burning in the pit of your abdomen. A sensation so all-consuming that your eyes rolled back in your head. 

Your walls clenched around him, sucking him in and begging for more as your helpless heart raced. “Oh my god,” You wailed, “Holy shit – Please, I’m - Yoongi!” 

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train. Never in your life had you fallen apart like that – shaking and speaking in tongues. Having sensed the swell of pressure, Yoongi knew exactly where this road headed; and he could tell that you were fighting it. “Don't hold back from me,” He growled.

And then the dam broke.  

A wicked grin danced across his face as the wave of pleasure crashed onto the floor below you. “Fuck. Look at this.” He pointed downward and your bleary gaze followed. Remnants of your orgasm had splashed onto his joggers as well as the hardwood. “Nobody could ever make you come like I can. Say it.” 

The words bubbled out of your chest, half-way between a sob and a moan. “Nobody can make me come like you.”

You were a shivering, spilling mess; and your ears were still ringing from how intensely your every muscle had clenched. Before your knee could buckle, you were abruptly swept up into his arms. With one arm wrapped tightly around your back, his free hand slid over the surface of his desk, sending various papers and cords rocketing towards the floor.

Once the space was cleared, he set you down and laid you out onto the cool surface. You were exhausted and thankful to be horizontal; though you knew he wasn’t yet finished with you. 

After all, he intended on ruining you. 

Through half-lidded eyes, you gazed up at him. The hair he’d so neatly tied into a bun at the top of his head had mutinied; inky tendrils were now splayed out haphazardly in different directions. You were fuck-drunk, but you swore the overhead light behind him encircled his head like a halo. It was all so unholy - the way he stood before the altar of your exposed core, with his face angelic and his throbbing cock in hand.

The hand not pumping his cock slid over your bent knee. It took tremendous effort, but you lifted your arm to place your hand on top of his. One tiny squeeze – a brief, loving check-in – received an echo. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the fleeting moment of tenderness was gone. With each of your legs now trapped in his hold, he pulled you towards the very edge of the table. 

Once he was satisfied with your closeness, his focus switched to his access. He simply wasn’t content to leave your legs bent up at either side of him; so, he rested the backs of your legs against his shoulders and leaned forward until you’d nearly folded in half. 

He didn’t need to use his hand to center himself prior to entering you. His body understood the proportions of yours automatically; like you were puzzle pieces created to fit perfectly together. Though his intention may have been to penetrate you slowly, centimeter by centimeter, your slick was overwhelming. The usual ache you felt upon acclimating to his size was drastically reduced; and he bottomed out quickly, cursing. 

The fullness you felt was euphoric, and it left you mewling hopelessly under the weight of his body. He was buried deep, throbbing as your walls constricted around his width. It shocked your system when he slid out almost completely only to drive himself back into you. 

“Like a fucking vice grip,” Yoongi hissed as he picked up his already brutal pace. Every curve, every vein dragged maddeningly along your walls as he fucked you. “Do you hear how wet you are? Shit – your pussy is begging for me.” 

The only thing louder than the squelch of your cunt was skin hitting skin; close behind was the way your name spilled from his lips in a flurry of expletives. You, on the other hand, were nearly incoherent. With every thrust, he knocked another thought loose until eventually, you had nothing left.  Relentlessly, his cock grinded against your g-spot, leaving you too mesmerized to recall your own name. 

There was a sheen of sweat above his knitted brows; and his bottom lip was now trapped between his gritted teeth. He was close and you knew it. The depth of his thrusts didn’t falter, but his steady pace was getting harder for him to maintain. You felt the rubber band inside you beginning to fray - on the brink of snapping and shooting you into orbit like a sling-shot. 

“Baby,” The soft, shaky voice caught his attention. He opened his eyes and focused hard on you – your flushed cheeks, and trembling lips. As he surveyed you, his resolve began to evaporate; his expression softened immediately. There he was: your Yoongi. “You’re gonna make me come again.” 

As your walls clenched tight around him, the edges of your vision began to blur. You watched his face as he came shortly after you, studying how delicately his eyelashes fluttered as the warmth of his release filled you. In that moment, it was the two of you, toppling in slow-motion off the edge of the universe. Irrevocably in love - heaving chests, shuddered moans, names whispered in the place of prayers. 

He shifted his arms to allow your quivering legs to fall from his shoulders. When the hands on either side of your head could no longer hold up his weight, he collapsed onto you. With his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, you could feel his breathing begin to slow as his cock softened inside you. 

You were nearly delirious when you felt his lips buzz against your skin. You were too far gone to understand what he was too exhausted to communicate. “Hmm?” You hummed, wordlessly asking him to repeat himself.

He groaned with the effort of pulling himself away from your embrace. He only traveled far enough to glance over at you. “I said, I think several of my past lives just flashed before my eyes,” He stated matter-of-factly. Within seconds, his eyes crinkled up at the corners and his grin grew. That soft chuckle wasn’t far behind. 

“I don’t know where I am.” You admitted with a sheepish laugh. After a moment, you amended that thought, “I don’t know who I am.” 

Yoongi placed a gentle kiss below your ear – the only part of you he could reach without sitting up fully. “I have no idea. How did you get in my house?” As you rolled your eyes, he bumped the tip of his nose against your jaw, too tired to tease you much more than that. “But now that we’re both completely spent, I’d like to go back to being soft with you – for now.” 

He tried to wink at you, but both of his lead-lined lids closed in unison.  You hummed thoughtfully as you ran lazy fingers through his hair, like the decision required serious deliberation. You paused, then giggled.  “Permission granted, my love. You may proceed.”

He was quiet for several moments before he stood bolt upright. Startled, you propped yourself up on your elbow and looked to him. He turned towards the booth and then back to you.

His eyes were wide as a blush swept over his cheeks. "Aegiya, did you forget to stop the recording?"

Sequel (posted 12/11/22).

[azsazz]

Dead by Dawn (Part 16)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death,

Word Count: 3,157

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15)

Notes: okay i forced myself to finish this part so it's a little shitty and not at all edited.

_________________________________________

Day 195 Part 2

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The forest goes completely still.

There are no moanings of zombies in the distance, no rustling of leaves on the trees. Even the wind has silenced with your words.

Surprise shocks the group around you. Nesta’s eyes narrow into a piercing glare. The untrust is clear in the way that she readjusts the knife in her hand, and Azriel shifts next to you, his intention to block her path to you should she lunge. Cassian looks like he could growl.

The man at her side flicks his russet gaze to his lover, a frown of concern on his face. He looks like he’s ready to step in front of her as well, but if you know her from any of the stories Feyre had told you, she’s much too stubborn to allow that to happen.

Her eyes are cold and calculating as they flick back and forth between yours, staring you down.

The zombie that they must have been taunting suddenly lurches from behind a large oak and you gasp a little, but Nesta doesn’t do so much as flinch. Instead, she keeps those sharp eyes pinned on you, Azriel, and Cassian while her companion turns to take care of the undead being stumbling behind them. It’s missing both of its eyes, a thick slash leaking black blood across its forehead and into its unseeing sockets. The smell that follows it has your stomach churning, your quick snack from earlier threatening to make a reappearance.

It’s kind of incredible, watching how easily the copper haired man slays the zombie, all while Nesta guards him from the three of you. She has the utmost confidence in him, that he will keep her safe, and she doesn’t need to turn away from who may potentially be the bigger threat, whether she knows it or not.

The man kills the zombie with ease. One quick jab of his knife into the base of its skull has the undead falling limp to the forest floor with a crunch that you’ll never get used to. The man grimaces a little when he wipes his knife clean on the calf of his pants, then returns to Nesta’s side, awaiting her lead.

No one speaks, and it’s a little unnerving. The sun has already started its descent into night, and there isn’t going to be much time for you, Azriel, and Cassian to find shelter for the night if things here don’t go well. Nesta had mentioned something about the middle sister, Elain, but you don’t hear a thing, so she must not be around. Is she with others? Have Feyre and Rhysand made it to Eryef before you? 

“Right?” you blurt, because no one’s speaking. “You’re Feyre’s older sister. Have they made it to you?”

“They?” Nesta questions and you deflate, knowing that they haven’t.

Cassian places his free hand on your shoulder in reassurance.

“Who are you?” the man next to her asks, and you watch his gaze dart to where the sun hangs low in the sky. He doesn’t seem to tense at its position, so you glean that wherever they’ve taken shelter must be close. No one wants to be caught out here after nightfall if they can help it.

“I’m (Y/N),” you offer and gesture to the men with you. “And this is Azriel and Cassian. I’ve been traveling with Feyre for a while now, and we joined forces with these two and their friend, Rhysand.” 

“Then where is she?” Nesta bites and you want to flinch, to duck away from the accusation lining her tone. It is your fault that your group has split up now, that you’re too far away for the walkie talkies to work. 

Neither you, Cassian, nor Azriel have an answer for her.

“She’s with our friend,” Cassian tries to console, because Azriel’s gritting his teeth so hard you think they might crack. He’s in a defensive position, and doesn’t like the way that Nesta is speaking to any of you. “They went back to our van but we couldn’t stay in the house we found because it was…infested. We left a note telling them where we went, and if they follow that, they’ll find your directions pointing to Eryef. When they get close enough, we can contact them on the walkies but as of this afternoon, they’re still out of range.”

“Rule number one of the fucking zombie apocalypse,” Nesta spits, “Don’t split up.”

You swallow roughly, fighting the pricking stinging your eyes. You know this and yet you’d been so stupid. The three of you should’ve waited for them to come find you, surely you could’ve survived in that house a few more hours—

You gag at the thought, turning away from the group. Cassian moves a few paces away with you, leaving Azriel to deal with Feyre’s sister and her counterpart as he tends to you. It makes something warm in your belly, the way that they fall back so easily into their roles; Azriel the menacing force, Cassian the caring charmer.

“You okay?” Cassian murmurs, his hand warm as he rubs your back. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, weary of the newcomers and how Azriel is going to handle them. He’s not very trusting, and everyone’s about to find that out the longer he’s left alone with them.

“Yeah,” you breathe, wiping your mouth. Nothing had come up but the motion seemed necessary. “I’m fine.”

He’s not all too sure that you’re fine but he ushers you back over to the rest of the group when you seem steady enough. He’ll ask you again later, when you find some privacy.

The group opposite you watches as you return. Azriel’s harsh stare keeps them from asking any questions. 

“Where is Eryef?” Azriel asks simply. Nesta blinks.

“Why should we tell you, when you don’t even have my sister with you?” she asks, raising a brow. A flicker of emotion crosses through her pale blue eyes but you can’t make out what it is.

“Surely you didn’t think painting a sign with the name of your safe haven would go unnoticed by everyone besides Feyre,” Cassian adds. “Do you turn away all of those who come seeking help?”

Her eyes narrow once again but it's her companion who answers the question.

“No one has tracked us down before.”

You share a look with your men. It’s not unusual to not have run into many humans out here…at least trustworthy humans. Maybe they’d run into the same problems as your little group, meeting those who wanted to kill. Or maybe their camp is so well hidden that no one really takes notice of it at all.

“Well, now you’ve got us,” Azriel states, “And we know Feyre, have a way of communicating with her should they be in range, so you either show us to Eryef or tell us to leave, because the sun is setting fast.”

The authority in his tone has you shifting on your feet, warmth dancing in your veins. Where this attitude of his had been an annoyance to you when you first met Azriel, now that it’s directed at someone other than you, it’s kind of hot. It also makes your stomach swoop when he speaks like this to you and Cassian during the intimate moments you share.

The copper haired man makes the decision for the both of them, in what seems to be much to Nesta’s dismay. 

“You can come with us to Eryef, but if Feyre and your little friend don’t show within two days time, you’re out.”

And yeah, that seems fair enough.  

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Eryef isn’t just a house, it’s a mansion.

Located within the confines of a gated community, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to miss something like this had you and your men come across it. The large, gold gates keep others out while expressing just how much money went into doing so. The streets are lined with brick, some loose in areas from lack of keep up during the apocalypse. They’d make for great weapons, should you need any, and it was smart thinking on Nesta and her companions' part, you think.

Inside of the gate house is a zombie who bangs on the window when you pass. Nesta hadn’t warned you about it, and since you’re traveling in the front of the group so that the two can keep their eyes on you, you startle, stumbling over your feet.

Azriel steadies you with a hand around your bicep, giving you a gentle squeeze to which you nod in response, letting him know that you’re okay. He shoots a sour look over his shoulder but Nesta is as stoney face as ever.

“We kept him alive in case anyone tried coming this way,” she explains, slipping through the gate, her hand tucked in her companions for help. He takes on the role of shutting the gate behind him and securing it with a padlock and thick chain. “Showing them that this place is as infested as the others will keep wanderers away.”

“Is this place infested?” Cassian asks, checking your surroundings as you all walk, the scraping of the zombie in the gate house getting softer as you move through the streets.

“There used to be a lot more,” is all Nesta says, taking the lead. She tosses over her shoulder, “But keep an eye out, just in case.”

“We spent some time trying to corral the monsters,” the man with the freckles explains. He seems a little more open to your presence, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the front Nesta is putting up or if he’s trying to get on your good side for an eventual backstab. “Cut off the arms of some, jaws of others,” he grimaces and your stomach churns. You slow your pace, not liking what you’re hearing. “The ones roaming around inside shouldn’t be able to harm you, but it’s not a guarantee.” 

So instead of killing the zombies infesting this once pristine neighborhood, they’ve mutilated them further? The thought makes you sick. You’ve seen some things since the end of the world, been through worse, but this…this is new.

“What’s your name?” you ask softly. You don’t have the highest hopes that he will answer.

His russet eyes soften as he answers you. “Eris.” 

“Nice to meet you, Eris,” you offer a gentle smile. “I’m (Y/N), and this is Cassian, and Azriel.”

Said men keep you tucked between them as you follow Nesta and Eris to wherever they’re staying. You let your eyes wander across the houses you pass. It’s like the world has gone frozen around you. There is no movement inside, no sign of distress from any of the homes in the community. 

You wonder if any of them had been like the situation you found at the last house you thought was safe. The family trapped in the basement.

You feel a bit queasy as you think of what happened down there, the horrors you saw when you opened that safe room.

You shove the thought from your mind the deeper you wander, down roads of loose brick. The houses only become bigger and bigger, looming over the streets. Some of them are even surrounded by their own fences, though this doesn’t seem like the kind of place one would be wary of their neighbors, only about the money they’d once been drowning in. 

Now, you see the fence around the houses as a second line of defense.

You pray that Feyre and Rhysand make it here safe, because if you can add to your group, get them to trust you enough to let you stay, you think one of these properties could be the place where Cassian might be able to start his garden. 

You can tell that he’s thinking the same thing because of how bright his hazel eyes are. He’s alert and drinking in everything that he can, and you can see the gears turning in his head as he envisions his own paradise, his own place where he can keep you and Azriel safe. His gaze is warm when they settle on you and a smile tugs the corner of his lips.

The thought sends butterflies off in your stomach. Enjoying the warm feeling, you delve into better thoughts while following along. You’re so lost in your head that you hardly even notice the group coming up to what you think is the biggest house you’ve ever seen.

Craning your neck back, you take in the large, forest green house. There are columns of wood on the expansive porch, wrapping around the side of the mansion. There are a few rocking chairs creaking softly with the wind, and it looks picturesque, the thought of sitting out there with a warm cup of coffee on an autumn day, Azriel on one side of you with Cassian on the other—

“Welcome to the Woodland House,” Eris says, unlocking the door with a set of keys. You suppose it’s not uncommon to have a set of keys for a mega mansion in the middle of the apocalypse, but you do wonder where he found them…if they were sitting out on the counter or if he took them from a zombie's pocket. 

You follow the pair inside. It’s like entering another world. Despite the home's large nature, the inside is warm and welcoming, so different from what the world has come to.It makes your chest ache. 

The furniture is oversized and cozy, mis-matched pieces that make the entire space look lived in. There’s a stocked fireplace in the living room with a large woodpile beside it, ready for the long winter. 

“We’ll speak more after dinner,” Eris tells you when his tour comes to an end. Nesta had darted off up the stairs while Eris offered to show you around. Nesta had thrown over her shoulder that it was pointless to do so because you will be gone if her sister doesn’t show up, but Eris only rolled his eyes in response. “This is where you’ll be staying for the next few nights.”

You brace yourself as he opens the door to the basement of the house. You tense a little as you stare down the stairs, brought back to the last scene of the large home you’d been in the basement of. Eris must mistake it for something else because he’s quick to continue. “I know how it must look, but you’re still intruders in our home and we must be careful. If I could put you somewhere else I would,” he promises. “When Feyre returns to her sisters we can give you something that better suits your needs.” 

“It’s alright,” Cassian answers, his thick hand falling to the small of your back in a comforting motion. You release the air caught in your lungs and follow Azriel down the stairs. “Thank you for your generosity, Eris.”

He smiles, looking pleased. “Of course. Dinner will be in one hour. See you then.” 

He shuts the door softly behind you and you’re tense, waiting for the click of a lock, trapping you inside, but it never comes.

Your shoulders droop with relief. Cassian is already halfway down the stairs by the time you and Azriel have shared a look and turn to follow.

“Holy shit,” Cassian breathes, “This place is fucking insane.”

It is. It’s a fully furnished space and it’s the size of another house. You almost don’t want to step off of the last stair into the carpeted cream carpets with your dusty shoes. It looks so soft you think if you lay down you’d be asleep within minutes.

There would be no need to do that, though, because in the middle of the room sits two large sofas that look like clouds. There’s a large screen and projector for movies and if this place had power it would be the place everyone would hang out at. You just know it.

Exploring further, drinking in its luxury. There are two bedrooms and an office, all fitted with pristine furniture and so clean that it feels like there’s no apocalypse happening outside of these walls. 

It seems like Nesta and Eris have been here since the beginning, unless they’d managed to take over this mega-mansion and keep it from being looted, defended, and stocked. You suddenly wonder if there are more to their party.

It’s a safe haven, if Feyre and Rhys can make it here.

On a whim, you find yourself digging through drawers and searching through offices, the bedrooms, trying to find anything you can for an insight on what is going on here. Who owned this house? Where are the signs of humans? 

You pull open one of the closets, shoving the winter coats out of the way but also taking note of them for when the summer winds down and the winter sets in. You’ll need warmth, especially if they don’t allow you to stay. You’ll have to speak with Cassian and Azriel about what you’re all going to do, how you’ll manage to get away with some extra necessities.

Getting down on your hands and knees you crawl further into the space when your gaze snags on a cardboard box shoved as far into the corner as it can. You drag it out, sitting back on your haunches, ripping open the flaps.

It’s memorabilia from what seems like another life.Trophies and sports ribbons, a signed baseball. There’s an old science project, a replica of the planets in space. 

Digging further, your fingers brush a picture frame and you pull it out, examining the family. It was taken in the great room upstairs, the loving parents behind their seven smiling sons. One is getting his ear pinched by the father, a twist of pain on his face and you frown eyes moving up to the culprit, the vile person who could treat their son this way—

Beron. 

You’d recognize the face of the man who wanted to eat you anyday.

The frame falls from your grasp with a crash. 

“Are you okay? What’s going on?” Cassian asks urgently, as both of the men dart to your sides. Bile sits high in your throat and your breathing is short, shallow because you’re under the roof of what is his home. “Sweetheart?” 

You can’t speak. Your heart races in your chest and your hands tremble even when Cassian pulls them into his strong, reassuring grip. 

Azriel shoves the fallen frame away from the photo that’s loose, glass clinking loudly throughout the basement. He stands, staring at the picture, his fingers clenched so tightly at its corners that it begins to crumple under his unbridled rage.

You squeeze your eyes shut as Azriel shows the photograph to Cassian. You can’t look at it again, can’t see those hateful eyes staring back at you, taunting you—

“Oh, fuck.” 

Oh, fuck indeed.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

DBD Taglist: @writingsbychlo@kemillyfreitas@5moremin@dream-alittlebiggerdarling@waggel36 @bionic-donut@queserasera @applepie02 @azrielsbabyg @arcadianmoonlight @pradaxstyles @illyrian-dreamer@reiincarnatiion @fuckthatfeeling @shadowsingersmate24@poppyalice2001 @fallmyriad @sstrohma @tcris2020@jeannineee @21stcenturytaegi@ochiolism@secretly-here@harrystylesfan2686@i-am-infinite

[kararisa]

darling, starling

— 12. a little bit scandalous — ✦ (wc: 0.3k)

Sprinting through an aquarium and getting chased by your fans wasn’t exactly what you had in mind for today. First time for everything, you suppose. A crowd of people, their phones out, and recognition in their eyes was a dangerous combination, so you had tugged Scaramouche and started running the moment people started to surround the two of you.

Your eyes darted across the dim halls trying to look for a hiding place. When Scaramouche took the lead and changed direction, tugging you along with him. Panic changes to relief when you suddenly spot the supply closet he’s leading you toward but gods is he really gonna have you squeeze in there?

Scaramouche, however, didn’t hesitate. With a twist of the knob, he swings open the door and practically shoves the two of you inside. The limited space inside left you pressed tightly against each other, your chest firmly against his and your limbs tangled up together. The sudden intimacy left your cheeks flushed, but there was little time to dwell on it. Fluorescent lights cast shadows overhead, and you hear the rush of people from far away.

If people were to see you like this… it would cause an even bigger scandal than if the two of you were to get caught just holding hands in the dim light of an aquarium.

You share your grievances with Scaramouche in hushed whispers, “Don’t you think us being spotted like this would be, oh I dunno, a little bit scandalous? Maybe we –”

He places a finger on your lips, effectively shushing you. Scaramouche leans closer to the door to try and listen in on the crowd, ignoring your glare in the process while keeping his finger on your lips. 

Shutting you up and ignoring you? Irritation simmers inside of you and in a moment of impulse, you tilt your head up slightly, catching the tip of his finger with your teeth and biting down. A silent assertion of your presence. 

“Don’t you ignore me, smartass,” you whisper in his ear. “You’re stuck with me until the crowd disperses.”

Scaramouche finally looks at you, his cheeks red.

Serves him right.

✧— previous — masterlist — next —✧

summary: being the world-famous singer-songwriter "zenith", the limelight has been on you ever since the start of your career. however, the media becomes relentless when leaks of music you never meant to release begin to circulate. your friend scaramouche, meanwhile, seems to have gotten stuck while writing his second book. with a deadline fast approaching, he comes to you with a deal: act as if you're dating him so he can gather reference material and, in turn, he'll help keep the press' eyes off of your leaks until you release your next album. a win-win in your book, so why not help a friend out?

author's notes:

if anyone wants to hide in an aquarium supply closet with me, hit me up

just gonna plug the playlist for the first act again hehe

taglist — currently OPEN:

@aestherin @unsterblich-prinz @yourstrulykore @krnzysh @syriiina @yumiaur @featuredtofu @kodzusmiles @meigalaxy @fangygf @motherscrustytoenailclippings @samyayaya @hiimera @beriiov @e0nssadrift @dazaisboner @nillajhayne @chluuvr @nillajhayne @deffenferofjustice @romyoia @xiaomainlmao @hotgirlshit5 @potabletable @letthewindlead @esuz @toriiee @kclremin @angelkazusstuff @phoenix-eclipses @sakiimeo @mayuumine @lilybythevalley @only-cherry-blossom @keiiqq @what-just-happened-huh @n3r0-1417 @haunts-gh0st @layla240 @mamafly @duckyyyx @certified-shrimp @kgogoma @xtobefreex @mechanicalbeat1 @meidnightrain @nordicbananas @feiherp @erzarq @nnasv

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

A Fresh Start [7]

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Warnings: angst, medical trauma (nothing graphic, if you can watch a hospital TV show you can manage this), nightmares, blood and injury, think that’s it for this one

Word Count: 5,415

Summary: When  you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a   Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child.   However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous  night,  you found it to be the only feasible option you had left.  Nevarro was a  far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned  out to be  exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you  fall more  and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears  its ugly  head you find that perhaps peace wasn’t meant for everyone.

Ch. #07: SORAN

Chapter Summary: Your past visits you in your sleep, but you find comfort in the Marshal’s bed.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep.

And miles to go before I sleep.

And miles to go before I sleep."

- Robert Frost

  You stared down at the large vomit stain that covered the side of your white coat. With a grimace, you shrugged out of the item and held it in your hand not knowing what to do with it now. A sharp whistle had you glancing over your shoulder to see Lee making his way toward you. The Zabrak pointed at you with the holopad in his hand. “You just gonna stand there all day, doc?”

  “Last patient threw up on me.” You replied sheepishly. “And I think my brain has short circuited.”

  “You’re only on hour 7 of 12. If you’re losing it now then what are we all gonna do for the next 5 hours?” Lee questioned with a grin. Down here in the Emergency Department, Lee was, without question, your favorite nurse. He was good at his job, fun to work with, and he was intimidating looking enough to scare any of the patients who tried to cause trouble. The complete package. “How about this? I take the gross white coat,” He took the jacket out of your hand, “And you go to room 14.”

  You took the holopad he was holding out to you and shot him a skeptical look. “What’s waiting for me in room 14? Is it worse or better than a vomit covered white coat?”

  “Oh come on, what’s the fun if I tell you?” Lee smirked. He wandered away and you typed in your physician code into the holopad to pull up the patient’s intake information. As you read over the chart, you chuckled. Plain old sprained ankle. Much better than vomit. You made your way down the busy hall toward the room, but you were only passing room 6 when an alarm began to ring overhead. Trauma alert. Something big was coming in. That meant the ankle was going to have to wait. You hurried back the way you came and⏤

 “Cyar’ika.”

You startled awake, but a hand on your shoulder kept you from sitting up. Mando was kneeling beside your bed and he was wearing his full suit of beskar. The room was dark. Moonlight spilled through your window, through the blinds, and it was the only reason you could see him. Your eyes darted to the nightstand where the alarm clock read ‘2:04’.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What’s wrong?” You asked and grimaced at your sleep laden voice. “Is Grogu⏤”

“He’s fine. I have to go to work.”

You sat up slowly and Mando pulled his hand back to let you. “Is everything alright?”

“You remember those pirates from four days ago?” Mando asked. You nodded. “They’re back. It’s okay though. I just wanted to let you know in case. Grogu’s been coughing more tonight than usual.”

It took a second for you to wrap your brain around all of that information at once. You nodded though as everything began to click. “Umm,” You rubbed your face with your hands, “Okay. I’ll walk you out. Grab the pram from the office and bring it in here so he can sleep close by⏤”

“Just sleep in my room.”

“Huh?”

Mando held a hand out to you, and for a moment you thought you had to be misunderstanding what he was saying. Still, you took his hand and let him pull you out of bed. He scooped an item off your night stand and led you out of your room⏤ your hand still in his gloved one. Mando took you into his room and when you entered you could hear Grogu’s soft snores. A little bout of coughing interrupted the snoring momentarily. Mando lightly took your by the arm and you focused back on him as he attached the communicator there. That must have been what he grabbed from your night stand.

“Call me if you need anything.” Mando said. He carefully maneuvered you backwards until the back of your legs stumbled into his bed. You fell into a seated position on his mattress and if you weren’t still so groggy with sleep you’d be mortified with embarrassment at the heat that filled your belly while staring up at him. Mando guiding you to his bed, standing over you at his full height. When the sun rose, you’d play this moment in your head over and over again.

You just sat there, blinking up at him, and Mando cautiously set his hands on your shoulders to guide you back. He squeezed your shoulder once then pulled the blanket over you. Before he could turn away, you reached out to catch his wrist. He glanced down at you, and this time you were the one squeezing him in reassurance. “Be careful, Mando. Come back safe.”

“I will.”

Slowly, your hand fell from his as he walked out. Mando’s bed was soft and warm. As you took in deep breaths, the smell of his sheets began to lull you back to sleep. You were too tired to pinpoint exactly what the scent was, but it was him. It smelled like him and you couldn’t help but associate that smell with safety. You were warm and you were safe. Grogu’s soft, rhythmic snores pushed you over the edge right into sleep.

  “What do we have?” A senior physician asked. You had gotten to the nursing station just as a handful of other doctors and nurses did. All awaiting the same news as you. The transporter on the comm unit began to call out patients. After they began to describe the fifth patient, the senior physician of the emergency department cut in. “Whoa, whoa. What the kriff happened? Where are all these injuries coming from?”

  “Starship collision. It rained down into the middle of the city, took out two buildings and we have three currently up in flames.” The entire crowd around you grew quiet at these words. This was a mass trauma. Oh Maker. “We got half the patients going to Grand Republic Medical Facility and the rest are coming to you guys.”

  The senior physician immediately slipped into the role of team leader. He began to bark out commands of what to fill the rooms with and there was a flurry of movement as everybody began to prep. You helped clear out the main trauma bay which could fit four patients total and relocated the patients in the rooms closest to the transport door. There was no time to take a breath after getting things set up. The transport doors kicked open with the first patient and it didn’t stop. Back to back, screaming patients were brought in. You worked in a flurry beside your co-workers in a blur of blood and pain.

  You didn’t even have the time to be tired. It was as if you shut down a part of yourself and just burned through the actions. One patient after another. It didn’t matter how many you saw, how many you saved, there was always another. Always one more.

  “I dropped an order for the patient in bed 3.” You announced it to the nursing desk. “He needs to get to imaging STAT, please.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  That one settled you moved toward the transport door where the next patient came rolling through. The transporters asked what room was open and you barked back that they could take the patient into room 5. It was the next one open. You paused to take a steadying breath. Just one thing at a time.  

  You hurried toward room 5 where a few nurses were helping transport get the patient from their stretcher to a hospital bed. As you entered the room, your feet stumbled to a stop.

Despite all the chaos, despite the flurry of bodies and flashing of monitors, you could only stare blankly at the woman lying on the bed covered in blood. The patient’s usually tan skin was pale and ashen. Blonde hair was matted from the blood oozing out of a head wound. Clothes were burned and torn, stained with red.  

  You drifted a step closer. Your heart was beating in your chest so hard you were sure you were about to go into cardiac arrest yourself. It was getting hard to breathe. People were shouting at you. Nurses were calling out for orders, but you could only stare.

  “I⏤” You opened your mouth to try and help in some way, but only her name tumbled out, “Soran?”

This time you didn’t startle awake. A familiar voice was calling out and it brought you back to consciousness. “Buir! Buir!” Grogu was calling for his father. A few coughs interrupted him. “Buir!”

You rolled out of Mando’s bed and rushed to Grogu’s side. He stopped crying out when he saw you and held out his arms with a whine. “Hey, buddy.” You pulled him out of his hammock and he curled into your embrace. You slowly began to rock him. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Buir had to step out and take care of business.” Glancing over your shoulder, Mando’s clock in here read ‘2:47’. Not even an hour had passed but you still found yourself worried. “He’ll be back soon.”

As you hummed and lightly bounced Grogu, your dream lingered in your mind. Ever since his appointment you had been plagued every night. They weren’t nightmares. A part of you almost wished they were. No, it was a memory and knowing that made it so much worse.

Grogu’s eyes closed, but when you tried to place him back into his hammock he immediately woke up again with a fuss. This time, you pulled him into your arms then wandered back to Mando’s bed. You crawled back to where you were in hopes that the smell that had lulled you to sleep would bring Grogu comfort as well.

You laid back down and let Grogu shift around until he was comfortable. When he seemed to have settled you pulled the blanket over you both. You continued to hum a lullaby and scratched Grogu’s back. Every few minutes he’d cough, but it never woke him up. You hoped he wasn’t getting sick. His first day of school was in two days and you didn’t want him to miss out on that. Luckily, the dry cough was the only symptoms Grogu had and it only happened at night time when he was sleeping. Asthma was something that had worsened symptoms at night. You hoped it wasn’t that. Though, you didn’t even know if his kind could get asthma.

As tired as you felt, as cozy as you were, you kept your heavy lidded eyes open. You knew if you fell asleep your brain would put you in that memory right where you left off. You knew how that story ended. You didn’t want to relive it all over again. So, instead, you just hummed and rubbed Grogu’s back as he slept peacefully. Your eyes darted to the clock then to your arm band. You wanted to message Mando, check in on him, but the last thing you wanted to accidentally do was distract him. You’d reach out to him for an emergency only.

Your eyes were getting harder and harder to keep open. The hand you used to rub Grogu’s back now just rested over him protectively. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep again.

  “Soran?” You called out. You were at her bedside now. You scanned her injuries, but none of them registered to you. All you saw was your childhood friend. “Soran!?”

  She still didn’t respond. Her vitals on the monitor beginning to fade. A nurse grasped you by the elbow, “What are your orders?”

  “I⏤I can’t.” You took a step back and they stared at you wide eyed. You held a hand out. “Just⏤ Just keep her stable. I’m getting help.”

  You stumbled out of the room before they could argue, and you began to yell out for one of your physician co-workers. All were in rooms. All had their hands tied. Someone grabbed you by the arms and spun you. You came face to face with Lee. He shook his head. “What’s going on?”

  “The patient⏤” You pointed behind you. “I can’t⏤ She’s my friend. I know her. I can’t treat her. It can’t be me.”

  Lee dragged you back into the room and his eyes widened at the sight of it all. He barked out a few orders to the others as the head nurse then turned to you. “You have to act.”

  “Lee⏤”

  “Everyone else is busy. We have four crashing patients, doc.” Lee held your shoulders. “Take a deep breath.” You listened to his words. “You’re a good doctor. You know what to do. If you don’t start now, we’re going to lose her. I’m sorry, but we have to start. She’s about to crash.”

  Everything he said was true. Soran was wavering. Her vitals teetering on the edge of death. You took one more deep breath and then began to move. This was something you’ve done hundreds of times over the years. This was something you had already done a dozen times tonight alone. With Lee by your side, you were efficient. He knew every order before you could call it out and he was anticipating things you would call for.  

  Soran⏤ No. The patient was bleeding out from a laceration on her thigh. Cauterize it. Blood pressure was tanking. Push fluids wide open. Head wound was closed, not open. Needed imaging but only after stabilization. Femur was broken. Set it quickly to ensure no interrupted blood flow or further tissue death. Circle back after stabilization. The patient responded to all your treatments. Her blood pressure improved and her heart rate normalized.

  “Good job, doc.” Lee clapped you on the shoulder. “She’s stable. I’m gonna get everything prepped to move her to imaging, alright?”

  You just nodded⏤ still numb.

  Lee filed out while other nurses rushed to other jobs. While you stood by the patient⏤ by Soran’s bedside, you held her hand and let out a breath of relief. A panicked and panting man reached the door behind you and when you looked back you saw him standing there staring at the motionless but stable woman on the bed. Red hair mused and face flushed as if he had been sprinting a long distance.

  “Kurt.” You breathed and released Soran’s hand to greet the young man. Soran’s fiance was a good man. You didn’t know him as well as you wished you did, but that’s because you’ve just been so busy with training. Soran loved and trusted him though and that was enough for you. You trusted her judgment. Hers had always been better than yours.  

  “Is she?” His eyes filled with tears.

  You pulled him into a short, comforting hug then helped him to Soran’s bedside. “She’s stable.”

  “I⏤I⏤I was on the phone with her when it⏤it⏤” Kurt let out a shaky sob. “I heard her scream and then the call⏤”

  “Soran is okay. She’s strong. Everything is going to be alright.” You rubbed his back. “I have to go, but call me if you need anything. Someone should come in soon to take her for imaging. You’ll be able to walk with her.”

  Kurt nodded. You began to leave, but a worrisome chirp rang out in the room. Nervous, you turned and stared at Soran’s monitors. They chirped again. You watched in horror as her oxygen level began to slowly drop. With each decrease it gave out a bone chilling chirp. Then, Soran gasped for air, her back spasming off the bed. Her heart rate rocketed up and Kurt was yelling. You could only take one step in her direction before the rapid sound of her heart rate monitor was replaced with the shrill sound of a flat line.  

  Soran’s heart had stopped.

If Din never saw one of Pirate King Gorian Shard’s lackeys again it would be too soon. The problem had been taken care of, the pirates either killed or chased away, but they hadn’t gone without leaving him a party favor. As he limped into his house, he grunted as a flash of pain rocketed through him. A pirate got a lucky shot and a vibro blade had caught him right between a gap of his beskar. It was on his right side adjacent to his shoulder blade and he hadn’t even gotten the chance to look at it yet. As if that wasn’t enough a solid blow to his thigh left him with a bruise deep enough to keep him from being able to put his full weight on it.

He quietly made his way through his house and toward his room. He’d shed his armor there and hopefully be able to sneak out before waking you or Grogu. Din pushed his cracked door open and paused. It was a little before six in the morning which meant there was just enough light coming up from the horizon to fill his room with dim light.

You were curled in his bed with Grogu sleeping soundly by your side. Your hand rested on his back as you both slept in peace. Din felt his chest ache at the sight. When he woke you up this morning, he had pure intentions by recommending you rest in his bed. You’d be close to Grogu and oddly it just felt safer to him⏤ not that he had any evidence of that. However, when you sat on his bed staring up at him through your lashes, he couldn’t use the word ‘pure’ to describe any part of him. Din thought surely that mental image wouldn’t be beat out by anything else, but this moment was proving him wrong.

Seeing you in his bed, curled around his son, in the early morning light so safe and sound did something to him. Din had the overwhelming desire to shed all his armor and slide into bed behind you. Revel in this soft moment. If he wasn’t actively bleeding, and it wasn’t a blatant violation of your personal space, he may have given in.

Din let out a soft breath and walked over to his dresser to start unlatching his armor. He got halfway through shedding his beskar when he heard you gasp. Din whipped around worried he had woken you. He found instead that you were still sleeping, but your peace was interrupted. Your face was scrunched in pain as you began to twitch. He set down his chest piece and walked around his bed. He knelt on the side Grogu wasn’t laying to cautiously set a hand on your arm. You began to cry in your sleep, hyperventilating, and Din made up his mind then.

“Cyar’ika.” He shook you lightly. You thrashed under him, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you away from where Grogu still snored. You were on your back now. “Cyar’ika⏤”

“Soran!” You gasped, eyes snapping wide open. Din lifted the hand on your arm to cup the side of your face. He had already taken off his gloves so he could actually feel your flushed skin under hand. Your breathing was calming as you began to settle. You had called out your own name. Din wondered what that was about. He couldn’t focus on it long because your eyes snapped to meet his. “Mando?”

“You were having a nightmare.” He whispered.

Your hand raised to rest on top of his, squeezing it once, “Are you okay? What happened with the pirates?”

“It’s all fine. They’ve been handled.” Din replied.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you hurt, Mando?” Your words were hushed but filled with worry. Din paused. He didn’t want to worry you, but he also didn’t like the idea of lying to you. The silence was answer enough for you because you immediately sat up with wide eyes. “You are, aren’t you?”

Din cleared his throat. “It’s not bad.”

“I don’t believe you.” You pointed at him and he climbed off the bed. “Bathroom. Now.”

Din chuckled at the authority that filled your voice. You carefully slipped out of bed and tucked his comforter around Grogu. Din watched you lean over to press a soft kiss to his forehead before padding out of his room. Din's heart ached. He took the time to stroke one of Grogu’s ears. Seeing the boy sleeping so peacefully settled his soul. On his way out, he stepped out of his boots, leaving them with his gear, and grabbed a clean shirt and pair of sweatpants from his dresser.

When he got to the bathroom, he saw you sitting on the toilet’s lid rooting through a first aid kit. Din tilted his head. “That’s not mine.”

“Nope.” You replied. “I figured since yours would probably only have Bacta and a Cautery that I should grab mine instead.” Din was amused, but he couldn’t argue. You were entirely right. “Can I… Can I see your injury?”

Your quiet question was the exact opposite of the command you had hissed minutes ago. Din wondered if it had anything to do with waking up further or being out of the dim light and in the bathroom’s bright ones. Din nodded and turned around. You stood from your seat and he felt you cautiously pull aside the torn edges of his flight suit.

“Dank farrik.” You hissed.

“Since when did you get a dirty mouth?” Din joked.

“It’s your fault.” You replied. “You’re rubbing off on me.” Din hated that the first thought he had at your statement involved a more physical interpretation of the word. Maker, he was the worst. “Alright, I’m gonna clean this, and apply Bacta.”

Din hummed. “Are you sure? I hear Bacta has some faults.”

“Funny.” You grabbed your kit once more. “How come you make more jokes while injured than not injured?”

Din shrugged, winching at the movement, “Blood loss maybe.”

He could hear you laugh under your breath and it brought a smile to his face. You bent over a bit before rising again. Din glanced over his shoulder to see you trying to find a comfortable position. He turned around and you raised an eyebrow at him. Din motioned to the bathroom counter.

“Oh. Good idea.” You mumbled.

You walked over to climb up, but he reached out to grab your hips. The quick, sharp gasp that left your lips sent a chill down his spine. Din realized he had acted without even thinking. “Jump.” He said. You listened, no hesitation, and he helped you settle on the bathroom counter. Din now stood between your legs and his hands were still on your hips. He pulled them away quickly. Maker, maybe he did lose too much blood. “Better?”

“Y⏤Yes.” You nodded then motioned with your hand for him to spin. Din turned around so his back was facing you and pulled half his shirt off so his right arm was out of the sleeve and his back on that side was exposed to you. “This might sting.”

The first thing Din felt was your hands and after the battle he just walked out of the gentle touch was intoxicating. His eyes fluttered close and he took in a slow breath⏤ melting under your careful hands. The first few minutes were spent in silence as you cleaned out the vibroblade wound. Just as you had warned, it stung something awful whenever the cleansing solution touched raw skin, but even with the pain Din found himself beginning to drift off. He had to lean back on the counter for support and rested his left hand on the counter’s edge on the outside of your thigh, trapping it in place.

“What happened?” You asked.

“Pirate got lucky.” Din mumbled. “It happens sometimes.” You hummed in acknowledgement and your hands left his skin. He missed the connection. Maker, he wanted more of it. The price he would pay to have you lean forward and just envelope his entire back, wrapping your arms around his torso, was absurd. Luckily, your touch returned and Din could tell from the gel texture that you were applying Bacta now. He sighed, “You said your own name.”

“Hmm?”

“The nightmare you were having. Right before you woke up, you called out your own name.”

“Oh.” You replied with no indication that you were going to speak further on the matter.

It didn’t bother him. Din had his fair share of nightmares and haunting memories that plagued him when he slept. There weren’t many he was willing to share with the world and he didn’t expect you to be any different with your own ghosts. You didn’t owe him that. He shook his sleep heavy head, “I’m not looking for clarification or an answer. Just…” Din paused. “If you need to talk, I’m available. I know what it’s like…”

‘To be haunted.’ He couldn’t physically bring himself to finish that sentence audibly.

You finished with the Bacta and he could feel you taping a large, gauze bandage over the wound. After another beat, you spoke up. “It wasn’t a nightmare.” Din wanted to turn around to look at you. “It was a memory. Just a really bad memory.”

He felt you begin to tug his shirt back down and took that as his opportunity to turn. Your hands fell back to your lap as he finished pulling his shirt back down in place. Din rested his hands on the counter beside you. He didn’t touch you again, but he was close enough that he could if he wanted.

“Those are worse, aren’t they?” He asked. You nodded, a small smile drawn on your lips, but nothing about your features screamed anything other than sadness and exhaustion. Din was sure that none of the sleep you got had been beneficial. He had those nights before.

You shrugged. “Sometimes I wish I had a normal nightmare. Some kind of monster or jump scare.” The chuckle you breathed out was lackluster. “Reliving your worst moment over and over again is… disheartening.”

“I know.” Din replied. Your shoulders were slumped in defeat, but the fact that you tried to keep a smile on your face anyways was admirable. Din’s eyes scanned over the features of your face, ones he had already memorized some time ago, and they trailed down the length of your throat. The shirt you wore to sleep in was a size bigger than you usually wore and the way you were seated had the scooped neckline pulled to reveal the skin of your shoulder. Any thoughts he had about sinking his teeth in, tracing the contours of your skin with his tongue, were interrupted as he took in the sight of your collarbone. There was a scar there on your left side⏤ as long as the collarbone itself. The jagged shape told him the wound had been deep once, and he’d guess a blade of some kind.

Din wondered if that was the memory you had been forced to live through last night.

“I’m really glad you came home in one piece.” You lifted a hand tapped your fingers against the side of his helmet. Din loved hearing you call this home. Obviously you lived here, what else would you call it, but after seeing you sleeping in his bed with his son it felt like the word had a different meaning. Din would be honored and blessed to come home to you and Grogu every night.

A soft cry startled both of you. Din leaned back, not even realizing how much closer he had drifted toward you, and glanced over his shoulder. Before he could make his way out, you set a hand on his arm and slipped off the counter carefully.

“Wash up a bit. Change clothes.” You squeezed his arm. “I’ll get him.”

Din watched you step out, closing the door behind you, and let out a sigh. Grogu’s cries stopped a second later. He wanted nothing more than to go see his son, but the moment he entered his room he was going to pass out. He just knew it, and it’d be nice to fall asleep in his bed with fresh clothes. As quick as he could, Din pulled his helmet off to wash his face and clean up. His entire body was tired, but he barreled through the routine in record time. The only thing he paused to do was rub some of the Bacta you had laying on the counter onto the ugly, dark bruise that decorated his outer thigh. Satisfied that he was successfully cleaned up, Din grabbed his helmet and held it in his hands for a hesitant moment.

He didn’t have time to ponder and pour over thoughts about his identity right now. Din just wanted to settle into his home.

“You don’t have to fight sleep, kiddo.” You mumbled to Grogu in your arms. It seemed the sleep he got last night was just as restful as yours. Waking up alone in bed must have spooked him because he was still tearfully rubbing his face against your nightshirt as you tried to reassure him. “Your buir is home. He’s safe.”

The words were meant to reassure the child, but they felt like a relief to you as well. Thankfully, his injury, though large, wasn’t too severe. Nothing needed suturing and the bleeding had stopped on its own by the time you saw it. You went back to softly humming and rocking the child in your arms. Every time you glanced down you could see his eyes began to drift close, but he’d open them again without fail.

“Ad’ika.” Mando’s warm voice said from behind you. Grogu’s eyes widened and he sat up in your arms with a startling speed. He began to fuss and cry again. You turned around so Mando could cross the room to scoop him out of your arms. Grogu immediately buried his face on his father’s shoulder, mumbled a few soft words, then passed out. He had been fighting sleep just to see Mando. You didn’t blame him one bit. “How was he while I was gone?”

“He woke up crying for you once.” You whispered. “I got him back down, but he was restless. I don’t think he got any good sleep after that.”

“That seems to be the case for all of us.” Mando replied.

You chuckled then motioned past him. “I’m gonna go. Grogu’s probably gonna be passed out with you for a while so I was gonna start on some laundry.”

“You need to sleep, cyar’ika.” Mando shook his head, aghast at your suggestion.

“I’m not tired. I⏤” You began, but the tilt in Mando’s helmet told you he wasn’t buying any word coming out of your mouth. Yikes, did you really look that rough, right now? You sighed and decided on the truth. You were too exhausted to come up with an excuse. “I could go to my room and try to sleep, but I’ll just… The outcome won’t change. It’d probably be better for me to just chug some caf and hope for the best.”

Mando was rubbing Grogu’s back and his helmet’s modulator made his whispered words sound huskier than they usually did. “Stay here.” You blinked in surprise. “The bed is big enough. I’m a light sleeper. If you start to toss or turn again, like before, I can wake you.”

“Mando, you need to get your own rest.” You said. “If I stayed... you’d have to leave your helmet on.”

“I’ve slept in it before.”

“But⏤”

  “Lay down, cyar’ika.”

Too tired to argue, you laid furthest from the bedroom door so he could have his usual side. Mando walked over to his room’s window to draw the blinds so the only sunlight coming in was through the thin slates. You curled up under his blankets as Mando climbed in on the other side. He carefully laid Grogu between the two of you and once again the boy’s rhythmic snoring was like calming, white noise. Mando laid on his side so he could watch his son. You faced toward them so you were witness to Mando’s bare hands rubbing Grogu’s back like you had done much, much earlier.

“Thanks, Mando.” You breathed, your heavy eyelids already fluttering closed. Sleep was already starting to envelope you so you weren’t able to fully grasp the words that Mando whispered to you. You registered it was entirely in Mando’a, but you were unconscious before you could question it.

This time, your sleep wasn’t plagued by memories or nightmares. There was only peace.

mando’a translations:

cyar’ika: darling, sweetheart

buir: father

[thatlastdanceofchances]

Details about the Ianthology!

We have one cover and three summaries for the Ianthology!

Tube Strike, due for release in March

Building work on the London Underground has disturbed a nest of Weevils. The ravenous creatures are hunting for flesh. Can Torchwood One contain the feast?

The first one is set during the Torchwood One era and features Tommy from the Torchwood One range.

Missing Molly, due for release in April

Molly went missing from the estate 12 years ago. Ianto remembers it as he lived just round the corner. Only, Molly’s come back. Ianto’s just as interested as her parents in what happened to her.

Disco, due for release in May

It’s 1987 and “Disco” Jones is still dancing. Life and soul, bab, life and soul. Wednesdays is darts at The Merry Miller, Thursdays – shove ha'penny at The Boilermakers, Fridays played by ear, and Saturdays it’s the Disco at Cinderella’s. So who is Tom and why does he want to build a fence with him?

Can't wait for this one since it's going to be about Ianto's dad. From Gareth David-Lloyd: “Disco has been a long time coming. Ianto's dad has been this nameless entity so far who seems to have been quite a negative force in Ianto’s life. So, I thought it was about time that we made him a three-dimensional character and really looked to who he was and at the reasons Ianto is so affected by him.”

[songmingisthighs]

[19.55] cat hybrid!san × reader

⇀ san. what is san ? san's a cat. but san's not just a cat. san's an adorable cat

⇁ @bobateastay you did this AGAIN FFS /lovingly

It had become a routine it seems. Every Sunday, you and San decided that it's a day to just relax, do nothing. But it's a pact that although you both are doing nothing, you're doing nothing together.

On this particular do-nothing-day, you found yourself on your bed with a book in your hand as the tv played a movie that you've watched approximately 12 times within the past year. San was not far from where you are. He was sat on his gaming station that's situated on the other side of your shared bed with his back against the tv.

Maybe 2 hours has passed since you started your book and the movie was nearing its ending. San has been playing some sort of game with another cat hybrid named Wooyoung, a dog hybrid named Yunho and a snow fox hybrid named Yeosang, all of whom he befriend a long time ago.

You closed your book and stretched your body like how San taught you to, as you quote, "Reach the maximum relaxation because who wants to function with an ass that falls asleep every 10 minutes?" Which you don't quite understand but you don't care since somehow, it works. On your stomach, you folded your legs under your body and reached forward with your arms, stretching your back until you feel your spine cracking away. After your back, you released your legs and just pushed like how San would. You pushed until your legs shook, making you grin at yourself at how good it felt. Once you're done, you flipped your body and land on your side, facing San who was so focused on his own game that he hadn't noticed you looking at him.

"Go! Go! Go! No- Wooyoung I swear- YOU SAID YOU'RE GOOD AT THIS!!!!" he roared into his mic, fingers tapping furiously at his gaming keyboard. You don't know which entranced you more, his fingers dancing on the keyboard or the colourful lights on the keyboard itself. "I should have teamed up with Yunho... LOOK AT YEOSANG CHILLING RIGHT THERE!! HE'S WORKING TOGETHER WITH YUNH- oh that's rich coming from someone who died after 2 minutes-"

San stopped his rant to Wooyoung when he noticed you staring at him. Confused (yet very happy that he got your attention), San smiled at you for a bit before refocusing on his game. When he smiled, his dimples popped out and his black cat ears twitched from the fluff of white hair. You couldn't help but squeal and completely melted.

As he focused back on his game, you crawled over to his side of the bed and sat by his side. You took a good look at him, seeing how he scrunch his eyebrows when he was focused on attacking, how he seemed to be such a pro at balancing between using one hand on the keyboard and the other on the mouse, how his beautiful pupils dart around the screen, following the direction of his mouse (which is ironic considering he's a cat), all the while navigating and coordinating with Wooyoung. There's a grace to him playing games, and there's an adorableness to him cussing at his teammate and bitching about said teammate to his other friends.

Noticing you were staring at him, San's eyes began darting back and forth from the screen to you. "Is there something on my face?" he asked as he moved his headphone away, opting to let it rest on his neck so he could still hear what was going on but also to hear you. He was wondering why you were staring at him like that. Like he's the fluffiest marshmallow.

You simply shrugged and instead of answering, you simply reach to scratch the base of his left ear. The stimulation from the scratch made him purr and his eyes began fluttering. For a split second, he forgot that he was playing as his fingers curled and hovered above his gaming station.

It wasn't until you heard Wooyoung yelling at him through the headphones on his neck that he snapped out and immediately moved to shoot at a character in the game that you assume is either Yunho or Yeosang. San's a good player, but that doesn't mean he can't be petty when he wants to be. There were instances where he shot his own teammate after they called him clingy for being distracted by you, all the while adorning an adorable pout that made you peck his nose.

Seeing him needed by his teammate, you decided that maybe you were a distraction to him. You had just lifted your hand off of him when he suddenly let out a childish whine of disapproval. "What are you doing!?" he complained as he snapped his head to you. From the headphone, you could hear Wooyoung retaliating, something along the lines of "Me??? What the fuck are YOU doing!?" because in mere seconds, San was hissing at him. "Not you, dumbass! I was talking to (y/n)!" he said as he pouted at you.

"Me?" You furrowed your eyebrows at him, "What did I do?" you asked, confused. San puffed his cheeks and simply grab the hand that you used to scratch him and plopped it on the top of his head. "Pat," he said simply. Which sounded more like a demand.

Realizing why he was pissy, you couldn't help but chuckle and comply. Rather than distracting him with the scratches he usually demands before sleep, you simply pat and rub the top of his head gently. You let your fingers card through his soft locks and even took time to take notice of how his ears would move around, sometimes due to sounds or even fluttering when he felt satisfied. The pout on San's face soon melted, replaced with a satisfied grin. Even his tail swished around happily, seemingly doing a little happy dance.

You like seeing San this happy. When you both first decided to move in together, you were unsure because your friends told you all sorts of horror stories about hybrids. How because they're part animals, they still have animal instincts in them and some won't even hesitate to hurt you for fun. The predator ones that is. But when you saw San and saw the first time he smiled at you, you know that you had nothing to worry about. Ten thousand suns won't even be able to match his brightness. Because he's your San, he's your San-shine. Your little big ball of fluff who often demands attention without wanting to say anything. Your pouty baby when you're so busy with work that you couldn't spare 10 minutes to give him his daily forehead kisses and nose nuzzles. Your adorable source of happiness who doesn't even have to do anything to get your absolute ultimate affection. Seriously, you might need help detaching yourself from San. His adorableness is a distraction which is a big issue for you. But honestly, you're not complaining.

After a while, your arm started to get tired from the constant petting but you don't wanna let San down, he looked so pleased.

"Sannie, my arm hurts," you groaned, slowly pulling your hand off.

Without missing a beat, his ears flopped down and his eyes turned into giant orbs, eyebrows drooping sadly, and bottom lip jutted out. "But... Warm..." he quivered sadly. You cooed and reached to cup his face, "Well, you're playing now and I can't hold out that long... Can we continue later before we sleep?" you negotiated.

But of course, he shook his head stubbornly.

Before you could make a move, he had already pushed his gaming chair back and pulled you into his lap. You yelped at his strength that you're pretty sure stemmed from his absolute determination to get what he wants. But you quickly adjusted your position, legs slipping under his armrests and chin comfortably resting on his shoulder.

Not even two seconds after you found your comfortable position, San grunted and he bumped the side of his head with you. You pulled back slightly as you were about to scold him, but he beat you to it. With his lips pursed like a duck and eyebrows furrowed, he mumbled, "Attention, now."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at San. But even after saying that, he tightened his hold on you and rested his own chin on your shoulder. You bit your bottom lip to prevent yourself from grinning to yourself even wider. It's bad enough that San already has an iron grip on you with his adorableness, you can't let his hot-and-cold side affect you too. Not that it hasn't, but you're simply bullshitting yourself.

Obliging his request demand, your hands soon found purchase around him. You had an arm wrapped around his neck, playing with the fabric of his hoodie as the other tangled itself with the hair on the back of his head. You let your fingers softly comb his hair as you hum a tune from a Studio Ghibli movie. San soon found himself melting under your touch, evident from the way his shoulders relaxed and his tail swishing way more calmly against your leg, making you giggle.

If only time could stop, you'd be happy being in this position forever.

"Dude, I can hear (y/n) humming. Are you guys in the chair together!?"

"Shut your jealous mouth up Wooyoung, go be useful."

taglist :

@rdiamond2727 @bobateastay @kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @forapollosol @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @jo-hwaberry @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @jcngh0-hq @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @cutie-wooyo @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17 @multihoe-net @kpoplover718 @imswitchbabemox @starryunho

@seonghwarizon @chloepurpy

[cookie-crumblr]

Hype Train!

F! Streamer Reader x M!Yandere Streamer OC

Part 3~

His Info: 📹✨

Part: 1 2 3 4

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

CW: Use of the name jasper🫡✨ (u no who u are soldier💀) !F reader, use of she/her when referring to reader, reader has a vagina, trauma related hallucinations, GORE, violence, murder, torture, kidnapping, blood, sadism, M! masturbation, pet names(good girl), not TOO smutty yet sorry i hope it’ll be worth it 🙈✨

You aren’t sure when you fell asleep… It’s nighttime, “Fuck!” You reach for your phone.

It reads 9:24pm.

You have to work in the morning, but you’ve slept all day, how are you going to get proper sleep now?

You look over at your microwave, the time is blinking 12:00.

“Hm… Power must’ve went out,” You speak out to yourself.

Hearing your own voice is always better than hearing none.

A loud *BANG!* on your door startles you, you lurch forward.

Is it them? “Oh god, no, No NO! I can’t go back!! I PAID YOU!! Please!!”

the banging continues, as you claw at your own head.

and then,

It stops.

Just as abruptly as it started.

You get up to take one of your emergency meds.

They’re so expensive…

You don’t take them as much as you should.

You sigh, and gulp it down.

You turn your computer on, and get ready to stream.

“AHH HAHA HAH,” Pleasured laughing all day long has rendered his vocal cords sore and hoarse.

Jasper gazes fondly over his work so far.

The man you’ve been meeting every month, sitting bound to a chair.

His screams have reduced into nothing but strained guttural noises.

He can’t handle much more.

Jasper did too much, too quickly.

He’s usually more methodical, but the way you make his heart burn, has him losing every strand of sanity in his body.

Squares of this brutes flesh have been removed, the facia torn to shreds.

His teeth have been ripped out.

Fingers snipped off joint by joint.

That wasn’t good enough, Jasper had seen the way he groped you.

The hands up to his wrists sawn off next.

He wrapped him up to stop the bleeding.

He shot him up with adrenaline.

But this—This pathetic thing, isn’t lasting nearly long enough.

Even for how long it’s been going on.

Jasper wanted to savor his pain longer.

So much longer.

He launches the knife like a dart, aimed straight at his head with a furious grunt. It flies through the air and enters dead on the bullseye.

“FUCK YOU! FUCK. YOU. FUCK YOU!FUCK YOU!FUCK YOU!” He pants.

The black handle sticks out of the man’s eye socket.

He lolls his drenched head back and forth, coughing up what’s left of his own blood.

How he isn’t dead is a wonder.

“Awww, doesn’t it suck SO much not being DEAD yet?”

He walks over to him, resting an arm on the wall behind the restrained man. He leans his face down to just above his level.

“Wish I could’ve taught ya a real lesson, you disgusting thing. Sadly I think your time is jus’ about-”

*PING* his blown out pupils slowly follow the air to his pocket where he slides out a phone.

You’re live-streaming!

His hand grasps the handle.

He gurgles out one last labored plea.

“I have to go now~” He shoves the blade back in one swift motion all the way through the man’s socket, and the tip breaks through the back of his skull hitting the grey cement wall behind him.

“and so~” He flips the blade, before another vicious jab into the same socket making the hole an “X”.

“do.” *Crack*! one more

“YOU.” Blood spurts onto him one last time, he doesn’t flinch.

Jasper’s face is now completely coated sticky, drying crimson.

“Mmm” he sighs contently. “I guess I’m done here.” A final pleasured chuckle leaves his chest.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand before whipping it toward the ground, flinging more spatters of blood around him.

He pulls up your stream up on one of the laptops, and puts a phone to his ear. The man’s blood is leaving little pools on everything Jasper touches.

He can’t care less.

He’s too engrossed, too mesmerized by your precious voice.

He quickly informs the cleaning crew on the phone of his location, and that he has spilled cake all over the floor… And walls…And ceiling… Everything really.

“Yes sir! we will send the heavy duty crew asap”

Without knowing it, you soothe him, his eyes flutter shut.

A hand slowly trails to groin as he deeply listens.

He types with the other; “Hey! how are you, Y/username?”

“Hai Jasper!!! I’m so happy to see you again!!”

“mmf” he grunts as his thumb presses down on his clothed lap. “Yess” he whines, “Say my name again”

“I’m good by the way! thanks for askin! How are you!”

He finds the button and unzips his pants with his eyes still closed picturing your actual face and replaying you saying his name again, and again, and again in his head.

He can’t even hear anything you’re saying, to anyone else.

“Good! Wanna hang later?” he types deftly, hoping you’ll call out his name again.

“Omg! Yes please, Jasper!” It’s so innocent, yet he’s still fading fast into a lusty haze.

“Haah! yeeeessss,” His palm wraps his length and squeezes. His thumb teases the tip, pressing down and then massages his glands. “Beg me! Yell my name!”

The blood is acting as lube as he continues to work himself, while one hand desperately clings to the table.

He’s losing his mind just imagining the possibilities; how wet he can get you, how well you’ll take his girth. You’ll be such a good girl, won’t you?

His imagination runs wild: “Harder, Jas-Jasper! M-more!” He can picture you begging, “P-please, please! Fill me, Jasper! Fill me!”. He wants you begging.

“YN!” A low grunt leaves his mouth as he climaxes, mixing white with the red splatters across the keys.

He’s not satisfied though.

You’re not in his lap.

The pain doesn’t subside, and the swell refuses to go down.

He covers his face with his hand.

“I can’t wait to have you…”

[alwaysonthemend]

Author's Note: Hello hello! She's finally here and I am SO very excited for you all to read! As I mentioned before, this story will most likely be around 12 parts and I will be updating with a new chapter every other week. I hope ya'll enjoy!

Finally, without further adieu!

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

Part I: Into the Storm

Word Count: 5081

Warnings: Threats of violence / death of family members (in the past, non graphic)

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

Whence they come and whence they go 

Ere ever the waves dance to and fro. 

‘Cross cold grey stones and empty shore, 

Ne’er rest or break since days of yore. 

And from the depths a face doth creep, 

Pallid and haggard from the deep. 

And as I watch out on the sea,

I beg you please: come home to me.

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

July, 1709

The pitter patter of tiny feet slapping against the wooden floorboards breaks through the silence of the room. 

“Get back here!” A voice calls angrily, followed shortly by the sound of heavy footfalls. 

There is no answer other than laughter – a child’s laughter, as the chase continues. The girl – no older than eight or nine years old, runs past the doorway towards the balcony overlooking the town below. She skids to a stop at the railing, wide eyes staring down at the drop. Trapped and with nowhere to go, she turns to face her father with a guilty smile. 

“Give it to me.” Her father demands, stepping out to meet her on the balcony. He’s angry, though her young mind has yet to place the seriousness of his tone. 

“But Papa-” 

“Now.” He silences her, thrusting his hand outwards towards her tiny frame. 

Hanging her head in defeat, the young girl brings her hand out from behind her back, a thick, old volume clutched between her tiny fingers. Mercilessly, her father yanks the book from her grasp, an angry huff escaping him at the sight of her face contorted in anger. 

“These,” her father seethes, waving the book about in his grip, “are not stories meant for children. Especially not for a young lady. Do you understand me?” 

The girl huffs a breath, jutting her bottom lip outwards as she looks up to her father. Though he towers over her, there is a challenge in her eyes. 

“Why am I not allowed to read them? They are just stories, Papa!”

He shakes his head at her, disappointment clear on his face. 

“Stories that are not good for young girls like you. You are far too impressionable. Pirates and adventures are not the subjects on which you should spend your time. You would be much better suited towards placing your focus on your own lessons – instead of mucking about like a heathen.”

The girl rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest in challenge. The fire in her eyes has not dimmed at his words – but rather seems to have only grown brighter. 

“Papa, I do focus on my classes. But I do not see why I should not be allowed to read such stories in my own time for my own amusement. It harms no one!” She does not stutter as she speaks, clearly a rehearsed argument. 

“Enough!” Her father’s voice rises – his own frustration at her growing by the second. “I will not tell you again, Y/n: stop it with these stupid stories of pirates raids and mystical creatures. Piracy is nothing to be sneezed at or enjoyed – especially not by any daughter of mine.” 

As he speaks, the girl turns to walk back inside, pointedly refusing to meet his gaze. Her steps fall heavy as she purposefully stomps her feet as she walks past him. 

Fast as lightning, his rough hand darts out to grip her bicep – thick fingers wrapping around the delicate skin harshly. Without warning, he yanks her towards him, bringing their faces just inches apart. 

“Listen to me, girl.” He mutters lowly, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Any more trouble from you… and you will wish that you had listened to me the first time.” There is a warning in his voice now, unspoken but so very clear. He is no longer asking. She knows what punishment lies in wait for her. It’s a punishment she’s received before that she’s not eager to experience again. 

“Yes, Papa.” 

“We are finished here.” He releases her, turning on his heel to stride back inside. 

The girl frowns as she rubs where his fingertips had pressed into her skin. A sigh escapes her. Her shoulders droop in defeat. It is not the first time that she has been ridiculed by her father, though she’s growing old enough now that it is no longer taken lightly as it used to be. She is old enough to know better now – and her father’s anger only grows with each passing day. She hates it here. 

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

November, 1720

Easthallow is not a town of splendour – at least, not anymore. What used to be a prospering fishing town now reduced to nothing but a washed up port city, forgotten by the rest of the world. The town has fallen into disrepair, and its people are too tired to fix it. 

The house is perched not so far from the cliffs of Tunstead and sits ominously atop the hill. It’s less of a house and more of a fortress. A fortified conglomeration of walls that only vaguely resemble something that could be considered a home. The Calloway mansion had fallen into disrepair, just as Easthallow had. Though, it cannot be said that the two are not connected. The Calloways had long been the sole proprietors of wealth for the sleepy little port town, and their wealth and influence had extended far across the waters, pulling in merchant ships and trade that made this little town boom into a home of bustling commerce. No one knew where the Calloway fortune had come from for sure – but most had their guesses that it had not come from a place savoury in nature. There was no doubt that the wealth of the Calloways came from their dealings with royals in the North, though no one was ever brave enough to ask them for proof. The people of Easthallow were more than willing to turn a blind eye to the dealings of the Calloways, and took pleasure instead in the fruits of their (most likely) illegal business. 

But as the years went by, season after season of wealth and commerce, the Calloway fortune slowly began to run out. Their ships, once seemingly blessed with good fortune, began to sink on a regular basis. Old friendships (borne of blackmail, surely, but strong nonetheless) fell apart, leaving the Calloways to slowly rack up more and more debt until at last, the family fortune ran out. The masses of servants that tended to the mansion were let go, until finally there only resided a small number of Calloways left inside it, withering away alongside their fortune. 

And now, all that lies within this rotting fortress of ill-gotten wealth, is my grandmother – the ageing matriarch of the Calloway empire, and myself. It’s sad, really, to think about what my family once was – but in a detached sort of way. My mother had died of fever when I was just three weeks old and my father had been a brute, driven mad by grief and loneliness. He was never home, constantly sailing off to… somewhere. He never told us. He died at sea and I didn’t even cry. And then it was just me and my grandmother in this God-forsaken house, surrounded by the ghosts of a past that I didn’t know. The mystical nature of my Calloway family history had kept my young mind intrigued for a time, but it had quickly dwindled with age. I know only as much as the rest of this town knows, as my grandmother had never been willing to tell me anything of my family history. I had given up years ago.  

Instead, I spent my time in our library, content to busy myself in the stories buried within the thousands of pages – focusing my attention onto tales of magic and sea-faring adventures instead. I am not sure if it was the boredom, or some lingering resentment that I carried for my father that made me love them so. Either way, I was content – content in becoming a recluse as a child, content to sit with my books alone. My grandmother, I think, was simply grateful that I left her alone. There is no small bit of resentment in the old woman towards me – the very last Calloway. I know that, had I been a boy, she would have at least been comforted in that the Calloway name would be carried on after her death. 

Though I still owe the woman much – as she taught me everything I know. But I am no fool; had my mother birthed a boy before she had me, I am sure that my grandmother would never have even so much as looked in my direction. But since I am all that there is, she taught me much in my youth. She taught me how to read the coded letters that my ancestors had left behind, and how to steer a ship, and how to travel following only the stars. All things that proper Calloways had to know back in their days of seafaring.  

And as age continued to ravage her frail body, I know that she regretted not having been more affectionate with me as a child. 

Grandmother died on my 20th birthday, and I had cried empty tears as I watched her casket be lowered into the ground. I think my sadness had been borne more of guilt than sorrow – what type of granddaughter was I to not be heartbroken over my last relative’s death?

– 

The Golden Perch is a small, humble tavern just a five minute walk from the port. The earnings are meagre and the patrons rude but it is all I have to call my own. Thomas, the owner, had been the only one kind enough to offer a Calloway a job, and I had jumped on the opportunity. Bar work, though nothing glorious, gave me purpose at least. When the books ran out, when I read and reread them enough that I could no longer stand them, I needed something else to take up my time. And The Golden Perch had given me that. 

Tonight, only a few patrons have braved the storm outside. Thunder rattles the dinghy wooden walls, the fire in the fireplace dwindles with each gust of wind from the chimney, and I am hopeful that I might get to close up early tonight. Thomas had gone home hours ago, leaving the tavern solely to me for the rest of the night. 

The quiet murmuring of the patrons is interrupted by the slam of the front door, and all eyes turn to the threshold at the loud entrance. The storm outside rages on, and the cold wind entering the open door plunges the room into a damp chill. The fire flickers pathetically. 

“Everyone on the floor!” 

A deep voice cuts through the confused whispering and a man steps in from the chaos of the night. The tone of his voice leaves no space for argument, and the patrons all lower themselves slowly to the ground.

But I cannot move. I am rooted to the spot as my eyes take in the stranger and his men as they march into the small tavern. 

Five men disperse themselves throughout the room, each of them drawing cutlasses from their waists and holding them out menacingly towards the tired, terrified fishermen who sit huddled on the floor. 

The sixth man, clearly the leader, strides quickly across the room until he reaches the bar. He’s clad in black pants and a white billowy shirt unbuttoned down to his naval, covered from the storm by a long black coat that almost touches the floor. He’s got long brown hair that’s tied back by a black ribbon, and several expensive looking silver medallions rest against his chest. The golden handle of his cutlass glitters at his waist thanks to the light from the fire.

His face, despite the fear coursing through me, brings heat to my cheeks. His eyes are a deep brown and his lips are pink and plump looking. His jawline and nose are sharp, accentuated by the dim light. His tan skin is unmarred, save for a thin white scar starting at his hairline, cutting through his eyebrow, and ending just on the outer corner of his eye. It must have been lucky that the cut hadn’t taken his eye.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I will the tremor in my voice to subside as I raise my chin in defiance at him – hoping to give him the impression that I’m not afraid. 

The man extends his arm outwards, splaying his palm against the bartop and tapping his fingers against the wood. 

“My name is none of your concern.. And I’m looking for someone.” He says lowly, eyes glittering dangerously at me from beneath his thick lashes. 

“And who might that be?” 

He inhales sharply through his nose, straightening himself and pulling his hand from the bar top to rest it on the handle of his cutlass. Everything about him screams authority. 

“Calloway.” He finally answers, and the air punches itself from my lungs. I fight to keep my expression steady as my heart pounds in my chest so hard I’m sure he must be able to hear it. 

“Never heard of ‘em.” I lie, placing my hands on my hips to hide the way that they shake. “Must be in the wrong town.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so, lass.” He smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth. “You see…” He starts, drawing his cutlass from its sheath and brandishing it proudly in front of him. “I need something from Edward Calloway, and I’m not leaving here until I get it.” 

This time, I know that I fail in keeping my expression passive at the mention of my father’s name. Surely enough, his smile widens. 

“Oh? So you do know of Edward Calloway." He hums, a sinister look spreading across his face. "You're going to tell me where he is, my good lady… or my men kill everyone in this room.” 

At that, the other patrons all begin to panic, frenzied whispers breaking out amongst themselves as the other men step even closer to them, their blades gleaming dangerously. 

“He’s dead. Edward Calloway is dead. Has been for a long time. There aren’t any Calloways left anymore.” I tell him, and I revel in the slight slump to his shoulders. He hadn’t been expecting that.  

One of his men, a man with light brown curly hair, turns to look at his leader, his eyes carrying in them a silent question. The two stare at each other for a moment, seemingly carrying on a conversation without words. Finally, the leader steps towards the door. 

“Kill them all.” 

“What?” The curly headed man asks with wide eyes. He looks horrified. 

“Did I stutter?” 

“Wait!” One of the fishermen shouts, causing a blade to be pressed into his neck. “She's a Calloway!” He says frantically, pointing towards me with an accusing finger. "She's Edward Calloway's daughter!'' He says it like it's an insult, spittle flying from his lips as he points at me. 

Dread overtakes me like ice water being dumped over my head, but I cannot blame the man. Old sins cast long shadows after all, and no one in this town would be willing to give up their lives for a Calloway. 

The leader turns on his heel, a menacing expression on his face. I feel as though I’m nothing but a small animal, cowering in the face of its predator. He rounds the bar top, gripping my bicep in his hand and squeezing tightly. I can’t help but to wince as his fingertips press into my skin harshly. He leans in close, so close that his lips just barely graze the shell of my ear. 

“That true, lass?” He asks, pressing the blade of his cutlass into the skin of my neck. 

I swallow and nod, body trembling in his hold. 

“And you live here?” He asks again, nodding his head towards the stairway that goes upstairs. It’s a vacant room though, reserved only for patrons that are too drunk to make it home. 

“No.” I whisper. “Not far from here, though.” 

He nods, tightening his grip on my arm even more before turning to the curly haired man again. 

“Joshua, return to the ship. Wait for me there.” 

Another man, this one with long brown hair that reaches all the way down to the middle of his back, speaks up. 

“You’re not going alone. Have you lost your mind?” 

“Jacob, you're being reckless. This isn't-” Joshua speaks up, pinning his leader (apparently named Jacob) with a fiery expression. 

“Enough! My brothers the two of you may be, but I am still your captain. You will not question me.” 

The rest of his men only look on in silence, eyes darting between the three men as they stare at each other. Finally, Joshua’s shoulders drop in defeat. He keeps his cutlass drawn but lowers it, the rest of the men following suit. 

“The rest of you,” Jacob orders, scanning his eyes across the terrified faces of the fishermen, “Get lost. You never saw us. We were never here.” 

They all clamour to their feet, tripping over themselves in their bid to get out the door. The storm outside has finally died down to nothing but light rain, and each of them scatter our into the darkness like mice abandoning ship. Jacob’s men follow after them, Joshua stopping to look over his shoulder one last time before stepping out into the night, leaving you alone with their captain. 

���Are you going to kill me?” I whisper, the tremble in my voice obvious. 

“Not yet." He whispers. "You said you did not live here.” He says, voice growing louder as he drags me roughly towards the door. I fight to keep my balance as he all but lifts my feet from the floor. 

“I do not.” 

He stops, grip still tight on my arm. He looks at me, waiting for me to continue, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. He sighs heavily, eyes rolling backwards at my defiance. 

“I do not have time for this. I need something. Now. And your father was the man who had it.”

I weigh my options silently. There is no doubt in my mind that I will most likely be dead before the night is over. There is no mercy in the eyes of this stranger. I can refuse and no doubt he would kill me right here… let me bleed out alone and my body grow cold until it’s found tomorrow morning by an unsuspecting Thomas. Or, I can take him back to that wretched place that I call home and pray that he finds whatever it is that he’s looking for. Maybe then, I could convince him to spare me. 

“My father’s things are still in his study. I have not touched them. If he really did possess whatever it is you seek, it would be there.” 

Jacob nods once, sheathing his cutlass at last. I sigh in relief. 

“And you will take me to it.” It is not a question, more a demand that he’s phrasing nicely. 

“Yes. I will.” 

“And is there anyone there that might get in my way?”  He asks, and I shake my head. 

“I live alone.” 

He hums, and I can feel it as the sound reverberates through his chest. 

“I am going to let you go now and you will lead me there. Try to run…” he warns, lips once again pressed against my ear, “You’ll be dead before you even realize that I've caught you.” 

I nod. 

He releases his grip and I bring my hand up to rub where he’d been holding me so tightly. I know that it will bruise. A brief flicker of… something, flashes through his eyes at the action before his expression smooths over, once again becoming blank as he waits for me. The rain has stopped but night has fully fallen. I reach upwards and grab one of the lit lanterns from above the bar top, holding it aloft in front of me as I lead us out into the night. 

– 

I watch out of the corner of my eye as his gaze sweeps upwards, taking in the rotting fortress as we ascend the steps. Though my last name may be Calloway, I have never felt any sort of ownership over this house – it has always been, simply, the place that I must stay. I have never felt embarrassed at its disrepair before, but as I watch Jacob’s eyes scan this terrible place, shame begins to pool deep in my belly. I hate the feeling. 

“You never told me your name.” His voice startles me from my shame-filled thoughts and I cut my eyes to him quickly. 

“You would not give me yours.” 

His lips quirk into a smile. 

“And yet you still learned it anyway. It seems only fair that I know yours in return.”

“Y/n.” It slips past my lips with hardly a second thought and I curse myself for giving it to him. I cannot say why I told him, only that I felt powerless to deny him. 

“Y/n.” He repeats, and the sound of my name from his lips sends a shiver down my spine. 

The front door creaks as I open it, making me cringe slightly at the loud sound. We step through the threshold, and immediately the cold dampness of the house envelopes us. 

“Lovely place.” Jacob says with a grin but I don’t glorify him with a response. Instead, I begin to ascend the ornate staircase that leads to the second floor. 

“You live here alone?” He asks, following behind me closely. 

“Yes. My grandmother died this past spring. We’re the only ones in the family left.” I tell him as we reach the top. 

“Hardly a place for a young woman to live alone.” 

I scoff at him, leading him down the winding hallways. It angers me the way he says it, as if he truly is concerned. As if he has not just threatened my life. 

“Why do you care?” I snark, stopping in front of the mahogany door that leads into my father’s study. I had not stepped foot into the place since his death all those years ago. 

“I don’t.” He says coldly. 

I nod once and push open the heavy door. 

Immediately, my nose is assaulted by the dust that floats through the air. Every surface is covered, and I fight the cough that tries to claw its way from my throat. I step forward and enter the room fully, holding the lantern up so I can see his old desk. It’s a massive thing – taking up a whole corner of the small study. It’s expensive, that I know – imported from somewhere overseas. I was never allowed to touch it as a child. I place the lantern onto it before jumping upwards to sit (enjoying the small bit of satisfaction that the action gives me, even though my father is not here to see me do it). 

Jacob rounds the corner of the desk, pulling the drawers open and beginning to rummage through. Little bits of his hair have fallen out from where he has it tied back, and the way they frame his face makes him seem softer somehow. 

“And what exactly are you looking for?” I ask him, sliding the lantern closer to the edge of the desk so that he can see better. 

“Directions.” He supplies, not looking up from his task. 

“To what?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

“Okay.” I sigh. “Why did my father have it?” 

Finally, Jacob stills his movements and looks up, appraising me silently. 

“He traded a lot of money for it. It took me a long time to track it down.” He finally answers, looking back downwards to continue his rummaging. “Your father was involved with some dangerous people.” 

“I wouldn’t know. I know nothing of my family.” 

It’s silent between us for a long moment, broken only by the sounds of him pulling open drawers and searching through papers. After what seems like forever, he finally throws his hands up in defeat. 

“God damn it!” He exclaims, and I startle. 

He falls into my father’s chair, chest heaving as his eyes frantically scan the desk. The desk is bare except for a few sheets of paper covered in my father’s lilting handwriting, an accounts notebook, and his reading glasses. The drawers have been completely searched through on both sides. 

“It’s not here.” He sighs, shoulders dropping as he places his head in his hands. A distant feeling of fear still thrums through my bloodstream, but I cannot help the sympathy that flows through me at the sight. He just looks so… sad. 

“I am sorry.” I tell him, and I am shocked to find that I mean it, somehow.

He looks upwards at the sound of my sincerity. His dark eyes have pooled with unshed tears that glisten in the light of the lantern and I am struck suddenly with the desire to reach out and touch him – to comfort him somehow. His pain seems to radiate from him, enveloping me in a blanket of misery. 

“It is what it is.” The sorrow in his voice causes a dull ache to thrum in my sternum. 

I glance around, desperately trying to find somewhere else that my father might have hidden something important. The walls are covered in old paintings – family members that I never met and don’t even know the names of. A bookcase sits off to the side, but it is empty. My grandmother had taken the books and placed them in the library downstairs years ago. There would be no way to know which ones had been kept here by my father before. The fireplace, filled with old, dusty ashes sits barren and cavernous. There is a cracked leather armchair in front of it and nothing else. I look upwards to the mantle, decorated only by a round mirror with gold accents and a framed painting of my mother. 

I pause. 

Grabbing the lantern, I rise and walk slowly over to the mantle. I grab the picture frame and bring it back to my father’s desk, noting the way that Jacob’s eyes track my every movement. Placing the lantern down, I turn the frame over and take the back off. The painting of my mother flutters out and lands on his desk, along with a yellowed, folded up stack of papers that had been tucked behind the picture. 

Jacob reaches forward, a slight tremble to his hand, and slides it towards him. I watch in rapt attention as he unfolds it and leans in closer to the lantern in order to read the first page. I watch as his expression falls from hopeful to defeated yet again. 

“It’s nonsense.” He says angrily, slamming it downwards onto the desk with a loud smack. “Utter nonsense.” 

I peer over at it, tilting my head and squinting to read it. My heart rate picks up as I scan the page, brain working tirelessly to try and remember the symbols and patterns. 

“It’s not nonsense. It’s in code.”

Jacob catches my gaze with wide eyes, lips slightly parted at my words. 

“Can you read it?” 

I nod. 

“With time.” I tell him, reaching out to grab them. “There’s a lot here and it's been a long time, but I think I could read it.”

“I don’t have a lot of time. I need to leave. By tonight.” He says, tone suddenly demanding as he stands abruptly. “You will translate it. Now.” 

I furrow my brows, holding the pages tight to my chest. 

“Well you’re going to have to make time. This is not something that can be done right away. If I read them.” 

Fast as lightning, Jacob places a palm in the middle of the desk and lunges across it, using his body weight to shove me backwards and slam my back into the wall. I keep the papers clutched tight to my chest, breath stuttering out as fear overtakes me once again. It’s like a flip was switched – the man standing in front of me now reduced to nothing but a wall of rage and aggression. He presses in close, breathing heavily as his hand reaches upwards to wrap around my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but the threat is there, loud and clear.

“You will read it.” He orders, a growl deep in his throat. 

“Or what?” I goad him. “You can’t kill me.” 

He sighs. He knows I’m right. He moves his hand from my throat and I flinch away from him – afraid that he’s going to strike me. 

But he shocks me instead.

His rage is still palpable, and I can tell by the twitch of his fingers that he wants nothing more than to use physical force to get me to obey him, but the fight drains from his tense shoulders as he sinks to his knees at my feet, dark eyes staring up at me in the dim light of the lantern. 

“Please.” He whispers. 

I know immediately that I cannot deny him. It’s as if my very soul is calling out to him – drawn to him in a way that I cannot begin to understand. It feels like he was meant to find me here, alone in this terrible place – rotting away along with the walls around me. Whether by God or by Fate, he was meant to find me. His sorrow and anger radiate for him in waves, threatening to choke the air from my lungs. He needs this.

Somehow I know that he will not survive it should I deny him. My decision was made from the very moment I first locked eyes with him. I will help him in any way that I can. 

“I will help you. But I need time. It cannot be done quickly.” 

He nods, staying on his knees as if he’s too tired to rise. 

“I understand. But I must leave tonight. The thing that I am seeking… I have only a few weeks to reach it. If not, it will all be for naught.” 

His vagueness frustrates me to no end but I understand that I will receive no more from him tonight. 

“Do you know at least in which direction you must go from here?”

He nods. 

“Then you must take me with you. And I will do my best to translate it as we go. Is that acceptable to you?” 

He nods again solemnly, looking up at me from his place at my feet. 

“It is.”

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

Part 2

Mirror of the Damned taglist:

@jakeyt @joshym @sacredjake @carbondancingthroughtime @literal-dead-leaf @sinarainbows @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @aflame4goinghome @writingcold @ignite-my-fire @mysticalstarcatcher @brinlygvf @vanfleeter @chewbeka22 @starcatcherchords @char289

[coffehbeans]

Prompts 35 and 70: Sleepover and Snacks

Masterpost of Stories (92 Prompts)

Talking about fluffy g/t scenarios turned into angst, have my writing after two months of nothing ashaush featuring characters from this future story that I hope to turn into a book one day.

As always, feedback appreciated! This one was challenging with the dialogues and I'm not a native English speaker, so if something's unnatural, please lemme know.

Synopsis: After losing most of his friends when he got diagnosed with hyperon syndrome, Ethan relies on the two that haven't left his side. But a relaxing sleepover turned-wrong puts their friendship to the test.

.....................................

Nothing had to change. That's what Ethan thought when he returned to university, one week after being diagnosed. Yeah, he did have twenty-or-so less friends than usual, after growing four feet in a week and all that, but who wouldn't? People with hyperon were feared, that's a natural reaction. He used to fear them before as well. Before he started to become one of them. There's a stinging pain that pang in his chest sometimes, though. It happened every day when the class ended. Ethan yawned as the class ended, shaking off his sleepiness. He sat on the floor, as he could not fit in a chair, and took notes in a tiny, to him, notebook as he left the brown curls of his hair cover his face and shield him away from the others' gazes. He waited for all the students to leave, focusing his hazel eyes on his lecture notes. It's best this way. He never was the tallest before the mutation, so he used to be one of the first to leave class with friends, but now... It felt too weird. Too much, he realized, as his presence was enough to scare people, since he loomed over everyone, covering them with his shadow. That feeling, of accidentally intimidating someone... He hated it. So it was best to wait for all of them to leave.

…

When the teacher dismissed them, Ethan sprung up from his seat after diligently taking notes of constitutional law class. He'd be a great public defender after all, his scores had to be top notch. Forgetting all about it for now, he rushed to one of his friends, patting him on his shoulder. "Let's grab a bite to eat, I'm starving!" His friend chuckled while the others joined in. "Finally someone got their ass out of the seat." "We had to wait ten minutes this time." another friend groaned, but her smile showed the complaint wasn't serious. "Quick, let's get him outta here before he decides to ask the teacher something." Another friend said as he shoved Ethan towards the door." "H-hey! I'm not gonna ask anything! Not this time, at least." He chuckled. And the group of friends walked together to the food hall, telling whatever came up in their minds.

… Ethan glanced up at those same friends, taking his eyes out of the notebook. ‘Amanda, Carson, Thomas...’ Through that moment frozen in time, their eyes met. Ethan put on a friendly smile and waved at them. Those three darted their gaze away, rushing through the crowd of students and out of the classroom. Ethan's wave froze in place, and he slowly retracted them back, heart sinking. His smile waned. ‘It's okay.' he thought. 'They're scared. It's normal that they'd be.' But still... Yeah. Ethan couldn't figure out a way for this to stop hurting. Ignoring the familiar pain, he got up, the ground getting far away under his feet as he rose to his full 12 feet stature. Was the ground even further this time? Has he grown again since yesterday? Probably. He won't think about it. Ethan was an imposing-looking man. After being diagnosed, his physique changed, along with his stature, in order to adapt to the increased mass. Naturally, he got stronger. Ethan already had an athletic build before, being part of the basketball team and all that. But now? It was too much. He was too much and he hated every part of it. Even hiding his body under his clothes, he still looked as bulky and broad as a heavylifter, the countour of his prominent muscles hinted beneath the cloth. And although his square face remained the same with his friendly, round eyes and his charming smile, the sheer thickness of his neck contrasted with his amicable expression. In short, although Ethan hasn't changed his personality at all, and he knew of this fact, it clashed so heavily with his new, intimidating body that most people preferred to not give him the benefit of the doubt. Ethan could understand that, he's been avoiding the mirror for a good few days now. And the added feet in height didn't help. In fact, the extra inches would not stop anytime soon.

Ethan ducked through the ten feet tall classroom door. The university prepared a pretty big door for him, but he saw himself having to duck more and more through the doorframe as days pass. He walked through the college corridors, looking at the ground and watching his step. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a few scared or shocked faces turn to him only to walk further away, ‘away from the monster’, he supposed. 'I'll get used to this.' He repeated this mantra in his head, over and over, but it was getting harder and harder to believe in it. Ethan took slow steps, one at a time, hands in his hoodie pockets. Heel first, then the rest of the foot, one after the other. He continued those steps until he reached the food hall. As he entered it, some tables turned empty when people fled in silence upon seeing his towering form, taller than a garage door. Sure, he could understand their reasoning. But really, do they think he's a high school bully that will crush their skulls if they don't lend him a seat, or something? Whatever. He won't stay long in there, anyway. He doesn't want to bother people. Last time he ate at the food hall, only nine feet back then, people would gawk at him when he ate his mountain of food. To call that experience uncomfortable was an understatement. Every day has been an embarrassing experience. His thoughts were, thankfully, cut short when Ethan saw two familiar faces. They waved at him, and he smiled back at then. At least he had Zora and Seb. Seb treated Ethan the same. He assured Ethan, again and again after he met Ethan at his new stature, that he was not scared. But the plump brunette also acted the part, remaining relaxed, hands in pockets as he addressed Ethan with the same chill look he always had. Seb had to look much, much more up at him now but, other than that, nothing changed, and Ethan's size wouldn't provoke a gasp of fear from his friend. He appreciated that. He really did.

Zora treated Ethan the same. But her case happened a bit differently. Well, it's fair she'd react the way she did: curious. The long haired Biotechnology student had a instigative nature. Zora asked him questions if she saw Ethan was comfortable to answer then, about how it felt to have the worldwide-feared hyperon syndrome, and if he got injured during his growth spurts. But aside from that, no flinch, no jolt, no trembling at his sight. On the contrary, she'd remain short tempered, climbing the big guy to yell at his face: "stop hating yourself, you dumbass", whenever Ethan distanced himself from them out of insecurity. When she scolded him, it looked way more comical than it should've been, as her 5 feet stature in comparison to his 12 feet one caused the size difference between the two friends to be the most extreme. Zora made Ethan feel too tall, but at the same time, it was as if nothing had changed between their friendship.

They really cared. "Hey." Zora called for Ethan in the distance. "How's it going?" Seb's much quieter voice followed. Both him and Zora got up, walking towards Ethan with no hesitation at all. "Hey guys." Ethan flashed his signature dimpled smile. One he used to show all the time to everyone. One he only shows now to these two. He appreciated them more than his "thanks" could ever achieve to say. Ethan wished for their friendship to remain like this, the same before the syndrome, the same after. They were the only friends left. And that's all he needed.

...

  "You guys should swing by my place tomorrow." - Zora started after they met up and left the food hall, to Ethan's relief. The outside part of the campus was open, not cramped, and he appreciated the lack of scared eyes. Even though the sight of him walking way slower than his two friends, who barely measured up to his thigh, looked strange to random bystanders. "Ya know, seizing the moment and all that. You should totally come." "It's midterms though. Why now?" Seb, the introvert, chimed in. "Ugh, don't be a buzzkill. Besides, I just got the PS6 and I need some test subjects." "What time will it be?” Seb changed his mind in an instant. The latest game console with the best graphics. No way he'd miss that. "What about you, Ethan? Friday night at my place?" Ethan came back from spacing out, stopping mid-yawning, and looked down, way down at Zora's short stature. He's spacing out a lot, he noticed. Maybe because that conversation reminded him of when he had something to do every week, going out to party and de stress after a stressful college test week at his Law major. He'd go to different houses, from different friends, or they'd all hang out together, Seb and Zora included. Drink, eat good stuff, dance. Ethan would talk to people until his throat went dry and he'd quench his thirst with beer untill he'd forget it all. As if he needed any drinks to be talkative, always laughing and bringing people along the conversation with his stories. People used to call him "life of the party" and he'd proudly admit it as true.

"Look who it is!" "If it isn't my best buddy Ethan!" He came running to them and tackled one of his friends in an aggressive hug.

"Aw, you miss me way too much, man!" "How was the game today?" "Scored." Him and his group of friends cheered in unison. "But wait, hear me out. You guys won't believe what happened till that match." And Ethan went on and on, while the friends who also played that basketball match added some details to the story. The rest of the group laughed in unison at the random antics Ethan told. … That's usually how Ethan would arrive at the place. Looking at himself now, he barely recognized himself. That confident, outspoken guy turned aloof and often quiet, his mind always drifting somewhere else, towards anywhere but the reality. "Hey! Earth to Ethan!" He blinked and looked down, way down at Zora. "Right. Um, sorry. Friday night at your place? Can't make it." "Why not?" Seb and Zora asked in unison, the latter raising an eyebrow. "Well, it's your house. Ceilings are low, all that. I don't wanna accidentally break stuff." He let out a lame chuckle. "Dude, seriously? You don't remember Zora's place?" "Yeah that's right. My house could fit two of you on top of eachother!" Zora teased as she pointed at Ethan. Ethan winced. House was an understatement, that place was a mansion. Ethan always was terrible at coming up with excuses, and now he had no more of them. "I don't know, guys. I just don't think it's safe." Seb sighed and looked to his side, while Zora groaned at Ethan. "Oh c'mon, we don't have all the time in the world. What if we won't get to hang out like this anymore? Carpe diem and all that, you know?" "Though 'carpe diem' at my house doing nothing sounds just as good." - Seb added. Zora nudged him to shut up, earning a laugh from their much taller friend. 'Zora's right', Ethan thought. He knew too well the weight of those words. Every day that passed, he felt new pain under his skin, in his muscles, his joints. And when he felt pain, he knew he'd gotten taller. And stronger. And broader. And too big and intimidating for his taste. The city got less and less adequate for him by the day, and Ethan knew that soon he would not be allowed inside the safe borders of Steelfort anymore.

And that soon he'd be as big as the other 130-feet-tall, unfortunate souls, that also got cursed with the blasted syndrome and that now roamed the wastelands outside of the city bounds. 'One month before they scort you out.' One month. His doctor's words echoed in his head. "I mean, that'd be great, I really think so. But..." - Ethan paused when he heard his voice too loud again. He can't get used to the deeper tone of voice coming from his mouth. He turned towards Zora as she cocked an eyebrow at him  "I reaaally don't want to stomp around and accidentally break stuff at your house." "Cut the crap, Ethan." - Zora snorted. - "You're probably the most careful mutant in this town." "Maybe even the most careful in America." - Seb said. - "Remember that time when we saw him walking down the corridor and someone tripped next to him, and he apologized over and over thinking it was him who made her fall?" Zora chuckled. "The girl was at the opposite side of the corridor, and even then you somehow still thought you stomped too hard or something. Honestly, Ethan, you're just a big softie." Ethan chuckled. How could he even go against these guys? "Alright, alright. I... I can make it." "Then I'll see y'all at my place this Friday, at eight." "Why so late though." Seb protested. "Quit being an old man." Zora retorted.

... Dusk had come to the neighborhood as the sun shone its last rays on the wide sidewalk. Ethan shook his doziness off with a yawn, as he treaded the fragile pavement with slow steps, flinching when he heard a louder thud than usual. It compared to walking on eggshells. He supposed he could walk faster, after all he's not big enough to destroy a sturdy sidewalk yet, but the significant amount of people walking, or rather, rushing past him indicated otherwise. He had to be careful. Being big also meant being prone to stumble, and if he so as much as hit someone accidentally, his days inside Steelfort would be over. And he'd never see his mom and friends again. Ignoring the chills crawling down his spine, Ethan walked painfully slow until the crowd dwindled. Relieved, he picked up his pace. Hyperon individuals can't take any form of transport, so he had to walk to his destination, which was a long trek, even for him. By the time he arrived at Zora's house, the sun had long set. And wow, what a house that was. It was sleek, with sharp angles, towering and grand. Pillars of marble adorned its extravagant front wall. Ethan whistled at the sight. He now knew why Zora told him not to worry, the ceiling of the first floor looked taller than his 12 feet tall self. That, was impressive.

The second floor, from what he could see outside, had a much shorter ceiling, but it still added to the house's impressive height. The front of the house had a monumental, luxurious wooden door, adorning its limestone grey walls. Ethan reached for the door, and sighed. No matter his worries, he agreed to go, after all. There was no going back now. He extended the tip of his pinky finger and gently, slowly, tapped the ring bell. He hoped he hadn't broken it by accident. Three seconds later and he heard the pitter patter of Zora's tiny footsteps. She opened the door and he backed away, allowing her to crane her neck to glance up at him. "Finally. You’ve arrived just in time to see Seb absolutely failing at this game." "Hey!" Seb's muted voice echoed lightly through the room. Probably the loudest voice Ethan heard from him in the three years they knew each other. "Must be a hard game he's playing." He smirked. "Yeah, right. He doesn't know the difficulty is set on easy." Zora's grin widened. "Anyway, come in." After going through the doorframe, Zora led Ethan to the living room. It was spacious, with a open layout that merged the dinner room and the actual living room. In it, there was a large, rectangular sofa, a fluffy carpet, and a 72 inch ultra-wide TV, in which a grim-looking FPS game was playing, with Seb's back turned to Ethan. The frantic pressing of controller buttons and the violent gunshots from the game were the only background sounds of the room. Upon the screen changing to a red "Game Over", however, Seb turned to his friend.

"What's up, big guy." "The ceiling, I guess." Ethan grinned, and Zora groaned at the awful pun. He sat crisscross in front of the sofa, on which Seb was sitting, both facing towards the TV screen. "Heard you're showing your pro-player skills at the new console." He said with sarcasm. "Shut up."  Seb kicked Ethan's left arm with a smile on his face. Zora disappeared at the kitchen, picking a drink and chips for herself, while Seb tried yet another failing match, with Ethan teasing him and his poor gaming abilities. After a while, Zora set her stuff on the ground table in front of the sofa, while Seb paused the game to pick a drink for himself. They spent the next hours like this, drinking soda and eating snacks, most of which Ethan had paid, since he knew he'd consume much more than both of his friends combined. They brought over some chips and popcorn, Zora and Seb playing competitive games while Ethan cheered on whoever was winning. Both were utterly terrible at it.

Maybe if he could still play games, he'd teach them a thing or two of its mechanics, but his hands already got too big for the controller. After a while they chose an action movie to watch, for which Zora turned the lights off, and before they knew it, midnight had arrived. Ethan's eyes tried hard not to close. He felt sleepy, too sleepy. The movie was heavy-paced, and he had a good last night of sleep so, why couldn't he keep his eyes open? "Hey, you can get comfortable, you know?" - Zora said, noticing Ethan was hunched over. - "You're in the same position for hours now, I can push the sofa a little so you can lie down." "Ah, don't worry, it's ok-" "Dude. Don't worry. It's no problem at all." She got up and started pushing the sofa away, to which Ethan helped her with much ease. She also moved, with Seb's help, the ground table further away from them. "Won't your parents be mad that you changed stuff around?" Seb teased "Wait, so there was a problem after all?" "They won't arrive till next week. I'll move the stuff back tomorrow. Simple." "What the eyes don't see, the heart won't feel." Seb replied. Later on, Ethan laid down on his side, facing towards the action movie in front of them. That position was better. Although, he was sure he'd fall asleep now. Was he tired from class? He still didn't get it. Usually, he has less energy than normal with his condition, but this was far too much- Wait. His stomach sank. Had he forgotten to drink his pills? His heart raced against his ribcage. No, he remembers taking it after lunch. It was okay. He was okay. The symptoms were controlled, and there was no major growth spurt predicted for the week. He took a deep breath and sighed.

He'd be okay. -than? Ethan?" He snapped back to reality to Zora's calls for him. "Falling asleep already?" Seb grinned at him. "Ah, Sorry. Got distracted a bit. What is it?" "Well, I was just suggesting Seb that we use you as a human cushion." "Oh. Wait. What?" "Yeah, what she said." - Seb replied. "You see, the sofa is far away, and you happen to have much more space that it anyway, so..." "Be our backrest for a while, will ya?" "Um... Sure, I don't mind."

...

Zora and Seb laid their backs against Ethan, in front of his chest. That was... Weird. But he supposed he shouldn't feel that way. It's just weird when not long ago the three would each sit at a corner of the sofa, with a bit of space left. And now he was the "sofa substitute" instead. But still, Ethan had to admit, seeing his two friends so small and huddled up in front of him was kinda adorable. He contained an amused smile, and they kept watching the movie, laughing and saying a snarky remark here and there about its comically horrible plot. It didn't take long for the three to fall asleep, Ethan's friends unconsciously leaning back against him and using him as a pillow. They slept like that peacefully for the remainder of the night.

...

Ethan opened his eyes to the sight of a square, closed-off room. No windows, no doors, only the grey walls and the suffocating smell of mold. His heart started to beat fast. 'It was that nightmare again', his subconscious said, but Ethan himself had little to no awareness of it. He looked down at his hands, noticing his appearance. He was back to his original shape. Skinnier, shorter, as if no hyperon had taken hold of his body. Yet, he couldn't find relief in this, a sense of dread washing over him. His breathing became labored by the second. 'Where the hell am I?' He thought. His eyes darted around the place as he twisted his head around, searching for an exit. No matter what, he had to leave that place. He had to. If he did, he'd be free. He would- A deafening rumble of the walls shook Ethan to his core. Realization hit him, eyes widening. The walls started to move, closing in on him. Ethan gasped, darting to the nearest wall and banging against the concrete until blood dripped from his knuckles. Out. He had to get out. He had to leave. 'Please, please-!' he begged in vain as the room moved further towards him. The ceiling lowered as well, brushing against his head and forcing Ethan to crouch and shield himself with his arms. He hyperventilated, pushing in vain the walls that ate away at the leftover space. Widened eyes, racing heart, stomach sinking to the bottom and he'd die, he'd die, he would- When the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything started pressing against him Ethan let out a blood curling scream, gritting his teeth as he heard and felt the cracking of the walls against his skin.

...

Zora awakened to the sound of trees uprooting from the soil. Wait. Wasn't she inside? There were no trees where she fell asleep. The feeling of something pushing against her back jostled her awake. She opened her eyes, only to widen them when she noticed how much closer to the television she was. The ever-present sound of trees uprooting and rubber bands snapping filled the room.

As well as the pained grunts and shivers of a sleeping Ethan.

Her heart fell, deducing what could most likely be happening at that moment. Sitting up on the carpet, she slowly turned to her right. A hand on the carpet twitched as its fingers extended upwards, bones cracking as it did so. A mound of flesh lumped and pulsated under the stretching skin. Chills crawled up her spine. Shaking, she turned around. Her friend was growing at a rapid pace right in front of her. And he was not awake, shifting in a disturbed sleep. She shot a glance at Seb, who was still asleep, settled in a tricky position between Ethan's arm and his torso. If he stayed there while Ethan grew, Seb would... She rushed to him and shook her friend under the expanding arm. "Seb. Seb, wake up! Quick!" "Ugh. Whaat isss it..?" He replied sleepily. "Get away from here. Ethan is-" she hissed. Seb noticed movement around him, the space becoming cramped and warm, and jostled awake, scrambling away from the once-comfortable spot. The two friends watched Ethan for that split second, struck by shock. Ethan closed in the space between them and the TV as he expanded. The floor groaned under him and it wouldn't be long until his back crushed the sofa behind them and the table on his side. Zora was the first to break from the stupor, rushing towards Ethan's face and smacking it with her trembling hands. "Ethan. Ethan! Wake up! You idiot!" Her insult had no meaning under her worried, shaky voice. Seb broke from his shock a while after, approaching Ethan as his friend still didn't manage to wake him up, with Ethan tossing and turning as if he was having a nightmare. There was a risk those heavy arms would hit them while he's unconscious. Seb halted in thought. How to even wake up a giant? And there was the danger of him accidentally hurting them in a fright, too. But…

‘I have no other choice.’ Seb approached Ethan's ear, knowing very well the danger of it as Zora looked at him with widened eyes. And Seb screamed from the top of his lungs. "ETHAN! WAKE UP!" He jolted awake with a huge gasp, rising into a seating position so fast his arm collided against Seb, throwing him over the sofa and to the ground. Ethan gasped while Zora ran towards Seb with a frantic voice. "What's. What's happening...!" Ethan looked down at his hands. Cracking. Expanding. His stomach dropped to the ground.

‘No.’ He looked down at his friends who looked horribly terrified. No. Nononono. He scrambled away from them in fright, only to accidentally support his enlarging hand on the sofa, breaking it in half. He looked back at it. Heartbeat faster. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

This was a dream. This was a nightmare. It wasn't real. It can’t be!

Panicked, he scrambled further and further away from the paralyzed friends. Their faces pale, widened, worried eyes. But most of all. Scared. His remaining friends were scared of him. Ethan groaned when he felt pain surging through his body as he grew more. He aimed for the opposite side of the room, crawling backwards until he reached the door for the courtyard. He slid it open, breaking more furniture in the process, and squeezed his enlarging body through the doorframe until he left the house and stopped it from collapsing. Once over the spacious backyard, only the sound of his own bones snapping could be heard. His frantic heartbeat and his gasps added to the cacophony of noises, until the sounds of his growth spurt subsided. Ethan was left exhausted, lying down on the grass and gasping for breath, parts of his clothing completely ripped apart like he's a freak show. …

His ears buzzed at the doctor's diagnosis. His mother, Helena, held his oversized hand with her shaking ones. "The exams confirmed it, but it was clear to us before: it's Hyperon syndrome." The female doctor stated in a professional tone. Helena suppressed sucked in a breath, holding back her tears. She strengthened her grip on Ethan's hand. Ethan looked at the doctor in disbelief, reality not yet sinking in. A delusional part of his mind kept affirming it wasn't the syndrome, just a normal growth spurt, even when at that night his body changed so painfully and so drastically and the bones protruding from his skin and the muscles tearing through his clothes and- None of that was real, right? It must've been a joke destiny played on him. It can't be. It won't be. Any moment and he'll wake up, he had to- He had a basketball match to win next week, Carson would make a birthday party tomorrow, he had a criminal law test to pass. He'd be a public defender one day. Damn it! He couldn't just be diagnosed with an incurable mutation that turned him into, into a... "The good news is that his growth is not the instant type, otherwise his chances of survival would be slim." The doctor continued informing Ethan and his mom, the former half-listening, half-drowning in the sound of his own racing heartbeat, waiting, praying, begging for the moment he'd wake up.

"The bad news is that it's not the slow type of growth either. His type of hyperon is harder to predict as each growth spurt vary in amount and frequency." Helena glanced up at her son with worried creases on her eyes, noticing how out of it he seemed. Yet the doctor continued, looking up at Ethan's distraught face with a composed expression. "I give him around one to two months before he's 20 feet tall." “20 feet?!" - Helena reacted. "We need to begin treatment as soon as possible in order to reduce any painful side effects of your growth." This was not a nightmare. It was real. It was happening. To him. A void formed in his heart. And his mom couldn't contain her tears any longer. “I'm really sorry, Mr. Greenwood."

…

He was curled up on his side, a ringing sound in his ears, the frantic heartbeat in his chest, and the sore throb under all his muscles. Tears gathered in his eyes as he gritted his teeth. His friends. They must be terrified of him now. No. They must have run away from here already, to alert the police officers that another hyperon host had grown uncontrollably inside the house, breaking everything in it. It was what he deserved. He destroyed his friend's home. He broke the furniture. He almost hurt them. Heck, wasn't that Seb who he threw off him when he awoke? Was he even alright?? No, he was hurt, that must've hurt him. They were having such a great moment too, enjoying each other's company. Having fun. And he ruined it. It was his fault. Ethan rose to a sitting position, hugging his knees and attempting to take deep breaths. If he panicked, it would only make things worse. The worst thing than a giant monstrosity, was a giant monstrosity that didn't act rationally. Deep breaths. In and out, in out in out in out- "... Ethan...?" A feminine voice coming from inside the house jolted him from his panic and he looked up, incredulous. Zora and Seb were standing just by the doorframe, looking at him with worried, but afraid eyes. "You guys..." Ethan's voice was all but a whisper. Shame attempted to take over him. He hugged his exposed stomach and crawled even further away, trembling from head to toe, looking much more scared than they did.

From Zora and Seb's point of view, they never saw their friend so vulnerable. From his curled-up position, the grown 22-year-old man looked like a kid scared of the monster under their bed. Ethan was the first to break the stifling silence. "It's... It's not safe here. You should go to the nearest police station and tell the incident. They..." He gulped down his trembling voice. "they'll find a way to get me out of here for your safety. And..." He looked at Seb who still wore a pained expression on his face, most likely from his injuries. "They'll give Seb medical treatment." "Hey. I'm fine." Seb interjected. "…Doesn't seem like it to me." "Ethan, look." Zora chimed in, approaching him slowly. Her steps still shook a little. Dang it, if only she could control her shock. But how would she even lie about being calm? She isn't. The living room is all over the place and she saw her friend fill up the room in minutes and almost crush Seb. She. Was not. Calm. But Zora knew Ethan thought of all of this. Ethan dreaded this happening since the beginning, she was the one who convinced him to come to her house. And heck, she knew she had made the right call. So she stepped forward, leaving Seb to lean on the glass door and pretend that he wasn't with sore ribs. "Look. I know what you're thinking. You're probably on a load of self - hating bullshit right now but, it's not your fault, okay? I'm fine, we're fine. See?" She walked closer and closer to her friend who, while sitting down, towered over her by what she guessed was 10 feet. She clenched her teeth. Crap, he got big. So that's how hyperon-affected people all turned out? So monumental... No, even worse than that.

Ethan finally looked down at Zora with a hollow expression on his face. He reached out for her with a hand and- She flinched and backed away. He knew it. He fucked up so badly. "Damn it! Warn a soul!" - Zora hissed. She knew her facade fell down right at that instant. Ethan sighed loudly and looked at her with the most crestfallen expression she saw her friend ever making. Hopeless. The face of someone who thought he made a grave mistake. Zora knew that was not the truth and she had to convince him it wasn't. But the instinctive part of her certainly wasn't helping with the whole "don't feel like a monster" spiel. She cursed under her breath. But Ethan said nothing. He just looked at her with those dejected eyes. Like all hope had been drained. Like he was losing both of his friends on that day. And Zora had, no, she needed desperately to convince him it wasn't the case. Because it truly, faithfully, wasn't. She opened her mouth to say something, but Ethan looked at Seb and spoke before she could. "How... How bad is it? Something's broken?" He attempted to even out his voice but it came out trembling and faint. Seb sighed. He knew that Ethan would not fall for his and Zora's trick at pretending everything was fine. It wasn't. And it's about time they're 100% honest about it. So Seb walked forward, as Zora looked back at him with an expression that screamed ‘don't tell a thing.’ "It's sore all over, yeah, but no ribs broken, I think" - he limped towards the looming figure of his friend, grunting from the effort." - everything hurts but, not in a unbearable way. Might get a purple spot here and there though." With both of his friends now close to him, Ethan could properly look at them. They looked so, so small now. Much smaller than before. He wanted nothing more than them to treat him like everyone else treated him. At least that way, they wouldn't be hurt. A knot clogged in his throat and his stomach twisted and turned at the realization. There was no going back. This was real. It was happening to him. His previously happy, fulfilling life was running out, scurrying through his fingers. "I really... Really screwed things up, didn't I?" - his voice turned grave and faint, and Ethan hung his head low. He took in a shaky breath - "I... I don't mind if you guys don't want to stick around me from here on out." "Ethan." - Seb, surprisingly, spoke up first. - “Not gonna lie. You scared the shit out of me back then." He walked closer to Ethan, shortening the distance between them. "But that's all there is to it, it was a scare. None of us were in control of the situation at that moment, that includes you." "And, and also, we got scared of what was happening, but that doesn't mean we're scared of you, you know?" - Zora interjected, seeing the perfect opportunity to make Ethan understand her point. "Yeah. So like she said, no self-loathing okay?"

Ethan felt like crying right then and there. How did these guys even manage to walk up to him like that? And say all those things, and choose to remain there with him? He couldn't understand it. But oh, was he so, so grateful for that. Even though inside he thought he would burst into tears, Ethan only gave a sad smile to them, softening his eyes as they pooled with tears. "You both are crazy, do you know that?" Seb laughed. "Of course that's what you'd say." Zora pouted, a sad glint behind her eyes. "Last night... It was really fun. Thank you. I just don't think my size will allow for it to happen again, though." "Hey, in the end Zora made the right call." "It's just like I said before." - she rolled her eyes. - "Seize the opportunity, and all that." 'Because it was my last.' Ethan painfully remarked in his head.

[houseofhugo]

ONE AFTER ANOTHER: PART ONE

[ SYNOPSIS ] you take the man to your room tempted and riled up for a heated session.

[ PAIRING ] lee sangyeon x f!reader

[ CONTENTS AND WARNINGS ] 18+ read (smut), mdni (minors, please do not interact), stepcest, stepfather!sangyeon, age gap (both are legal), petnames, oral (reader!giving), face fucking, throat pie, tan skin sangyeon (yes, that's a warning), sweats sweats sweats, tiny mentions of porn.

[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] this is my first ever smut. if you want to make appreciation of this post, please don't hesitate to like, reblog, comment or do all of the above. hard thoughts are also always open. love, hugo!

With a single push of your thumb, the click of the doorknob lock behind you bloomed into your ears like music. Your hands are still grasped upon the cold metal behind you but your thumb has been lifted off the button lock. Two open hands then acted like vines as they glided over your skin to find position on your rears—one secured behind your neck while the other snuck up behind your waist. At your eye level, your sight dwells at the low neck of the fit, bicep-accentuating, sleeveless, white shirt that extends down enough to fully showcase a sexy damp pit between firm masculine mounds. From there, your eyes then went up north; through your eyelids, you met the face of the man who let you mix a libido-increasing supplement in his lunch and made you watch him eat every spoon right in front of you, and now, he is standing twice your height right in front of you with a wet spot around his collar and beads of sweat trailing down his temples. The supplement must be making him feel hotter as much as he looks right now.

Who knew you will go this far just to get a man be all over you? And who knew it would be your stepdad for a month now?

"Is it locked?" Sangyeon asked in caution as he held you firmly.

Giving the older a pleased smile, you twisted the knob and both of you heard the lock snapped back open only for you to push it back in with your thumb. Your hands finally left the round metal poking your back. "Yes," you assured him.

His chest descended into ease due to his lessening fear of getting caught—that's actually a minority of his problems right now. Without thinking twice, he hunched and leaned forward to attach his lips onto yours. You're the fuel to this growing fire between you two right now, so won't you just let him work himself for a few moments in devouring your lips? He wears a pair of beige shorts that only covers one-third of his tree-trunk thighs. You can see through the garment how it imprints the "kitchen towel tube" size of his length extending down to the leg opening where you caught his whole swelling huge tip with an inch of shaft already peeking out. His hand behind your neck went down to join his other hand on your back to pull you towards him and ground his crotch onto your clothed folds. You held onto his shoulders for extra support. Sensing his desperation, you eventually began munching back at his wet kisses. Eyelids draped your sight at the process. You can taste some of the saltiness of his sweat on the skin around his lips. Tilting his head, his nose is now hovering at the zone of your left cheekbone where you feel the air brushing the skin of your left cheek before it gets vacuumed into his nostrils. With that one inhale, he pulls away to have both of you a breather.

"When's mom coming back?" you brought up right away.

"She told me she's gonna meet a few friends to plan their formal gathering until 3 PM."

You turned your head to the digital clock placed on the nightstand behind him showing 12:41 PM in strong red color. Recalling, you two just finished eating during the early minutes of the first half of the hour, so it means the supplement has already done its job on him. You darted your eyes back at his masculine face. Something at the corner of your sight told you to look around and as soon as your eyes went south, you knew why.

"What is it?" Sangyeon follows the direction of your head. He sees nothing but his stiff manhood below begging to be freed as it is shoved and pressed on his thighs by the fabric that starts to hardly accommodate his growing size. You can also see how a line of precum is formed streaming down his calves while his tip drips off that clear and viscous man stuff like a half-way closed faucet. It's just now that he's gotten aware of it which sinks into him how it's quite getting uncomfortable since he's really that big. "Oh, munchkin. You have no idea how strong that supplement hiked up in me after I ate that food." Through the fabric, he held his cock with is hand in a thumbs up sign as he attempted to wiggle it right at your sight.

You handed over his words to your explorative imagination; the more you think about it, the more you feel your guts warm up. You couldn't help but chew on your lower lip as you press all your fingers right onto your clothed pussy now that you have your stepdad standing in front of you all horny and hot at its peak. However, you don't wanna get yourself losing your shit just yet, so you cupped and squeezed his shoulders as you pushed yourself up to stand on your toes reaching his lips with yours to continue the kiss he broke. It went like that for a few seconds until he could feel you nudge trying hard not to trip over.

With Sangyeon's feet apart, he bent his knees as he hunched to even up both of your heights. Feeling stable back again, you palmed his manhood right at the spot, rubbing his length through the fabric. Of course, it wouldn't be fair if he doesn't do the same. You sensed his right hand slip under the left leg opening of your shorts. By the time he had is whole hand inside, he began treating left ass check as the biggest stress ball he has ever held.

The moan you sent out vibrated both of your lips. You decide to knead him while he's stiff and it's quite a pain for Sangyeon since you're treating it like a soft dough when his hard on is no near to that texture. He just squeezed his eyes shut for a second to distract himself.

He lets a hum escape through his nose and at the same time, he breaks the kiss. "Wanna blow me, baby?" He ran his words between heavy breaths.

You didn't even hesitate and just gave him an immediate nod of excited approval. You signed up for this.

A mild laugh was produced from his chest. "Of course, you do."

Sangyeon lets you play his clothed length as he roams his eyes across your room for the first time, and it's the way he was kept undistracted while his body keeps nudging back and forth because of the force of your hand on his cock. It's so clear how he's letting you take over from how dependent his hips are to your hand movements. "Where do you want me to sit?" he asked while mentally collecting spots to be in position.

"Uhm, actually..." Noticing your hotdog pillow next to you on the floor, you horizontally laid it in front of your feet before dropping your knees on top of it one at a time. You then slipped two fingers on both sides of his shorts including his boxer briefs underneath. "Can you just stand?"

Even his smile looks radiant down here. "Anything for you, kitty." He rested his hands on both sides of his waist waiting for you to do your business with those fingers on the waistband of his shorts.

"Want you to take off your top," you instructed.

No horny man will ever be patient, so Sangyeon immediately crossed his arms. Hands fisted at the hem of his white sleeveless top, he crumpled the fabric in his hold. The way he pulls it up with his arching back seems like he suddenly became your private stripper on the spot. The muscle stretch was so tender and yummy; from his defined v-line, and rock hard chocolate six-pack, up to his juicy pecs, all those gym-produced muscles slowly got undraped right before your eyes. He's such a meal in that tone of tan. That sweat that has been collecting in thick coatings on the surface of his clean and smooth textured skin makes it appear that he received a Midas touch and survived from how golden brown his skin is. You can't believe you're having a man for yourself in your personal space for 20 years since your childhood but you never thought that it would be someone like him.

As you drag down his lower garment right at his knees, you are presented with the way his massive cock that matches the tone of his overall skin made a squelching slap as it sprung up and smacked onto his sweat-glazed abs before the glossy pale-brown head came back pointing right at your face. His dick hole was impressive to dispense a drip of pre-cum that created a short string before falling down on the floor between your thighs. He even got a few soft and damp pubes at the finish line.

Mmh! Delicious. That was so far the hottest thing you made out of him.

With an open palm, you softly struck his shaft from below sending it upward and landing back down on your open hand to feel his hefty weight in your hold. Not gonna lie, it's almost similar to catching a pillow with one hand.

"You might wanna get your taste buds on that cock now, sweetheart." He reminds you. "You can't play with that if you'll just keep it dry."

The tip was at the level of your mouth. First thing's first. You choked the cock under the tip with your whole hand before treating it like a lever as you pulled it up to uncover his testicles and the thick lining under the shaft decorated with prominent veins. You ran your tongue across your lips before fully sticking it out and leaning over to begin your journey with your tongue at the underside of the base close to his pair of "table tennis" balls. Going up, you started to leave trails of your saliva on his shaft as you made your way up to his tip where you took it whole in your mouth right away. Your hand that was wrapped under the head came down to his base to hold his manhood in place. As he was 10% past your pretty lips, you swirled your tongue around the head before your licking organ turns into a shape of an arrowhead inside your mouth because you are about to press the very tip right at his slit.

"Oh—" His reaction got caught up mid-throat but he still managed to whisper a, "wow," as he squeezed his eyes shut.

His hands circled into a fist as he kept it hovered over the outside of his thighs to endure the initial stimulation you are causing between his legs, so you thought of bringing them behind his back crossed and fixed. You gave his triceps gentle caresses before your mouth left his tip coated and dripping in your spit. You continued to lick his shaft on the sides just like how anyone would typically consume an ice cream. At the same time, you pepper a few wet kisses until you're back up again at the head where you find the courage to take more of him than a while ago. The slit kisses the roof of your mouth. Still fine with it, you attempted to get his length deeper into you. Since a stiff dick couldn't curve, you hunched your back and tilted your head up to make your throat straight for his size to fit. By the time you pushed yourself on him once again, his head was already resting at the back of your tongue right before your uvula—the one that can make you vomit when excessively triggered—and you thought you would throw up everything you just ate this lunch when you decided to push more of him in. The next thing you know, your nose has touched something wet with a bit of hair and the pressure in your throat started to build up due to the lack of air.

"Damn! You really just took that all in." His mumbles were mixed with an airy tone.

Sangyeon carefully looks down at you to see you withdraw his length out of your mouth centimeter by centimeter until you were just left with his head again alone in your lips. He releases a deep sigh as he starts to feel your tongue fondle his cock head once again.

"Hah! Yes!" he exclaims.

You couldn't wait any longer. Laying your hands on both of his thighs, you started bobbing your head in a fixed rhythm. The drag of your lips at the base of the man's tip sends shivers all throughout his hot body as it just begins to fuel him towards insanity.

"Hoo! Deeper, baby girl. Wanna feel more of your pretty little mouth."

Who are you to refuse when he's already in the process of beating the capability of the lube's gloss with his own thick layer of sweat starting to look like he just got poured a gallon of it. The way your hands are slipping off his muscular thighs was so surreal. His locks are so wet that it drips off down on you.

By the time you're drooling and you're beating your own throat on his hefty meat, you heard a hummed growl from above. His super wet palms held you by the cheeks to get you off his dick. "Oooh, my gosh!" His release was already right at the tip. He just held you there away as he struggled to prevent himself from building up an orgasm from where he left at. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Curses spilled as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was then followed by a hiss, a huge out breath through his nose, and an undertone moan as he squeezed the base of his cock with his whole hand to prevent himself from pushing anything out.

"Wow," you subconsciously mumbled. "Did you just—that's insane."

"You liked that?" he brought up the question. "Or did I break your fun on my cock?"

"I mean...that turned me on."

"So you liked it?"

"Uh-huh."

An idea snapped into the older man's mind and he just gave you a mild laugh before grabbing both of your hands and guided you up relieving your knees at the same time. He dragged you away from the door and led you to the corner of your room where a bean bag is getting a spotlight from the sunlight coming from the window. Sangyeon sits there already with parted legs and beckons you to kneel between them.

Sangyeon looked around. "Do you have any lube here?" he asked.

There was a nightstand next to the bean bag and you pointed him that way. The stretch of his body was so defined when he leaned over in place and pulled the top drawer out where he saw a bottle of lube rolled out. He squirms at his seat until he feels in a comfortable position before handing the bottle to you. "Now, I'm just going to sit here and all you have to do is jerk me off, okay? I'll let you know when I'm about to cum, so you'll know when to cut me off."

And that's an offer you would never turn down on. "You sure about this?" You twisted the cap off the bottle in contrast to your question. Apparently, you want this.

"Come on, munchkin. I didn't let you get me on that supplement for nothing. I'm giving you myself to enjoy."

Looking down, you bite your lip as you stare at his delicious hard-on standing proud and tall.

"Go on," he encouraged. "Tease me all you want. I'm all yours."

You tilted the mouth of the bottle down hovering above your open hand. Satisfied with the amount that has landed all over your palm, you put the bottle down on the floor and spread the viscous liquid up to your fingers. With your one hand on top of the other, you wrapped them around his shaft and began pumping him in a slow and steady pace to gloss his sex up. Your hands are already tight enough for Sangyeon to begin riling himself up with. He slips his hands behind his back indicating that he has passed over unto you the control over his climax. He then just realized that this is your first time using your hands full time on his cock which is why the softness felt so silky smooth for him—because also of the lube—rather than fleshy smooth.

Leaving only one hand stroking him off, you reached for one of his pecs and went for the pinching work on his erected milkers. His drive started to tense in his pelvis causing him to hunch with his shoulders folding in. You then cupped his chest and gave it a couple of grope and squish motion before moving to his other one to do the same thing. His firm muscle under your touch feels so warm.

He fisted on the fabric behind him as he carefully rested his head back. Trying to prolong himself, he closed his eyes and breathed through his nostrils with his chin tensing up. The man thought it would work as a distraction until you abused the pace to produce gooey, luscious squelches which took over his senses rather than the on-the-spot distraction mechanism he just made for himself. At the same time, you were swiping your thumb fast on his nipple which triggered the tickle on his chest.

"Ngh! Hah!" Sections of his muscles contracted through his skin causing his body to appear very ripped. "Baby, I'm close!" His words scratched up his throat before exiting his mouth.

Your hand landed on the base for a split second before coming back up brushing past the bottom of his tip as your touch finally leaves his skin and hovers in a fist above his head. You saw a small white bead of liquid forming at the slit like a piercing before it runs down his shaft like a teardrop cry. You didn't expect to get a first glance of his cum that way. That bead was already creamy and thick as—

"Fuck!" The word came out airy. "Gosh! That was so close!" The elder looks down to inspect his swollen huge meat. He thought his cock would go limp due to how intense that edging was but look, it's still reaching for the ceiling. His two eyes came up to yours with a sharp stare while he was busy catching his breath through his heaving big milkers. "Hope I looked good with that," he spoke through heavy breathing.

"Thought I was actually watching porn for a sec," you complimented.

"I wouldn't pause the video if I were you."

Not gonna lie, he's a perfect spectacle for this. He would be in huge demand in the club if he was a stripper.

"Vibrators?" you asked.

"Surprise me."

It felt like you just won. You threw a smirk at him before coming back to the nightstand next to the bean bag he was sitting on. You came back kneeling to him presenting a big white microphone-shaped one and a cock ring in between your thumb and index finger.

"Are you gonna use those two on me, munchkin?"

"I'm just making our every second count."

The cock ring was, of course, elastic. Slipping four fingers—two from each hand—into the hole, you stretched the vibrator over the head of his cock before going down wearing it on him like a crown. The only difference is that it was placed under the head. you let the vibrator sit there in peace with the vibrating mechanism at the back of his tip.

"Tight?"

"No. It's perfect," he replied.

Shooting him a short-term smile, you switched the big one on and tested it on his thigh. Just as you expected, you earned a little twitch from him. Without any warning, you also switched the cock ring on, letting the sensation torture the head and run down his shaft then to his aching testicles.

"Shit!" It caused the older to plant his feet on the floor for his ass to leave the seat a few inches north before coming back down. "I don't think I would even last a minute with this one at all—fuck!" With the continuous withdrawal of the vibration from the object, Sangyeon is back with his rapid breathing through his nose paired with clamped lips as he watches how his length starts to significantly vibrate along. He's actually surprised that a small vibrator can cause a big cock to do something like that, probably because it was already set to the max by the time you turned it on.

Bringing yourself up from your knees, you hooked your thumb on the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down, so that you're left with your panties on. You sat on his left thigh and leaned sideways towards his body. The way the sweat on his firm thigh muscle acted like an adhesive for your naked ass to sit on made your walls twitch on nothing but air. You rested yourself there and have your right arm sneak over his shoulder. You just let his head fall back on your arms. With your right hand, you use it to hold the big vibrator and let it do its job on his right nipple which is the closest to your right hand.

"How are you feeling?" you talked right at his left ear.

He meets you at the left corner of his eyes with his head still thrown back. "You don't know how hard I'm trying to hold myself together right now—" You cut him off with a kiss where you began lapping his lips up just like how he did to you a while ago, and just like your response to his kiss, he laps back at you where wet squelches began to be produced between your mouths. Both of you didn't stop as you swallow his deep manly moans and groans and whines. The sounds he made while kissing were coming to you unforced for a while indicating that he's still not getting his pleasure striking up his cock, but that didn't last when he started humming in a specific pattern.

"Baby," he managed to let out even if it was muffled, but you were so immersed by the feeling of his lips on yours that you didn't stop lapping him up. "Hmm," he firmly mumbled. He just thought of it by now to tilt is head away so that his voice won't be drowned by your kiss. "Don't wanna cum yet, sweetie. We still have a lot to do." He couldn't add any word to his sentence anymore so he just looked at his twitching cock to redirect you at it because his orgasm has already hiked up to his head.

"What?" You didn't catch him.

"Oh, shit!" The rippling sensation was clogging the words right at his throat. "The... vibrator."

"Oh, sorry." Without getting off from sitting on his lap, you stretched your left arm to reach for the back of his tip where the button and the vibrating mechanism was positioned at. You also turned the big one off before tossing it to your bed.

"Hurry! Take it off." Sangyeon was on the race for his breath.

You immediately dropped yourself on your knees and stretched the ring to get it off of his dick. You see how the inner walls of the ring was glossy due to the lube coating his cock. Once removed, you secure it in your fist. Meanwhile, the man couldn't help but wrap one hand around his tip with pressure just so he could prevent himself from the brink of busting his load.

He raised his sight at you with a crunched forehead and semi-narrowed eyes. "Why do you have that vibrator, anyway? It's for cocks," he asked.

"I actually have not much idea yet about these things when I bought this. The vibration was so great, though, so I just bought it as my first one."

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise after hearing that. "Yeah, you're right." He recalls the feeling. "That thing is something else."

You stretched your arm out to him with an open hand. "Wanna have it?"

"You sure?"

"I mean...we both saw how it fits you perfectly."

Sangyeon puts out his hand open. You dropped the stuff on his palm and his hand withdrew in a fist, getting the ownership passed down to him.

"Just don't tell mom that it came from me."

"You're not the only one who's gonna be screwed if I do tell her."

You nodded your head up and down. "Right."

Both of you consumed a few seconds to stare at each other's face before he breaks the contact by checking the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:34 PM. He went back to you saying, "make me cum this time."

Well, you don't know if that was a command or request but, either way, you're not refusing a man like him.

He squirms at his seat to make himself comfortable before he sweeps the air with his fingers beckoning you. "Come here. Use your mouth now."

You nudged forward to get his cock in your hands. It's impressive that he's still keeping his stiffness to the maximum. You keep on humming as you start to take him inch by inch past your lips leaving one hand wrapped at the base to prevent you going all in and save your throat for later. It didn't take long until you were bobbing your head up and down as you stroked his cock in a twisting motion. He then finally rose from the back rest of the bean bag to lean forward towards you giving you an easier access to his whole torso. Big hands run down your hair as you work his size in your mouth.

Look at him now: slippery, glazed, and hot by the natural light and your combined body heat.

Just as you came up from his member, you replace your mouth with your hand keeping the movement coming to his senses. You then stretched your neck to experiment your tongue on one of his nipples; getting his sweat caught on your taste buds was appetizing and mouthwatering rather than salty and disgusting. He's got the yummy bod you love, so you never actually thought of that beforehand.

"Fuck my hand," you rushed your command as you initiated to stack your hands on top of each other and make a hole out of them for him to ram into. Sangyeon couldn't wait. He laid his hands in a fist behind his back causing him to lean back and get a full view of you between his sweat-glazed beefy thighs with your hand below the other covering his tip. He planted his soles on the floor to get a good grip before he began sloppily thrusting up to meet your hands. You can see how his glistening golden abs wave along his noodle-like movements. Even his butt cheeks are tensing as he does it. It really looks like you just got a private stripper dancing for you in your own place. You then kept an eye on his cock head exiting at the top and disappearing back in your hold like those in whack-a-mole, but you're not here to hammer it in; that would hurt.

Sangyeon notices your tongue gliding through you lips as your eyes are darted at his consistent thrusts. "Like what you see?" he engaged. "Like watching your stepdad being a spectacle for you fucking your hands like this? Aren't you a lucky girl?"

"More than lucky, I guess," you plainly spoke as you were so focused on his moves.

The man thought you were not satisfied enough because of your leisure tone, so he became robust on fucking your hand from below. His eyes narrowed as he bit his lip because the fast brushing of the skin of his shaft in your hands was tickling him that it's triggering his balls to push out all the cream he's been saving. It's painful for him to hold back like this and it's the kind of pain that's keeps him in seduction.

"Hah!" He threw his head back making his sweaty chin, sharp jawline, and the tip of his big nose the only things that are seen of his face from your lower ground view. You took the chance to replace your hand one by one with your mouth by going down as you remove one hand. You wanna surprise him but you eventually coughed when the tip jabbed on your uvula which caused him to raise his head back to see what just happened.

"Sorry, didn't wanna distract you—cough," your words got caught in your throat.

"You could've just told me you want me to mouth fuck you." Sangyeon stood up from his seat and bent his knees so that his pelvis was at the level of your face causing him to be in a kind of squatting position. You didn't have to be told as you open your mouth with allowance for his size. By the time you felt his tip going past your lips, you shut the excess space your mouth made—which is not that quite much—causing your lips to comfortably wrap around his tip.

"Just tap my thigh if you want me to go deeper, okay?"

You could only nod your yes in response now. Recalling how you coughed to his rhythm, the elder initiated his thrusts by slowly grooving the underside of his shaft on your tongue.

Seeing him through your eyelashes as your head was thrown back a bit for his convenience, you are met with a drenched Sangyeon watching his manhood reappear and disappear in your mouth. Meanwhile, your hands traveled up past his hips and up to his stomach where your palms traveled across his bumpy six-pack. They were so hard that it doesn't feel like you're touching muscles but rather steel.

From your lips directly shaped by the circumference of his shaft, you let your jaw drop a bit before tapping the front of his thigh three times. You didn't know that what he meant by deeper was past your uvula but to your surprise, your body already registered the sudden gag you had earlier and told your brain that you're all fine.

"Shit! Your mouth is so tight down here," he spoke on behalf of his tip that has already reached the back of your throat. "Is this okay?" he assures.

You hummed as you nod making his cock twitch in your throat due to the vibration the wet flesh inside your mouth produced. One of his hands left the back of your head to go up his chest and cup one of his pecs. You can see how he kneaded and squished the muscle and gave his hipple a pinch. Your hand is still there roaming and worshipping his rock hard abs. Now that he's deep in you, you close your lips around his shaft again and hollow your cheeks to give him a tighter feeling around his member. You don't have any idea what's stopping him from picking up his pace in your mouth so you basically reach for his ass cheeks to pull him in. He read that and now, he was already making lewd noises out of his cock and your mouth. You're just getting obsessed by the hefty feeling of his size that has gone directly all over your jaw and how his tip was blocking and unblocking your airway with every thrust he takes. You played along by randomly humming throughout his pace.

"Hoo! Damn!" Sangyeon twitched in your mouth and it felt like he just redirected your whole jawline. "I'm so close, munchkin. Where do you want me?"

You let go of his dick with a cartoon-ish sound of popping bubbles. From base to tip, he's coated in a glossy thick layer of your own drool. He used it for his own convenience to begin jerking off above your head.

"In my mouth, please."

Sangyeon never heard words so loud and clear causing him to stroke himself faster as his breath was shaking to the rhythm. "Oh, baby. You should be honored. I've never came in someone's mouth before." He used his own facts to rile himself up which riled you up too. It's actually true but you don't wanna dig more up from there. You just want everything now to be between you and him. "Holy shit! Lips around the tip now, munchkin."

You leaned forward to take him just as he wanted. The way his cock inserted into your open mouth like a charging plug was a smooth fit. While he went full speed in pumping himself from shaft-end to shaft-end, you couldn't help but think that he's such a pornographic spectacle to do it in front of you. In fact, he really looks like he would do something like that.

"Gonna fill your mouth good, baby girl—fuuuckkk!" Ropes of his white, creamy, and viscous baby batter gushes out from his slit and onto every corner inside your mouth. "Ugh! Take it all for me, sweetheart." As soon as it started to pool on your tongue, the mild sweet taste was accepted by your taste buds as a delicious treat. You can even smell his cum perfectly in your mouth. He's releasing a lot to the point that he can feel how his tip is getting a dip on his own cum that has already pooled inside your mouth. You tried your best to not swallow because you love the feeling of how thick and gooey he is inside you. You're even thinking of gargling it. By the time he pulled himself out, there was a bit of cum that got caught on his tip, so he came back to smear it on your shut lips like a lipstick. He leaned and told you to open up and there he sees the white sticky substance dwelling inside you in thick globs and stretchy webs; it looks like edible lotion. Your throat feels slippery than usual due to those that made it down your throat. "What are you gonna do with that now?" he questions. The man has seen porn about these things but seeing this personally was silently driving him insane.

"Kiss me." It's like you just filled your mouth with marshmallows.

"What?" He still managed to understand you. He couldn't just believe what you just said.

"Come on. Let's just say you're doing it to seal your cum in my mouth." You can see the confusion drawn all over his face with his clashing eyebrows. "You're not gonna put your tongue in me. Just your lips on mine."

He chuckles. "Such a naughty girl."

His thick fingers snuck behind your ears with his thumb pressed on your cheekbone. By the time he laid his pouted lips on yours, he's trying not to push his lips because that's the kiss he's used to. The fact you managed to get through with your stuffed-mouth speaking voice was kind of challenging because you're trying to not let even just a drop to splatter out past your lips.

As soon as he broke the kiss, you kept your mouth shut and made sure you exaggerated your gulp enough for him to hear. The feeling of his cum sliding down your throat in globs is something you would be addicted to. You even tongued the corners of your teeth and licked your lips just to make sure there's little to no cum left to see from there.

"I love that." He strokes your head a couple of times.

"If I show you more, would you let me?" You bite your lower lip in hopes for him to say something positive. He just had his orgasm and you hope he doesn't forget about yours.

He looks down at your body just to notice that he's the only one naked in the room. "You're still clothed, by the way," he reminds.

"Oh." You just realized that. "Yeah, right."

"Did you not touch yourself all this time?"

"I did. I just... wanted to focus on you."

"Well, baby girl, you know I appreciate that." He hooked his hands under your pits to help you to get on your feet. "Let me focus on you this time."

To be continued...

[bokettochild]

Hello! This doesn't really align with the format, but for day 14 can you please do something with those tile enemies (the ones in that comic with Legend thinking about the worst thing he's faced)? I can't really decide if it would be better to torment the heroes unfamiliar with that enemy or to go with the ones that have dealt with them before, or a combination...

So, this did end up with less whump and more sort of...crack vibes? it was fun to write anyways, and I hope you enjoy!

Rating: General

Wordcount: 3,443

Summary: While Legend and Wind are getting their asses beat by a gleeok (see Day 12) the rest of the chain are trying to find them, which leads to a lot of fun realizing just how awful a floor can really be. Wild's pretty sure he hates dungeons, Warriors is torn, Hyrule is resorting to the worst humor ever, and Four would just like out now, please.

(Warning for copious amounts of bad humor and some movie quotes.)

-

  They should never have let Legend and Wind go on ahead. 

  Not that the skill of either of the two boys is in any doubt, but the skill of those left behind is somewhat lacking. While Hyrule manages just fine, Time is apparently much older now than he was the last time he took on a dungeon, and Warriors and Wild are not familiar with them at all. Sky lacks stamina, Twilight lacks speed, and Four lacks nothing, but he keeps getting stuck at the back of the group. It’s not fun, and it’s not very fair either, considering he’s pretty sure he could handle this if they’d just let him try. It’s just a path after all. Just floor tiles that flee from beneath their feet, but even so, that’s not the worst thing someone can find in a dungeon! 

  “Is there a way to skip this room?” Sky groans, not the first one to wonder, but the first to ask. 

  Hyrule puffs on a bit of hair falling over his eyes. “You wanna be the one to go back and look?” 

  The skyloftian does not and doesn’t suggest anyone else do it either. 

  Crushed beneath them, Four has half a mind to go himself, but he’s pretty sure that’s not even a possibility. No, because they’ve been taking the path two at a time like Wind and Legend, but rather than take off after the other two and risk getting split up, they’re waiting until everyone has converged on the islands of stable flooring in the room before moving on, and it means they’re continuously piling on top of each other to do so. So, at this very moment, he’s somehow managed to get trapped crouching beneath the captain and skyloftian as they wait for Time to bring up the rear of their party. It’s not ideal and it’s not pleasant and he’d really much rather be just about anywhere else. Again though, he can’t exactly go anywhere at the moment. 

  We’ll be last to get to go, Blue reasons, we should just dart on past the others and to the next island. 

  Blue. 

  It would work! 

  Except that we’ll still get crushed under everyone when they catch up again, so it’ll be pointless. Vio points out, which of course has the more aggressive aspect huffing, but there’s not really anything that anyone can say to deny that logic. 

  Aloud, Four groans. “How far off is the old man?” 

  “Not far,” Warriors assures, rolling his shoulders. “And since the path takes two minutes to reform, we won’t have to stay much longer after this.” 

  Murmurs, thanking various deity’s and spirits, rise from the group of them, and Four shuffles slightly, trying to relieve the weight on his arms while he waits until, at last, the old man’s feet touch stone and the last of the floor falls away. Then, they just have to wait two minutes (two minutes and fourteen seconds, as their leader helpfully observes) and then everyone else is moving off in pairs along the path. 

  Once or twice, hook-shots must be used to cover the remaining distance on time. No one wants to risk falling into the blackness below and none of them want to know what happens if you do. Legend had warned that it would probably take them back to the beginning of the dungeon, and there’s no desire for such a fate. They've finally all dried out again after dropping into the wetness that was that first room, and going back there and wandering through all the rooms again doesn’t sound pleasant, even if there won’t be any monsters left that they’d have to face to get through (hopefully). Personally, just the time it would take sounds miserable, and they want out. It was fun doing the dungeon with Legend doing the hard work and the rest of them free to mess around, especially since Legend seemed to be enjoying it so much and his own excitement was surprisingly infectious. Now though, Warriors’ wonder is beginning to fade and Legend’s not here to be strangely excited about death traps and pushing heavy things around and the like. Now it’s just them trying to catch up to the other two, who are probably still enjoying themselves while the rest of them suffer. 

  Earlier, every so often, they’d see a light go off in the depths of the room. It served the purpose of helping them realize just how much there was of the room, but also letting them know where the vet and sailor were. Not that the laughter and talking wasn’t something they could hear, but it echoed awfully, distorted and confusing, and they’d been unable to guess off sound alone where the two boys had gone off too. The lights have stopped coming on though, and the ones that were lit have already flickered out. 

  Warriors, with the use of a fire rod, has been lighting the sconces as they come to them, but the light only lasts a few precious minutes before fading, and he keeps having to relight it every time it goes out, up until it’s his turn to race along to the next stone island where the rest of them wait. Still, it’s not a lot of light, and Four is beginning to miss the actual light. He wants daylight, not magic, not fire, but sunshine that is just beginning to fade over the world, painting the sky in a dozen rich colors, all bleeding and swimming into each other so he can’t tell where one ends and another begins. He likes sunsets for that very reason; they remind him of himself. 

  They won’t be seeing the sun for a bit though, and he’s left sitting until nearly all the others have darted off, waiting for his turn, and then taking it as quickly as his shorter legs will carry him. He has to employ his Pegasus boots to keep up with Sky, which earns teasing, but the man really is fast, even if his stamina is shit.  

  “Anyone see an end ahead?” Time asks, groaning as he attempts to keep ahold of two of the younger heroes and keep them toppling over the edge of the platform. There isn’t nearly enough room on these things to support them all. 

  Hyrule, one of said younger heroes, takes advantage of their leader’s grip on him to lean out slightly, peering into the darkness. His eyesight is, surprisingly, the best, even in the dark, and while Four’s isn’t half bad either, he doesn’t pipe up. The traveler is more familiar with all this anyway, and he can’t provide much help himself, so he’ll leave it to ‘Rule. “I see a wall up on our right, and maybe a door?” 

  “Thank Ordonia,” the rancher groans. “Does the path lead up to it?” 

  “One more stop.” 

  There are a few more groans, but with an end in sight, they’re all quite eager as well. 

  “You’d think they’d wait up for us,” Warriors muses as they wait for Sky and Hyrule to dart off along the path towards the door, now that the path has reformed. “Or at least signal where they are.” 

  A few of the heroes glance at each other in the dancing light of the fire they’re gathered around, but Four is the one who answers their captain’s worry. “Maybe they got caught up in something?” 

  “No,” perfect brows furrow, “this is Legend, he doesn’t like splitting the group. Even if Wind didn’t, he’d have left some sign of where they went.” 

  “So maybe they didn’t find this door,” he shrugs, “they probably found another one. Dungeon rooms usually aren’t linear, captain, we’ll reach them with time.” 

  It’s some assurance to the man, and Wild too, who looks extremely uncomfortable at the moment and has since they entered the dungeon. The champion's been in awe of the place for the most part, but that was when there was light, and he looks a bit perturbed by the idea of such illy lit spaces. Four wonders why, but he doesn’t ask. He knows that many in their group aren’t keen on the dark, and considering their line of work, they have grounds. Had he gone through the same sorts of adventures they have, he’s sure he’d be wary too. As is though, it’s more just an annoyance than a thing to spark fear within him, and as they slowly move their way from floating stone to the doorway, he tries to be understanding about the wariness the others show upon reaching it. 

  “Vet usually peeks in first, right?” Wild asks, staring at the door like it’s a maw rather than simply an entrance.  

 The more dungeon savvy in their group exchange looks before Sky elects to answer. “Does it matter? Everyone has a different way of doing things.” 

  “’s dark in there any’ays, cub,” the rancher sighs, “ain’t nothing to see even if we did.” 

  “Let’s get it over with then.” Blue is definitely tired of sitting around and doing nothing, and Four blames his actions on the more aggressive aspect of himself as he snatches Warriors’ flame rod and darts through the door, brandishing the weapon in preparation for any attack that comes at him. 

  The room is empty. 

 It’s totally empty, and he can say that for sure, because the lights come on once he’s properly inside and reeal nothing more than torches and a stone floor, although there’s a door on the far side of the room, just as he’d hoped.  

  “Did- did the lights just come on by themselves?” When he turns, it’s to see the captain standing in the doorway, blinking against the sudden light and with one hand raised to shield his eyes. Even with that though, he can see the bright sparkle in royal blue, curiosity quickly overtaking ire once again as the captain looks about. If Four had to bet, he’d say their soldier would probably be a whizz at puzzles and dungeons too if he’d ever been given the chance, and though he’s easily surprised by the workings, he’d probably love to toy with them and learn how they do what they do, or at least watch them react to his actions. It’s sort of a shame the goddesses robbed him of the chance by giving the clever man a war to fight instead of a quest to undertake like the rest of them. 

  “Puzzle gods,” Four repeats. He means it as a joke, he does. He’s relatively certain there is no such deity in the hylian pantheon, although he’s heard some other kingdoms believe in trickster gods of various sorts, or so the books in Legend and Twilight’s eras say. Still, it’s funny to watch his brothers accept the explanation and even murmur it to each other whenever something starts being confusing. He’s certain he’s heard Time curse the supposed ‘puzzle gods’ a few times by now, especially when he’d had to use his hook-shot to avoid taking a dive when the floor went out from beneath him earlier. 

  Now though, the others all just sort of snort at his comment as they wander into the room, and it’s only once they’re all in that the true foe of the chamber reveals itself. 

  The floor. Again. 

  He’s just looking about, letting Vio and Blue take the lead as they look for patterns or words or anything to hint at the way forwards.  Honestly, he’s sort of shocked Legend hardly even has to look anymore, and no doubt the vet would already have answers for them if he was here, scoffing or chuckling as he pointed out what, in hindsight, would feel painfully obvious to the less experienced heroes as they’d follow his lead. He’s not here though, and so far, they’ve yet to find any sign of where he and the sailor went. It’s a bit worrying, and that’s where his brain is focusing when all of a sudden, he feels the floor sway beneath his feet. 

  Like any normal person, he darts away. They just came out of a room where the floor fell away as you stepped on it, and he has no interest in collapsing through this one too. Once he’s back to the others though, he learns that that is hardly the worst risk at the moment. 

  No, because the floor isn’t falling down. It’s flying up. 

  “What the-” they have no time to say much more because that’s about when the lifted tile suddenly launches at them, spinning and all sharp edges. 

  “What is this?” Twilight yelps, throwing himself to the floor and narrowly avoiding the tile as it crashes into the wall, just behind where his head was but a moment before. 

  No answers come. Both because they’re all too busy running from the tiles that are flying, fast and sharp and spinning at all of them, and also because how does one explain floor tiles trying to kill you? Four’s seen them, yes, but not often enough to suspect them the moment he sees an empty room, and by the looks on the faces of most of his brothers, they haven’t a clue what’s going on anymore than Twilight does. 

  Avoiding the awful things is a nightmare. He’s darting and throwing himself down, but the tiles ricochet off of walls and mirror shields, and despite all attempts, there’s really too many tiles and too many other people to avoid being hit by anything. The only advantage is that the things seem locked on his much taller companions, so Four has at least some chance of avoiding being hit. 

  The same is not true of Hyrule, who’s struck first and goes down with a bitten off cry. The fact that he’s made any noise at all though is a bad sign. The traveler never makes noise when he’s hurt unless it’s very bad or very unexpected. It’s a danger, he’s said, to be loud when injured, because the smell of your blood and your own injury endangers you enough; drawing further attention to your location is never a good thing. Luckily for him, lying on the floor and gripping his arm seems to be out of the target zone for the tiles, and they fly most pointedly at the adults in the group instead. 

  Sky, with a hiss, has drawn the master sword and, quite shockingly, is throwing himself in the path of the blasted things, swinging till they shatter and then moving for another. 

  It takes maybe ten minutes for the attack to die down altogether, and when it does, everyone but the chosen hero has collapsed against the wall, panting and catching their breath and their runaway hearts from the start of it all. 

  “Whoever designed this place is a monster,” Time groans. “Why would you have two floor focused rooms right after each other. Just, why?” 

  Warriors snorts, half laughing, half something else, something strained. “Keep us on our toes?” 

  Their leader grabs for a bit of fallen tile and chucks it. Hitting the wall right beside no longer coiffed locks with a growl. “Not funny.” 

  From the floor, Hyrule gives a strangled giggle. “I thought it was.” 

  “Hyrule thought it was,” Warriors states, pointedly, pulling himself to his feet and looking just a bit like a spider with the motion (the man is seriously all limbs) before moving to the side of their fallen brother. “How bad?” 

  “I fear I’m dying,” the traveler responds, staring up at the captain with a wince. “Promise to burn my body, will you?” 

  The captain’s face washes over with severity. “I swear it will be done.” 

  “What?” The speed with which Wild flies to his feet is frankly quite impressive, but the strained laughter of the traveler is apparently enough reassurance to stop him running to his brother’s side to inspect the damamge for himself. 

  Warriors looks apologetic as he takes the traveler’s arm in his hands, gentle but firm, eyes warm though as they flicker up to the champion. “We jest, Wild. ‘Tis but a flesh wound. He’ll live.” 

  “You mock my pain,” Hyrule giggles through a wince, clearly trying to lighten the mood, at least for the captain, or maybe just trying to distract himself from the sting of the rather nasty looking gash on his arm. 

  Time snorts, staring on, but not moving. They can’t help anyways so there’s no point in any of them rising for the time being, and giving the traveler and their medic some space is in everyone’s best interest. “Life is pain. Anyone who tells you different is selling something.” 

  “Pessimistic much?” Sky observes. 

  “Well read, I should think,” the captain corrects, already starting to mind the injury of their brother. “I believe that one was from a book. As was my own, if anyone was wondering.” 

  Time nods. “I’m surprised Wind hasn’t called us on-” and then he trails off. Wind isn’t here. Wind is with Legend. 

  “We need to catch up to them,” Four reminds. Not that he’s particularly nervous about what they’re getting up too, but he doesn’t know how much longer they can progress through a dungeon with the group split and no idea where and when they’ll come across the others. “Can Wolfie track them?”  

  “You can jist ask me now, Four,” their shifter reminds, “ain’t a secret no more.” 

  “Anymore,” Warriors murmurs under his breath. 

  “No more,” Twilight hisses back, grinning. 

  Four ignores both of them, even as a few of the others start rolling their eyes at the grammar battle. If left unchecked, this will go on forever. “Use your nose to find them then, if you don’t mind.” 

  “If you can,” Sky adds, glancing warily at the rancher. 

  Twilight agrees, and while black magic washes over the rancher, Four takes it on himself to peek through the now opened doorway on the other side of the room. All that lies within is a chest, no doubt containing the map they’re so in need of, or some other such tool he’s shocked they’ve made it this far without.  

  There aren’t any monsters in here. 

  It’s a chest room! Monsters aren’t in chest rooms. 

  Most of the time. Vio corrects. 

  Most of the time. Red agrees, and then, We should open it! 

  Green? 

  Yeah, no harm. Let’s move quickly though, Twilight should catch their trail soon. 

  So, he does. He darts across the room and, sure enough, the chest contains the map they needed hours ago. Honestly, he’s kind of shocked they’ve done so well without it, but looking it over doesn’t reveal much more than what they’ve already seen. They’ve worked themselves through all three floors already, and the only rooms they haven’t been to appear to be on the right of the falling floor room. Unfortunately, there’s no guide on how to cross the floor anywhere on the map. 

 Coming back, the others are staring and Twilight is absent. He holds up the map, nodding back to the room. “Our prize! It’s useless by the way, we already knocked out everything except the boss chamber.” 

  “Boss chamber?” Warriors, again, although Wild also looks confused. 

  “Dungeons tend to end with a fight with a larger monster in order to reach the end and gather whatever treasure is there.” Their leader groans his words, pulling himself up again and creaking worse than an old door as he does so. “During my adventures, that treasure was usually a tool or information, although rupees and other baubles aren’t uncommon either.” 

  “Bet you Legend’s already collected it by now,” Sky grins. 

  “Means they’ve already fought the boss,” the traveler points out. “And I know they’re capable, but-” 

  The skyloftian nods, “you don’t like the idea of them taking it on alone when we should be with them.” 

  “Yeah.” 

  “Well,” he rolls up the map, tucking it into his own bag and trying for a smile to his brothers. “We’ll find them, just give Wolfie a moment more and-” 

  As if on cue, their shifter companion darts back in through the door, barking once to catch their attention and then moving out. The motion is repeated again, and all take the cue to rise and follow. Warriors is finished with the traveler’s arm and they’ve mostly caught their breath. Now just to face the floor a third time and reach where the other two are likely waiting for them.  

  Four just hopes the floor won’t do anything else crazy when they get there. Legend's talked about boss monsters that are the floor itself, and if that’s what awaits them, Four’s going to start climbing the walls. Literally. 

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 15 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.1k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

Library

Chapter 15 - September in the Rain

“This is not an interrogation,”

You don’t reply, concentrating all your energy on not raising your eyebrow into your hairline. 

“This more of a… fact check.” 

Nodding politely, you observe the thin man in the dark suit across the cold metal table as he leaves through the thick Manila folder in front of him. You’d say he looks mousy, but mouse-like is more apt. He has thin hair, combed back and set in place with an offensive amount of brilliantine. The sickly, sweet floral scent mixes violently with the sparsely furnished room's otherwise damp, cold smell. His voice is somewhat nasal, squeaky—somehow, you expected the Gestapo agent to look more intimidating. 

You shift in your chair uncomfortably, accidentally scraping the leg over the concrete floor as you move. The man’s head shoots up abruptly. Clearly, nothing escapes his notice, sniffing out every move.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Fräulein Anna,” The smile that contorts his face looks uncomfortable, like his muscles don’t naturally move that way, but he is straining to mimic some sort of human emotion. His beady dark eyes are trained on you in an entirely too steady manner, which contrasts strangely with the almost nervous movements of his body. “How long have you-” He interrupts himself with an awkward cough, the corners of his mouth still pulled up in an awkward grimace that’s presumable a friendly smile. “— did you know Fräulein Eva?”

“We were in the same class since primary school, Herr Weber,” You reply steadily. “So we’ve known each other since we were seven.”

“Knew.” He squeaks. 

“Knew.” You confirm, blinking slowly. He nods, scratching something in the file with a simple black fountain pen.

It’s been less than a week since Eva’s funeral. Every morning, you wake up, your brain filling in the sounds now painfully absent in your house: the hurried footsteps down the hall, clattering dishes in the kitchen, the radio playing in the living room. You tiptoe through the hallway to the door, back against the wall, the cold creeping up your spine like you’re walking over a grave. No trace is left on the polished hardwood, but you can’t unsee the stain in your mind’s eye. 

The skin on your hands is still raw and red from the scalding washes you’ve subjected yourself to. The stain of Eva’s death is now seared into your flesh and bones. Mindlessly, you rub your hands over your thighs like you’re trying to wipe your hands on the fabric of your dress. Weber’s eyes dart to your hands immediately.

Disgusting little man, you seethe. He knows very well Eva is barely cold in the ground. He was probably there if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger. Forcing a neutral expression onto your face as you look at him, taking a deep breath. You pray his wretched, mousy little face was not the last thing Eva saw on this world.

“And you were close,” He states, eyes back on the folder before him, scribbling. “And you’ve lived together since… February 1940.” 

“Yes.” 

Weber simply nods in his strange, nervous manner.

“Quite an unconventional arrangement, no?” The way he asks the question is non-accusatory, but his underlying meaning is clear.

“Rent in the city is expensive,” You shrug. “Neither of us graduated university, so we had to pool our resources.” 

“Of course, very pragmatic.”

Weber sighs, putting down his pen and folding his hands. “So, fraulein, you knew each other for many years, you lived together, and you worked together,”

You nod.

“And now you are going to tell me you had no idea your lifelong friend, your roommate, was involved in committing treason.” 

You swallow dryly. Weber might not look intimidating, but he terrifies you.

“Which she was summarily executed for.” He adds, that contorted grimace returning on his face.

“I guess she was better at keeping secrets than I gave her credit for.” If anything, Eva was excellent at keeping secrets. She never sold you out, paying for it with her life. If Weber had anything on you, you wouldn’t have this conversation. You wouldn’t be having a conversation, period. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to calm down again when the beady eyes roam over your face. It’s getting increasingly difficult—Weber is expertly getting under your skin with innocuous-sounding questions. 

Those little corrections. 

The small jabs.

“Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—those are a lot of secrets to keep, don’t you think?

Your stomach twists painfully as you shrug in response. “I wouldn’t know.”

The lies just add to the crushing guilt.

Eva’s funeral was held in a church in her hometown outside the capital. The small chapel was ornately decorated with statues of saints, and the walls of the ship depicted the twelve stages of the cross. You hung back, entering behind the congregation before sliding into a bench in the back of the church. The empty eyes of the John the Baptist statue at the entrance are burning a hole in your back, judging you. You shouldn’t be here. It’s your fault Eva is dead.

You almost dashed out of the church when Eva’s family walked down—the sobs tearing from her mother are too much for you to bear. But you stayed, rooted in place on the wooden bench. It’s the least you could do for Eva. Honor her. 

If your guilt doesn’t eat you alive first.

Against everything telling you to leave, you joined the line for condolences. Mumbling through your sympathies, you could not look anyone in the eye, terrified they would see: it’s all your fault. They should not hug you or offer you comfort when all you have to offer in return are lies. When Eva’s mother pulled you against her, thanking you for coming and asking to please visit, you nearly buckled under the weight of your shame.

“Clearly,” Weber clears his throat. “There’s another matter I’d like you to clear up.”

You blink in a manner that you hope looks innocent, rather than nervous. Another matter? The first thing on your mind is Bradley. Immediately, you push the thought away, scared that the beady eyes look right through you, knowing every thought, picking apart things you want to keep hidden. 

“Yes?” Your mouth is dry.

“Just fact-checking, of course,” Weber grimaces again as if this is nothing more than a pleasant conversation. “So we can close the case—judgment has already been passed, as you know.” 

You nod as an automatic reaction rather than any real agreement. Weber’s attempt at a pleasant front is callous—you wonder for a moment if it’s a strategy he employs to get you to trip up or if he genuinely is only capable of human mimicry at best.

“So,” He leaves through the file. “According to the schedule, you usually worked the night shift, while Eva more generally worked days.” Weber’s beady eyes are moving at high speed over the pages. He doesn’t follow up with a question, letting the implication hang in the air. Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—how did Eva do it? Did you help her? Did you know?

“We switched shifts a lot,” The words tumble out of your mouth as horror washes over you.

How can you lie so easily?

“I usually forgot to change it on the schedule in the morning,” You add sheepishly as if admitting your part in this somehow absolves you of the horrifying lie you just told. 

You just pinned all your crimes on your friend.

It doesn’t matter that the Gestapo already thought that she was guilty. But you, you know she is innocent; that her murder was unjust. It feels like you’ve condemned Eva again: first with the bullet to the head, and now with every lie you tell to save yourself. Disgracing her memory—besmirching the person she was in life and abusing her braveness in death.

“Did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber doesn’t look up from the paper he is holding up now, his dry fingers rubbing against the paper. Nails on a chalkboard would be a more pleasant sound.

Your shoulders sag. That’s the night you broke into the ministry.

“I- I don’t remember,” You hesitate. It was less than three weeks ago. Is it strange you wouldn’t remember? Weber regards you, nose scrunching up, like he can smell the lie on you. You don’t say anything else, resorting to shrugging, eyes roaming around the room as you pretend to search your memory.

Weber is trying to lead you down a trap.

The violent scrape of the chair against the uneven concrete floor startles you, your hand grabbing your chest, trying to catch your heart leaping out of it. Weber ignores your reaction, circling the desk as quietly as a mouse—if you couldn’t see his feet, you’d assume he was tiptoeing. 

You hear him open the door, the metal handle clanking against the handle. He squeaks something down the hall—you don’t quite catch it. Starting to turn around, you freeze mid-motion, one hand clutching the back of your chair so hard your knuckles are turning white.

Shuffling footsteps are coming down the hall, distinct in its terror-inducing sound.

Abruptly, you turn around, clutching your hand over your mouth, trying to silence your heavy breathing. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. 

You need to calm down.

A gust of cold air passes you as the door behind you opens. You stiffen in your seat, eyes wide.

The dragging gait is getting closer and closer. Blinking rapidly, you try to get a grip before Weber notices—getting your facial muscles to relax is incredibly hard. Your jaw is clenched so tightly you think it might be stuck like that.

It’s coming closer.

You must take control of the situation because your whole reaction is screaming guilt. Face Weber and shuffling man head-on—don’t show them you’re scared. You have no reason to, do you? This is not an interrogation, after all, only fact-checking. 

And you are innocent. 

At least, that’s what you are going to make them believe. If you make it out alive, you’ll have eternity to burn in hell for your lies.

Sucking in a deep breath, you get up out of your chair. With a smile on your face, hoping it looks natural enough, you nod at the shuffling man.

“Sir.” You acknowledge him politely.

“Miss.” The shuffling man stops and looks at you pensively. Like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you. You don’t give him more time to stare at you. Sitting back down, you busy yourself smoothing out your dress before folding your hands in your lap. Your nails are digging into your palm.

Weber has been scurrying through the background of the short exchange, only attracting attention back at himself when he sits down, scraping his chair over the floor again. You are sure he’s doing it on purpose. The shuffler, for his noisy gait, pulls out his chair quietly. 

“Detective Novak was a witness on April 19th and aided in solving the case,” Weber announces as he once again leaves through the papers in front of him. “I brought him in to help tie up the loose ends.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“Again, Fräulein, did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber looks straight at you. If there was any pretense of pleasantness in his tone before, it’s ice-cold now. You blink mutely, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I - no.” You try to swallow the bile, but your mouth is so dry there’s nothing to wash away the burning sensation creeping through your throat. 

“So, you remember now?” Weber’s tone is not mocking but increases your sense of unease because it’s just a reminder: he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

You bite your tongue from making some sort of glib reply. Well, it’s been stressful with you shooting my best friend in my apartment, leaving her body for me to find, and forcing me to clean up the blood from the floor. So you just shrug lightly.

“You mentioned you often forgot to amend it in the schedule,” Weber is staring at you without blinking. “How are you sure now that wasn’t the case that day?”

Fuck. You’ve given him too much information on your lie, and now he’s clawing at you. Weber was waiting for this. The palms of your hands are stinging, the salt from the sweat seeping into your rubbed-raw skin. You can’t help but wipe your hands over the fabric of your dress again, trying to alleviate the pain in vain. Now, two pairs of eyes follow your every movement. 

“I’m sure,” You begin, looking at Weber levelly, hoping your voice won’t waver from the loud beating of your heart. Your fingers are clinging onto your skirt, the fabric wrinkling under your sweaty grip. What stood out about the 19th of April? Why would you remember that particular day?

It’s the first time you kissed Bradley. It’s the first time you slept with him. Just the thought of Bradley’s soft voice in your ear calms your heart before you realize: shit. You have no alibi. You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, ready to commit another lie—after making your best friend take the fall for your crimes, can you pretend to have morals? 

“Because I was with-” The lie burns as hot on your tongue as on your face.

“It wasn’t her.” Detective Novak cuts in suddenly. You inhale deeply like you’re trying to breathe words back in.

Weber scrunches up his face, confused, stilling all movement. It takes you a second to realize your mouth is hanging open.

“I remember you,” Novak turns to you, voice clipped, as you quickly close your mouth. “You dropped the bucket in front of my office that day.”

The moment he mentions it, you remember how mortified you had been. But you forgot about all that in the elation of the information you found, the absolute dream of six days that followed it—but could it be that the man that condemned your friend to death will be your alibi?

“Oh—yes, I did.” You mumble, staring at your hands, trying to focus on the embarrassment you felt then, trying to recall it in every movement. From the corner of your eye, you see Weber nodding.

“So, detective, are you corroborating the night guard’s testimony?”

You hold your breath.

“Corroborate?” Novak scoffs. “We saw a flash of hair and a skirt—all I can corroborate is that the person we saw leaving forensics that night was a woman.”

You shake your head in fear as if to communicate it wasn’t you. At that moment, you hate yourself. By far, by far, you are not as brave as you thought you’d be. You don’t sit with your head held high, proud—you shake in your seat, and you lie to save your own life.

Novak shoots you a look before turning his attention back to Weber. “Although that old coot probably testified exactly what you needed him to.” He adds almost lazily like it’s all a joke. 

“Then what makes you so sure it wasn’t Fräulein Anna, detective?” Weber is now entirely focused on Novak, squeaky voice serious. It doesn’t escape your notice he doesn’t acknowledge the detective’s quip—like it doesn’t even register as odd to him. And why would it? It’s probably true. An icy chill travels down your spine.

You’ve been scared before. But the sheer terror settling in your bones right now, from the eerily calm conversation to the dank room, is nothing like you’ve ever experienced. 

“She’s the dim one.” 

Novak says it matter-of-factly like you’re not even in the room with them. You never realized you could feel relief while your heart dropped simultaneously. The strange, strangled sound that escapes Weber is supposedly how he laughs before coughing to regain his composure. You can’t help but exhale audibly, finally realizing the breath you didn’t even know you had been holding.

“Breaking into the ministry, not to mention operating the radio, would require a measure of stealth and smarts.” He continues arrogantly, clearly seeing this as an opportunity to showcase his detective skills and reasoning. 

You realize the radio must have still been warm from running by the time they got to it. Averting your eyes, trying to make it look like you are still embarrassed, you bite your lip. So they know it was used, but Weber hasn’t brought it up so far. Is he waiting to ambush you with it, or does he think he knows?

You feel an uncomfortable prickle on your neck. Bradley would be long gone now—surely. He left two weeks ago. He would not be in the territory of the Reich anymore. Except you have no way of knowing for sure. All you can do is hope. Dream.

He has to be okay.

You don’t think you could handle being responsible for Eva’s and Bradley’s deaths.

“It’s the kind of stealth and smarts it takes to steal and forge documents systematically,” Novak’s voice is getting louder as he appears to find his footing in the situation and with a seemingly captive audience. You’re looking at him blankly as he gestures wildly to make his point—meanwhile, Weber is taking notes, the corners of his tiny mouth downturned. “It takes planning, preparation, steady hands—she,” A short jerk of his head in your direction is the only indication he’s actually aware you’re still present. “She can’t stand on a ladder holding a bucket.”

Weber nods as he holds up a paper—beady eyes darting over the lines. “The night guard described as her slow in his testimony.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” 

Tears sting in your eyes. You are not even a person anymore—the story you spun so meticulously for so long worked so well it completely erased you.

You should be happy. 

It all paid off, after all.

But you just feel hollow.

***

Bradley’s pen is ticking against the table obnoxiously—speeding up and slowing down with seemingly no rhyme or rhythm. The only person he is annoying with it is himself. The office he has been assigned for the duration of his debriefing—an assigned office, ridiculous—is empty. Because to his immense displeasure, Bradley has been grounded until all procedures have been completed. Unfortunately, even in wartime, the red tape runs long. 

It’s August, a humid and sticky English summer. It’s over two months since he’s been back, and it’s like he’s been stuck in place ever since. 

Every time the alarm sounds, and everyone starts scrambling to sortie, Bradley is inevitably on his feet, every muscle in his body rearing to go, his fingers itching—but then his brain catches up. He’s grounded. It takes so long for his heart rate to settle down again and the adrenaline to ebb away—but Bradley never feels entirely at ease. At some point, he realized the tension and powerlessness were there all along—his ever-present companions.

If only he could fly—he could finally feel calm again. Physically getting away from everything, finally be surrounded by open air. The wall of the office, the walls of his barracks room, every closed space is closing in on him, looming over him, keeping him confined. 

The crushing boredom of desk duty makes it impossible not to feel it constantly. Even if Bradley tried, it’s like he can’t escape that small room—he remains locked up, waiting even now. And you’re not here to make him forget the long lonely hours, to alleviate the constant tension in his body—he feels it in his soul. 

Around you, he could forget.

Bradley supposes he is happy he is around people again. He can move around freely—as much as possible while grounded on an airbase in wartime. At least he gets weekend liberty—normally, he would go drown himself in booze and soft skin, but these days, he just wanders the countryside enjoying the free space around him. Bradley never thought he would miss going outside so much again, not walking on eggshells every time he left the safety of the small room, the weight of the fear something could happen—something could happen to you—dragging him down.

He receives telegrams from home: Mav, Natasha, and even Bob, asking him if he is alright, to tell them what happened in the months he disappeared off the face of the earth. Once the news that he is no longer MIA spreads back home, more letters and telegrams start trickling in from friends and old lovers. Bradley tosses the letters from old lovers without opening them, uninterested in politely replying. For everyone else, there’s not much to say: he is okay, and no, he’s not coming home yet. 

It’s only when Mav pulls enough strings to get a phone call in, frantic—Bradley suddenly feels the guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. He disappeared for months: no leads, nothing. The War Department wouldn’t even confirm the sortie he had been flying. Mav, despite their rocky relationship, is the closest thing to the real family Bradley has left. But even now, they cannot help but fall back into old patterns.

“How can you be so calm about this all?” Mav’s voice is growing from frantic to frustrated over the crackling line. “Bradley—do you realize we all thought you were dead for the past months?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bradley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose—he sounds almost petulant, but Mav tends to be overbearing. “That I’m sorry?”

“It would be a start?!” Mav exclaims.

“I’m not apologizing for being alive,” Bradley bites out.

“You had everyone going crazy from worry. I promised-”

“Exactly.” Bradley cuts Mav off harshly, knowing precisely what he’s about to bring up. “You promised. No one ever bothered to ask me what I wanted. You just started meddling every chance you got to assuage your own guilt.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you’re all back to your old self,” Mav retorts flatly. No matter how well he hides it, Bradley can hear in his tone that he’s hurt. “I’m glad you’re safe and well, Rooster.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley swallows, trying to push back the rising anger - Mav deserves a lot of Bradley’s wrath, but the matter is that he’s also trying to make amends in his own way. “Thanks for calling, Mav. Hope Penny and Amelia are okay?” He attempts conversationally.

“They’re fine.” The reply is ice-cold. 

They both stay quiet for a moment—the static on the line crackles. 

“If you want to talk…” Mav starts hesitantly before sighing heavily. “I - I’m sure you’ve been through hell—I can’t even imagine. You don’t have to go through it alone, okay, Bradley? Write, hell, call if you have to. I’m here.” He implores, his voice wavers from worry on the last syllable.

They haven’t seen eye-to-eye for a long time, even without speaking for several years. But it’s hard to forget: Pete was there for Bradley during his childhood when he didn’t have anyone else. Bradley always looked up to Mav, his de-facto father figure. They’ve been in an uneasy truce for a while now: neither can really let the hurt go, but they have too much history together to forget. 

“I can’t, Mav,” Bradley replies softly. He hears a soft ‘oh’ on the other end of the line. “It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to,” He adds hurriedly. “I just can’t. The debriefing is classified, and all my communications are being screened with prejudice.” 

“No, no, I understand,” The relief in his voice is audible, however. 

“Thanks for calling,” Bradley re-iterates sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

The rest of his days, weeks spent in debriefing are filled with a desperate monotony. Going over every detail of his time in the Protectorate ad nauseam. If he’s not talking about it, he is reading his own words back in reports. What did he see? Who did he talk to? Pinpoint places of interest on a map. 

He wishes it felt cathartic to talk about everything. Most infer he’s been held in a POW camp, and he just bounced back quicker than others. Ironically the only place where he can talk, in any way, about what happened to him is during the debriefing. And it’s killing him.

Every time he goes over the whole story again, the less he feels like it actually, really happened to him. In every version of the report that he reads, everything becomes a little bit more abstract, like his memories are nothing more than the words on the page, stripped of all nuances, feelings—love. The Department of War and Bradley’s chain of command are hardly interested in anything beyond the facts. But they want all the facts.

“Lieutenant,” The RAF officer across from Bradley is suddenly looking at him sharply—an old hand at internal affairs, pushing paper with a bushy mustache and a posh accent but no flight hours under his belt. It’s high summer and stifling hot in the dusty room. The leather chairs, part of the otherwise cozy old-world decor, feel sticky. The ice in his scotch has long melted, and the ashtray is overflowing with precariously piled-up cigarettes. Despite the open window, the curtains gently swaying on a summer breeze, the air in the room is heavy.  “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with your handler?”

Bradley has purposefully avoided that subject. Even now, he doesn’t answer immediately, mulling over the answer. It’s not be a problem if he admits honestly he was romantically involved with you—it’s wartime, and emotions run high. But Bradley doesn’t want to. It’s private. Fragile. The only thing he has left. It doesn't deserve—you don’t deserve having your intimate moments with him dissected and put on file for prying eyes.

“We trusted each other,” Bradley finally admits, sitting back, the leather softly creaking as he moves.

“Just that?” The RAF officer pries, a little too curious. Your handkerchief is burning in Bradley’s chest pocket. 

“Just trust?” Bradley scoffs incredulously. As if that isn’t central, pivotal, the most important thing between two people moving through the shadows behind enemy lines. It was the first time you really opened up to him when you dropped your mask so suddenly: 

“How much do you trust me?”

Bradley sighs. He would trust you with his life over and over again. And while he never told you as such, he hopes you know he’s also entrusted his heart to you.

“Trust is rare,” Bradley shrugs lightly before leaning back in his chair again. The leather creaks softly under his shifting weight. “I was lucky my handler was excellent.”

“Lucky indeed,” The officer adds under his breath. “You mentioned she was quite young…” He trails off as he looks for the paper with your information. “Not even 24 years old yet.”

Bradley rubs his face in frustration. “Lieutenant,” He starts sharply, reminding the officer across from him they are equal in rank. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”

The officer guffaws, unintimidated by Bradley’s tone. “I’m looking to understand your bias.”

“My bias towards what exactly?” 

“The Czechoslovak resistance and their cause, your interpretation of events,” He shrugs as if it’s a run-of-the-mill question, not an invasive inquiry. “And everyone knows how you earned that call sign, lieutenant.” He grins conspiratorially.

At the casual, throwaway line, an ice-cold realization trickles down Bradley’s spine. He supposes he should find it funny. Sitting up straighter in his chair, Bradley reaches from the glass of scotch—the outside is covered in condensation—and takes a larger-than-necessary sip. You made fun of him for his call sign back at that mountain cabin, and it was the first time he was actually bothered, but its provenance. Now, it feels like a black mark.

“So,” Bradley clears his throat, trying to find the right words. “You think I thanked Any- Anna for risking her life for me by showing her a good time?” Despite his carefully crafted flat affect, he cannot help the venom that seeps into his words.

“Why not?” The officer shrugs. “Wasn’t she your type? Not pretty enough for your discerning tastes?”

Bradley put the glass he was holding back on the table with a little too much force, the dull thud reverberating through the wood. The officer across from him looks amused as he scribbles something down. 

“Like I said,” Bradley keeps his voice level. “There was a lot of mutual trust—I trusted Anna with my life, just as I trust my squadron in the air.”

He knows he needs to let the jab about your looks slide—it would only open him up to more questions. Although Bradley supposes if anyone had asked him about his type this time last year, he wouldn’t have necessarily thought about someone like you. And it’s not because you are not beautiful or because you are naively unaware of that fact; you just appear to care more for impressing with your wit and quick thinking—challenging him, giving him the constant runaround. There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared too much for that challenge—it wasn’t fit for purpose. 

You are so infuriatingly stubborn and difficult it drives him mad. But then you turn so beguiling and sweet, which is, possibly, even more maddening.

Have you influenced his perception of events? Of course. But it’s not because he’s entertaining some sort of schoolboy crush on you or because your relationship naturally, perhaps inevitably, grew deeper and more intimate. The basis was always trust. Bradley trusted you with his life before your lips ever touched his, even when you were arguing, even when you got so mad at him you disappeared for two weeks—you could have tipped someone off, gotten rid of him, and ensured your own safety. 

But you never did.

Everything truly matters is your stubborn sense of justice and your unwavering loyalty.

Mercifully, the line of questioning is dropped. When Bradley is handed the final version of the report on a rainy day in early September—he’s been grounded for months now—it states somewhat euphemistically: Lieutenant Bradshaw [code name: ROOSTER] shared a close personal relationship with his handler [REDACTED] [code name: DAYBREAK].

It’s funny, in a painful, ironic way, that Bradley himself doesn’t have the clearance to read the unredacted version of his own debrief—your name, of all things, has been lacquered out, as if you are a mere footnote to the story. He doesn’t miss the little jab in your code name you’ve been given either—the rooster crows at daybreak, after all.

Sitting in his office, he reads through the endless pages for days on end, reliving, at a distance, everything that happened in those few months behind enemy lines. It feels foreign to him like he’s having an out-of-body experience reading the abstract summary of what he lived through. 

As he reads, Bradley mindlessly runs his thumb over the delicate stitching of your initials. Because it all happened, right? You are real, his feelings are real. But why does it feel like it didn’t really happen to him? 

It’s like he sees his memories of you through a kaleidoscope: increasingly fragmented, mirrored, and endlessly replicated. He tries to hold onto every sliver of you: the smell of your soap, the sound of your laughter, your mischievous grin. The way you frown, the cute little crease between your eyebrows, and tap the pencil against your lips as you think. The way your eyes blaze with fury as you square up to him, completely unafraid: you will always fight for what you believe to be right and just.

But progressively, it feels like he can’t see those things anymore, and they are replaced by mere descriptions and summaries, abstracted from time and space.

As Bradley signs the final page of the report—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—it feels strange to close the book, literally and physically. This is the last step to get approved for flying again. “Congratulations, lieutenant Bradshaw,” The RAF officer nods approvingly as Bradley lays down the pen. “You can report back to your squadron; I’m sure you have been missed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bradley nods. He should feel happy—this was the final leg of his arduous journey. It’s what he wanted. But then, why does it feel so hollow? Saluting the officer, he turns to the door. Hand on the handle, he suddenly hesitates.

“Actually, I have a question.” Bradley turns back around, facing the officer, clearing away the report.

“Go ahead, lieutenant.” He nods.

“The report—will it be shared?”

The officer stills, looking at Bradley sharply again. His bushy mustache bristles as he mulls over the questions. “It will be shared with your chain of command on a need-to-know basis,” He finally replies. 

“And what of the Czechoslovak government in exile?” Bradley knows he’s pushing the envelope on this. 

The officer’s eyes narrow. “That’s beyond our purview.”

“So you won’t share with them vital information from the home resistance, which has been cut off from communication for over a year?” Bradley can’t stop himself from raising his voice. Because it was never just about him—you, everyone depended on him getting out to show the home resistance took a hit, but you are still functioning and strong enough to pull this escape plan off. They need to know. “Will you not tell them about everything the resistance has done, everything they risked?”

“That’s beyond your purview, lieutenant,” However jovial the offer had been before, his voice thunders now. “You are dismissed.”

***

The pillow is too fluffy. The sun streaming through the curtains that your mother forcefully pulled open, sniping at you to get up finally, is too harsh. The goose feather duvet is comfortably heavy, but uncomfortably hot. 

You’ve been home for weeks now. After stumbling out of the interrogation���or fact check—Detective Novak insisted on gentlemanly walking you to the exit; he left you with one final message. 

“We know who you are now.” 

Not directly a threat, but rather a reminder. The police and the Gestapo have you in their sights now—you are on file. Guilty by association.

You nod and utter a polite goodbye. Walking onto the street, you force yourself to walk at a normal pace—don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

It takes forever to turn the corner. The moment you know you are out of sight, you stumble against a young oak tree, splattering the full contents of your stomach on its roots and your carefully shined shoes. Shaking, you return home, where you blindly pack a bag, and scribble a borderline rude resignation letter on a dogeared page from a note pad. Tearing it off, you stuff it in an envelope, posting it on your way to the station. Another, much more polite note, although not particularly elaborate either, is slipped under your downstairs neighbor's door—please forward my mail to my parent’s address.

Your hands are still quacking when you present your ticket for inspection. 

It’s hours later, when darkness is already setting it, and you’re walking down the unlit single road towards the small village where you spent your early childhood years in the far east of the country, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The sweet smell of orchards in bloom fills the air; everything feels so familiar, from the crickets in the grass to the wind rustling through the wheat fields. In the weak twilight, small bats shoot through the sky, hunting for insects. Your heart finally feels like it can return to a normal pace. You are home.

Your feet hurt—you didn’t bother getting changed before leaving. The once shiny, polished, heeled shoes you wore this morning are scuffed and dusty—your nice dress is crumpled and sweaty. But in the distance, you see lights: houses lining the empty, dark road. Heaving your bag over your shoulder gracelessly, you pick up the pace. The earlier you get there, the earlier you can get out of these shoes.

By the time you stumble into the front garden of your childhood house, it’s pitch dark. Your footing is unsure on the uneven slabs of stone of the old garden path—built by your great-grandfather, you’ve been told—as your shoes pinch and chafe your swelling feet. The front door is open, the light from the inside streaming onto the porch as the only light source. It looks empty—which is strange. As you move closer, a small orange ball of fur shoots past you into the darkness; you yelp, dropping your bag loudly.

“Andulka? My little songbird, is that you?” Your father, previously crouched in the shadows, is walking into the light now. God, he has aged so much since you last saw him—his hair is so much grayer, his face so much more worn. He is dressed smartly as always: dress pants, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp shirt. Your father might have retired as a lawyer at the outbreak of the war, resigning his government position and moving back to his ancestral house, but a lifetime of habits are hard to break. Uncharacteristically, he’s not wearing a jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. 

Even stranger, possibly, is the small desert plate in his hand and what looks like several barn cats tottering and yowling around his feet. 

You don’t know why you feel so overcome with emotion—maybe because you haven’t seen your father in way too long. You forgot how much you missed him, maybe because he hasn’t called you Andulka since you were a child, or maybe because your dad has clearly, covertly been feeding the barn cats when never allowed you to have a pet.

Standing there on the garden path in your crumpled dress and dirty shoes, you simply burst out crying. Every tear and sob you swallowed for Eva, for Bradley, and for yourself, force their way out of you—but it’s okay now. You are home.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve returned—and you’ve spent most of that time in bed, asleep or staring at the ceiling. The moment you crossed the threshold of your home, it’s like every defense, every system you had to sustain, you just crumbled. You cannot summon the energy for anything: reading, talking or even smiling. Sometimes, you venture into the kitchen, you sit through dinner with your parents mostly in silence.

Your father doesn’t push the issue much. Once you assured him that you weren’t in any sort of trouble—which, formally, isn’t a lie—he left it at that. Emotional things were never much his forte, but in his own way, he tries to cheer you up in his own way. Your father cuts out the Saturday cartoon from the newspaper for you, bringing it to you with a cup of tea, and leaving it with a kiss on your forehead. 

Every day, he brings you interesting finds from his daily walks: a double-headed dandelion or a ghost leaf. Loitering in the doorway, he waits for you to smile. On your birthday, which you forgot about in the blur of days, he gifts you a simply wrapped tablet of milk chocolate, which is impossible to get. 

“Don’t tell your mother,” He whispers conspiratorially, grinning, knowing she will probably be upset at the cost of such luxuries. Unwrapping your secret gift, you sigh lightly.

“You shouldn’t have, daddy,” But despite your soft chiding, you take a bite out of the corner, savoring the chocolate melting on your tongue. The corners of your mouth quirk up automatically as the sugar hits your system. 

“Anything to have you smile again, Andulka.” 

You can’t stop your eyes from filling with tears at the words. Are you only capable of hurting everyone around you? How can you ever be worthy of kindness again?

But your mother—oh lord, as if you weren’t at odds with her already—she just won’t let it go. At first she is sympathetic, worried you are in trouble. Not the kind of trouble your father would think. But rather… trouble of the martial kind—a child out of wedlock, unwanted advances, or a broken heart.  

You don’t want to talk about it.

Any of it.

Not about Eva, and absolutely not about Bradley. It’s your burden to bear—the crushing guilt, the uncertainty—it feels that if you can keep it all in you, you can keep a grip on it. 

After all, it’s safer if your parents don’t know. They will never accept a roundabout explanation of why Eva is dead, shot dead by the Gestapo in their apartment. Your father especially will go digging for answers, looking for justice, and you don’t want that on your conscience. 

So you keep quiet.

Your mother cares for you and comforts you by bringing you food, brushing your hair, talking to you, reading to you. Cuddled up to her, you cry to yourself. But you can’t talk about it.

And as expected, your mother’s patience runs out with what she calls your histrionics. There is nothing wrong with you, you are just lazy and stubborn. As usual, you—or your shortcomings—are the reason for your failing. Age and retirement clearly softened your once serious and studious father, but your mother, who is a lot younger than him, seems to have picked up the slack more than anything.

You burrow deeper under your heavy duvet. Pulling out Bradley’s bracelet from under your pillow, you run the chain through your fingers as almost a force of habit, tracing your fingers over the embossed insignia. For a moment, it gives you comfort before your thoughts spiral - did Bradley ever make it out alive? Maybe he was intercepted, just like Eva. 

What if it all had been for nothing?

Your heart feels heavy, like every beat takes gargantuan effort. Grief is as much physical as it is mental; heart and soul suffer. You cannot even bring yourself to dream anymore - it’s just a mantra you repeat, because the alternative is dragging you into the bottomless pit of despair: Bradley made it out alive. He is safe. He is well.

Your fingers tighten around the bracelet, and your heartbeat evens out again, feeling just a fraction lighter. Your relative moment of peace is rather short-lived, however, as your mother has decided that she will whip you into shape.

“Get up, Anna,” She orders you, pulling the duvet off you. Quickly, you hide Bradley’s bracelet in your hand. “You are going to the Moravec estate today; the cherries need harvesting.”

“You’re sending me to do farm labor?” You ask incredulously, getting up slowly. The way she forcefully throws open the window of your bedroom and throws your duvet over the ledge to air out tells you you shouldn’t really challenge her right now. 

“Yes,” Your mother replies in a clipped tone, turning fully to you, anger etched on her face. You stare back, unamused. “The world didn’t stop turning just because of you—the Moravec’ sons and farmhands have all been drafted, so they can use all the help they can get.” 

Getting up from the bed, you swallow, unable to reply. Only your mother could make you feel guilty for grieving.

“And since there’s nothing wrong with your hands or feet,” She continues, walking over to your closet and pulling clothes out. “I volunteered you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, trying not to sound sarcastic while slipping Bradley’s bracelet into the drawer of your nightstand. It’s June and already blisteringly hot. The Moravec estate is on the southern hillside just outside the village, a prime location for their orchards and vineyards because there is nowhere to hide from the sun. You are going to burn to a crisp, you think sourly.

Your mother waltzes out of your room as abruptly as she stormed in—you take that it’s a hint for you to get changed. She comes back when you try to comb a particularly stubborn knot from your hair, sitting in front of your small vanity.

“Let me do that for you,” She offers kindly, gently taking the brush from you. With a sigh, you acquiesce. Systematically, your mother starts brushing through the strand of hair. 

“I know you’re mad at me.” She says suddenly, shortly meeting your eyes in the mirror's reflection.

“I’m not, mama.” You admit, not without difficulty. “I just thought you’d volunteer me for something…” You want to say more ladylike, but you decide against it—what you really mean is easier. “...something like the church or the library.” 

“They don’t need help like the farms around here do.” She replies levelly. “Besides…,” 

Your mother stops brushing for a moment, hesitating. You look at her through the reflection—she seems sad. Her normally stoic demeanor has suddenly cracked. “It will do you good, Andulka; the fresh air, the sunlight. You will bloom right back up.”

You swallow heavily, feeling like you’re about to cry again. You feel undeserving of affection.

“I thought it was because I’m lazy and stubborn,” You quip instead, averting your eyes.

“You are,” Your mother replies easily—you can’t even be offended anymore. “But you are also resourceful and clever: laying in bed all day is a waste of you.” 

Putting the brush down, she rests her hands on your shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

“Your father worked too hard to give you every opportunity—the best schools in the republic, tutors, not to mention all those English newspapers and vinyls,” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “He spoiled you.” 

“And I was top of my class,” You defend yourself somewhat weakly. “It’s not like I squandered any of my opportunities.” And I’m not lazy.

“That’s not the point Andulka,” She chastises you gently. “But you can’t give up just because things aren’t turning out the way you hoped they would.” 

“I didn’t -” The words die in your throat. You did give up. You know you did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Shoulders sagging, you hang your head in shame. Your mother’s warm hand brushes the hair from your face, kissing you on the temple.

“Your resourcefulness and smarts always served you so much better than your stubborn laziness—complacency doesn’t suit you,” Her voice is tender as her arms come to embrace you. “Don’t forget that.”

You lean into the embrace. Lazy, stubborn, spoiled—it feels like your mother never cut you any slack. To a certain level, you understand that she wanted you to achieve all the things that she never could, trying to instill resilience in you: you can only ever truly rely on yourself. But sometimes, you just needed her love and compassion without having to tick every box in her list of expectations for you.

“You need to get going,” Your mother’s voice cracks under the weight of her own emotions, as she pulls back. She grabs you by the shoulders again, not so gently, this time and pulls you up. “Take a scarf to protect your hair.”

You turn to call after her, but she is already out of the room. 

Over that long, hot summer of 1943, you harvest cherries, peaches, and plums, ending the scorching season in the wheat fields. And your mother was right—being outside does you a lot of good. Mostly because you are so exhausted at the end of every day, you don’t have any energy left. It gives you a strange kind of peace—nothing has changed, nothing has been resolved: Eva is still dead, you have been compromised as a suspected member of the resistance, and you will never find out what happened to Bradley. 

You simply don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Acceptance is both bitter and liberating. 

At night, somewhere between sleep and waking, you allow yourself to dream about the life that could have been. The silver of Bradley’s bracelet glints in the moonlight peeping through your window—the chain is soothingly cool against your warm and now-calloused hands. 

What if you had gotten onto the train with him?

You would be in England with Bradley now. He would take you dancing every weekend, your dashing lieutenant, looking sharp in his uniform. Maybe you could study again, on your desk, a small vase of wildflowers that Bradley would bring you. At night, you would stay safely wrapped in his arms, peppering his skin with kisses, Bradley whispering those sweet promises in your ear.

When the war is over, you could start a family—you imagine a house on the cliffs by the beach, the patter of tiny feet in the morning. Your handsome and brave Bradley, sunkissed and windswept, matching rings on your fingers. He would take you to see all the places you’ve only read about in books, all the places he teased tangled in the sheets of that small room with you. 

It’s the sweetest dream, unencumbered by reality. Escapism without consequence. You would have been happy with Bradley. You like to think you would make him happy too. 

Sometimes, you think you should have just gotten on that train: everything be damned. But in reality, you know you couldn’t live with yourself if you did that. Leaving behind your family, your friends, your cause to die. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than you and Bradley. He would understand.

The dream is all you have. And for now, it has to be enough.

note | sorry it gets worse

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch | @kmc1989

[cakemousse]

a malevolent affair

Chat Noir had fallen. But so did Ladybug and Monarch. 

Rating: M, Words: 3000, Chapters: 1/1

note the rating, please check the tags before proceeding

anywho, @rosekasa drew this dinner date between akumabug and chat noir a while ago and i had ideas 🤩

thank you @h-sunnywet-d @fortuna-et-cataclysmos @literaphobe and @ladyofthenoodle for betaing!!

Read on AO3

written for day 12 of @ladynoirjuly

━━━━━━

Everything’s quiet. 

Too quiet. 

The faint ringing in his ears gets louder and louder until it’s too disruptive to remain at peace any longer. 

Chat Noir blinks, trying to clear his vision of the fog that has been rendering him motionless. 

He sees the silhouette of his hands, but they refuse to move as he pleases. Feeling the string digs into the cuffs of his suit as he wiggles, he’s made aware that he’s sitting by a circular dining table with empty plates before him, and that the metal string coiled around his wrists is attached to a yo-yo. 

A black one, decorated with red polka dots.

What…? 

Chat Noir lifts his head to see the person responsible for his current state, and he realises that the room’s too dull, far too monotonous. It’s as if the shadows have consumed her vibrant and colourful essence. She, the shining symbol of hope for all, is stained in all the wrong colours. 

Seated right across him, with elbows on the table as her head rests on her palms, she grins. The glinting of her eyes and the eagerness on her face are a stark contrast to everything in the room. 

Especially when she’s smiling at him like that. 

That playful smile. One that he always witnesses as they banter and tease each other. One that, as soon as she flashes it at him, he knows that it’s her. He recognises it, but there’s a degree of eeriness to it that leaves him uneasy. 

“Lady… bug?” 

“Hey Kitty.” She waves at him, but the way she wiggles her fingers at him suggests something playful. Flirty, even. 

“Ladybug, what’s going on?”   

“Aww, not even gonna call me your Lady? Booo.” She pouts and brings her hand back to where it was a few seconds ago. But she’s still looking at him with those brightly coloured heaven eyes. 

Chat Noir struggles, “You’re not my Lady!” 

“Nonsense, Chaton.” 

He gasps. That tone of voice. He’s drawn to that inflexion anywhere. 

Akumabug raises her arms as if to present herself to an audience, but there’s only him. “I’m right here.” 

Chat Noir wrestles against the metal string around his wrists, knowing that he’s too late, but he needs to do something! Anything!

“I would advise against that, Chaton. Don’t want those strings to cut any deeper, do you?” she coos. 

“Then release me!” 

This is wrong. So wrong. Everything has gone horribly wrong. 

Why can’t he remember anything? 

Akumabug stands to reach out for his hands, but Chat Noir snatches them away as soon as he feels the heat of her touch. He tries to stand as well but finds himself tied to the chair by more ropes. 

He whips his head towards her, attempting to counter whatever she’s planning, but all he sees is her stunned in place—face painted with utter disbelief as she stares at the palm of the hand she had touched him with.  

Chat Noir feels a drop in his stomach. His spine tingles and he sits up straight on his chair. 

He messed up. 

Akumabug looks up at him, face unreadable. She suddenly appears right beside him at breakneck speed, and he winces when she grabs his face, nails digging hard into his head. She drags him as she stands to her full height, straining his neck and pulling him towards her, as far as his body allows her to. Chat Noir breathes in quick successions at how fast it all happens; how close he is to her face. 

Her eyes dart between his own as if searching for something he doesn’t know he holds. 

Then, she releases him. He falls backwards onto his chair, rocking with it. He feels his chest heaving and his blood pumping in his ears, but he’s keeping his eyes on her. That's the least he can do. Akumabug walks backwards, away from him, her expressionless features morphing into delighted ones as she nears the table again, “What you need is food!” 

She snaps her fingers and a ball of spaghetti falls onto the plate right before him, sauce splattering everywhere on the grey cloth. 

“Bon appétit !” She bends over and puts her elbows on the table again, head propped up on the back of her hands. Akumabug watches him and smiles, like a lover who can’t take her eyes off of him. 

“Uh…” 

“Oh, silly me,” she laughs and goes behind him to push the chair closer to the table. Chat Noir struggles again but quickly stops as a sharp, cooling sensation presses against his neck. 

Her face suddenly appears right next to his and he feels the pressure against his neck increasing. “What part of ‘stop doing that’ do you not understand, Chat Noir?”  

Flinching at the sting on his neck, he blinks and eyes her hard stare. Something must be very wrong with him because he still finds her beautiful even when she’s holding a sharp blade to his neck. Chat Noir chooses to stay silent. 

She searches his eyes further before removing the metal—a dagger with traces of his blood—from his neck and settling it down on the table. Akumabug moves to his plate and starts mixing up the spaghetti with utensils that appeared out of thin air. Once she rolls a mouthful of spaghetti onto the spoon, she holds it out to him, “Here.” 

Chat Noir leans as far back as he possibly can, to not open the wound she has just given him any further, while still being cautious enough to not trigger another terrifying event like the ones before. 

“It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about?” She asks with a smile and brings the food closer to him.

Chat Noir looks away from her. 

Akumabug sighs. “Don’t you trust me, Chaton? It’s delicious too! I know my way around the kitchen.”

“Hard to believe when all I see is you creating food out of thin air.” His eyes widen at his own remark. 

Why did he say that?! This isn’t his Lady! 

She huffs. “How mean. I made this just for you and you won’t even try it.” She directs the spoon to her own mouth and chomps on the utensil. Chat Noir flinches at the sound of the impact. 

“Mhmm!” She hums while chewing on the mouthful, eyes closed and swaying her body side to side, “My creations don’t disappoint!” 

Akumabug licks her lips clean and swallows; Chat Noir gulps at the sight. 

“Come on,” she holds out another spoonful again, “I know you want some. You’re starving.” 

As if on cue, his stomach starts growling. Chat Noir sets his jaw and closes his eyes. 

And it’s quiet again.

He knows that she’ll probably threaten him more, and he’ll deal with what she throws at him when the time comes. But for now, he‘ll cut off any contact he has with her and focus on centring his Cataclysm at the tip of his claws. Any wrong move could spell disaster on his part.  

The sound of her yo-yo opening reverberates around him, and then it’s deafening stillness again. It’s his signal to act. 

He whispers, “Cata—”

“Please eat.” 

He still doesn’t want to open his mouth, but he does anyway. Chat Noir opens his eyes and parts his trembling lips. 

Akumabug pushes the spoon into his mouth gently, surprising him. He regards her as his lips slowly wrap around the spoon, and she pulls it out. A burst of flavours colours his mouth when he chews, but everything outside is bland and stale. Except for the tears trickling down one of her cheeks. Huh?

He swallows, “Ladybug?” 

“Still won’t call me your Lady, huh?” She sniffs as she rolls another ball of spaghetti onto the spoon and brings it to his mouth. 

He pushes the spoon away with his cheek and peers at her, “Buguinette, what’s wrong?”  

Eyes wide, she stares at him with a slightly open mouth. 

“Buguinette?” 

“You haven’t called me that in a while…” 

“I—”

She grabs his cheeks to open his mouth, pushes the spoon into his mouth again, and releases her hand as soon as he bites. 

He quickly gulps and tries to get her attention again, but she shoves another spoonful into his mouth as soon as he opens his mouth. 

A smile returns to her face; her body posture exudes contentment. The way she smiles is so familiar, he almost forgets that she’s currently not his Lady. God, this isn’t his Lady!! Chat Noir racks his mind for what he can do. How he can get rid of the Akuma. But he has no idea where to even find the Akuma. 

“What a kitten,” she suddenly giggles, “you’ve made a mess of yourself. Let me clean that for you.” 

Chat Noir expects her to create a serviette out of thin air, but instead, she leans into his space, and he jerks backwards as soon as he feels something wet touch the skin next to his lips. 

He stares at her, feeling his eyeballs about to pop out of their sockets and his face hot. He can’t believe she just did that. 

She raises a brow, moving towards him again. 

“Wait!” 

She grins at his reaction. “What a rare sight. Is mon Chaton shy? It’s just a lick, we do this all the time.” 

“What?!”

She grabs the back of his neck to stop him from moving. 

“Please, don’t,” he begs as she moves in. 

The glee is still on her face. “Oh well, since you asked so nicely,” she pulls back and summons a serviette from her hand. “I can at the very least wipe it off of you, hmm, Chaton?” 

Chat Noir inhales and slowly nods. Akumabug beams as she once again gets into his space, this time climbing effortlessly onto his lap. Her index finger reaches for the bottom of his chin and tilts his head upwards as though evaluating him. The other hand dabs on the excess tomato sauce on his skin, and the tightness in his chest makes its presence known again. 

“There, all clean!” She boops his nose. “It would’ve been so much more fun if I could lick those off though.” 

Chat Noir whimpers. 

“I’m just teasing!” she pats his head. “Wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable now, would we?” She smiles. 

Her smile is really starting to get unsettling. “Er… right…” 

She removes her hand and goes back to sit right across him, in the same manner as he first saw her. 

“Why are you grinning like that?” He decides that her smile is sinister now. 

“Hmm? Because you’re amusing.” 

Chat Noir raises an eyebrow. “I’m not doing anything but staring at you?” 

“Oh? You sure that’s all you’re doing, Minou? Aren’t you trying to think of something to get me to give up my Akuma?” She says as she stalks over again to sit near him on the table, eyes never leaving him. 

His eyes widen a little and she cackles. “Oh, what a cute little kitten.”

Akumabug once again reaches out to him and pats his head. “Don’t worry your pretty head over this, Chaton.” 

He tries to say something, but she cuts him.

“I’m still Ladybug.” 

“Monarch akumatised you! You even admitted that you have an Akuma!” 

She tilts her head and considers him. 

“You must’ve hurt your head pretty badly.” 

“Huh??” That’s what she got from that?

She moves closer and ruffles his hair softly, until a sharp pain erupts from the back of his head. She must’ve caught him scrunching his nose because she immediately jerks her hand away. “Shit, it wasn’t enough.” Akumabug looks at the plate of cold spaghetti and starts mixing again. “You need food to gain more energy, Chat Noir.”

“Ladybug,” he rasps softly and she looks at him. “What’s going on, really?” 

“You really don’t remember?” 

He shakes his head lightly, but quickly stops as the pounding gets harder. “Argh…” 

Chat Noir hears Akumabug snap her fingers again, he peeks and catches a glimpse of a first aid box on the table. 

“It’s going to hurt for a while, Chat Noir,” she informs as she comes closer again. “Bear with me.” 

“What are you…” 

“I’m going to use some alcohol swabs to disinfect the area, then I’ll use my superpower to enhance the healing process.” 

“You can… do that?”

“Creations of new cells. It won’t heal perfectly now, but the road to recovery will definitely be a lot quicker.” 

Chat Noir looks at her, “Talk to me about what happened to distract me from the pain?” 

The seriousness on her face dissipates, quickly replaced with a smile. God, she looks so beautiful. Even as Akumabug, her determination never wavers. That’s what made him fall in love in the first place. 

She leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek, and cackles as his expression morphs into disbelief once again. 

“Right, so you must know I was fighting Monarch, to end up in this state right? And because we’re a team, you’re always there with me.” 

He hisses when she applies pressure on the spot. “Yeah?” 

“Well, basically you got flung across the room and hit your head real hard.” She stops her movement. “Must’ve cracked some bones, I’ve never heard anything like it.” 

She hovers her hands lightly over his wound and begins her magic. “So he went into this whole monologue, something something final battle with me, something something ‘I’m doing this for my family’. Whatever he said affected me so much that he thought he could make use of my emotions against me. Well, wrong move! I took him out and here we are.”

“But—” 

“That’s really all you need to know, Chat Noir. Now just relax, I’m going to hasten the healing process.” The pain—on both his head and neck—increases for a while before dulling.

Once Akumabug removes her hands from him, she turns around and takes the plate of spaghetti again. 

“Please Ladybug, I don’t think I can eat anymore.”

She looks between him and the plate and puts it down. 

“Alright. Since you don’t want to eat, how about some dessert? Everyone has space for dessert! And you still need to heal.” She begins walking away to god knows where. 

There’s really no way to reach out to Akumabug, huh? She doesn’t seem to understand what he meant when he said he can’t eat anymore. His appetite doesn’t exist anymore as long as she’s like that. 

And this is really the time to use his Cataclysm if he ever wants a chance to escape. However, it’s a risk now that he can’t concentrate well. Not with the slight pounding in his head. 

Besides, there’s something that’s been nagging at him ever since he regained consciousness.  

And suddenly, he remembers. 

He hears Akumabug’s footsteps getting closer and closer. She walks past him, a huge plate with a cloche in her hands. She drops the plate on the table and it lands so roughly that he’s surprised everything still looks as presentable as she had first held them. 

Her fingers reach for the knob. “Do you want to know what his last moments were like?” 

That. 

A chill runs down his spine. The intensity of her gaze reveals that she’ll accept no other answer but yes. 

Chat Noir gulps. 

“Wha… What did you do?” 

“Ah, I still relish in his screams and his blood on my face as each slash tore through his skin.” Her eyes brighten as she recounts. “Dangling the illusion of being able to get away from me right in front of him, as I slowly walked after him and he got further and further away. The desperation of his panting increasing as he kept going, but found no escape anywhere. My presence constantly overshadowed him, waiting to pounce. The sweet despair in his eyes when he finally realised that he had nowhere to run. The final sensation of the metal gliding across flesh, and the satisfaction of witnessing it rolling, until it comes to a stop at my feet.” 

The pounding headache has come back in full force, and he tries to breathe deeply to calm his heart that’s slamming against his rib cage. But he can’t. He can’t do anything. His body has chosen ‘freeze’ as the optimal response to what’s happening around him.

Akumabug bites her lower lip, as though she’s really eager to show him something within the cloche as she slowly lifts it away from the plate. 

“I hope you enjoy your dessert.” 

His breathing quickens. She raises the cloche open but Chat Noir slams his eyes shut and screams, “No!” 

When all he can hear is his loud panting, he slowly peeks open his eyes to glance at the plate. 

A cake like any other. 

“Sheesh, I’m not that crazy.” She proceeds to throw the cloche high in the air, and it hits something as she walks back to her seat.

Chat Noir looks up—to see Monarch hanging from the ceiling. 

He whips his head back down to his lap. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening! Shit shit shit! What happened to push one of the kindest and most loving souls he knew to this length? 

What was it!! 

“…Adrien?” 

Chat Noir tenses. He directs his attention to her, a pleasant smile now present on her face, but she isn’t looking at him. Rather, she’s looking at her palm. 

“I asked,” she repeats nonchalantly, “how’s Adrien?” 

He remains dumbstruck. What is even happening anymore? 

“Is he fine? Is he coping well? How’s he feeling?” She looks up from her palms and at him.  

“Wha— Why would I know how he's doing?” 

“Because,” Akumabug approaches him and gently takes his left hand. Chat Noir allows her to stretch his palms open—holding them out as though she had just proposed and he had said yes—and pushes two rings he knows very well onto his ring finger. 

“He’s you.” 

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