#like. come on at least once he wakes up from Blood Haze

[the-faultofdaedalus]

see i’m not even that mad that astarion killed me, it’s more the fact that when morning came i was still dead, somehow in my clothes, and everyone else was just wandering around ignoring my dead body. like no one checked???? not even a little pulse check? SOMEONE put my clothes back on, and then he’s just “oh, well you’re fine now” I HAD TO BURN A REVIVE SCROLL! i had to manually control gale to use one of his to wake myself back up! the death isn’t the part im annoyed about! it’s the not doing anything about it!

[unholyhelbig]

I just want to say I'm already hooked on the beast you made me. I can't wait for the next chapter!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 2/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 5151

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, animal bones, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Thank you all for the overwelming support on the first chapter! I truly didn't expect that much reception. I'm going to be traveling for the next week so the next chapter might be delayed a bit]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

1917, Rural Pennsylvania

A sweeping river cut through the patch of sweetgrass on the south side of the farm. It emitted a gurgling sound that often soothed your nerves. There was a rocky clearing sandwiched between the tree line and the plain of grass that had become a perfect spot for you to settle in and read the hard-covered books you’d gotten from the corner store.

Your father would bring back any book you requested from the city during his travels. You devoured them faster than he could provide them and had read ‘Eight Cousins’ ,Lousia May Alcott’s foray into the adventures thirteen-year-old Rose, enough to nearly tear the pages from the binding.

The book itself held the clean honeyed scent of the earth, of the secluded spot that you called your own. Your muscles would thrum from loading the bales of hay into your fathers ford. Your fingers were calloused, and dirt caked around your ankle in a dark ring. All of that vanished when you cracked open the book about a girl that was so much like yourself.

It was easy to lose yourself in the paragraphs, the hum of the river sometimes lulling you to sleep. Your mother would pack you a sandwich on warm, hand-kneaded bread, usually some salted meat and mayonnaise. She’d pack sweet tea and send you on your way, knowing that you wouldn’t return to the house until you saw a flicker of a firefly.

Today, you’d fallen asleep under the sun. The book was discarded, and your forearm draped across your eyes. It was easy to drift, and easier still to dream about leaving the small dairy farm for something bigger- the very city that your father would return from with new literature and arts, and spices that made your mouth buzz with flavor.

You were in a haze when the ear-piercing scream cut through the air as if it were a natural solid. Your ears pinched at the sound, heels digging into the coarse sandy shore. Maybe it was a dream. It could have been an animal that had sunk its pointed teeth into the artery of another.

So, you waited, panting with your heart in your chest and the corner of the book barely lapped by the muddied water. And there was this sound. It was no fox caught in a trap or bovine tangled up in the barbed wire fence around the property- no, this was familiar. This was your sister.

Helena was quiet, often described as demure and borderline submissive. Despite being younger than yourself she carried a certain poise about her. Mother would often boast about how she would have no trouble finding a husband, how the boys already fawned over the child of hers that was not feral and unkempt.

Her cry was the loudest you had ever heard her and it had you on your feet, scrambling up the bank. Once past your small world of wonder, you were greeted with an endless sea of sweetgrass that was waist high in some areas.

A warm breeze created waves against the landscape, the farmhouse a small speck among the expanse of land. Your head was spinning, it was hard to track exactly where it had come from. It took another cracking screech to set you North.

Your legs pumped until you were consumed in a blind speed. You’d been renowned for your quickness, for your dedication to get from point A to point B. The kids in your town often joked that you were steadier than a steed. Not only were you the fastest in the class, but the fastest in the county according to some. Still- only a child of fifteen, and no man would want to wed someone with speed. It wasn’t a practical skill.

There was a pit deep in your stomach whirled, instinct knowing precisely where Helena was yowling from.

Jorge had gotten there at the same time you did; his brow was leaking with sweat and he panted against the hot air that surrounded you both. Your older brother was tall and lanky, serpent-like with beady black eyes and pitch hair to match your father’s. His shirt hung low against his midsection, his skin pale despite his hours in the sun working the fields.

“Stay back, y/n.” He demanded sharply.

The old well was a mere foot in front of you both but neither made the effort to move forward. The aged wooden plank that covered the stone shaft had been splintered through the middle, worn from age and weather.

Helena’s soft cries echoed up. When your father had first acquired the property, the previous owners explained that it had been boarded up after of the bulls had fallen down and snapped it’s neck. It was too large to pull out and they left it to starve and then rot.

Your father never let any of his children peer down into the well. You wondered if something had pulled Helena here, or if she had simply forgotten of it’s existence. Jorge dropped down to his knees and did a cautious crawl as if his own two feet couldn’t’ hold him anymore.

You saw the exact moment his skin became waxier, almost a gray porcelain paleness that had a green tint. He was swallowing too much, his white shirt coated in the red clay dirt.

“What?” You asked, voice breaking “What is it?”

“Go get Mama.”

It would have been easy to listen to your brother. He was the man of the house when your father wasn’t there but with him pleading for your mother, for an adult, you got a rancid taste in your mouth.

Against your better judgement you edged close enough to the abandoned well. The sun was setting in a fire-filled orange haze with enough color and angle to get a good view of the bottom; a slosh of fallen grass and rainwater, and muck, and yes; the bones of a beast once left to decay and rot in its own silence.

Your sister was wedged within the ribcage of the befallen bull, almost as if she replaced the beating heart that stopped pulsing long ago. Her hands gripped at the sun-bleached bone, knuckles nearly the same color.

It took you a moment to make out the slick, and the red that stemmed from the center of her stomach. The head of the bull had shattered under her weight, all expect the stretching length of it’s curved horn. That was wedged through her abdomen, surrounded in a vibrant rose red that puddled and had already coated her hands.

Prints from her struggle were against the limestone edges of the well. Her eyes pleaded up at you; your kind and caring, and animal-loving sister was trapped inside the remains of one. You fought back the urge to vomit, the rash thought that if the bone ripping through her flesh didn’t kill her, then infection would.

“Y/n get mama!” Jorge hissed again, and this time you didn’t hesitate. You nearly tripped over your own boots with the fever it took to back away from the scene, the metallic scent of blood mixing deliciously with the turn of rotted soil.

You had never run so fast in your life.

Wanda Maximoff had never felt the cold that wormed its way to her bones before. It was the type of cold that almost wasn’t, a stinging, horrible feeling that had her startled from the folded metal chair. It collapsed within itself as the blinked the wine-dark color from her eyes.

She stumbled backward, only to be brought back to the starkness of the room by a soft grip on her elbow. Wanda allowed herself to be held, if not for stability but for comfort. Steve Rodgers had a welcoming hand on the small of her back, the other steadying her.

He was a solid force, and her reaction stirred him.

“Fuck,” the expletive fell from her lips, “Jesus Christ.”

There was quietness to the room in the aftershock of the fallen chair. It was nicer than a standard holding cell. The walls were cream colored, triple enforced to keep people like you inside. There was a bed bolted to the wall, a bunk that was almost like a summer camp endeavor.

A charged glass wall was blocking you from the rest of the world. It was seemingly unbreakable, and in this moment, so were you. Wanda didn’t want to test the glass, nor did she know how to make sense of the memories- your memories- that had flooded every inch of her body.

You were asleep, chest rising and falling at a normal pace, as if none of what Wanda had just seen was flitting around your mind. Soft snores pushed past your lips, one arm hanging over the side of the bed while the other followed the flow of your breathing as it rested on your chest.

Wanda didn’t understand the secrecy and the precaution that surrounded you. The Avengers compound was a constant ebb and flow of different heroes, Inhumans and mutants. What made you so different? What made you an 0-8-4?

It was a term that Natasha had used only once that was usually attached to objects, not a person. It was an object of unknown origin and in that case, it was a power-filled object from space. Space. She’d been through different dimensions, but that, for some reason, struck her as terrifying.

0-8-4’s were never brought here, but then again, they’d never been alive either. Steve had told her that your energy signal was off the charts, and that they wanted her to dig around your head. Something that she denied doing at first. It was an invasion of privacy.

But, there was a certain pleading within Captain America’s eyes that scared Wanda more than the personal rules she set for herself when it came to her power. What she had seen, what she had felt was barely scraping the surface of what your mind contained. She wasn’t keen on pushing past that barrier for the conclusion of that story. Was it even yours?

“What? Wanda, what is it?”

“I… I don’t” She shook her head, eyes hardening as she stared into Steve’s “Where did you find her?”

He hesitated to answer, his eyebrows furrowing before he looked away from the witches’ prying eyes. She’d been part of this team for years now and they were still reluctant with what they were willing to share. Wanda clenched her jaw, then unclenched it before her stare flashed back to your resting form.

There was a small frown that creased your features. You looked so… harmless. You had shifted, folded into yourself as if you were scratching the surface of what flashed before her. Your arm was folded under your head, knees flush to your chest. A small, beautiful whimper escaped you.

“She’s in distress, Steve.”

“Discomfort, more like. It’s better for all of us that she stays in there for right now. The last thing we want to do is harm anyone but if that requires some temporary-“

“Imprisonment?”

“Containment.” He said firmly, eyes hard. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest but stayed silent, letting him continue. She was sure she wouldn’t have been asked if not for her ability to worm her way into minds, to rearrange things. “What did you see?”

“A memory, one that can’t possibly be hers. The timeline doesn’t fit, this is a woman in her mid-twenties and who I saw was barely a teenager on a farmstead. To experience that much tragedy, that much fear and heartache.”

She started to pace, trying to not only work through her own thoughts, but yours as well. It could have been a story, and she was convinced of the fact save for the vividness. There was the feeling of grass tickling her arms and the sharp, undeniable stench of blood.

“Her younger sister died, fell through some rotted wood and fell to her death.” Wanda’s fingers pressed against the edge of her hairline. “She could have lived, but I have my doubts.”

He lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at her. His expression betrayed his compassion towards you, his stance uncomfortable with the topic. While the revelation was heartbreaking it hardly made you extraordinary. They’d all lost people, none had stirred Wanda as you did.

Wanda’s stare found his after darting to you once more, “Steve, I have the sinking feeling that what I saw was only scratching the surface. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of memories that were pressing in on all sides.”

The sensation of being observed is what pulled you from your fitful sleep. Exhaustion had washed over you like a tidal wave, all at once and leaving your mouth dry like a spoonful of salt. There was a stiffness that rivaled that of the grave you’d crawled out of, and you hoped that it was all a dream.

You were in your bed, in your apartment, after having one too many drinks. It was a horrible stretching nightmare that had plunged you into one sea of darkness from another. But even you weren’t that naïve.

Just as you felt a stranger’s eyes on you now, you had felt the dirt under your nails, the cold sodium-filled takeout as you attempted to chew it. More than anything, you remembered the burning feeling of the Black Widow pressed fully against your back, bending you over Jenn’s kitchen counter.  

“I would prefer if you kept the feeling of my wife’s body against yours out of your mind.”

You shot up with a dizzying amount of quickness, heart suddenly in your chest. There was an imbalance to the bed that you were laying on. It was smaller than your own and unfamiliar. The room was stark white. It hurt your eyes and you had to blink the color away. You pressed the heels of your palms close to your eyes.

It felt as if you were locked in a glass shower with an audience and stage lights. The more you looked, the more you realized it was a room, something with no personal effects but a bed and a dimmer switch that you itched to utilize.

A pitcher of water was on an end table. It wasn’t color exactly, but it was more than the rest of your surroundings. Possibly with the worst manners you’d ever exhibited, you drank straight from the pitcher, not remembering the last time you had a drink. Suddenly, you were parched enough to soak your collar.

Despite your audience, you continued until you felt your stomach protest. You used the back of your hand to wipe away the moisture, black dirt was smeared across your skin. It was then, and only then, that you forced yourself to look past the walls of your prison, your enclosure.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” The woman said, walking close to the glass. You could see her clearly now, there was an heir of recognition about her, in the same way that there had been with the Black Widow.

“You were in my head.”

“For a while. It’s my job. But your thoughts are also deafening.”

“Sorry,”

This woman was intoxicating. Alluring and beautiful in her presence. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt hugging her form. You weren’t positive what time it was- what day it was- but it could be late into the night. She looked like she was roused from sleep, and a part of you felt guilty for the fact.

“Don’t apologize, sweetie.” Her voice was much more tender than it had been a few moments ago. “You can’t control being brought back from the dead. A lot of trauma comes with that.”

You stood shakily and walked closer to the glass. They’d taken your shoes and the tile under your feet was frigid. You crossed your arms over your chest and shivered into yourself. You didn’t want to think about the fact that they had undressed you, probably taken your clothes for testing. Instead they left you in a blue set of scrubs.

You averted your stare from your own reflection, not willing or ready to look too hard. You’d much rather look at this stranger, your heart not slowing, your head pounding. Nothing but a simple pane of glass separated you.

“And I was brought back from the dead, wasn’t I? That wasn’t a fucked-up dream where I got hit by a car and then poof God, if there is one, decided that me of all people was worth bringing back.”

She lilted her head, quirked an amusing brow at you. A chill flushed down your spine and seemed to fizzle out at your toes. This woman was gorgeous and terrifying and made you want to squirm. But if this was prison, you had to assert dominance. Right? That’s what Wentworth taught you.

This cell didn’t look or feel like Wentworth, and this Warden had an amused smile tacked to her lips like she had heard your every thought. And she had. At least you assumed that she did. She’d mentioned her wife earlier, and the woman’s body against your own was plaguing you like a runaway freight train.

When she didn’t say anything, you clawed to fill the silence “I want to talk to Bruce.”

“Bruce? Honey, he’s off world.”

“Off… world.” You laughed, softly at first but then almost manically, tears forming in your eyes that you wiped away with your cold fingers. “No, no, that’s really cool. I worked a 9-5 and now I can’t talk to Bruce because he’s in Outer Space.”

“Maybe not outer space, maybe another dimension.”

You leveled her with a humorless glare. She had both of her hands up as if she wanted to comfort you, or the caged animal you had become. You had to give her credit, she seemed just as horrified as you were. She offered up a dim, faltering smile.

There wasn’t a way for you to process this in a gentle manner, there was no one to guide you through it other than Jenn. She’d done this before, lived a whole life that was flipped upside-down and she’d come out on the other side. It was the uncertainty that scared the hell out of you.

“You were in my head earlier,” You stopped suddenly, pressing your fingers against the glass. The woman didn’t flinch. Your frantic breath fogged with each exhalation. “Do you know why I came back?”

She shook her head, “No. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” A weak chuckle, you let your hands drop. “At least we’re on the same page.”

The nurse they allowed to enter through the side of the containment unit took cautious steps towards you that made your chest ache. All your life, people had said how welcoming and kind you were; how they were never afraid to come to you with their worries. It had bothered you before the incident, before your death, but now you missed seeing the stare of those who didn’t harbor any fear.

She was small, a mouse of a thing that had pale blonde hair and startling blue eyes. Her name tag read Julia. Your mind rushed with the paths she’d taken to this place. She must be interning here, much too young to hold a classification herself.

Your finger twitched on your knee, palm sweaty. It’s heat radiated through the thin blue fabric of the pants they’d provided you with. You hated needles, always had. But, you struggled to stay still and the effect that had on poor nurse Julia was making you fidget more.

There was a scent about her. It was under the layers of hairspray, nail polish, and shea butter. It was a sweet metal that made your stomach swirl. Was it her sweat? You’d never smelt anything past walking by the bomb that was the boys locker room, and it certainly had never been this tantalizing before.

Your eyes met hers, crystal blue and uncertain. “You’ll just feel a little pinch”

This is when you pulled your gaze back and instead focused on the cream colored walls. There was no problem with needles, you’d dutifully sit for your flu shots, but something about the sharp edge pushing through a layer of skin and fat before hitting your vein made you nauseous.

“We just need enough to run a few tests.” Julia soothed.

She was a normal nurse in that one, small way. Your mind was itching, blood seeming to congeal. It refused to cooperate and her burning touch was all but dominant against your skin. You both waited for the small tube to fill with black liquid. 

Finally, you felt her press the gauze against the crook of your arm and withdraw the needle. Another small pinch and then a massive relief. Her smell hung around you and filled the room. There was an undeniable urge to sink your teeth into her. To taste her.

You’d stopped the elevator just hours before to assess your penchant for brain consumption, but this wasn’t that. This was an intoxicating pull. This was animalistic, the same rush of emotion that had flooded you without prompting during your earlier conversation.

Julia squeezed your shoulder calmly, not entirely over her own reservations, but on the penance that she was a nurse and this was her job. You kept yourself rooted to the bed, fingers digging into the wood. She left the room and you could hear the compressed lock reseal you inside, breathing a sigh of relief.

That sweet odor lingered, and your reaction to it scared you more than anything. The wood beneath your fingertips splintered, and suddenly that anger, that fear, rolled away to shock. That wasn’t… normal. None of this was normal, but you weren’t exactly picked first in sports either.

You were a middle kid, a I guess I wouldn’t mind having you on my team kid. Suddenly your fingers were cutting through wood like it was butter. You let out an indignant squeak and shifted the blanket until the slashes were covered.

“Is everything alright?”

Wanda, you had learned that her name was Wanda, occupied her usual spot in front of the window. A slick sweat covered your forehead. She was holding a small tray that had a steaming bowl of soup and a delicious hunk of French bread.

“I figured you were hungry,” She lifted her chin towards the panel next to your door. “May I?”

“I’m at your mercy.”

And you were, truly. You hadn’t seen anyone but her since you’d woken up. There were shadows of others, people that made the pit in the center of your stomach grow three sizes. You knew exactly what they were doing, you watched enough true crime with Jennifer to know.

Here was this beautiful and powerful woman offering you food and words of comfort, and you allowed yourself to fall for all of it. Listlessly. Because what did you have to lose? You’d already died, and the thought of putting your family through the heartache of resurrection and then possibly enough committal to the ground was too much.

So, let her Stockholm syndrome you. The food smelled divine.

Wanda didn’t hold the same fear that Julia had. In fact, once the compression of air signified that it was okay for her to enter, she did so without hesitation. She set the food down on the equally dull side table and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, making herself at home.

She’d changed into a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt that had the outline of SHIELD on its sleeve. You frowned, for a company that does everything in its power to keep itself hidden, they sure loved that stupid bird so much.

“Go on, sweetie. You can eat.”

Wanda had a command about her that made you fold and listen despite any reservations. You took up a spot on the far end of the bed and shoveled the first spoonful into your mouth. An explosion of heady flavors coated your tongue, coaxing a low moan from your lips.

Blush rushed to your cheeks at the spark in the set of stormy eyes that watched you like a hawk. You rushed to break the tension. “So, what’s the plan here? Run a bunch of tests and keep me locked up?”

“Somewhat.” She paused, carefully thinking of her next words. “Y/n, I have the ability to get inside the psyche. Not only can I read every thought, every action, but I can control them too. It’s not something I like to do, nor something I want to. Not without permission.”

You frowned again. You certainly hadn’t given her permission to enter your mind before, and she tensed at the realization. But, you took another bite of soup and swallowed down the spiced broth. What’s done was done. You didn’t expect her to ask, much less admit to her wrongdoing.

“I prefer to ask. Can you tell me what you do for work?”

“Paralegal, the bar seemed like too much stress. But I’m good at my job. I was good at my job before a car turned me into sidewalk art.”

“Right, and your family, what about them?”

There was no desire to think of them and their perfect lives that you’d shattered with your death. Your mother used to sit in the tepid air on the porch swing, downing a glass of wine before she turned to you with tears in her eyes. She’d urge you to be careful working in the city. She’d plead for you to come home. More than anything, she’d utter the phrase a mother should never outlive her daughter.

“My mother is a seventh grade biology teacher and my father runs a painting business that’s been operating my whole life. They’re not very exciting people. They must be worried sick about me.”

Wanda nodded, “Any siblings?”

“Not anymore.”

She stilled at your words and didn’t pry. You were well aware of the fact that she could push through your deflections and learn the information that she wanted to know. But, you respected that she didn’t. Instead, she stared at you, and you stared right back, suddenly not hungry.

Wanda was someone that you felt the need to open-up to. Unlike the brief encounter you had had with her wife. Not that you let that word stick with you, not in the same way that her touch did. Again, you had to push the thoughts to the back of your mind, even if Wanda wasn’t prying.

Instead, she placed a warm hand on your thigh, sending a wave of shivers through your body. You suppressed a whimper at the sudden contact.

“I had a brother named Pietro. He was fast, unnaturally so. Neither of us ever wanted to be heroes, we didn’t think about the future like that. So, when the Avengers, these so-called saviors of the world, recruited us, we knew about the dangers. But it still shocked me when he died. He was my brother. He wasn’t supposed to be fragile like that.”

You stared at her with an amount of tenderness in your eyes that she wasn’t used to from the others. They cared, sure, but in the way that a co-worker would care enough to purchase cut flowers and a ‘sorry for your loss’ card. You were different.

“They’re our protectors.” You swallowed hard, mouth dry “when something drastic happens, it doesn’t seem real.”

“It still doesn’t.”

There was a lapse of silence that pushed memories in your direction. The burning cold weather on the day your own brother had died. You remember the scream that died in your throat and the way you’d knelt in the cracked snow until you couldn’t’ feel your legs or your fingers. It took an EMT with a heated blanket and a horror story about hypothermia to pull you to your feet.

“Jonathan.” You whispered.

She let out a questioning hum, pulling her feet from the floor and making herself more comfortable on the less-than-comfortable bed. “Your brother?”

“My older brother. I followed him around like a lost puppy, but he never complained. He was a hockey player and a damn good one too. He’d use the lake behind our house in Jersey to practice and one winter the ice broke underneath him. He drowned, and I was too weak to save him.”

Wanda let out a shuddered breath. You couldn’t read her facial expression. It was a mix of confusion, or sadness, but not pity and that was something you appreciated. You’d had enough pity, just as your family had enough grief without you adding to it.

She opened her mouth to reply, but both of you were startled when three quick knocks shattered the silence. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, stood on the other side. She showed no interest in breeching the containment unit. Instead, she leveled her wife with a dark stare and held up a folded piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” Wanda whispered, giving your leg a settling squeeze.

She left the plate and exited the holding cell. Her words were muffled, but those unripe green eyes that Natasha possessed kept flicking to you nervously. She too, didn’t’ show pity. It was interest and if you were being honest, you thought you saw the smallest spark of fear.

Wanda took the paper from her wife, squinted at something you couldn’t’ see. You felt like you were at a parent teacher conference, just out of bounds of hearing but you could see their body language; the way that Natasha itched to move closer to Wanda, the fingers that the taller woman pressed to her lips, thumb creasing the paper.

Finally, Wanda turned back towards the glass. Natasha met your stare without issue, hitting the intercom on the other side of the cell. It was her who spoke, her raspy voice falling from the speaker.

“In the spirit of transparency, we want to be honest with you about your blood results.”

You stood from the bed, moving to one side of the barrier. They were intimidating like that, standing shoulder to shoulder with a natural beauty. It made you want to shrink. If not for the paper in their hands you would have curled into yourself at the sight.

“Don’t tell me I’m dying.”

“No, honey.” Wanda shook her head, “Quite the opposite, you’re getting stronger.”

“I don’t understand.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow and pressed the paper against the glass so you could read it. None of it made sense, it was lines of DNA that looked like musical notes. You shook your head, giving her a confused look.

Natasha scoffed, peeling the paper from the surface of glass. Wanda bit her thumbnail nervously. “According to these…You’re Asgardian, Kitten.”

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[historiaxvanserra]

Depraved

Pairing: Cassian x female!reader

Description: On a reconnaissance mission deep in the Illyrain Mountains you and Cassian come under the spell of some strange and exotic plant that sees you both subject to your basest desires.

Word count: 5.3K (ish)

Warnings: 18+ only! this wasn’t a request it’s just shameless smut with a smidge of plot (unedited sex pollen fic, dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, kind of dubcon but not really, etc).

For my fellow Cassian girlies. this is kind of a hot mess but honestly at least i'm writing something.

The winter sun is sinking low into the western horizon when Cassian motions for you to fall to your knees beside him. It’s depraved the way you drop to the floor wordlessly as Cassian towers over you, his large frame concealing the last slivers of sunlight as they give way to the rapidly falling night. 

“How we doin’ this, then, General?” you ask, peering through the thicket of blackberry bushes and into the small encampment nestled into the depths of the valley. There are three Illyrian’s gathered around the campfire and two flanking the makeshift entrance to the north. 

Cassian seems to be lost, somewhere distant and far away. Abandoned to the hazy recollections of warfare and bloodshed. He wears blood well you think. Carries the weight of war with the deference and respect it deserves. 

Still, he looks peaceful then. Despite the storm raging inside of him. He wears peace  well too; the sulk of his lips and the straight slope of his nose and fine-high cheekbones give the impression he was carved by the first Gods. Primordial and celestial.

He is as good as a God himself in this light-- the way the burnt sienna of the winter sun reflects in his hazel eyes. They look like molten gold. 

Your heart is thunderous in your heaving chest as he finally turns to you and offers you his large, broad hand. It’s rough against the smooth silk of your palm and his fingers flex around your wrist in a way that makes heat coil in the lowest parts of your stomach and the leathers you’re wearing cling to your skin in a way that is not all together uncomfortable. 

“Are you even listening to me, princess?” Cassian huffs running a hand over his face, leaving a smear of dried blood in his wake.

“I’d pay good money to know what goes on in that pretty little head of yours.” He muses.

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” You say smiling wide at him. It’s only half-teasing. 

Cassian watches you curiously as you begin to readjust your thigh holster and reach for your Illyrian daggers in an futile attempt to distract yourself from his shameless flirting.

“You’re the second prettiest girl I know,”

“Only the second?” You say feigning offense and bringing a hand to rest on your chest. 

“Az is the first, obviously.” 

“Obviously, Azriel is the prettiest person I know too.” You tease, catching his eye. 

The smile. No. Smirk, that spreads across his face then is full of devilment and harmless flirtation as he pulls you closer to his side in a sidelong hug. 

“And here I thought I was the prettiest.” he says, nudging you playfully.

Once again his eye hone in on the group gathered around the campfire in the dip of the valley. The way his face sets so beautifully as he takes the time to calculate his next move is enough to take your breath away. He is utterly devastating you think. 

“I say we go in quietly,” he nods to you as he unsheaths his dagger from its holster. “Take ‘em by surprise.”

You nod slowly in understanding and agreement as you follow him into the thicket. 

You sink low and take a fighting stance as you begin the descent down the side of the valley with Cassian in tow who only laughs and huffs pulling at his own knife. 

No more than ten minutes later you’re both caught up in the fray, the dusky haze of combat falling over the encampment and the roaring of the campfire and Cassian’s deep primal shouts permeate the darkness.

You hoist yourself up from the floor with a flourish and flip your assailant onto his back in the mud as a determined elbow braces the nose of the Illyrian below you. His wings flare and flail helplessly under you in an attempt to free himself as your knife meets his chest. 

He goes limp in your grip as the sickening squelch of blood and bone echoes in the night air. You pull your knife from him with a grimace as his blood spurts and pools on the soiled bedroll. 

Standing on unsteady feet you’re surrounded by bodies; an assortment of splintered bone and broken glass, set against the backdrop of the velvet night. 

Cassian comes to stand by your side, taking in your disheveled appearance. His large hand comes to hold you by the hip while the other brushes your hair from your face as he murmurs praises quietly. When you have regained your breath he pats you twice on the shoulder before leaving you with a firm squeeze. 

There’s an uncertain tenderness in the way he regards you in the haze of battle that always catches you off guard. As though the fine line between friends and lovers is itself blurred. You can’t say you mind it. Sometimes it is this tender and rough version of him that warms you through winter nights. The fleeting memory of this version of Cassian is enough to sate your wanting. 

When you look at him he’s coated in a thin veil of sweat and you swear you can hear his heart hammering in his heaving chest. His wings slump and strain in fatigue as he allows his body to falter in a state of near-exhaustion.

The reprieve is short lived when three more Illyrian brutes armed to the nines come trailing through the northern gate. All bared teeth and snarling fury. 

“Shit!” You curse under your breath and catch Cassian’s glowing hazel eyes. 

He looks feral in the moonlight as his eyes survey the three bodies approaching the encampment. His smile is wicked and glinting against the dark, his hair is wind-beaten and unruly, and his muscled chest draws in heavy, labored breaths as he struggles against his own exhaustion. 

Even so, he is beautiful. And deadly.

“You got one more fight in you, big guy?” you say to Cassian regarding him warily as the three men approach.

“I should be offended you even felt the need to ask.” he says, smiling wickedly at you before charging head first into one of the three soldiers while the other two begin to circle like vultures as you descend upon them. 

The soldier underneath Cassian shouts orders to his comrades but is quickly drowned out by the sickening crack of his neck as Cassian cradles his softening body in his strong arms. 

In a flurry of movement you attack one of the other assailants with a fierce determination that sends you both tumbling to the ground in a violent struggle as you grapple with him. It takes a few moments but once he is disarmed you overpower him with a rehearsed ease as your dagger kisses his neck and you watch as his flesh gives way and his blood oozes hot and thick against the gravel.

You take a moment to gather your wits again, feeling slightly disoriented as you pry yourself away from the thicket of flowering bushes you had landed in before you see Cassian again. 

A sudden rush of wind and a flash of movement that your eyes follow instinctively as Cass falls into view. He’s sprawled face down in the dirt near the bushes on the west side of the encampment, two bodies at either side of him. 

Unmoving and silent. 

Worry pools in your stomach when Cassian does not roll over with his signature smile on his face, the one that makes you weak in the knees. Instead he stays there, in the first, eerily still. 

“Shit, Cassie” you ask, throat hoarse and you hand on your hip as you catch your breath, “You alive over there?”

Only Cassian doesn’t respond. He’s hunched over in the thicket of ferns and blackthorn bushes. You can hear his breaths, broken and ragged, as they come in sporadic succession. 

Tentatively, you sink to your knees beside him. Still he doesn’t move. Your heart hammers violently in your chest and a wave of nausea washes over you. When he turns to face you.

His brows are drawn together and his full lips sulk before pulling into a frown as he holds a small flowering plant in his large, calloused hands. He’s sheened in a thin veil of sweat and you can hear the fluttering of his heart in his heaving chest. 

He lets the flower fall limply in his hand.

It’s an unusual little thing.

Tender stemmed and pale pink petals that split open to reveal chartreuse orbs of pollen. 

The air is cloyingly sweet, like candied rhubarb and honey.

You blink a few times as the word begins to falter around you and you fall to your knees in the mud. 

The world spins on its axis and blurs at its edges as the white spots cloud your vision momentarily. 

By the time you come to night has fallen over the camp casting the world in amethyst moonglow. 

“Cassie?” You call out into the night.

You take a few moments to gather your wits and survey your surroundings. You’re in the main tent of the enemy camp and for a moment panic sinks low in your stomach, twisting and coiling. There’s heat too.

You’re so hot.

But there is no sun for which to ascribe the terrible heat that blooms in your chest. It runs a steady line from your fluttering heart and pools between your slick thighs.

You rise on unsteady feet from the bedroll and walk out into the night air. It’s cool as it kisses your skin but offers you little relief for the aching heat between your legs.

Cassian is pressed against the wagon in front of the campfire, his skin glows a soft ochre in the firelight and you notice then that he has rid himself of his shirt. The exposed contours of his chest glisten in the light of the flame and he looks haunted.

“Cassie,” you plead as you approach him carefully. Momentarily taken aback by the pure unadulterated need in your tone.

Cassian turns to you suddenly and there is a hypnotic, sinking dread painted on his face as he takes you in. The skin sheened in sweat and the flushed skin on your cheeks and the tips of your breasts. The sporadic rise and fall of  your chest. 

“Stay where you are,” He warns, his arm outstretched to you, “you need to stay away.”

You stop in your tracks for a moment to take him in.

He smells like fir trees and ginger.

“Cass what are you talking abou-” you ask before his voice cuts you off.

“please,” He says through grit teeth, his voice is thunderous and settles in your chest like a lead weight. “Just go!”

“Cass, I-i don’t understand,” your voice softens as you take in the pained expression on his face.

You remain firmly in place, mere feet between your body and his, and you can’t fight the heat that flashes through you then. Nor the ache between your legs as your eyes trail over his chest and toned thighs clad in his leathers. 

Another pained groan from Cassian has you inching further towards him, your hands outstretched in caution as you close the distance between the two of you. 

You lower yourself onto the ground, resting on your knees as you take his chin between your fingers, turning it in your firm grasp. His face, once golden, is pallid and veiled in sweat, his jaw, once set in determination, is slack and the words that leave him are pained. Tained with something darker. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Cassian laughs cruelly, his eyes ardent gold boring into yours before flicking to your lips and then back. His voice is hoarse, and wanting. Animalistic.

“Yo-you need to leave, princess.” He whispers, it’s laden with dark promise as he rasps “or I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

You let go of his chin and fall back onto your knees.

“Stop yourself from doing what, Cass?” you narrow your eyes at him.

Cassian visibly stiffens, the muscles in his broad shoulders tense against you and his whole body seems to follow suit. His fingers flex around nothing, clawing at the floor in an attempt to ground himself as a wave of something washes over him.

The snarl that tears through him is inhuman.

Your trembling hands reach for him, brushing the hairs that stick to his forehead back and away from his face as you whisper reassurances to him. 

“It’s going to be okay, Cass,” You murmur affectionately, “I’m not going to leave you.”

There's desperation in the air as you continue to comfort him through the onslaught of…well, whatever it is. He convulses violently in your hold and only when the convulsing subsides do you place a hand against his bare chest. 

The jolt of electricity you feel as your hand comes to rest against his muscled chest elicits another growl from him. He whines desperately at your touch and heat pools between your thighs once more. 

“You can’t,” he says, taking your hand delicately before pushing you away with such force that it nearly knocks you backwards.

“You can’t touch me like that.” He laughs cruelly as he cards a hand through his damp curls. 

Cassian heaves a heavy breath and releases a broken cry like some sort of wounded animal. He looks utterly undone. 

Your eyes trail him hungrily as heat rises in you again. It’s unbearable the pull you feel to him. The way your body reacts to his. 

It’s then your eyes fall onto his leather clad legs, watching as he palms himself through the skin-tight material in a way that speaks to the pure depravity that clouds your judgment. Shame creeps up on you as your eyes meet. His eyes blown wide and darkening as he tugs his lip between his teeth while another snarl tears through him. 

“Cassian?” you say firmly, drawing his attention to you once more “What is happening?”

You don’t give him leave to stop you as you once again sink to your knees to be by his side, placing a soft palm on the curve of his jaw, forcing him to look at you. Cassian lets his body melt into your touch in response as he lets out a shaky breath that fans your face as his eyes search yours desperately. 

He seems to sober at your touch as the world around him falls into perfect view once more. 

“The flowers,” he says, his voice hoarse and strained, “the-they only grow deep in the Steppes.”

“The flowers?” you repeat tentatively, “What do they do?” you ask. 

“They use them in rituals,” he clarifies, his eyes boring into yours as if willing you to understand. 

When you don’t seem to catch his meaning he breathes deeply before continuing “They lower your inhibitions completely until all that is left is your basest desires.” He stresses the last part hoping to jog your memory.

“Oh.” is all you say as realization settles in your bones and a new wave of arousal washes over you. You squeeze your thighs together hoping to find some temporary relief. But to no avail. 

Cassian seems to go ridgid as the change in the air becomes apparent. It’s electric and heavy charged as he looks to you once more and his eyes glaze over with lust. 

“You need to leave,” He warns his large hand coming to cover yours and he squeezes with all the tender reassurance he can manage in his half-delirious state, “right NOW!”.

The tension rises when the scent of his arousal hits you. Dark musk and sweat tainted with the faint smell of florals that sends your senses into overdrive. The urge to reach out and touch him is always maddening as he lets out another agonized snarl. 

“Please, princess,” he pleads once again, “I won’t be able to hold off for much longer.” his voice is dark now and laden with desire as his eyes trail your form beneath your leathers. 

You smell so good. He murmurs so low that the sound burns into the darkest, most base parts of your mind. That murmur you will think about in the nights to come. 

“I can’t leave you, Cass,” you say seriously watching the way his brows knit together before allowing his jaw to go lax. 

“I won’t leave you.” 

“You have to,” he huffs as he palms his cock through the material of his leathers again, a sharp hiss leaving him at once, “or I-I’ll not be able to stop myself.” 

“And you won’t either.” 

The words hang heavy in the air as he allows the gravity of the situation to settle around you both and you try to ignore the way his words send a wave of pure unadulterated pleasure through you. 

“And if I don’t want to stop you?” your hands trace lazy patterns into the slick skin of his chest, following the lines of his inky tattoos. 

“Fuck darling,” he says letting his forehead to rest  against yours as his eyes flutter shut,  “you can’t say things like that to me and expect me to be able to control myself.” he chuckles darkly. 

“Not when you’re lookin’ at me like that,” he takes your jaw between his thumb and index finger to bring your lips to his before placing a tender kiss there.

“Not when I can practically taste you.” His tone is much darker now as he nips at your  lower lips to pull you into a bruising kiss.

“Then let me help you,” you whisper airily, your fingers ghosting along his arms, following the contours of his chest, running gently over the swell of his pectoral muscles, down along the ridge of his abs and coming to rest on the  deep ‘v’ that disappears into the hem of  his leathers. 

Your free hand comes to the hinge of his sharp jaw, cupping his face as you pepper wet kisses along the skin there. 

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he says, his voice tense and body malleable under your deft touch. It takes all his self-control to insist again “I won’t ask that of you.”

In truth, you’ve wanted him this way for the better half of two decades but now, looking at him, all desperation and depravity, you’re not sure there’s any going back to the way things were. You want to be his friend. But you want this more.

You want to watch him come undone around you. You want to feel the rough pads of his fingers and they bruise the tender flesh of your hips and thighs. You want it to be you who he finds release. It has to be you. 

“You’re not asking, Cass” you remind him, your hands coming to grip his face, “let me help you.” 

He looks at you and something flashes in his hazel eyes; it's something dark and needy. A wordless plea. 

He nods gingerly, letting his hands come to rest on your hips, his fingers digging into the skin so tight that he is sure to leave his mark upon you. 

As you swing a leg over him so that his lower half is caged between your spread thighs he lets out to growl he has been holding. It’s feral and steeped in want. He’s near a primal trance by the time your hands find their home wrapped around his broad, strong shoulders as he bears your weight in his lap, letting you grind your wet core against him. 

The whine that leaves you as his thigh comes into contact with your clothed core is perverse and has you clenching around nothing. Your body sings in his bruising grip and you fit in his lap like you were made for him. 

His kisses are brutal and leave you half-breathless as he pulls away to gaze into your eyes. 

“I won’t be gentle with you.” he warns sternly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. When he finds none he wastes no time taking the material of your leathers between his strong palms and pulling until they are bursting at their seams. Giving way to his strong grip and exposing your bare flesh to him. 

The sound that leaves you as your bare cunt comes into contact with the cool night air is pornographic and has Cassian groaning into the bare skin of your shoulder. 

“I don’t want you to be gentle with me, Cass” you say to him as your lips skim his.

“I can take it.” you breath airily nodding to him. 

He doesn’t say anything but dips his head into the curve of your neck before parting his lips. The feeling of his teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder feels as close to heaven as you might ever get. 

As your back arches away from him in protest Cassian takes the opportunity to free himself from his leathers with a pained hiss that melts into soft whimpers as you grind against him. 

He looks so beautiful like this; lips parted as his hand strokes his hardened length, the heavy length of him angry and red as the beads of precum glisten like pearls at his tip. He releases a heavy breath and pumps himself once more before dragging the head of his cock through the slick of your folds, gathering your arousal before pulling you down onto him with a force that sends tingles down the line of your spine.

You sink down onto him painfully slowly, savoring the dull ache as you take a moment to accommodate to his size. 

“Takin’ my cock so well, princess.” he hisses through clenched teeth as you sink down impossibly further. He splays an open hand over the bulge in your stomach pressing lightly as he begins to roll his hips at a brutal pace. He moves without warning, unforgiving and cruel as he fucks into you roughly. 

“‘Thought about this so many times, Cass.” you say burying your face into the crook of his neck as his hips snap against yours as you grind down onto his cock.

Cassian falters momentarily, a glimpse of the man you know through the haze of his carnal trance. His eyes glow golden in the low light and his hands come to hold your face in place as he brushes the stands away from your face behind the shell of your ear as he places a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose before his eyes darken once again. 

“I’ve thought about it too, princess” he says softly to you, barely more than a whisper.

He takes hold on you firmly, one hand spread across the expanse of your back and one on your hip as he flips you over with all his brute strength, his careful hand beneath you cushioning your fall. 

“Thought about how you’d look wrapped around my cock,” he growls, pulling all the way out of you before sinking back in with a harsh rut of his hips that  has you fluttering around his cock like a velvet vice.

“How pretty you’d sound begging for my come,” he groans as you wrap your legs around the small of his back, pushing him deeper into you as you moan gospel into the shell of his ear. 

“Beggin’ for me to make you mine.” It takes you by surprise as the words leave him, his voice is low and dark but laced with a certain clarity that rings true. 

You want him to claim you. Make you his. 

“Then make me yours, Cassie.” You beg prettily, your eyes boring into his with a vulnerable desperation.

He stares at you for a moment, a strange look of longing and awe on his beautiful face before it morphs into something carnal and animalistic that makes arousal coil in your stomach.

His amber eyes meet yours again, his hands coming to rest at either side of your head when your legs wrap tight around his middle as he resumes his brutal pace. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says as his calloused palm runs over a hardened nipple before enclosing your breast and squeezing with fond pressure, “and all mine.” he finishes quietly, murmuring to himself. 

Cassian pulls back slowly so that he comes to rest on his knees, his large hands honing in on your thighs and pushing them further apart exposing your cunt to him with a guttural moan as he regards the way you’re wrapped around him. The milky ring that appears at the base of his cock and the way your back arches with each slow drag of his cock as it reaches that spongy spot inside of you. 

“This pussy is mine,” he snarls, fucking into you again before finding his brutal pace,  “look at how well you take my cock, baby.” he praises. 

“Like you were made for me.” he murmurs to himself, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering around him again. A ripple of pleasure roars through him again when he feels you pulse around him and he senses your inevitable orgasm as you begin to chase it. 

“Say it, princess” he commands you, his breath hot and dangerous as he lowers himself so that you are chest to chest, “I need to hear you say it.”.

You nod enthusiastically, your hands coming to tangle in his hair, dipping down to his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos as you roll your hips to meet his. 

“I’m yours, Cassian,” You confirm, your voice certain and thick with need. It’s desperate and depraved the way you beg for him until your voice is hoarse. 

I need you. Need you to fill me up. To make me yours. 

The words break apart in your mouth as your pleasure hits you like a tidal wave that crashes to the shore with a violent shudder.

“That’s it baby,” Cassian whispers as he fucks you through the last ripples of your orgasm. He draws one hand to rest against your abdomen, pressing lightly so that he can feel his cock move deep inside of you. 

In a feverish desperation you claw at him, his shoulders, his waist, the delicate flesh of his sculpted thighs drawing him impossibly closer to you. 

His own growl comes out in a broken rasp as he starts to lose himself to the euphoric feeling of your cunt clenching around him again in a desperate struggle. 

You cling to him fighting to find purchase, to brace yourself against the steady wall of muscle while Cassian chases his own orgasm, setting a cruel pace that begins to blur the lines between pleasure and pain and threatens to tear a broken sob from as you fight against the urge to come on his cock again. 

You kiss him desperately; nipping at his collar bones before pressing bruising kisses into his neck, mapping the broad expanses of his chest before coming to rest at the junction between his neck and the sharp line of his jaw.

Chest to chest, his heart thunders violently against yours and with every hungry kiss he seems to slip further into his primal trance. Another feral snarl rips through his chest as your lips connect in a kiss that tears the breath from you. It’s ceaseless, and leaves you senseless as he keeps fucking you at his brutal pace. 

It’s all consuming and devouring as Cassian gives in to his basest desire, drawing his cock all the way out before driving back in with an animalistic force that has you coming undone with a gentle sob.

Cassian slumps against you so close you can feel his beating heart as he groans against you, kissing the skin of your neck before coming to your parted lips, leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake, all while his hands map the contours of your body. 

“That’s it, Cass,” you encourage him gently, pulling at the curls at the base of his neck as you feel him pulse inside of you as his hips begin to slow to a tortuous and teasing drag as he finds his release.

You feel the heavy tip of hip pulse violently in your cunt, the thick vein that runs along the underside of his marble length and the warm ropes of cum that coat your walls until you feel his release leaking out of you. It is depraved, the way your legs tighten against him, unwilling to let him go just yet.

His chest heaves, the rise and fall sporadic and wild as he breathlessly collapses against you, the weight of him a comforting crush as you chase the last waves of pleasure as your heart plateaus to a steady rhythm. 

You look at him through thick lashes searching for any sign of regret but finding only a strange reverence and unspoken longing in his amber irises. It is a longing you have wanted to see in him for so long. And perhaps it has always been there, behind the darks of his eyes but now, in this light, they shine with it. It glints in his eyes with a knowing acknowledgement that it is keenly felt and received.

He’s dazed and still half-wild when he places another kiss on your lips. This time it is tender and loving. Not completely free of lust but there is something else there too. Something new and sacred and gentle. 

His hair is damp and his skin glows golden in the dying light of the fire and the air is still thick with the smell of your union but you feel somehow lighter. Unburdened by the release of emotion you’ve both been holding for so long. You breathe deeply and your body relaxes into his once more. 

Like you were made for him and him alone. 

“You alright, princess?” he asks softly in a way that arches on anxious as his eyes meet yours in an unwavering stare.

“I’m just fine, Cassie.” You smile carefully, bringing a hand to rest on his cheek, rubbing tentative circles into the skin there. 

“We’re going to be just fine.”

Cassian searches you for any sign of uncertainty all he finds in its place is love. A love that burns bright against the dark skies. A love that comforts him in the knowledge that his life is forever changed by what passed between them. A love that will warm him through the long nights. 

The smile that blooms on his face is one full of ardour and child-like awe as he takes you in once again. Pressed so tight against him that he can feel the curve of your breast and the beating of your heart. Skin flush against him and flesh malleable in his deft grasp. 

His eyes trail the line of your body, committing the curves and divots to memory as he recalls the sound of you coming undone around him again. In his memory it sounds  like birdsong or some ancient song. Hypnotic and depraved.

He had dreamt of this so many times before and in the haze of dreaming you always felt so real. But having you here, in his arms feels like some cruel trick. 

Like he’s just waiting for realization to set in. For you to recoil in unadulterated horror. 

But you never do. 

Instead, you take his face in your hands again and kiss him with a devotion that you reserve only for him before opening your mouth to whisper to him what he assumes are words of reverence and praise. 

“I hope you know we’re going to do that again.” and your laugh sounds like birdsong in his ear.

[mslanna]

Raphael reacting to waking up to his little mouse tending to his injuries?

(also on AO3) enby Tav without body configuration. comfort, wound tending, too soft for sanity

Hurt. Hope. His.

The last thing Raphael remembered was launching himself at his father as Mephistopheles held Tav between his fingers about to squeeze them in half. The red haze that descended over the cambion blurred everything afterwards.

Pain, he remembered. Shouts. Screams. The smell and taste of blood. And then –

Nothing

Pain remained. In the quiet darkness surrounding him, the pain was still there. But so was a gentle warmth and movements over his skin. Broken? Burning? Something moist touched the side of his face. When he tried to jerk away, pain flared up through his whole body, rendering the attempt futile.

"Ah, look who's coming to!" Haarlep's voice, shrill in the silence and cutting into his skin. "I knew it wouldn't be long once we got to the healing pool."

"Shoo." The sound was soft, gentle and lenient towards the incubus in a way Raphael would not have permitted. But it seemed to work. The ground under him – mattress? – moved and steps receded.

"They were jittery ever since you went down." More soft words falling down on him. Nice. Warm. Safe. Tav?

Raphael tried to pry open his eyes. It hurt. It didn't matter. He had to make certain –

A cool hand settled over his eyes.

"Not yet." There was a decided pause after the last word, as if he had missed a word. "Soon. Let me finish with your face first."

He relaxed. Tav. It had to be. Small hands, deft. Sure. And so gentle on his broken skin. It still hurt. But in a reassuring way. Raphael let them work. The rhythm was soothing, a gentle motion in the ocean of pain that rocked him. He must have dozed off.

A sweet dream piercing through the pain of small hands on his face and soft lips breathing a kiss over his. Raphael tried to reach and hold on but the pain the movement caused woke him. At least he was now able to open his eyes.

Tav knelt at his side. Alive. Whole. Not snapped in half by his father's hand. The relief flooding his system overrode all pain. Raphael reached for their face, and though his hand hung in tatters, Tav didn't flinch back. They accepted the bloody touch, cradled his broken hand and placed it back at his side. Raphael could not look away from the dark red smears on their cheek.

"You need rest." Tav's lips moved but the words reached him only much later. Raphael blinked, aware again of the pains covering his body. "Drink. And sleep."

Tav raised a carafe to his lips. Then she shook their head, amused about something Raphael did not understand. The water disappeared from sigh but that was alright. Tav moved to lay his head in their lap. The repositioning hurt, but it was worth it.

Soft eyes looked down on him. Warm. Safe. His? He tried to reach out again, but Tav wouldn't have it. "Be still," they murmured. "You need to heal. Please."

They looked away at the last word and for the first time, Raphael wondered how badly he was injured. His jaw worked and Tav's fingers alighted on it.

"Please."

Tav reached beside them an raised the carafe again. This time they placed it against his lips and unthinking, Raphael drank. Warm. Cool. Hurt. His? He swallowed the water and pain in one. It earned him a smile. He drank more. Each sip making its way into his stomach felt like pearls of ice and fire.

It probably looked very bad if even this sent his body into a painful healing frenzy.

Tav pushed a strand of his hair back behind his ear. No pain. Good. Welcome. More. He mumbled and water spilled down his throat. Tav shook their head, but not angrily. They put the carafe away and produce a wet cloth with which they carefully wiped down his throat.

Raphael felt his skin prick, move and mend. A short check on his extremities proved that most of them were broken and open in some way. Bandaged badly. Preliminary. Behind Tav's head, he saw the ceiling of the boudoir. Home. Good. Safe. He looked back at Tav who had cleaned out the cloth and worked slowly over his right shoulder.

"You relax now," they said gently. "Leave it to me."

He wanted to, he really did. But a part of his mind wondered where Haarlep had gone and when they'd return and what would happen then. His eyes wandered but didn't get far without turning his head. And the mere attempt hurt.

Cool fingers stroked the side of his neck. "None of that now," Tav murmured. "I promise everything will be well. Just let me work."

Another of those empty pauses reserved for a word that never came. Raphael closed his eyes and let his mind chase the shape of that emptiness. A vain pursuit as the gentle touch of warm water on his chest dragged his thoughts away from anything else. Tav's hands followed the water, caressing healing tissue.

Raphael felt the arms of sleep reach for him and soon they would drag him down into their dark embrace. He fought it. With one thought cropping up in his dazed mind whenever he was about to go under. One thing. Important. Now.

He stirred and once again; gentle hands stilled him.

"I will be here when you wake." A soft smile. Hope.

"Mine?" The word croaked from his lips and splintered.

Tav ran a hand through his hair. Then they placed their cool fingers over his lips again. "Yours."

It was barely a whisper. It was enough.

[charliemwrites]

Could we please have little drabbles for each kept pet for like the moment they first opened their eyes and realised they were in a random bed and house and their keepers coming in and their first conversations?

Hey, sorry for the delay on this one. It’s a bit more complex (which is no problem!) and I really wanted to put some thought into it.

Feral:

You wake up groggy, confused. Warm…? God you’re so heavy, you just want to go back to sleep. Must have been another shitty day at work.

And yet…. You can’t get back to sleep. Something in the back of your mind is tugging at you. Telling you things are off.

Your bed is too comfy, your sheets too soft, your pillow too cool and supportive. Your eyes flutter a few times before you can finally pry them open, head still foggy. There’s movement to your side, you twist your head, halfway through a yawn when you see a blond man sitting at your bedside.

“Mornin’, little one. How are you feeling?”

You gasp roughly, scramble away, out of this strange bed - away from this strange man. Hit the ground and hear him hiss quietly. Scramble back when he stands and starts to round the bed. You need to run but your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. All you can do is press yourself into the corner, wide eyed as he comes closer.

He stops just out of reach and squats down, arms balanced on his knees. He’s huge, you realize with horror. Not just tall and wide, but built.

“Easy now, baby,” he coos and your blood turns to ice. “There was really no way to make that better.”

“Where am I?” you demand, voice rough and shaky. “Who are you?”

“You’re home,” he answers with a little smile, “and I’m Simon. I’m gonna take care of you from now on.

—

(Warning for throw up)

Shy Thing:

The violent twisting of your stomach rips you out of a dead sleep. Once moment you’re asleep, and the next you’re throwing yourself sideways, emptying its contents over the side of… whatever you’ve been lying on. There’s a voice nearby, unfamiliar, though you can’t hear what they’re saying over your own heaving.

God you hate throwing up. Your eyes water as your stomach finally starts to settle, the dizziness invading next and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Alright, lass, you’re okay. Here.”

You crack an eye open to see a glass of water being offered. Accept it gratefully and sip slowly at the voice’s insistence. While you do, you try to see past a headache-induced haze. You’re in… some kind of living room?

The alarms begin blaring one by one in your head. You don’t know where you are. You don’t remember anything. You don’t know why you feel awful. You don’t know who’s rubbing your back and speaking to you softly.

Slowly, afraid of what you’ll see, you twist to face the stranger. And realize he’s… familiar. But not familiar enough that you can immediately place him.

“There you are, pretty girl. Sorry about that, should have gone with the other sedative.”

The other….

You try to jerk away, but he just thinks you’re gagging again and is quick to support you, pulling your hair back from your face.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, giving you a deceptively gentle squeeze. “And I always will be from now on.”

Quietly, you begin to weep.

—

You groan as you come to, head pounding and eyes feeling dry. A voice is gently speaking nearby, words garbled as your brain comes back online. It takes a moment, but you realize they’re speaking to you, though you don’t recognize who they are.

There’s something around your neck that’s a little itchy. You groan again and reach to pull it away, annoyed. Your fingers meet resistance as it tugs against the back of your neck. You try again - realize it’s not coming off.

Your eyes snap open, an unfamiliar ceiling above you, decorated with fairy lights. Not your room; not your bed. Your eyes slide sideways, to an unfamiliar man sitting at the edge of the bed by your hip.

“Not coming off, love,” he says, “not for a while at least.”

You don’t know what he means until his eyes flick down to your neck. Your fingers feel around it and find a metal plate with something engraved in it. You don’t know what it says, but you know what it is. A name tag. For a collar. You’re wearing a collar.

You spit out a curse and instantly kick at the man, trying to get him away, stun him. It lands, but he does little more than grunt and grab your leg, pinning it. You struggle, kick, flail, shout and scream but he quickly has you pinned and immobile, even as you curse up a storm, white-hot with anger.

“Get it all out now, darling,” he rumbles above you, “because tomorrow I’ll expect better behavior.”

[heartfullofleeches]

why can’t we have monster sheriff reader and horny ass town mayor and bandits

(Werewolf sheriff? Werewolf sheriff.)

A picture frame crashes to the abyss as you tumble into the nightstand. Those god damn idiots. Robbing someone blind on today of all days. The rage visible in the venom dripping from your teeth only upped their ante. None the wiser to your curse, the little demons damn near fainted when a growl slipped from your throat as you chased them about, catching the bastards in record time so you could return home before it was too late.

Your spine curves against the floorboards as you fall onto your side. You barely made it back before the transformation began. Your fangs assault your gums in trial to force out your human canines; the smell of the blood flowing from the vacant holes sending you into a furor. Course hair sprouts over your entire body, stemming from the deep claw marks on your bicep. The scar flares with a white hot pain in similar burn to when you first received it, the fruit bearer of your blight.

You drag your body across the floor as your limbs extend; fighting to reach the basement before the haze clouding your mind traps your brain in its fog. Vision spotty, the soft moonlight on your back doesn't register until you're facing it fully as you writhe in pain. Your talons rip the wood to shreds as your conciousness slips; heartbeat hammering through your maw. The last thing you hear before everything fades is a door handle rolling across the floor.

-

"You moron! Now they'll know we're here if they're home."

"Sorry! I'm still excited from earlier. Coulda swarn they were tryin to take my head off with that swing."

Shaking off the fuzzy shutter the memory brings, the lockpicker joins the rest of the group in piling into your home. The bandits were worried about you after your public display. While you losing your shit was a welcome surpise, they feared you had a bad week and wanted to cheer you up in the only way they knew how. Stealing things and dumping them off in your shack.

As they place their goods in various directions, a shout comes from the bedroom.

"Hey, guys- come quick!"

Rushing inside your room, the bandits stumble across the scene of a crime that looks like a tornado blew in armed to the teeth in blades. The nightstand was knocked over and blinds torn from the rack. Claw marks splintered the floors, walls, and even the ceiling. The moonlight centered on the bloodstains in the carpet; four teeth embedded in the wool.

The leader kneels and picks up a tooth. "What the hell happened here?"

"Is the sheriff okay?..."

"Look outside, I saw something move!"

A large shadow slinks away from view. Reflecting the natural light, the pin on its tattered clothes could only be one thing. The sheriff's badge.

"What was that?"

"Whatever it was, it has something to do with the sheriff. Follow it."

Fueled by anger and fear, the bandits barrel out the backdoor and after the creature. It's long gone by the time they tumble outside, but footprints and broken leaves lead them directly in its wake. Their adrenaline makes the chase as close to a match as possible for a beast of such calibre; broad shoulders easily the size of at least two of the bandits' torsos.

The pursuit comes to a halt as the group approaches the old farmer's gate. Fool spent a fortune on silver wiring after the lawsuit he lawsuit. As it stands still, the bandits get a good look at the creature. Fur as black as midnight, jaws and dentures that could snap some clean in two, familiar eyes. Looking closely at the beast, it becomes clear that the torn clothes on them aren't from them ripping someone to shreads, but from someone growing to large to wear them. A sheriff hat sits tucked bewteen its ears.

"S...sheriff?

The wolf's ear twitches in recognition. You huff in warning.

All at once things become clear to the group. All at once - that fear they each felt blends with something else. Those claws. That build. You could annihilate whoever you pleased. And that was one of the hottest things imaginable.

"Holy shit."

The human part of your brain wonders if now would be the best time to use the silver bullet tied around your neck as they approach. The weight of nearly a dozen humans jumping on you is about the same as a fly in your hair, but to avoid any casualties you allow them their fun. You have enough control for that, you think- till hands start wondering where they shouldn't.

[embossross]

From His Mind to Hers

chapter 12 >> Chapter 13 >> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: DUBCON (oral gun play, ptv sex, rough sex), Assault (slapping, gun in mouth), revenge porn, descriptions of derealization/mental break, APPROACH WITH CAUTION

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, dubcon & abuse in c13, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: 6.5k+

Slipping into your bedroom, a haze of unreality deepens the shadows cast by what little furniture you own.

During the half hour walk here from Roppongi, Hanma’s dress shoes ripped holes in his heels, which he hardly noticed as his imagination fixated on what he would do once he arrived here, repeating the details again and again until they crystalized in his mind. The scene became real to him, closer to the fixed certainty of memory. The way you would wake to the death rattle of Amani Takashi as he choked on his own blood. In the absolute darkness, you wouldn’t recognize the reaper hovering above you, not until his hands, familiar as only a lover’s could be, closed around your bare throat and squeezed. As he choked the life from your body, you would realize the immensity of your mistake in betraying him, and oh, the weight of his satisfaction would be nearly sensual as you gargled out your apologies, your aborted pleas that would have no power over him in the dark, where he can’t see your eyes. It would be all over when those once seductive eyes closed forever.

The scene in his imagination is so vivid that upon entering your room and finding the details differ, a sense of derealization dizzies him. It’s like returning home after an earthquake to find all the furniture shifted almost imperceptibly to the left. Or, like he’s entered one of those children’s puzzles, where you spot the differences between two nearly identical pictures, the eye tripping over itself.

He catalogues each difference precisely as if to anchor himself.

The curtains are wide-open, letting in a blue-toned light that illuminates the bed where you sleep, alone. Your oh-so-lucky boyfriend is nowhere in sight. Tucked in tight with the covers pulled up to your chin as if shielding your throat, you dream the dreams of the innocent, peaceful and nearly glowing in the slight light.

Where he expected predatory excitement or at least the faint hum of purpose fulfilled, Hanma feels nothing but an emptiness, a hole. A vortex writhes within him, the chaos of feelings and impressions no quieter than before, but it sucks away all surface thought and feeling, all warmth, so entirely that he doubts they’ll ever be returned to him again. Suddenly, he feels the chill of winter upon him, those long nights returned to swallow him whole. He realizes his artificial buzz is gone. He’s left tired and dopamine deprived.

He watches you sleep for several long minutes until he fears he’ll lose what little soul he has left to the frostbite. Only once he’s reconciled the differences between the supposed “reality” of the scene with what he pictured in his head does he approach you and the bed with slow steps.

You don’t stir when he peels the blankets back to expose your throat and chest. Your nipples harden beneath your tee-shirt, delectable even now after everything. The bed dips under his weight as he kneels above you, a knee on either side of your waist, but you don’t even murmur, perhaps used to Takashi coming home late.

Again, he’s struck by your sleeping face, how you sleep with lips gently parted, trusting, like a woman with no secrets to condemn her. Many nights he’s watched you sleep just like this. All of his emotions are clogged down, muted, so that he doesn’t know if his feelings for you have changed, but the old instincts – to shield you from harm, to protect your precious sleep, and keep you closeted away somewhere, undeniably his – remain unsullied.

Bottom lip plush and glistening, your mouth beckons to him, and he wants to gently push a finger between those lips, past the blunt teeth and into the heated crevice of your mouth, the heart of you. But, those days are over. He knows this with the same detached certainty he knows when to shift gears when driving or when a piece of meat is chewed enough to swallow. Instead of his finger, Hanma taps the entrance of your mouth with his gun, and then, slides it inside.

For a brief moment, your expression morphs into disgust as you taste metal, but then the sleep recedes from your eyes and panic erupts there. You flail inelegantly against the intrusion, and then, more purposefully, as you recognize who looms above you and what has housed itself inside your mouth.

Hanma subdues you quickly by kneeling on your arms and seating himself on your chest. As you try to question him, mouth widening, the gun pushes its way in deeper, and the words come out an indistinguishable garble. You try to speak regardless, slobbering around the gun as your eyes beseech him, asking for some reassurance or explanation that is not fast in coming. There is nothing in his heart, nothing in his eyes or soul to comfort you. Just the cold.

For a moment, neither of you tries to speak.

Then, as if on autopilot, Hanma recites the words he imagined saying a hundred times already.

“I’ve been thinking about what you call a therapist when there is no patient confidentiality. And then it came to me. You call her an overpriced whore, who doesn’t know when to stop running her mouth.”

It’s as if he’s not the one speaking these words, watching himself from a distance, like an actor’s been hired to act out the part. It’s a rerun. He knows how this ends. Yes, he’s seen this one before.

Except, he’s not supposed to see your eyes. They disturb him, the way they peer up at the him who’s not him, squinting in confusion and protest. They lie for you better than the dialogue written in the script. Tears well along your lash line, and, when you blink, the tips of your eyelashes come away wet.

“I spoke to your friend today, Haitani Ran. Ah, see, there goes the innocent act,” the actor-Hanma sneers, while the real Hanma observes the understanding dawn on your face. “I wonder how much he had to give you to tell all my secrets. I’m always curious just how little people value their lives. How about it? How much was your life worth? What’s the number?”

Whatever you try to say in response is lost around the barrel of his gun.

It too looks strange in your mouth. Plastic, instead of cool metal, like a toy. It feels heavy like always in his hand, the weight of a murder, but what he sees doesn’t match. His brain argues that such a measly hunk of plastic could never be the thing that dims your eyes, now brimming with unshed tears, for good.

The scene simply isn’t right. Something needs to be done.

Breaking free from the script, Hanma decides to let you defend yourself a bit. He battles the actor-Hanma back and pulls the gun away.

“I didn’t!” you cry out immediately, the words slurring in your haste. “Shuji, I swear. I didn’t tell him anything. He cornered me and made me an offer, but I never –”

The barrel of the gun emits a jarring clanging sound as it rams into your front teeth. He won’t listen to you lie to him. Within the maelstrom of impressions that have been too loud to make out, one feeling floats free, taking on a familiar shape: anger.

Hanma can’t fathom how much you could have cost him. Had Haitani used the intel you slipped him to move against Toman, buggering the HKJ deal, he would have lost his shot at Mikey. In the aftermath, Kisaki would have had him killed for his role in it. No second chances. You’d be whacked, too, of course, for knowing too much, for being a liability. And, all that easy intimacy that you had built together over the last many months would be snuffed out as some no-account Toman lackey pureed you, entering you again and again with their knife, until your corpse was so mangled only dental records could hope to identify you someday.

You risked too much, stole too much, and his anger tastes like acid, coating the inside of his mouth.

Around the foul taste, Hanma – or maybe it’s the actor again? – spits the words, “Do you know how many stupid fucking corpses tried what you did in the past? Tried to use their bodies to get close, get my secrets. And it never fucking worked. There’s only one punishment that fits the crime when someone betrays Toman, betrays me, and you knew that when you took this job.”

The hand tattooed with the kanji for punishment pushes the gun deeper, unbothered by the way your soft palette rises on instinct as if you have any hope of choking him out. He forces through the resistance until you swallow his gun all the way to the trigger guard and the tip of the barrel knocks decisively against the back of your throat. Memories of past times when he broke through that same resistance echo, and his cock twitches. If he pulled the trigger at this angle, it would blow a hole clean through your trachea, not a quick and easy death.

Manipulative tears spill down your cheeks as you try to work out a blubbering sob. He wonders if you would have cried for him too had feeding Haitani secrets led him to the noose.

There’s no silencer to dampen the gunshot. It resounds in his ears, throbbing like a declaration.

Hanma doesn’t see the damage until sickly red blood floods your white pillowcases, forever staining them, and then mixing with your hair. You gurgle helplessly as you try to breathe around a compromised trachea, hands flying to your throat like you might massage it back to usefulness.

Condemning eyes glare at him. They’re like an ocean of blood, the waters slowly rising, until the whites of your eyes are gone and nothing but bloodred accusation stares back at him.

He blinks and the blood is gone.

The safety is still engaged. Your eyes are filled with translucent tears, hands still caged by his knees.

He shakes his head a few times. The force knocks his glasses around.

Of course, he didn’t shoot you through the neck. Earlier he strangled you with his own hands. No guns involved. When you died, it was like falling asleep, peaceful and lovely as he cradled your slowing pulse between his palms.

In your final moments, Hanma knows you didn’t spare a thought for Takashi, gut like a pig beside you.

Yes, you’re dead already.

He strangled you to death hours ago. Or minutes ago. Or.

He…or actor-Hanma…or.

No.

Hanma looks to the right where Takashi’s body should be and sees the empty space, the undisturbed blankets and half remembers. That’s right, Takashi wasn’t here when he arrived.

He hasn’t killed you yet. You’re still alive.

Unsure if up is down or down is up, Hanma giggles. In this twisted dreamscape, he thinks he could do anything, fuck the consequences. He can always change the outcome in the post-edit. He’s the director, actor, and audience.

Surreal as this scene may seem, the knowledge of his control over it fills him with an acute sense of power, enough to continue, unfettered by worries about what is or isn’t real.

“Lucky your boytoy isn’t here, right now. Think I’d have killed him first, so I could take the edge off. I want to take my time with you.”

He remembers – No! No pictures – how you would react to Takashi’s unceremonious demise. The corpse would serve as a dire warning, but you wouldn’t waste your tears on him. No, Takashi means nothing to you. Just a body even in life.

Except, Takashi too is still alive.

Every time Hanma blinks, he sees something else, like he’s peering into one of those optical illusion pictures, where if you cross your eyes, a hidden message appears and disappears. He is seeing doubles, triples, but he can’t make out what’s the hidden message underneath and what’s real anymore. He swallows and swears he tastes blood.

“Where is Takashi anyway?” Hanma says, hoping your answer – or lack of answer if you are really, truly dead – will anchor him.

At your gurgle, Hanma remembers the gun and pulls it out.

“Shuji, I swear, I never –”

He slaps you. Barely a love tap by the situation’s standards, but his palm connects with a crack, and your head snaps to the side, burying into the pillows, where you stay, chastened and too scared to try to speak lest he do it again. Breathing heavily, Hanma rewedges the gun between your lips. He’s sweating. Bullets of sweat plummet from his brow to plop on your neck, where the bones are so fragile they peek through the skin.

The tears behind your eyes dry up. The fear is gone in an instant. Hanma lowers his face until you’re nose-to-nose, staring directly into your eyes, looking for the fight, the will to live, but there is nothing. Only resignation.

Is it so hard for you to play your part? After all, actor-Hanma is doing his best to stick to the script even as these changes keep tripping him up.

You’re supposed to fight and plead for your miserable life, not throw it away for some cheap payday or perish without complaint in your bed. Where is the will, the wanting, that he nurtured inside you these last several months? Where is the woman he…

He hates seeing you like this. Hates it more than Haitani’s smug, smiling face, more than Kisaki barking orders at him like he’s nothing but a leashed dog, more than a listless weekend sunrise when the sleeping city threatens to drown him in boredom.

He loathes seeing you like this enough to spare you.

“This could only ever end in one way,” Hanma says, releasing the safety and cocking the gun. He aims the gun higher, so that when he shoots, the bullet will make a home in your brain, a cleaner, faster death. There is mercy in freeing you from this indignity as quickly as possible.

From the small space where your lips stretch obscenely, your tongue darts forward and laves the underside of the slide. The sight of it, incongruously pink on stainless steel, draws him up short. He watches as if hypnotized as you lap at the length of the gun not disappeared in your mouth with long, wet strokes. Craning your neck forward, you can just stretch your tongue to the trigger guard. Where his finger rests on the trigger, he can feel your breath, that wet heat that envelops him so completely.

His pulse ricochets, three beats a second drumming in his cock. Hanma doesn’t want to shoot you with a hard cock. Even by his standards, the idea is too perverse. He tries to will it down, but his blood rushes south like a dam breaking, and he is hard and aching before he can stop it.

Maybe it shows a lack of imagination on his part, but he’s never rammed his gun down a hot throat before. Like so many things in his life, this belongs to you and you alone.

You don’t break eye contact as you push your head forward until your throat restricts around the gun again. Delicious choking noises follow.

It’s faint, but as you suck off his gun, Hanma swears he sees a glimmer of desire warm your dead eyes. The life there, the personality, suits you better, and he lets out a long breath as if finally taking off a pair of shoes two sizes too small.

He still wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt you and, by proxy, the entire world. But, painfully hard as he is, he can’t imagine never feeling the heat of your mouth again, never enjoying the best pussy of his life again. A body like yours was made for him to enjoy. There will be time to make you suffer later.

Because once he pulls the trigger, you’ll go cold. The little life in your eyes will leech away by degrees. Your tongue will swell, stiff and useless in your slack maw.

It’s not fair that you would steal even this from him.

He won’t let you.

Hanma takes control. Not bothering to reengage the safety, he fucks in deeper, positively battering the back of your throat, so you spasm with each collision. It is brutal, harsher than any pounding he’s ever delivered with his cock, and tears and drool alike spill down your cheeks to coat his wrist. Intoxicating as the visual is, it’s the glugging noises that tumble helplessly from your throat that really spur him on. He rides high on the line between his pleasure and your pain, until the ache of his trapped cock spikes into a hurt that demands immediate relief.

A long, thick strand of spit connects your mouth to his gun when he pulls back to strip. You gasp and cough as if you just survived a waterboarding, debauched and pathetic as the drool settles on your chin. By the time he throws his jacket and shirt to the side and pulls his cock out of his fly, you have only just caught your breath.

The detached, dead-eyed gaze returns.

“Do whatever you have to do to get this out of your system, Shuji. Use me to get it out,” you whisper huskily, throat too sore to try anything louder, but he hears you as clearly as if you’d shouted.

He could do anything he wants to you now. The invitation is unnecessary. But it’s there between you now regardless. Through your words, he grants himself the permission to possess your cunt one last time, too selfish to deny himself the pleasure.

Things move quickly after that.

Hanma flips you onto your belly, ripping your sleep shorts and panties down the swell of your thighs, so they keep your legs pinned together. In this position, your ass and puffy pussy are perfect. Everything presses together as if to signal just how tight you feel on the inside. He can’t resist spanking your ass, harder than he’s ever hit you before, so that you shriek in pain and the flesh rebounds in his hand. It is a good reminder for you both – when the rush of lust threatens to envelop you and wash away all recollection of your betrayal – and so, he does it again on the other side for good measure.

Slipping one finger inside your cunt, he groans to find you soaked. It is a flood between your thighs, the kind of wet he usually only achieves after hours of edging you with his tongue.

He can’t wait.

Despite the wetness, you aren’t prepped enough for the stretch of his length in this position, so you emit pained whines as he forces his cock inside you. Every centimeter he pushes deeper is a struggle as your body fights against him, but eventually, your cunt yields to the pressure, and he sinks all the way to the balls, the tip battering your cervix cruelly in the process. And isn’t the cruelty half the point? He fucks you brutally, using his arms to leverage as much force as possible into each thrust, making sure to grind in as deep as your body can accept him.

There is a blissful annihilation in this, the mechanical thrusting of hips, the heat of your cunt hugging him, like a fire that burns away his every brain cell. He forgets about you altogether, uses your body like a cheap cocksleeve for his frustrations. One forceful thrust after another, and his brain empties and his balls unload. He moans as he fills you up.

The usual sensitivity follows; but to his surprise, his cock doesn’t go limp, remaining half hard. Like an agoraphobe refusing to go outside, clinging to the walls as his doctors try to force him out the door, his cock doesn’t want to leave this paradise.

Euphoria from his orgasm softens everything else around him, dulling the sound of his breathing, muting colors and smudging the lines of his vision. Hanma peers down on where your face is buried in the pillows as if you’ve been crying, and he feels sorry for you.

It’s his fault in a way, isn’t it? He should have taken better care of you. If he’d insisted on paying your bills sooner, you wouldn’t have been so easily tempted by Haitani’s offer.

And, if he’s honest, isn’t this part of what he loves so much about you? The way you continuously surprise him, never letting life grow dull?

The many days and nights that make up your torrid affair return to him. He remembers how sometimes, when you think he isn’t paying attention, you look at him with a softness that borders on reverence. On that night at the beach, when he got you high and took you dancing, you couldn’t have faked that openness, couldn’t have falsified the sincerity when you called him “Daddy” for the first time. Every moment was real for you.

There is no way you would have knowingly risked hurting him. Haitani must have manipulated you, convinced you that it was a win/win situation for all involved. You didn’t want to destroy him. You’re a brilliant woman, but sometimes, the stupid, greedy girl you buried and denied for so long wins out, that’s all. What you need is someone to teach you, to take care of that little girl with a firm hand.

Everything is his fault really.

Hanma’s thoughts eventually turn to marveling at how small you are in comparison to him. He could positively shroud you with his body if he chose. The space you take up in his life is larger than your body, larger than the shadow you cast when the sun is at its highest.

Hanma rolls to the side, bringing you with him, so you nestle into the give of his body. From where your calves rest against his thighs, up to where your cunt still spreads for his cock, and further up to where your head shelters in the crook of his neck, there is not a shred of space between you. Body-to-body, there is no space remaining for anger or betrayal either.

The heat of your body is a brand against him. He runs his fingers tenderly down the slope of your hip, fascinated by the way you can shiver as if from a chill. When he cradles your breasts, your nipples are tight stones against his palms. It should be impossible for you to feel the cold when your cunt burns him from the inside. The ache of winter nights spent dreaming of relief and sunshine feels like a distant memory. Inside you, with you, he doesn’t believe he’ll ever feel cold again.

The flesh between your thighs is slick when he spreads the lips of your hungry pussy. His fingers slip through the leak, almost unable to find your clit in the mess. It is the first time he’s not made you cum during a round of sex, and so he carefully manipulates your body until he hears your first whimper of pleasure.

Not immune to the sounds you make when your hungry pussy is still clenched around him, Hanma hardens once more inside you. The gentle hug of your cunt coils and tightens until it is a vice that grips him, and he can no longer resist. He wraps both his arms around your chest, crushing your breasts against his forearms, and just rocks against you. Eyes closed, he doesn’t think about anything but how wonderful you feel around him, how the only feeling better in the world is that same cunt squeezing rhythmically as you cum. It won’t be long now either. Between his fingers, your clit grows more engorged, your whimpers more frequent.

Patiently, he coaxes the orgasm out of you, but when you finally cum with a small cry, it is you who leads him right over the edge, so that he dumps a second load into your tired body.

They call it post-nut clarity for a reason, Hanma realizes because in the aftermath, everything once obscured appears so clear, like he had been trying to look at a painting through a dirty glass that’s since been cleaned.

Hanma is not willing to part with this for anything. What you did or might do in the future, your motives and feelings, they’re all irrelevant. Since he started fucking you, he hardly ever wakes up wishing a meteor would strike his building, just for a little novelty. He no longer smiles at the thought of a sinkhole opening up beneath his feet or an overdose slowing his heart to a halt, the kind of ignoble deaths he rejects on principle but would sometimes glitter seductively during life’s most boring moments. Knowing your set of pretty holes are waiting for him gives him a reason to get out of bed every day. And he is not going to let you take that from him over some irrelevant bullshit.

He will set you up in an apartment he owns, shower you in gifts and luxuries to ensure you’re a well-kept woman, happy and eager for his nightly visits. Nothing needs to change.

A frown darkens his face, and he inadvertently tightens his arms around your chest, hard enough to sting, when he realizes there’s still one remaining threat to his plan. Haitani knows you betrayed Toman and has already snitched on you once. If Haitani decides to run his mouth to the others, to Kisaki, you are dead regardless of what Hanma wants.

With his date with Mikey looming around the corner and promising to make the whole matter superfluous, Hanma considers leaving it to chance, but then decides against it. He should probably deal with Haitani. One last hunt before he shuffles off his mortal coil. He doesn’t pretend he won’t enjoy it.

You recover from your orgasm slowly. The pulse at your neck is skittish. Hanma can smell the sweat at the back of your neck. Your breathing takes minutes to return to something remotely steady. He enjoys holding you through these changes, wonders if you’ll fall asleep in his arms.

Kissing your back, Hanma tells you that he forgives you. Sincerity drips from his voice. He means it. It’s a blanket pardon for everything you have done until now. There are only so many days you have left to spend together.

You don’t answer immediately, but when you do, it’s to ask to use the bathroom in a small voice. Rolling aside, Hanma watches you free your body from his clutches and limp from the room, his cum leaking down your thigh. A long time passes. He hears the shower turn on and dozes off, still half-dressed atop your sheets.

Hyper-sensitive to danger, he blinks awake the moment you reenter the bedroom. Water clings to your hair, which dries freely, before puddling in your wake. A lemon-yellow towel wraps tightly around your form, and he wants to rip it off you, so he can watch your naked body strut about as you rifle through your dresser. If he had to put a name to it, he’d call his current feelings “proprietary.” This was a final test, and he controlled himself, and now, as his reward, he gets you. He’s a fair bit impressed with himself.

“I’m going to meet with my realtor tomorrow to tell him to move forward on the Ueno apartment. I’ll transfer it directly to your name, so you don’t need to worry about rent or what happens when I die. I’m free the day after next if you want to go shopping together, too. I don’t give a fuck how you want to decorate, but since I’ll be spending a lot of time there, I want to make sure the furniture’s comfortable at least. I swear half the chairs in this country are too short for me,” Hanma drones, pausing, annoyed, when you pull a massive sweatshirt, large enough to belong to a man, over your body. “You just need to dump that Takashi twat already. He’s not welcome in my apartment.”

You don’t respond. In fact, you haven’t said a word in the better part of an hour.

Looking more carefully – no longer with the distorting eye of a proud lover – he notices a shake to your hands as you tug on a pair of sweatpants. You stand nearly pressed to the door, like you might need to flee at any moment. You’re terrified.

Hanma sighs, regretting how harshly he dealt with you, though you’d left him no choice. Despite a few front row demonstrations of his business, you are mostly unexposed to the violence that characterizes his life, always discussing it in the abstract. If you were more yourself, he’s sure you’d tell him that it’s psychologically healthy to have a physiological response to eating a gun. All those months ago when you played Russian Roulette, your reaction was a lot more fun, but he supposes, special though you are, you are still a civilian, and this kind of response is to be expected.

Still, he doesn’t prefer you hurt or scared. It makes his brain itch.

The bed creaks when he stands. Approaching with slow steps, Hanma notices you literally shrink away from him, leaning more of your weight against the door.

Like soothing a spooked horse, Hanma stretches out an upturned hand, but you slap it away. Heat blazes behind your eyes. No different than a cowering animal, you lash out.

“Don’t touch me!”

This time, Hanma expels a very different sigh, a sigh of irritation at your overreaction. Given the nature of your betrayal, he could have done far worse and been justified. Comforting you is tedious, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to try.

“I forgive you, okay, Doc. You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to shoot you or anything else. I forgive you. You’re still my girl.”

“Oh, fuck you! I’m not your fucking girl!” you seethe, gnashing your teeth at him, like you might truly bite him if he comes closer.

Hanma patiently tries again, “I forgive you –”

“You’re actually insane to think I’m leaving Takashi – my loving, stable boyfriend – to play house with you in some shitty apartment. I’ve heard all your little hints about leaving him, and guess what? I haven’t! I didn’t leave him before you showed up in the middle of the night spewing baseless accusations and stuck a gun in my mouth. Now? You clearly need to find a new therapist because you’ve grown delusional to think I’d choose you over Takashi!”

Cold tendrils creep down his spine. He actually tries counting backwards from one hundred, like that useless technique first suggested to him in elementary school has ever helped him control his temper before.

As he fights down the beginnings of a rage to rival his anger when he first arrived tonight, you keep going in a voice like reinforced steel, “I thought about it in the shower, and the more I thought, the less I understood what you even bring to the table. Takashi is one hundred times the man you will ever be. Do you hear me? All you have going for you is good dick, and frankly, I can live without it. I’m firing you as a patient, effective immediately. I’m obviously not suited to help you as I’m just a…what did you call it? Overpriced whore? And for the record, I’m not interested in being your whore either, so…”

Your lips continue to move as you spit invectives at him, but Hanma tunes out the words. He can’t ignore escape your tone, how the heat slowly dampens, and you grow colder, the unfeeling mask you often wore when you first met returning. The heartless, robotic delivery is somehow more venomous, and the weight of your disdain washes over him like the sea, dragging him down, down, down into its bottomless depths.

 With what little presence of mind he’s regained, Hanma knows that if he fights with you now, it will undo everything he accomplished. He’ll hurt you if he stays. And even if his knuckles strain against his closed fists with the desire to do just that, another stronger part of himself does not want to hurt you at all.

He – and you by virtue of being his therapist – deserve a goddamn medal because instead of lashing out at you, Hanma decides to leave.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” Hanma grits out. “It’s been a long day for us both. Get some sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning with what the realtor says.”

His feet drag like they’re stuck to the carpet, but step-by-step, he manages to walk towards the door, where you plaster yourself backwards to avoid the merest brush of his body against yours. Alone in the hallway, the pictures of you and Takashi stare down at him, smiling and false.

It is quiet as the grave on your little residential street. The sky is a deep grey, the faintest hint of light illuminating the world as the sun just begins to peek through the clouds. Sunrise is within the hour.

Only now, free from the oppressive shadows of your apartment, does Hanma acknowledge the miracle that you have somehow survived this night.

Hanma is too tired to hope for anything more. With his thoughts in a frenzy, he walks home. He is not ready for tomorrow, not yet.

--

Growing up, Hanma heard people joke that behind every real estate broker in this city, there hid three yakuza: one to hand out bribes, a second to threaten tenants, and a third to lap up the profits. Another version of the joke boasted that if the government ever nationalized real estate, the yakuza would dry up within the month.

In 2018, the yakuza have diversified their business ventures. The Kokonois of the world have dragged them into the twenty-first century, operating more like billion-dollar conglomerates than classic criminal syndicates. It’s the age of shell companies and tax shelters, stock shorts and corporate espionage. Still, Hanma holds a soft spot for the classics, and there is no shortage of realtors comfortably living in Toman’s pocket.

So, with Toman’s resources, Hanma fast-tracks the procurement of his new apartment, signing on the dotted line before lunch.

He calls it an apartment, but your new home is really only four units housed within a two-story building, squat and bookended by two larger apartment towers on either side. The realtor reassures him that the building meets both of Hanma’s requirements: it’s less than a fifteen-minute walk to your office and the quiet street is several blocks from any major thoroughfare, meaning little foot traffic.

The only complication arrives when Hanma asks about buying out all four apartments. Since he plans to spend much of his time in your apartment, he is willing to considerably drain his personal savings for the luxury.

The realtor, a paunchy, balding man despite not yet reaching forty years of age, named Obara, informs him that two of the other apartments will be simple enough to obtain. He remembers placing both families within the last five years and is confident they’re the reasonable sort who will jump at a generous offer. The problem is Itoh-san in unit four. Widowed for the better part of three decades, she has stubbornly clung to this apartment and the memories it houses. She will not be easily moved.

Your apartment will be on the first floor, unit two, while the old woman’s is directly above. Obara assures Hanma that she rarely leaves the house these days except for a weekly trip to the market or one of her many doctors’ appointments, so she probably won’t even notice his coming and going. But, if Hanma prefers absolute privacy, Obara gently suggests Hanma might send a few men from Toman around the following evening for a “productive conversation.”

Ten years into his real estate career, Obara is well accustomed to working with yaks. He doesn’t so much as blink as he suggests Hanma chase this little old lady out.

There is no need to make a decision just yet. Hanma tells Obara to make offers to the other residents and move forward with the paperwork. He will sleep on Itoh’s fate.

As he dials your number, Hanma reflects that he’s been damned generous of late.

The phone rings six times before clicking to your voicemail. Your voice is cool and impersonal in the recording as it encourages him to leave a message. Hanma foregoes the suggestion and texts you instead.

Hours pass. He pushes his body to the brink at the gym, fighting opponent after opponent until he can no longer recognize where one bruise ends and the next begins. He scalds his skin to a glowing cherry color in the shower and then sweats his brains out in the sauna. He places a few bets on the horses.

Between each activity, he calls you and is met by your voicemail.

Eventually, he can’t keep up the pretense any longer, acknowledging the growing ire inside him.

He pounds back shot after shot of tequila at a dingy izakaya, where he’s one of only two customers and the bartender knows better than to ask questions. As Hanma drinks, he thinks about how fucking entitled you are. After everything he has done for you, sparing you the punishment anyone else would have suffered, you reject him. He tries to remember that you’ve pulled these disappearing acts before and always been easy to lure back with a few false promises, but whenever he remembers your trembling hands, he knows this time is different.

The way you waxed poetic about Takashi yesterday infuriates him. You’re shrinking back into the prison you erected around yourself and called safety before he met you. Only he knows how to provide for you, help you make a real life in this world, rather than wasting away behind unlocked doors, too afraid of your own shadow to try the handle, to want anything.

One last chance, he vows to himself. He’ll give you one last chance to respond and after that, he’ll show you the same consideration you have shown him. None.

He calls your number.

When the fourth ring goes unanswered, he doesn’t bother waiting for your voicemail. He closes out the call and flips straight to his photo gallery, scrolling to the “hidden” folder. There are dozens of photos and videos of you here. Covertly taken, they capture you taking his cock in nearly every position, cockdrunk and desperate for it. He pauses to enjoy one where you lie on your back, neck extended off the bed, while he pushes his cock into your throat, slow and steady, hypnotized by the gush of spit that strings down your chin.

Hanma selects all the videos in the gallery and adds them to a text message with a recipient he knows only by memory.

He hits send.

As the electrical signals race from his phone to his recipient’s, Hanma sighs. This time, it’s a sigh of satisfaction. He honestly feels a lot better.

[pureblisswrites]

A guide to being kidnapped and escaping 101

Prologue

Chapter 1

"I know you tried to move. Otherwise there would've been no marks." He looked at you accusingly as if you were the one who commited a crime or were covered in blood.

Pairing: afab! Psychologist! Reader x Bang Chan

Word Count: 1.6k

Genre: Crime, mafia au, eventual romance, slow burn, comedy (an attempt was made)

Warnings: kidnapping (not with malicious intent), use of injection(s), mentions of blood although nothing graphic, criminal activities of course.

Summary: You are a fairly renowned psychologist and therapist but definitely not renowned enough to be getting kidnapped in the middle of the night. Is it one of your past patients with a criminal record? You don't know what the kidnapper wants but you have a feeling you are about to find out.

This story takes place in the same universe as "A guide to accidental murder and cover up 101" but with a different reader. I suggest you can read that too if these kind of stories are your type. But both can be read as standalones too.

Completing Mrs Kim's therapy sessions, check. Because God knows that woman would rather chew glass than talk about her mommy issues and inferiority complex. Being promoted to senior therapist, check. Getting another new pet, check. Being kidnapped from your home, check. Okay so being kidnapped was definitely not on your this year's bingo card.

It's not everyday a bunch of well built men approach your apartment in the middle of the night, inject a needle into your veins, and take you in an expensive looking car with tinted windows. You feel yourself going limp and your mind filling with cloudy haze. Yeah you'd much rather have another therapy session with Mrs Kim than feeling like this, you think to yourself before loosing consciousness completely.

You wake up after God knows how many hours or possibly days? That thought scares you, you hadn't even submitted a leave of absence. What if they fired you? No they wouldn't fire you right? You were one of the top therapists in the country. There was no way they would fire you just after promoting you. And more importantly, what about your pets?

You look around you, observing your surroundings. The room looks like a 5 star suite room. You look down to see silk bed sheets wrapped around you. When you attempt to move you find that your movements are restricted. Your hands are free though, so you remove the sheets from around your legs. Only to find that your feet are cuffed from the bedpost. Great. Just fucking great. You jerk your legs in an attempt to unlock them but it's of no use whatsoever except making some noise.

Should you scream? What if the people who kidnapped you are psychopaths or sociopaths and it sets them off? It certainly won't be your first time dealing with psychopaths or sociopaths. But you needed to be very careful if you wanted some answers and didn't want to die.

"Hello?" You say. Your voice barely above a whisper because your throat feels so fucking hoarse. Just how dehydrated were you? You cough a bit to try to regain your voice. "Hello?" You repeat again. A little louder this time. "Is anyone there?" You almost scream now. Still no answer. You'll have to say something that they couldn't ignore now. You just hoped someone would be on the other side of the giant door. "I'm sorry but I really really need to go to the washroom. I'm not kidding." What the fuck? Did they just brought you here to leave you in a bed and go on with their days? You wished they would talk to you at least once so you could grasp what kind of people they were and what to say and not say to them. "EXCUSE ME?" You shout with all the voice you're left with now and then cough violently afterwards.

Suddenly the door opens by a man dressed in all black with a mask on his face, but his eyes are directed downwards and he isn't coming in. You see the reason mere seconds later. When a man with really well built body enters. His eyes as cold as the cuffs on your feet. He's wearing a white shirt with black harness belts over it. Who wears stuff like this? But that's definitely not the most concerning thing about him. It's the way his white shirt is splashed with blood. And not just one kind of blood. Different shades of blood. So are his black gloves and wrists.

You have worked with people who have been diagnosed with violent behavioural disorders and have seen your fair share of blood in your years long career as a psychologist. But never in this much quantity. And definitely never in this situation where you're tied to a goddamm bed. This was pretty fucking scary.

"Oh hello." He said like he was surprised that you were here, as if he wasn't the one who kidnapped you in the first place. "Did you need something?" He asked politely as if he was some underpaid staff at the local convenience store.

Deciding to not test the waters right now you just uttered one word. "Washroom."

"Oh right." He held out a hand towards the man who had opened the door in the first place and the man placed a a tiny key in his hand. He then walked towards you and opened the lock of the cuffs in one swift motion. It took you longer than this to open the lock of your door. That means he is pretty skilled at what he does. Which is scary because you suppose he murders people. Or animals? What if he is just a butcher? No but he kidnapped someone, the someone being you, he is definitely involved in criminal activities. He frowned when he noticed the red marks on your ankles. As if! Did he not know this would happen? He also seemed fairly experienced in whatever it was that he did considering the number of men working for him, you assumed. "You shouldn't have done that." He stated.

"Huh?" You questioned, too busy analysing his every move. Who knew for how much time they would leave you here again.

"I know you tried to move. Otherwise there would've been no marks." He looked at you accusingly as if you were the one who commited a crime or were covered in blood. This man needed to get his priorities straight.

"Can I go now?" You asked. It felt so weird after asking for permission to go to the fucking washroom after telling people what to do for years as a therapist.

"Uh yeah. It's that black door on your left." He gestured to said door. You stumbled to walk and heard him talking to the other man near the door. "Why did you fucking cuff her?" He sounded a bit angry.

"Because you told us to Boss!" The other man exclaimed while looking pretty shaken up.

"Yeah well I didn't-" he cut himself off and looked at you watching them while standing near the door. Fuck. You rushed inside quickly, afraid of what will happen now that he heard you eavesdropping on their conversation. Even though technically they were talking right in front of you.

You used the washroom not knowing when will be the next time you'll get to get out of the bed you were chained to. You go out and see the man who was not the "boss" standing next to the bed. Trying really hard to unlock the cuffs from the bedpost.

"I- uh sorry I'm kind of an intern here so-" he was clearly struggling to get the key out of keyhole now. Did he get it stuck there? "So- um I wanted to apologise for the inconvenience caused to you on my behalf. Boss ordere- uh asked me to apologize. Did that sound too formal? Sorry I used to work in retail before this if you couldn't already tell." You could.

"Let me see this." You go up to the lock as the man makes way for you. "I think you pretty much broke one of the latches in the locking pad." You observed. You had some experience with broken locks from that time you had your first internship in an asylum.

"Well then I'll go prepare for my funeral. In the meantime you can wait here. Someone will be here soon enough with some food for you." He sighed in despair and walked away. Not even bothering to close the door. Yeah he definitely was an intern.

Well then you might as well observe this place right? Right. You approach the giant door with slow and light steps. Not knowing what you could see on the other side. You look out to see dark hallways on all three sides with multiple doors in them. They are dimly lit from the sunlight that's passing through the huge windows on each end of the walls. You can see greenery. Maybe there's a garden somewhere.

Now... you were a psychologist but no psych vol. 6 book ever had notes about how to escape from a supposed mansion after being kidnapped by God knows who and for what. So you decided to throw caution out of the window and run out. Future you will just have to deal with whatever happens.

Confused between whether to go right, left or center, you decide to follow your instincts and go center. You run as fast as you can, which isn't actually fast because you had long ago decided that you would never have to run. Your job was to sit in a room with someone and talk to them. Why would you need to run? Yeah right. You hear footsteps following you behind so you look behind you just to find... no one? Running while looking in the opposite direction was definitely not a good idea. Because you just know you ran into someone you weren't supposed to run into.

You look up from the well built and hard chest your face had collided into, only to see the "boss" looking at you with an expression you couldn't identify. He was unusually cold yet held a soft look in his eyes. Very contradicting. Thankfully he had changed his blood stained shirt for a plain black one, although he still had those bloody gloves on. You can feel him staining your t-shirt as his big hands grip onto your shoulders from when you had lost your balance while faceplanting into his chest. And you really wish he hadn't held you and let you go so the ground could swallow you whole.

"Going somewhere doc?"

A/N: I wanted to make this longer as well as show their first proper conversation but I've been running low on motivation lately so I thought I should just post this first. Please let me know your thoughts on this, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

[captainlilyuniverseworld]

Three Little Words

A/n: Astarion get's injured, Gale takes care of him and confesses his feelings to his Vampire Ascendant.

Three Little Words

Astarion groaned as he started to wake up. His mouth tasted like something had crawled in it to die. There was a numb pain in his chest and his right leg felt too stiff to move. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his body and the pain. 

Why was he in pain? Why was he…oh…He remembered now, or vaguely at least. Being in the market square with Gale. 

“I need to get some of these. They'll look nice in the garden. Don't you think so?” Gale picked up a small potted plant. “Astarion?” 

“Mm?” He looked over at Gale. “Hmm? Yes, quite lovely.” 

He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He grunted and hissed through his teeth at the sudden searing pain in his chest and leg.

“Astarion! Shit, hey, hey, stay with me,” Gale dropped the plant and rushed over wrapping his arms around him as his body sagged. 

“Hurts,” Astarion leaned against him as searing pain started moving through his body. Almost as though he were burning from the inside. 

“It's okay, it's okay, I’ve got you,” Gale brushed his hair back. “It's…fuck, where the fuck did someone even find an arrow with radiant properties.”

It's nice though, having the wizard hold him like this. Cradling him, stroking his hair. Through the haze of pain he can almost make out tears in those warm eyes. 

Astarion opened his eyes and recognized their bedroom. The curtains were open letting in the natural light and a soft breeze. He grit his teeth as he started to pull himself into a sitting position. His chest protested as his leg felt like dead weight. 

He was nearly there when the bedroom door opened and he saw Gale in the doorway. He was surprised, then worried, then setting the tray he'd been holding on the table at the foot of the bed and quickly coming around to help Astarion. 

“Should've figured you'd attempt to get out of bed,” he sighed. “Easy. Easy. You’ll irritate your wounds.” 

“I shouldn't have fucking wounds,” he panted a little once he was propped up against the pillows. “...why do I have wounds?”

Gale went back for the tray and brought over the cup that had been on it. He gave it to Astarion. It was blood. Still warm. And Gale's. 

“Hard to be resistant to radiant damage if it's in your bloodstream,” Gale answered. “They'd coated the tip in tainted blood as well. Not unlike when I'd been carrying the orb…a few more inches to the left and…” he reached up to tuck some hair behind his ear. 

Astarion caught sight of the bandages under the sleeve of his robes. 

“How long was I out?” Astarion frowned. 

“Few days,” Gale answered. “You were essentially poisoned but, being undead, there wasn't much the clerics could do for you…they just said ‘let him expel the bad blood’.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Thought you were going to cough up your insides. I tried to give you good blood but that just came right back up as well. Finally just…had to let you get it all out.” 

“Splains why my mouth tastes horrible,” Astarion brought the cup to his lips and drank some.

Continue Reading

[jelzorz]

177.

@raayllum's fault as always, under a read more for (dream)sex.

It's a dream.

Soren knows because he doesn't really sleep around anymore. In his youth, he'd been stupid: cavalier and hot blooded and blessed with the looks and status to get anyone he wanted in his bed. He's had women, and he's had men—once, he'd even had both at the same time—and it was fun, in those days, because it was always just sex. He hadn't really wanted the romance, at least not with anyone that he knew. Not then.

Then there was Corvus, and it hasn't been the same since he left. Part of Soren wonders if this is why he'd been so determined to avoid getting attached. He'd never believed in love to begin with because his parents were such a mess, but for a couple of years there, he'd really thought...

It doesn't matter. Corvus is gone now, and the wound aches but it's healing, and the fact that he's having this dream at at all must mean the hole in his heart is slowly, slowly starting to close. It's all heat and friction, tongues and teeth and laboured breaths, and there's no guilt for once, no sting of a scab picked open once more. Soren actually lets himself enjoy it: the taste of sweat on pale skin, the way the hair is soft between is fingers, the lips parted and whimpering for more.

He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it. He'd thought he was done with this, with sex as just a base need, as just something he needed to get out of his system every once in a while with anyone attractive and just as horny. Maybe it's the warmth, or the proximity, or the way he pulls whoever it is in his dream to him like he might dive in and never come up for air. The legs lock around his waist and the hips rise off the bed as he grinds against them—her, Soren realises belatedly through the haze—his fingers firm against her waist while she moans for him, for more, for him to please,don't stop, don't stop, don't stop—

Whover it is comes, and it's so real, so hot, that he follows, even if he wakes in the midst of his pleasure to an empty bed and a stain on his sheets.

It was a good dream, he'll give it that. He blinks tiredly up at the ceiling as the orgasm recedes, his vision hazy with sleep and with pleasure, for once not grieving the empty space beside him, and instead thinking of blue eyes and caramel hair and the pinkness of lips panting his name.

When he realises who the face belongs to, he blinks. Then he frowns. Then he sits up.

"What the fuck?" he breathes.

He does not sleep the rest of the night.

x

"Are you all right?" Opeli asks him the next morning. The council meeting is over, and Soren realises far too late that everyone else is already on their way out, and it's just him left at the table. Him and—

He shakes his head, refusing to think of the heat in his belly and the sound of his name from her lips.

"Fine," he says evenly. "Just uh. Had a weird dream. Couldn't get back to sleep afterwards."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Nothing too bad, I hope."

"No, uh." He looks away. "Not at all."

[bone-evidence]

Hello all! This is the first fic I'm posting here, called Concerning Prussians! Also on ao3 under the same name :D

Set in Nationverse in the 90's, human and nation names used

A sleepless Prussia finds himself in the guest bedroom of his home, where Canada is also still awake. A late-night chat turns into possibly the sweetest way to fall asleep.

The stuccoed ceiling above Prussia’s head held infinite shapes he was quite bored of finding. Sleep had never come easy to the nation, even before the half-century of torture at the hands of Russia. His incredibly sharp memory had a bad habit of bringing up past traumas and memories as soon as the lights were out. Some he could dismiss easily. Silly mistakes he’d made as a child nearly five hundred years ago were simply passing thoughts. Memories of the glorified walk-in closet he’d stayed in at Russia’s house, however, were much fresher. Five years had passed since the Wall fell and the albino was reunited with the rest of the world. Five years was hardly any time to process anything. 

Gilbert sighed and sat up in bed. The red glow of his digital clock told him it was just about midnight. His internal clock would wake him up at six in the morning, without fail. The sandman would have to smack him over the head with a brick to get him to sleep at this point. Oh well… maybe a midnight snack was in order. Prussia fumbled through the dark until he found the door and opened it silently. His crimson irises were immediately drawn to the light pouring out from under the guest bedroom door. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one unable to sleep? 

The first time Germany forgot to book Canada a hotel was excusable. The Wall had just fallen, after all, and the normally well-organised man was in shambles. Gilbert felt a small measure of relief as the memory of the North American staying for a few days drove away the phantom smell of vodka and blood. Canada had brought his guitar with him then, and had played for Prussia for hours. It was the first time he’d heard music in decades. 

Gilbert chuckled to himself as he walked down the hall and further into his memories. He’d been weary of Canada at first. All he knew of the maple-loving nation was the brutality with which he slayed his enemies in both World Wars. Canada’s Hundred Days was a string of defeats the albino would probably never forget. If he’d had the words to protest, he was sure he would never have allowed the man in his home so soon after regaining his freedom. He would have foolishly denied himself the chance to get to know Canada. 

The blond was incredible in battle, yes, but he was so much more than his past glories. He was a breath of fresh air among the stale haze of Europe. He was quiet, until one got to know him and his particular brand of chaos a little better. He smelled of sweet syrup and pine trees, and his arms were surprisingly strong. The hug he’d given Prussia before heading back home was a memory the albino often revisited when he needed something to banish the darkness in his mind. 

Perhaps Germany had noticed that Canada had walked past his brother’s walls as if they weren’t ever there during that stay. Maybe that’s why, once again, he’d forgotten to book Canada a hotel. Prussia silently thanked his dear relative as he stopped at the guest bedroom door. He knocked on it in three sharp raps, expecting at least some movement in the room. His silver brows furrowed in confusion as he heard no answer. Had the man fallen asleep with the light on? The albino decided to take a peek in the room. No point in waking Matthew up if he were asleep. There was a fridge to raid anyways. Prussia just barely opened the door, enough to see what was going on. He felt his heart skip a beat as he took in the sight. 

Canada was, in fact, awake. The chunky black headphones he wore that were connected to his Walkman explained why he hadn’t heard the Prussian knock. His wavy blond hair was tied back in a low ponytail, more than likely so it wouldn’t get in the way as he read his book. Gilbert thought the strands that hadn’t made it into the elastic framed the man’s face almost as nicely as his circular glasses did. He recalled how Canada’s purple eyes had scared him, at first. They reminded him far too much of Russia’s. But he’d quickly learned that there was a kindness in them that was unlike anything he’d seen in anyone else. They were beautiful. Matthew was beautiful. 

Prussia steeled his sudden, strange nerve and opened the door all the way. He knocked once more and smirked as the motion finally caught Canada’s attention. The man slipped his headphones off his ears and rested them around his neck in one fluid motion. He kept his music playing, but set his book on his lap to give his full attention to his unexpected guest. 

“Oh! Good evening, Prussia. Do you need something?”

The concern with which the blond asked his question brought a softer smile to Gilbert’s lips. He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. Violet eyes followed him curiously as he sat on the edge of the smallish bed. He could just barely hear the sounds of Guns n’ Roses coming from the headphones that sat on Canada’s freckled collarbone. Not that he was looking, of course. 

“Can’t sleep. I guess I’m just too awesome for the sandman to visit, hm? He must be afraid of me!”

Canada chuckled and stopped his music. Clearly, the albino intended on staying for at least a little while. “That must be it. I’m sorry didn’t bring my guitar this time, or I would play for you again.”

“Ah, that’s okay. I suppose I’ll survive without hearing you play for another five years. What are you doing still awake, though?”

“Oh, I’m just reading Fellowship of the Ring again. I always have trouble sleeping when I come to Europe.”

“Fellowship of the Ring, huh? Never heard of it.”

Matthew seemed a little surprised by this revelation, but quickly remembered why that might have been the case. The Iron Curtain had been brutally effective in keeping its prisoners isolated, after all.  

“The author wrote it after the Great War. This is a terrible summary, but it’s a fantasy series about this Hobbit named Frodo who has to take a ring to a volcano and throw it in to save the world from being completely overrun by evil! It’s my favourite series of all time.”

Gilbert couldn’t help but laugh a little. The premise seemed… childish. Melting a ring couldn’t possibly save the world. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re a huge nerd. Do you play that Dungeons and Dragons game, too?”

Canada’s cheeks flushed pink. He rolled his eyes at his guest, who’s smirk threatened to split his face. “No, I’m not that much of a nerd. It’s a good series though, I promise. I think everyone should try to read it.”

“Not me! I’m way too awesome to be caught reading about Bobbitses and volcanoes, or whatever.”

“You’re not even going to give it a chance?”

“Nein. You can stick with your dorky literature, I’ll keep reading…. Er, something else. Something way cooler!”

“Hm. I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but you’ve left me with no choice. I have a fact about the author, Tolkien, that might interest you.”

“I’m listening. Though I don’t know what could possibly interest me enough to get me to read this book.”

The blond leaned a little closer with a smirk of his own, fully aware that this little tidbit of information was an ace in the hole. “Tolkien was from England. But, I’ve heard that his family was from Kreuzberg in East Prussia.”

Gilbert sat in stunned silence for a few moments, before he finally sighed and accepted defeat. He almost felt obligated to read the works of someone who’s family came from his formerly great nation. Even if the subject matter sounded a little silly. “...Alright, move over. If you’re going to drag me kicking and screaming into your weird nerd story, the least you can do is flip the pages for me.”

Canada was more than happy to make room for the Prussian to sit beside him. He set his Walkman and headphones on the nightstand while his new reading buddy got comfortable under the blankets. “Just let me know when I can turn the page.”

It quickly became obvious that Prussia was struggling with the reading material. He leaned closer to get a better look at the words on the page and try to sound them out in his head. Whole sections had to be reread as he tried so hard to understand what was written. As such, the pace was painfully slow for Matthew. They got about five pages in before the blond set the book down and looked at the frustrated albino. 

“Having some trouble?”

“Ja. It’s not my fault English is a stupid language when it’s written, though.”

“...Do you want me to read to you?”

Gilbert searched the taller one’s face for any hint of pity or malice. Instead, he found the gentle, kind eyes that had a knack for tearing down his walls. There were no expectations behind the question. Just a quiet desire to share a story that clearly meant a lot to Canada. Prussia nodded, and the soft smile he received in return found itself a loving home in his long memory. 

“Get comfortable, then.”

Nothing would be more comfortable than to be in Matthew’s arms. Gilbert slid down enough to rest his head over the man’s heart. He wrapped his arm around the blond’s waist, and tangled their legs together. Crimson eyes closed with a sigh of contentment as, at last, he felt strong arms wrap around him once more. He felt the corner of the book on his hip and simply snuggled in closer. Canada smelled like pine trees and maple syrup. His embrace felt like a heaven Prussia didn’t think he would be allowed into. His voice, as he started reading, was a gentle river that carried the albino far from the troubles of the world and into the land of Middle Earth. 

Gilbert found himself quite invested in the tale of Frodo. The emotion with which he was told the story truly made it come to life in his imagination. Canada’s voice had an almost musical quality to it that lent itself well to describing the fantastic landscapes and peoples of Tolkien’s world. The heart he put into every syllable was not lost on the albino in his arms. As he listened, Prussia came to realise that the summary he’d been given earlier was indeed terrible. This wasn’t just a story about Frodo, or the ring, or even the quest to save the world. This was a story about hope. Hope in the face of impossible odds, hope for a future that seemed so desperately far away. Prussia found it quite easy to relate. 

The rumble of Matthew’s voice in his chest proved an effective lullaby for Gilbert. He tried so hard to stay awake, to hear how the Battle for Helm’s Deep would turn out. But the hour was late, and the sandman had arrived at last. The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was a softly whispered wish for sweet dreams from Canada. 

In the morning, Germany was quite confused to see his brother’s room both open and empty. His confusion was alleviated as he opened the other bedroom door to check on the guest. He found Prussia and Canada still in each other’s arms, fast asleep, and a book on the bed beside them. Neither stirred as Germany quietly closed the door to give them a little more time to rest. The tall man smiled softly to himself as he made his way downstairs to start breakfast. His brother looked so content, so… safe, in Canada’s arms. Perhaps forgetting to book Matthew a hotel was something Germany would have to remember to do more often.

[asktheplethaura]

Total Drama: Liberation of the Slaughtered

((Chapter Two: Abyssal Obsoltion))

-

((Authors Note: Sometimes... I'm alone. Sometimes I'm not. Sometimes i'm alone... i'm alone.... **Sad cat face**))

Cody had found himself consumed by the world wrapped in darkness and mystery quickly.The darkened hues and mixing sounds all being dulled out by the lifeless haze that was his troubled mindscape. Crashing memories of the past mixed with the melancholid dull haze of the present. 

Trauma and regret and lingering confusion or anger all mixed together in jumbled shades. 

Cody could hardly tell whether he was coming or going, mentally. The time he spent suspended in his mind of downpouring emotions, and deficient substance. 

It felt like falling. Falling, but sitting on a couch both at once. There was no sense of rest or ease. Not matter how much he moved or... tried not to move. Maybe that was the term for it. 

Every little movement from his fingers felt like static. The static that almost felt like you were being stabbed in the center of the affected limb- rather than the soft, tickly, sort of uncomfortable feeling. 

He couldn't tell. 

Just as he tried to block everything out again, within his darkened psyche- he somehow seemed to feel... movement. A presence. Someone that wasn't just himself, there- staring at him. 

Though, from where, he had not the slightest clue. 

It was almost like that feeling that he got whenever he looked out the window- from when they were all on that blood soaked, stupid, stupid island.

Watching... waiting... observing.. maybe. 

Though, despite the discomfort, he didn't feel one thing he remembered quite well. He never felt the malice that accompanied such feelings. Which struck him as somewhat odd, considering just how often these feelings showed up together. 

How peculiar indeed. 

He couldn't tell of this was a sort of strange lucid dream- which was something he had only heard of one time. Or if it was some sort of smaller paranoia attack threatening to consume him if he took his chances at moving or waking up. 

It was like suffocating. 

Intoxicating and the benign morbid relaxation pulled him to try and fall deeper into sleep. 

Though, before he did, he looked around one more time in his barely illuminated mind scape. The walls only lit up with ... a small light in the distance... and.. a familiar face...? 

Cody could consciously feel himself blinking... or what seemed to be the sensation of blinking. Trying his hardest to make sure that his mind wasn't playing with him. That he wasn't seeing things. 

He could see him in the distance... ! 

Noah...! 

Running. 

Cody started running to him, or at least that's what it felt like he was doing in his mind. It didn't matter how or why, or even if he could run mentally. It didn't matter if it was possible All he knew was that the figure of Noah was getting closer and closer and closer yet. 

He could nearly feel him.

Cody could see his dark brown hair and his red and blue shirt and his light cinnamon skin..!

But- the closer he got... the less he was progressing. Where running felt like running- it suddenly decelerated, no matter how fast his legs moved. Running became a canter, and a canter became a jog. Before jogging decelerated into a hopeless, progress-lacking walk. 

This sensation only pulled at his mind cruelly. Reminding him that what he wanted was so far away. No matter how close it just might have been. It it were close to him at all for achievement. 

"Godammit! Dammit... ! Let me move...!" the feeling of freefalling idly soon turned into a feeling of sinking. 

One that threatened to pull his head under crashing waves of water with the density of tar. 

He couldn't move or scream or speak. All he could do was gag at the sensation. This disgusting, awful, lonely feeling. 

Cody looked back up at the opposite-facing figure of Noah and it all became ... clear. At least in his mind. 

This wasn't Noah. Maybe.. this is what his mind was trying to do to understand what Noah had went through- before he found his body. 

Sinking in water and wanting, yearning- begging for help when there was no one there so save you. There was no one there to save Noah from his fate. 

No matter how much time passed... Cody still couldn't forgive Duncan for that. Even if he didn't hate the other man..... anymore. 

He was beyond the point of hate. 

He was too empathetic to hate someone that was just as much a victim as he was. Especially when he still didn't have it as bad as the others who would never leave the island. Families without their kids, because of some ruthless bastard that felt like drawing blood with his greedy hands. 

Cody had forgotten about seeing Noah's silhouette and almost embraced the feeling of... sinking. Falling adrift into whatever depths that his mind was trying to drag him. 

Because after being rescued, he never recovered. Nor did he try. 

Unlike the other survivors, Cody never had anyone to turn to. He never had anyone to go to for support or to pour his anguish onto.

His parents cared about him very little. The fact that they would forget his birthdya despite the fact that he remembered theirs year after year spoke volumes. 

Unanswered texts, and missed calls. All from him to tell them that he was doing okay. Even though they didn't deserve to know.

He reached out for comfort from them, and amidst meeting them the ONE time after he was brought him from that hell on Earth- he knew that nothing would change how his family felt. 

It truly was a sinking feeling. 

A saddening, lonely, awful feeling. 

His mind couldn't help but flash back to the form of Noah... who somehow was still there. 

His pale, tired teal eyes half lidded as he stopped struggling. He allowed the feeling to continue consuming him Because with this feeling of loneliness crushing him- somehow he felt less alone. 

He felt like he truly understood someone else. Even if it may or may not have been true. 

He closed his eyes and just accepted this feeling. Feeling as though his soul was being torn from the inside out. Breached with understanding, and braying with denial still. 

He didn't want to accept what this reality was. 

He wouldn't. 

Because no matter how awful he felt, or how awful some situations were with the other campers- he still cared about them. All of them. Even if they may not have really given half a shit about him when they were alive. 

Not that he would know. 

He would dwell. Because they didn't deserve to be forgotten so soon. Dismissed and regarded as nothing more than a body that didn't even get to reach their parents for a proper burial. 

Just as he felt himself fading back from the little subconscious awareness he had managed to miraculously wrangle for himself- he felt something cold, and clammy on his face. 

Without thinking- he raised his hands- in his mind. Instinctively grabbing onto this cold, clammy feeling, and hugging it close to himself. Desperate to feel something more than this isolation that he had continued into. This self-abandonment and seclusion he wouldn't escape from. 

The clammy feeling continued to hold onto his cheek, and without thinking, he opened weary, eyes, brimmed with unknown forming tears. 

There- he saw them. The cloudy white retna abandoned of pupuls and iris. Dark messy hair, and pale cinnamon skin dampened by the rot a no longer beating heart. 

There was Noah- his dead, ghostly form staring right down at him with an unreadable expression. One that radiated confusion, but also... sympathy. 

"N-..." 

Cody couldn't talk. He was alarmed. Staggering and stubling, he desperately tried to utter out the other boys name. He tried to get 3 more teeny, tiny letters out. To no avail. He tried again. 

"- - ah." 

"N-" 

More and more desperate efforts as he started to panic and struggle, his body writhing as he was overcome with the feeling of drowning. Water flooding his lungs as he tried to struggle to freedom. Sinking, plunging, and descending into even more dark, thick abyss as the ghostly form of Noah looked down at him, reaching out a hand as if he was trying to save him. 

Cody, with one more desperate, deprived heave- slammed his hand up, desperate to feel the others hand again, screaming from the top of his lungs-

"----NOOO!"

- - -

With a sudden, heavy thump Cody screams himself awake, struggling and gagging as he clawed himself out of a blanket he didn't even realize he had on his couch. 

He tumbled to the ground with a heavy thud, panting and groaning as he tried to convince himself he was truly breathing the oxygen that had not truly been witheld from him. 

His heart pumped, overruling whatever outside noise he could have heard as the thumping throbbed in his ears. 

Retaining his breath, and pulling at the hem of his shirt collar to get it away from his neck- he took several moments to process what had just happened. 

Tearing up once more... he just sighed, staring at the ground. 

". . . Noah..."

((To Be Continued))

[raichett]

A Special Concert

This flash fic is inspired by a comic strip done by @0xeyedaisy, which can be found here. Thanks for ripping so many people’s hearts out.

The song Ariana sings is Dark Dance by Burn The Ballroom, which is an absolute banger and can be found here. This is my agenda for getting more people aware of this incredibly underrated band.

This flash fic can also be found on AO3 here.

Content warnings: canonical character death, canonical suicide, it’s the Third Life finale, you know what that means. 

---

A SPECIAL CONCERT

Scar’s still alive when Ariana stumbles to his side, falling to her knees in the sand. It’s dry under one knee and wet under the other, the sand turning red as Scar leaks blood in a steady flow, spreading around him. Her trembling hands hurt. She thinks one of her knuckles might be dislocated. Scar clumsily takes one of her hands and she lets him, gripping tight with her bloodied fingers. Ariana’s heart doesn’t feel like a heart where it beats inside her chest; it feels like an empty space rattling about inside the cage of her ribs. Broken, she thinks, distantly. Once, she would have turned that thought and image into a lyric.

She wants to move, wants to close her eyes, block out the sight of Scar – Scar – dying in front of her of the wounds her hands gave him. She wants to be a coward for once in her life as the reddish haze lifts from her mind. It’s a bit like waking up from a nightmare into another nightmare, this one worse, this one real.

She swallows and stays at his side instead, keeping her eyes on his, red on red as red pools around them. It’s the least she owes him. The spectators are still chanting, but quieter, now, their murmurings wordless like how the voices of the crowds from her shows became wordless in the roar of pure overlapping noise. She misses those days, back when her greatest worries were about stage equipment and travel logistics on tours, not – not death and destruction and the curse that has claimed all of them and won.

“Hey,” Scar says, softly. His breathing isn’t right and it’s making his words hard. Ariana can see where her fists broke his ribs by the dents and lumps on his chest. She forces herself not to look away. “Before I completely pass out and die…” It’s so matter of fact, is the thing. A scream burns in Ariana’s throat, unreleased, as she leans in a little to listen to Scar’s last request. “Could you sing me a song?” Oh. “I never… got a chance” – he pauses to cough, turning his head to splatter more blood on the sand – “to hear you… sing…”

Ariana’s grief writes itself across her face. “All right,” she says, forcing a smile as she holds back tears. Her sharp teeth have never made her look traditionally pretty, and most of her old promotional posters had her with a close-lipped smile, but Scar has never flinched at them. It was the first thing she decided she liked about him, back then, when she grinned unthinkingly and he did nothing more than blink and grin back. “A special concert just for you.”

She starts to sing, one of her older songs, the ones she wrote without her agent reviewing them and nitpicking the lyrics. More alternative rock than the pop rock of her most famous hits, but it comes from the heart, and she can give nothing less to Scar to take with him to whatever comes next.

Scar finally closes his eyes as she gets to the end of the second verse; “I see your face in the firelight, I know that it’s fine,” – she stares right at his face, grey and going greyer – “‘cause in the dark of the dance here, you’re already mine…”

Overhead, the late afternoon sun is blazing down on her back, her shoulders and arms and neck burning even more. She’s already got sunburn, skin peeling at the edges from the lack of care being Red brings, the way it’s everything and nothing, neglect and passion in a double-edged blade.

The chorus escapes her throat too easily, old muscle memory keeping her singing as Scar starts to go still. “Sing with me in the dead of night, a break down beat keeps my heart in time.” She stops leaning over him, slumping her weight back on her aching legs, even as her eyes remain glued to his face, his almost-peaceful face. “I love about what I love about you, angel…”

She ends the chorus with another repetition of its two lines and then, her voice wobbling, finishes the rest of the song. By the time it’s done, Scar’s hand has started to cool in hers. Her fingers trembling, she lets it go, carefully placing it to lie limp on the sand.

And that’s the end of the show, goodnight everyone! she imagines herself saying, as she’s said so many times before, holding out her microphone to her screaming crowd late into the night, body flushed and aching with the high of the performance, trembling with adrenaline and ready to crash backstage from tiredness. Goodnight, goodnight! And have a safe trip home!

She rises to her feet. In a way, tired and shaking and jittery as she is, the murmurings of the spectators surrounding her – one voice louder now, she thinks deliriously – it’s almost familiar. It’s almost like the end of a show.

She raises her head mechanically from Scar’s body to the edge of the cliff, just beyond the cacti ring. She knows just what the final song should be. As she takes her first steps towards the cliff, the spectators get louder, seemingly in agreement with her. Her fingers twitch, her hand curling around thin air as though she were fiddling with her microphone, a nervous habit she developed when she first stepped foot on the stage.

“Goodnight, everyone,” she whispers when she’s on the ledge, staring at the setting sun as its rays bleed gold and orange across the ground. The spectators chant. The imaginary crowd roars applause in her ears. “… Goodnight.”

[papermatisse]

bliss || k.sy

♗ pairing: kwon soonyoung x f!reader

♗ genre: angst, fluff, Hanahaki

♗ word count: 7.6k

♗ warnings: death mentions, hospital, depression, anxiety

♗ synopsis: waking up with no memories, no recollection of who she once was, was a terrifying, near debilitating experience, but maybe with the help of a kind stranger, recovery could come sooner than expected.

♗ a/n: I read a lot of Hanahaki stuff, so I thought it'd be fun to write one :)

main masterlist

It was a strange experience. One which felt both enlightening in a way, though still left her incredibly befuddled, mindless in her post surgical haze.

They say ignorance is bliss. That it's better to lack wisdom than to suffer the consequences of knowledge. The concept never truly struck her as a crucial necessity to grasp, nor ever crossed her mind in her day to day–or at least she presumed it hadn't. Because now she truly was trapped in this endless void of nothing. That ignorance she spoke of like a virus, seeping into every crevice of her mind it could writhe itself into, entangling into this unavoidable mass, leaving her near desolate, abandoned in this dreary, cold hospital bed.

Her torso felt as barren as her head, her heart a cavity devoid of anything. Yet strangely enough, she didn't mind it. If anything, she felt light. Free, even. This liberating air about her, even with the plethora of stitches littered across her chest, grounding her in reality with their sharp jabs upon her, pain stabbing into her with every minor movement. Because though she may not remember much, if anything at all, she did remember the agonizing weight which had become a constant in her life.

This terrible heaviness, pressing down upon her as she went about her business. She remembered the dread which would greet her every morning, misery being a defining emotion as she took on the trials of the day. There was so much hurt in her world, so much torment in a life too short to endure such anguish.

And now it was gone. All of that misery. All of that pain. Vanished into thin air. Alongside the memories which came with it, a consequence of the surgery she had only just awoken from.

The nurse was the first person she had seen when her eyes had cracked open, the blinding fluorescent light leaving her more disoriented than she initially was. He was patient as she came to, offering her a kind smile when she greeted him. Though upon her asking of her situation, why exactly she was where she was, his smile had somewhat faltered, a painful recognition in his eyes as he reached for a clipboard at the end of the bed.

She had received the surgery for Hanahaki disease. A procedure in which the cause of the affliction is terminated at its source. The roots which had imbibed themselves into her lungs, digging into the tissue and coiling themselves into a tangled, grounded mesh of growth. What had begun as a simple sprout, a delicate little flower blossoming within her, a representation of the love she held for one certain someone, had all but evolved into an uncontrollable brush of foliage, until she was practically suffocating in that self deluded love she revolved around.

She remembered all of the pain. The excruciating agony of coughing up a swarm of petals and flowers, the burning sensation which coincided with expelling that toxicity from her body. The vines which crept up her airway, tearing into her body and leaving slits in their wake. Breathing felt like a task in and of itself, and the petals which so often sprouted forth from her mouth came with absolute misery, stroking those gashes which lined her esophagus and coaxing out splotches of bright red blood with every hack and wheeze.

She had been in critical condition, in dire need of this surgery, yet still took near months to deliberate on this decision. All for the foolish sake of a boy who has never reciprocated her feelings.

Ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise. Yet as she lay there, breathing clearly with her heart still steadily thumping against her, she truly began to absorb those words and their meaning.

The irony that was the statement. Though she may be living in blissful ignorance now, she felt more aware than she previously was. As if having exchanged one wisdom at the expense of another. Because here she lay, ignorant to what she once felt for a person, yet so very keen on the absolute ignorance which was clinging to those hopeless and near fatal emotions that almost led her to her inevitability.

The nurse carefully explained everything to her, patiently running through the circumstances of her situation. The severity which was her condition, the success of the surgery, as well as the permanent aftereffects of it all.

She no longer loved that person. The roots had dug their way into her nerve endings, tapping into her nervous system and soon after had begun integrating into her mind. Removing them solved her Hanahaki dilemma, though at the cost of her memories. Every single memory she shared with that man now vanished, as if he never truly existed to her. Though perhaps that's for the better. She, of course, can't recall who that was, though she doubts she'd enjoy befriending the likes of someone like that. Someone who could so easily allow her to die.

The nurse continued, explaining how they were able to carefully remove each and every root until her lungs were cleared of any and all floral growth. She was left a brand new person, a blank slate of a being. In both physical health, though also in memory.

Upon testing her vitals and her mechanics, he dismissed himself, off to report to her doctor of her well-being, leaving her alone in this foreign room.

The room felt uncomfortably barren, the incessant beeping of the machines around her refusing to give her a moment of peace. The IV lodged in her arm was discomforting to say the least, leaving her rather hesitant in moving that arm for fear of potentially feeling the needle. The lack of visitors concerned her somewhat, had her wondering what sort of social lifestyle she led to not have a single friend visit. Though she couldn't even recall any people she associated herself with. Did she truly live such a sad life? To have been at death's doorstep, alone and forgotten, for the sake of loving a man who couldn't care less about her?

She pursed her lips, humming a gentle tune to try and pass the time. Her mind was clear, yet at the same time ever so frenzied with thoughts and worries.

What would life be like now? How could one worry about change if they don't remember what life was like beforehand? Is it truly change if they have no recollection of what once was?

Before she knew it, warm tears began trickling down her face. Fear for what would be waiting for her once she recovered. The life which once was hers now but a foreign experience handed to her against her will. She wasn't the same person she once was. Though she may carry the same face, she was but an entity merely trapped in this vessel of a body, set out on a voyage with a predestined route she had to follow.

Though if it truly was predestined, then what she had just done had altered the scales of fate. Perhaps she truly was meant to succumb to the hands of death, allow those weeds to coil themselves around her lungs and steal away her final breath. And now, she was forced to face the consequences of her actions. To enter a world which was just as much hers as it wasn't.

That dread which once awaited her in her mornings now waited for her outside these hospital doors.

As she wept to herself, her cries sounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and greeting her once more. The beeping continued to mock her, reminding her of where she was. The IV anchored her arm to the bed, a dark anxiety clouding her mind. Deep down, she knew that even if it were to become dislodged, it wouldn't kill her. The nurse could simply return and place it back in its position for her. There was no legitimate reason for her to be so wary of its existence, yet every time she glanced at it, more tears would fall, soaking every inch of skin on her face as she was too afraid to move. Too afraid the IV would cause her even the slightest bit of pain. There was already so much pain in her. She couldn't bear another ounce of the anguish.

Her door suddenly swung open, startling her from her misery as she glanced up at the doorway. She watched as the door gradually lost its momentum, slowly swinging open on its hinges as it reached the adjacent wall with a soft thud. Just as it began to fall back into its original position, a crutch came into view, its rubber sole colliding with the door's center as it pushed it open once more. Soon after, another crutch appeared, as well as a person.

A man, persistently hobbling into her room following the same pattern of movements. Push the door open with crutch, take one hop in, push the door open more with crutch, take another hop in. And she merely watched it all happen before her. Somewhat confused as to who this man was, though also in amazement at how complicated he made entering a room appear.

Finally, he managed to pass the threshold, releasing a victorious huff as he finally allowed the heavy door to close into its frame. With an overzealous, accomplished grin, he finally looked up and into the room, eyes immediately landing upon the poor girl, crying alone in her bed.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," He quickly rambled out, mouth opening and closing in shock as he attempted to find his words. "I didn't realize this was the wrong room, I…"

"It's alright," She mumbled, sniffling weakly as she attempted to recoil once more into her bed.

She expected him to leave soon after, leaving her to her own devices, yet the room remained as it was, the steady beeping of her monitor filling what would have been empty silence. There was no raucous of a door being continuously shoved open by crutches.

Turning her head back to the entrance of the room, she was surprised to see the stranger still standing there, observing her.

His eyes weren't invasive, prying into her psyche and leaving her skin crawling. Instead, his eyes were gentle, this spark of concern which left her flustered and confused.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly, steadily making his way over to her with minute shuffles. His brows were curved in worry. Genuine sympathy radiated off of him, his character so entirely honest that she couldn't believe he truly existed as an actual person. She didn't know him, and she could only assume he didn't know her either. Yet here he was, blinking expectantly at her, waiting for her words, as patient as one could ever be.

"I don't think so…" She muttered. Her voice was gravelly, dry from having only just awoken from her surgery some half hour ago, as well as bearing the consequences of her having already cried a decent bit thus far. The lump in her throat was ever apparent, an unsettling reminder that she could very well burst into tears once more in front of this gentle soul before her.

As if having read her mind, the man quickly sat down on the seat beside her, resting his crutches against her bed before reaching for the glass of water on her bedside table.

"Here you go," He whispered, pressing the rim of the glass onto her dried lips. Tentatively, she took a sip, allowing the cool liquid to run down her tongue, relieving her thirst and concomitantly some of her torment. Her eyes remained on him, in awe at the presence of this man who just stumbled rather unceremoniously into her room. The first person she's encountered, aside from her nurse of course.

"Thank you." He placed the glass down once more, his gaze still trained on her as she cleared her throat nervously. "I… I'm… I…"

Her words would come up, only to be halted, some unknown reason forcing every sentence back down. Every syllable felt like she was fighting against herself, as if she were about to vomit from the effort it took to speak. All the while, she held back her tears, held back her clear despair in a fortified dam within her, refusing to crack any more than she already has. She didn't want to burden this person, she didn't want to unload her fears to him, her every worry deep inside her.

Yet it was almost like she hadn't stood a chance, as soon after she first began sputtering over her pathetic attempt at what to say, her frenzied thoughts spiraling past her in an overwhelming fashion, too fast to truly grasp at any one detail, she felt a warmth suddenly embrace her. The hand which remained limp by her side this whole time now held in his own, this aching tenderness in his touch which seemed to be the nail in the coffin. Or in this case, the nail in her dam which all but crumbled in a matter of seconds.

More tears slid down her face, a non stop barrage of moisture all but seeping from her reddened, swollen eyes. Her cries were relentless, almost unabashed in manner, though she knew once she had settled down, she'd regret all of this. She'd regret this reckless display of emotion, the abandon with which she wept her soul out. The way she grasped his hand so tightly, afraid he'd leave her, desert her with no one and nothing.

Though she hadn't any reason to fear this, as he held her hand dearly, thumb smoothing over her knuckles, his mouth forming a devastating pout as he let her cry for as long as she needed.

"I'm scared," She sobbed out, the words now flowing out of her with no restraint. "I'm sad, I'm so desperately lost. I don't know what's going on and I have nobody."

"Well, you have me now." He leaned forward, resting his chin on the blanket, all without breaking his focus on her. "Tell me what happened."

And so she did. Everything she could remember, which albeit wasn't much. From the way she woke up alone, with only a nurse to tell her that she had just gotten surgery for Hanahaki, which had all but nearly killed her and would have succeeded had she not taken this delayed initiative.

She told him about her permanent amnesia. How she could remember the general basis of her life, the knowledge she had attained while growing up, her home she would eventually return to, her fish tank she fed just before coming to the hospital.

She told him about the blank spaces in her memory. How clearly evident it was she was missing something even if she hadn't been told in the first place. How she couldn't remember any communication she's had with people, as if only being able to remember the gist of her life though not the exact details.

As if skimming through a book, only able to grasp what few details captured the eye.

And he listened. Wholeheartedly listened to her. Nodded to her words, continued to hold her hand all throughout, reassuring her and reminding her that he was there, and he wasn't leaving.

At the end of her spiel, he sat up, reaching for the box of tissues at her bedside. Gently, with such undeniable care, he dabbed away her tears. When another would slip past her waterline, he'd wash it away. He'd wash away all of her anguish. His hand remained in hers, her fingertips lightly scraping against the calluses formed at the base of his fingers, a roughness across his palms which she found soothing in a way. That he has such markings on his body, an indication to a life he lives, to stories he retains. Memories in his mind and on his person.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all of that." He began, the tissue lightly pressing against her eyes. "I'm sorry you're still having to go through this. It's not your fault that you loved. Yet for some unfair reason, our body punishes us for it." He tossed aside the napkin, reaching for her other hand as well. "You'll get through this. You'll be okay. Everything will be alright."

Such simple words, ineffective in every sense, yet for some reason coming from his mouth, they felt so real. As if he breathed life into them, he spoke and so it must come true. The world rested in the calloused palm of his hand, so who was she to deny his truths?

She nodded, more tears falling down her face, though this time, tears of joy. Joy that she wasn't entirely alone. That she had this man with messy, choppy black locks, sharp angular eyes that held this undeniable comfort within their depths, a bright smile which practically lit up her formerly dreary life. In her mind, whether it were an irrational desperate attempt of some consistency in her chaotic life or a genuine intuition from her heart, she knew that everything truly would turn out okay. As long as she had him right beside her.

"I'm (y/n)." She laughed softly, only just remembering she hadn't introduced herself to him.

"I'm Soonyoung."

She didn't know for how long they remained there, his hand in hers as they talked and talked, mindless conversation leading from one thing to another. Nothing was ever boring with Soonyoung, she quickly learned.

She learned his calluses came from a combination of many things. Lifting weights, hours on the monkey bars as a child, a variety of sports he grew up with before settling on dance. She asked if his current injury was a result of dancing, to which he laughed and gave a completely unrelated reason to it.

"I dislocated my knee from sledding down a hill with a friend."

"Soonyoung, it's summer…"

"Yeah, not our brightest idea." He glanced down at his injured leg. "He broke his arm, he's actually in the room right next to you, which is why I accidentally came in here. I got the room numbers confused."

"You should go back to him, you were intending to visit him."

"But you're afraid of the IV, what if you need my arms to get you something."

"Your friend quite literally broke his arm, Soonyoung, I think that takes jurisdiction over my IV fear."

"He'll be fine." He waved off her worries, dismissing his friend in the other room, most likely wondering where Soonyoung could possibly be. Yet all she could do was laugh with him, squeezing his hand in hers.

The doctor came in soon after, apologizing for her tardiness. She explained everything to (y/n) once more, running through the diagnostics and discussing what she should be doing after the surgery. Soonyoung remained where he was, listening intently and silently reassuring (y/n) the entire way through.

With him, the news came easier to her than she had expected. As she already knew, her memories most likely would not be returning to her. Anything that was closely tied with her former crush was now gone; a defense mechanism almost to prevent any further harm to the body.

However, this wouldn't affect anything else of her memories.

Going forth, she truly was like a blank canvas. She could choose to paint the same, or at least a similar, portrait of her life, or she could move forward, create a different painting with new memories, new friends, new love.

Glancing over to Soonyoung, his eyes meeting hers with a grin, she thought it wouldn't be so bad after all. It wouldn't be bad at all.

Soonyoung had quickly integrated (y/n) into his life, the two of them leaving the hospital soon after their fateful meeting.

She met Jeonghan, the friend who had broken his arm in this freak sledding incident that landed the two fools in the hospital in the first place. She met Seungcheol, the one who came to pick them up, as well as Seokmin and Mingyu, two witnesses who watched the sledding incident happen. From the car ride alone, she could feel their comradery. She could tell how near and dear they each held each other. Even with the eldest screaming at the others from his driver's seat, the tall one taking his side, and the remaining three attempting to defend themselves and their tomfoolery.

Parting from Soonyoung was initially difficult as they eventually pulled up to her house. The chaotic nature of the boys together had successfully distracted (y/n) from what lay ahead of her, and once she had squeezed herself out of the crammed vehicle, she was settled back into reality. The reality of her turbulent life, a trial which she'll have to learn to overcome. Yet once more, it was the gentle touch of Soonyoung's fingers grazing her wrist that settled her thoughts.

"Do you need me to walk in with you?" He asked her, already attempting to leave the vehicle, though was immediately met with everyone's, including her own, refusal, dragging him back into the car.

"Do you know how long it took for us to shove your crutches in there?" (y/n) laughed, earning agreeance from the others. Though once their giggles subsided, a quaint silence settling between the two, she offered him a slight grin. "I'll be fine. I promise." Her voice was low, as if sharing a secret with him and him only. He looked up at her from where he sat in the car, eyes sparkling with mirth as his lips turned up into a sweet smile.

"Okay." He nodded. "Text me, alright? Promise?"

As she gazed into his eyes, swam in their all encompassing embrace, felt his warmth radiating off of him, his gentle nature which lulled her once manic state, she couldn't help but melt at his presence. His everything felt so light, so invigorating. Like sunshine embodied, a paragon of benevolence. He was all things good. Like an angel which walked into her life when she had reached her lowest point. She'd be damned if she were to let him go.

"I promise."

"Are you mad at me?" Soonyoung pouted, reaching his hand out to (y/n) for her to take, though she neglected it.

"No." She muttered, arms crossed, eyes defiantly turned away from the man currently laying on the hospital bed. "I'm just upset."

"I don't like it when you're upset."

"Well, I don't like it when my boyfriend does daredevil action moves for shits and giggles." At his silence, she reluctantly glanced over to him, curiosity piqued at his reaction. Though as expected, his smile still remained on his face.

"Yeah you do." He giggled. As per usual, the muscles in her face twitched, wanting to join him in his laughter, though the more stubborn side of her remained as is, keeping her stoic expression as they waited for the doctor's return.

"I don't like it when my boyfriend does daredevil action moves that land him in the hospital." She clarified. The pout which was once on his face was now on hers as she looked to Soonyoung. More specifically, she looked at Soonyoung's arm now wrapped in a cast. (y/n) whined, finally succumbing to her inner despair and scooting her chair closer to him. "Why do you have to hurt yourself?"

"I don't mean to, you know that." Again, he offered her his hand to take, and with no hesitation, she accepted. His fingers were free, though his thumb down to his mid forearm were covered in the hard blue bandages. Turning his hand over, the crest of his palm peeked over the cast, offering her a spare amount of calloused skin for her to stroke; a comforting habit she had developed shortly after meeting him.

Soonyoung was her anchor. A much needed constant in her life. Her reprieve from the tumultuous events which followed her reentry to the world.

She didn't remember any of her friends, as they were all so closely tied to her crush that her mind just wiped them from memory. Her crush, who had supposedly gotten married—her breaking point in her Hanahaki case.

Few people were willing to rekindle the friendship they had, not wanting to bother with putting in the effort needed to start from scratch. Though the ones who did remain, those who were adamant on keeping her in their lives whether she was new or not, proved to be loyal, genuine friends.

Reuniting with her crush was rather anticlimactic. He apologized for what had happened to her, as she apparently hadn't told him, or anyone for that matter, anything of her dilemma. He seemed like a kind man, though as expected, she felt nothing. Complete and utter indifference for this person who nearly brought her to her death.

Soonyoung was a comfort she hadn't realized she so desperately needed. Others berated her for forgetting things, constantly reminded her of events she couldn't recall. As if she was forced to play into this narrative she wanted no part of. She couldn't care less if she once acted a certain way. She refused to fit into others expectations of her. Yet Soonyoung was nothing like that.

Soonyoung was new. He was someone who only ever experienced her as she was now. He held no expectations of what she should be, only ever encouraging her to be herself. Even if he had known her beforehand, she knew he'd still be as accepting as he always was.

He was kind, willing to make his way over to her at three in the morning when she was having a panic attack. She remembered opening the door, chest tight with her anxieties weighing down upon her. Her eyes were blurred with tears, yet she could somewhat make out his figure, his messy hair sticking up in random directions, before he had brought her into his embrace.

He held her for as long as she needed, letting her cry into his chest, calming her as best he could. She woke up the next morning, bundled in a blanket cocoon, still lying beside Soonyoung on her living room couch. He had woken up hours later, well into the afternoon.

And though he insisted he fell asleep at the same time as her, she could tell he had stayed up longer, most likely making sure she was truly okay as she slept.

He was thoughtful, always considering her whenever he made plans.

She'd be locked away in her room, hoping to avoid the pressures awaiting her outside, praying for the world to disappear for just a moment so she could forget all her worries, just as she's forgotten everything else. To wallow in her own self pity, yet Soonyoung wouldn't allow that.

It was as if he could sense her trepidation, her thoughts which would build up with her sudden free time, her lack of distractions granting a moment of vulnerability for those invasive anxieties to crawl up from where she had pushed them aside. Though before she could sink too far into her thoughts, her phone would ring. Her door would knock. At one point, music blared from outside her house as Soonyoung turned his radio up to an obscene volume. All to summon her from her tower, to rescue her from the depths of her darkness.

Her own personal knight in shining armor coming to serve as her distraction.

With these sudden and random escapades, she met the entirety of his friend group. Men just as wonderful as Soonyoung, yet there she was seeking only him out in the midst of conversation, curling her pinkie with his, afraid to damper the mood if she were to tell him she was beginning to feel overwhelmed. But he'd refuse her white flag of a pinkie hold and instead intertwine their fingers together, brushing his thumb over her skin as he always did. A calming tranquility resounding from him as she'd gaze down at their hands, perfectly slotted together like two puzzle pieces.

She didn't know whether to define it as brave or foolish. Perhaps in every fool, there's a sense of courage. You have to be foolish to be courageous. Soonyoung embodied both concepts, diving into any and every endeavor head first without any precaution. Countless times (y/n) would have to bandage him after he'd perform a stupid stunt for the boys. She'd have to hold him back from doing something he'd quite obviously regret, though he of course never thinks past the present. No matter how many times she's scolded him for his acts, attempted to hammer into his thick skull some sense of responsibility, to care for himself as he does others, it never seems to work.

He was selfish.

Minor things, like following after dangerous dares for the idiotic reason that he merely wanted to, not regarding the physical pain it'd cause not only himself, but also disregarding the emotional pain to others as well.

Though also selfish in his entirety, as he one day just confessed to her, as casually as one would bring up the weather.

"I adore you, (y/n)." He spoke, voice holding that manner of confidence he seemed to always carry with him. "Genuinely so. From the way you carry yourself, going through life like a soldier living through spite alone, to the way you smile, lighting up a room with your joy. You've gone through so much, things that would normally destroy a person, yet you're persevering so well. I love that about you. You give me more credit than I deserve. Because I know you'd be just as incredible on your own even if you hadn't met me. I'm just glad to be tagging along with you. I'm able to see this strong, beautiful person overcome so much with my own eyes. The happiness I give you, you give me tenfold. You've made my life so much brighter. You're becoming my life, (y/n)."

She had remained silent as he spoke, trembling as he continued to confess. His hand rested in hers, lazily drawing patterns onto her skin with this dopey grin on his face, pouring his heart out to her, disregarding the way she seemed to retract further and further from the conversation.

"I'm not trying to pressure you or anything, so I'm sorry if you feel that way. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted to be open about my feelings." He glanced up at her, this raw tenderness glistening in his eyes as he pressed his cheek into the couch cushion. "I guess I just wanted you to know how I feel… and to sort of tell you… it's okay to like me, if you're willing to?"

He had left soon after, apologizing once more for dumping such a burden unto her. Was it rude to call his confession a burden? His honest, thoughtful words, straight from his heart and directly to her, nothing more than another weight for her to carry upon her shoulders? Because it truly was a burden, something she was forced to add onto her already overbearing load, yet a weight she truly, deep down, didn't mind. A weight as comforting as his hand resting on hers, his head laying on her lap, his arm draped over her shoulders. Soonyoung was a burden she could accept.

Yet he was so undeniably selfish. To just unload all of this emotional baggage onto her with no regard to her feelings. As if he wasn't even considering the fact that she had only recovered from Hanahaki just barely a year ago. Of course love was a touchy subject for her. It wasn't even at the forefront of her mind. She was content with her life as it was. She was fine the way she lived. What her and Soonyoung had was special, and for him to just come forth and try and ruin the sanctity of their friendship was something she truly couldn't grasp.

Selfish. Incomparably so.

More selfish than her former crush. To have ignored all of the blatant symptoms of her Hanahaki disease to pursue his own self interest in another lover who wasn't herself. Just letting (y/n) walk among the living as a near corpse.

More selfish than herself. To have craved that unattainable love she so desperately wanted. To have fallen victim to her naivety, thinking death would be a better solution than giving up this toxic, pointless excuse of love. To have demanded such love even in death.

To have completely disregarded Soonyoung's feelings from her own fears.

He was selfish, though so was she.

He was compassionate, granting (y/n) time to think through her own feelings. Giving her the disclaimer that she didn't have to reciprocate his feelings if she didn't want to. Staying by her side, even if she had him waiting weeks for an answer. As if reassuring her that no matter what, he'd still be with her, no matter the circumstances surrounding them.

Her anchor, ever reliable, ever loyal.

All these amazing things about him. About this boy who stumbled into her life, loved her through her faults and her trauma, filled her world with dreams and promises, hope for a happy future. So it truly came to no surprise when she finally did confront her own feelings, realizing she truly did love Soonyoung.

Unlike his confession, well thought out and presented to her, her confession had come in the form of an abrupt text at four in the morning.

"I love you, too."

She wound up waking up only two hours later as Soonyoung had come rushing to her house, calling her phone non stop and violently ringing her doorbell, all to smother her in hugs and cuddles until the sun had risen.

"If it's any consolation, I'll let you be the first to sign my cast." Soonyoung spoke, breaking her from her stupor as she had recounted her life thus far with him. Her eyes widened as she looked at him, watching as he fiddled with her hands absentmindedly.

Of course it wasn't the first time she recounted something, though to be able to think back to the very start. To actually remember something so vividly. To be able to relive through memories alone. It was such a powerful experience, one which brought tears to her eyes, and Soonyoung was the one to bless her with such a privilege. This kind, thoughtful, brave, foolish, selfish, considerate man who gave her a new life. She was proud to call him hers.

He glanced up from his lap, just in time to see the first tear slide down her face.

"Baby, what's wrong?" He quickly wiped away her tears, tugging her up from her seat and in between his legs dangling from the hospital bed. "I'm sorry for hurting myself again. I promise I'll be more careful. Just for you, okay?"

Her heart swelled at his words, this fluttering sensation erupting in her stomach as Soonyoung looked at her with that familiar, warm smile of his. He promised. Soonyoung never breaks his promises. Eagerly, she nodded, grinning at the prospect of her boyfriend finally adapting a more safe lifestyle from all of his shenanigans. He raised his arm to her cheek, stroking his thumb across the plains of her face.

His eyes held such unadulterated adoration. This wholly genuine fondness that seemed to glow in the depths of his chocolate gaze. The stories his eyes told, the memories he retains in his soul. His eyes would light up as he retold moments of his past, regaling her with that stupidly dangerous life he took on, showing her each and every injury he had obtained throughout his adventures.

Sometimes she struggled with going to sleep, this paranoia that she'd wake up and forget everything once more. A silly little worry, yet one that kept her awake nevertheless. And Soonyoung would be there, lying beside her in their shared bed, talking nonsense for what felt like hours at a time, showing her each and every scar and mark along his body, and she'd fall asleep, memorizing these mars on his skin, adding each and every detail to her project of completely understanding the enigma that is Soonyoung.

It was a tough, elaborate endeavor. One which would take her entire life to even grasp just a fiber of who he was, yet one she would gladly pursue until the end of her days.

She looked down to his arm, to the cast which now protected his fragile wrist from the world, and she couldn't help but smile. A bittersweet thought that she was now a part of the story of his body. That he'd later tell people, "this was when I went on a skateboard ramp for the first time to impress my girlfriend, even though I've never set foot on a skateboard in my life." Like no matter what happened to her, whether she woke up a blank slate once more, disappearing from the world again, Soonyoung would at least remember her.

He'd hold her memory in his wrist, breaking it when trying to seek her validation. He'd hold her in their home, in all the knickknacks and decor they themselves brought together. He'd hold her in his heart, where she had nestled herself comfortably in permanence.

Because he promised her.

Promised as they wept together, holding one another on a night where her fears and anxieties had attempted to separate them, on a night where Soonyoung had to hold them together lest she stray from him. Promised he'd never leave her. Promised he'd love her for as long as humanly possible. Promised that he'd never give up on her, no matter what.

"Hello, Mr. Kwon," A voice suddenly broke through the silence they had created in the room, startling her away from him for a moment, though Soonyoung still held her hand in his, looking to the man who had just walked in the room. "It looks like you're all settled, and judging from your medical history, I don't think I need to tell you how to manage a fracture."

"You've broken your arm before?" (y/n) asked incredulously, her brows stitched together as she looked at her boyfriend.

"Don't worry, it was the other arm." He lifted his hand in the air, the one which held her hand in his. She looked at him for a moment more before shifting her attention to the nurse, as if about to ask him if he was telling the truth. That is until she saw who he was.

Recognition seemed to pass through her former nurse's eyes about the same moment as her. A smile crept to his face, a kindness in his expression as he gestured towards her.

"I know you." He laughed fondly. "Oh my God, I know you. How have you been? How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay now." She smiled back, arm briefly raising to her chest where the surgical scars still remained. She pressed her hand to her body, the same hand which held Soonyoung's. The nurse looked from her then back to Soonyoung before his smile widened.

"And you're the boy who kept her company the entire time." Soonyoung wore a proud grin on his face as he nodded, squeezing her hand confidently. "This just made my day. I'm so glad to see you both are holding up well. At least she is. Soonyoung, you need to take better care of yourself."

"Of course I will." He tugged (y/n) closer to him, resting his head on her shoulder. "I promised."

They were back home, seated side by side on the couch, watching a movie Soonyoung thought looked cool, though has proven to be rather corny. Nevertheless, they watched, laughing almost every other minute at either a bad animation, a cringey line, or awful acting. There was this light feeling in the atmosphere, this carefree air that seemed to wash away any and all negativity. Soonyoung's laughter was like music to her ears, his presence as vibrant as ever. He brought her so much joy, so much peace. Like nothing can go wrong with him around.

"Soonyoung," She whispered out, causing him to hum in acknowledgement to her, eyes still casted towards the screen. His cheeks were rounded with his attempt at containing a smile, though he still failed anyways. "Why'd you confess to me?"

"Because I loved you." He answered back. A simple and curt response, as if he were just stating obvious facts.

"But how could you be so confident that I'd return your feelings? What if you got Hanahaki?" His mouth pouted as his eyes strayed from the screen, rising to the ceiling in thought.

"I wouldn't have gotten Hanahaki. Hanahaki is more a symptom of stress when you're worrying that the other person wouldn't like you." She remained silent, gazing at him as he finally looked over to her, that wild courage in his eyes like he feared nothing in the world. "I knew you liked me. Deep, deep, deep down. I knew you were scared. I knew you were worried. I knew it'd take a lot to break you from your shell, but I thought it was worth it. Telling you was the first step. As long as I told you my genuine feelings, as long as I was the first to make a move, I thought everything would eventually work out. Because even if you didn't like me at that moment, I would keep trying. I'd keep pushing until I eventually stole your heart in some way." He pressed his forehead to hers, his nose brushing against hers as he continued his speech. "Hanahaki wouldn't have been able to catch up with me pursuing you."

It had only taken a moment more to absorb his words, to look into the comforting familiarity of his eyes, before (y/n) pushed forward, pressing her lips against his own. As familiar as his eyes were, so were his kisses, yet another constant in her life which filled her with wonderment every time.

His gentle pecks all along her face, mindless displays of affection as he'd giggle away against her skin.

Passionate kisses with his hands roaming her entirety, pouring his heart into the kiss, taking her breath away with his undeniable fervor.

Lazy kisses, where he'd come back from work, too tired to even change out of his clothes before collapsing into bed, yet still exerting his last amount of strength to kiss her lips before succumbing to his exhaustion.

Yet this kiss felt different.

It felt like Soonyoung, yet at the same time, alien to her, like listening to a new song by a favorite artist. His lips gently parted, his hand resting along the back of her neck. And for what felt like the first time in her life, her thoughts fell upon deaf ears, her attention straying from the incessant activity of her brain. She was solely focused on Soonyoung, melting into his embrace as he dragged her closer to him, as if he were attempting to fuse the two of them into one body. She could feel his heart on his tongue, sense that same overflowing love he held for her and her alone, yet felt that foreign aspect which persisted in his kiss. Like a melody she wasn't familiar with.

He spoke secrets into his kiss, with every press of his lips, tilt of his head, stroke of his hand along her body. A silent, yet ever persistent promise to her. A promise of his absolute love for her. And even after they parted, she could feel his unspoken words on her tongue. Almost as if he wanted to keep this unbearable burden from her, this burden that was his entire heart which beat for her, bled for her, lived through and only for her.

Though she could still feel his love in everything he did, the worst kept secret in history. But she remained quiet about it, continuing to hold Soonyoung against her as the movie continued to play. Because she of all people knows how blissful ignorance can be.

[andtheyreonfire]

wake up where the clouds far behind

Ao3

Word Count: 7,025

An: less than hour left for g/t july in my timezone :) i had a lotta fun with this, hope you enjoy!

~

Somewhere over the rainbow

Way up high

There’s a land I’ve heard of once in a lullaby

Somewhere over the rainbow

Skies are blue

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

Someday I wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me

~

  Ryuji shouldn’t be the one to do this.

 Really. It should be Mona, or maybe Ann, or even Akechi—as long as that asshole’s working with them, he might was well contribute. Him and Ren’ve always had a weird way of understanding each other. Ryuji’s head is too far up his ass for this to work. Ask anyone who knows him!

 —But Ryuji’s here, because life is a bitch. And—they told him to just hand it to Ren directly but, fuck—

 “Hey,” Ryuji says, jogging up the stairs. Every creak rings like a gunshot. “I got that magazine you wanted.”

 Ren glances up from his homework to shoot him a confused look. If Mona was here, at least Ryuji’d have backup. Some insurance would be nice. But the cat’s with Ann and Futaba, no doubt poured over their supplies. Probably a bag of snacks, too. As it is, Ryuji’s entire plan consists of sticking his foot in his mouth and hoping he doesn’t choke on it.

 “Magazine?” Ren rasps.

 “Yeah.” Ryuji coughs, shuffles closer to Ren’s desk. It’s neat, organized; not a single scrap of paper is out of place. Completely free of any bits, pieces, or spare parts. Ryuji slides the issue of Sprint onto the desk, prays Ren won’t notice it’s from last week. “Remember?  You wanted to see how that one arc of Death Beat ended. It’s pretty good, lemme tell you. Real kicker.”

 He sounds like an NPC. This is the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. Ryuji coughs again. They ain’t even in flu season but—when’d it get so dusty in here? Ren gives him a sort of confused squint, before nodding and uttering a single, “Thanks.”

 Ryuji waits for more, for Ren to the continue the conversation, for the perfect icebreaker to fall on his head, but nothing comes. For lack of a better plan, Ryuji claps his hand on Ren’s shoulder. His heart sinks at the flinch it earns him.

 “Look, just—” Ryuji’s hands are cold, clammy, ready to grasp a weapon before anything else. “Just give it a look tonight, okay? If you have any thoughts, you can text me ‘em. I’m here for you.”

 Ren shifts to look at him fully. His brow is furrowed. Something’s wrong, he’s realized, but—

 He slumps down, nods, and turns back to his homework, muttering a quiet “okay” and a goodnight.

 And—alright, Ryuji’s delivered his cargo. He can leave now. He should leave, now.

 He hovers, examining Ren’s tired, languid posture, the uncaring haze over his eyes. He looks washed out, striking monochrome faded to dull grey. If Ryuji’d met him like this earlier, he never would’ve guessed that this boy was the leader of the Phantom Thieves.

 “...G’night, bro,” Ryuji says, before turning on his heel and all but throwing himself down LeBlanc’s stairs.

 He prays, prays, prays, to whatever god is up there, that Ren has the strength to at least read the ticket to his jailbreak.

  ~

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

And way above the chimney tops

Is where you’ll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow

Bluebirds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why, then oh why, can’t I?

~

  Red stains Ryuji’s shoes, his gloves, the bodies of 9 thieves, sprinting down what he could only wish was Mementos’ labyrinths.

 It sure as fuck could be mistaken for that. The dungeon is as blood-red as the bowels of Mementos. Only—where maroon veins pulsed juts signs and warnings. Where concrete and rot crunched beneath their feet lies soft velvet. Where doorways and treasure and shadows arose are now jail cells, spanning to the ceiling and impossible to count. They all know which cell they’re looking for, anyways.

 Queen leads the charge. None of them are as well-rounded as Ren, but they’d agreed she’d take the lead if something happened. They also agreed to try their damndest to prevent that situation from arising—but, well, life’s a bitch.

 They’re forgoing stealth. It wouldn’t matter, anyways, with the klaxon alarms blaring in their ears. Path of least resistance is the fastest, after all. The ache of Ryuji’s leg is doing nothing to distract from the stress budding in his stomach.

 The shadows in here were a hell of a ride, the Thieves found. They could range anywhere from a level 2 Pixie to a Fafnir the most busted moves known to man. Apparently, they originated from someplace called the Compendium, but no one’s been as successful as Joker was in weaseling info from them. Now, Queen calls to take wide angles to avoid them.

 Finally, they reach the end, too stressed to take stock at the nearest Saferoom like they usually do. A massive, blood-red door spans before them. Oracle fishes out the key they acquired.

 “I can sense R…the Treasure beyond that door,” Mona says. “No going back. Are we ready?”

 A hum of affirmation. Queen steps forward. “As we’ll ever be, I suppose. Let’s do this.”

 They enter the gate.

 The inside is smaller, barely large enough for all nine of them to fit. Ryuji’s too busy trying to squeeze into the cell to notice the 10th member before them. It’s only when Violet lets out a sharp gasp that he looks up.

 Before them, curled tight on an iron prison bed, is Ren. Ryuji freezes when sharp, yellow eyes snap up to meet them.

 “You came.” Even in the tiny room, Ren’s voice echos. Palace rulers’—and it hurts, it hurts, to think about him that way, but that’s exactly what he is—voices are usually overlaid, but Ren’s is singular. Powerful, with the way it reverberates in their ears, but singular.

 “Of course we did, dummy,” Oracle says, as if her body isn’t tensed to run.

 Ryuji looks back on the group. A variety of expressions stare back at him. Fox and Noir wear matching faces of determination. Violet looks conflicted. Disgust paints Crow’s face. Queen looks unsure, eager to fight than for the inevitable conversation they’re about to have. Mona just looks sad.

 Panther’s expression matches Ryuji’s own: he feels like he’s gonna throw up.

 “I didn’t think you would…” Ren continues, shifting his head to rest on his knee. The striped, worn material flashing like a warning in the red light. “It’s quiet in here, y’know. There’s never been anything of note beneath the mask.”

 They wait for more, but Shadow-Ren only stares into the wall. Queen clears her throat. “Ren…how did this happen? Why do you view yourself as a prisoner?”

 Shadow Ren shrugs. “Because I am. Of fate, of my masks, of Japan’s silly little justice system. I’ve always been trapped. I always will be.” He folds into himself. “Nothing’s ever going to change.”

 After a beat, he stands up. He doesn’t attack, doesn’t do anything but stare into them. “Our influence as Phantom Thieves is limited to the present moment. We’re a passing memory, a hapless trend.” His movements are sluggish, strained, but surprisingly lifelike for a shadow. “We can fight and struggle for that ‘perfect society’ all we want, and we’ll never obtain it. We’re just a bunch of kids playing dress-up. Our ‘justice’ has always been meaningless.”

 “Our lives are testament to the opposite, Ren.” Noir says. “You’re a testament to the opposite. We have made change.”

 He pins Noir with a yellow-eyed glower. It’s the most passion Ryuji’s seen on him since he started his monologue. Just as quickly, he deflates. “You know more than anyone, Haru, that it’s the system itself that allowed our targets to come into power. It’s the system that will allow others to take their place. Whatever we do will just as quickly be overwritten. Call it society, call it human nature. It’s a shitty cycle that’s made us its prisoners. Maruki had a point—”

 Ryuji takes one look at Crow’s expression and blanches. Violet puts a hand up, stepping between them. “I don’t think it’s wise to finish that sentence, senpai.”

 Shadow Ren shakes his head. “I wasn’t saying he was right. He opened my eyes, that’s all. He overhauled reality completely, and it worked. He abolished Japan’s free will, sure, but he came farther than we could ever dream to.”

 “So what is the meaning of this palace’s distortion?” Fox tilts his head. “The Ren I knew would’ve done everything in his power to prove your words wrong. Surely you haven’t lost your rebel spirit completely?”

 “I—” Shadow Ren hesitates, a million emotions flickering across his face. Finally, he settles on a blank mask, eyes just as dead as Futaba’s shadow. “I’m so tired. It’s exhausting, to fight day in and day out for a future we’ll never be able to achieve. It’s easier to close your eyes and drown it all out.  You—can’t burn yourself out if you never try, right? It’s better to just stand down, and accept our fate.”

 For a moment, no one speaks. Ryuji’s blood boils, pops. He swings an arm wide, ignoring Panther’s shout as she ducks under it. “Bullshit! You tellin’ me we shoulda just kept our heads down and let Kamoshida ruin our lives? You tellin’ me we shoulda just let Shido run over us with his big fuckin’ ship? You’re spewin’ the same piss the shadows in Mementos were!”

 And Ryuji should—stop, probably. Let someone who knows how to diffuse a situation talk Ren’s shadow down, but—it’s something about seeing the person who made him who he is, who reached out his hand and asked are you going to sit there and take this? do just that. Ryuji can’t tell if it’s the palace or his own anger that’s staining his vision red. “I never would’ve expected this from you, man!”

 He should stop, but Ren’s shadow is silent, peering at him with an oddly interested gaze. So, he doesn’t. “We defeated Maruki ‘cause he was a delusional asshole who, if you took away the savior complex, was just as bad as the other assholes we defeated. That’s it! Just—don’t you remember how we started?”

 Ryuji has Shadow Ren’s full attention. “We formed because we wanted to take back power from king asshole. Society was the last thing on our minds. Then Madarame happened and Kaneshiro and Medjed and—you’re right. We were just kids playing dress-up. But then we—then you shot a god in the face. Twice. We’re not that way anymore. We’ve changed!”

 “What’s your point?” Ren’s shadow snaps, and Ryuji kind of wants to hug him but also really wants to strangle him until he gets a clue.

 “We have power, dude. We did change society! Even if no one realizes it, that just means we have a fuckton more time to prove it. Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em all for not realizing the truth. But the Metaverse still exists, which means our time ain’t over yet. We can change this shit. You should know that, you’re the strongest out of any of us.”

 “I…” Ren’s shadow looks confused. “I have power?”

 “You do. Don’t think I didn’t see you summon some crazy-ass shit. You probably coulda defeated some of the later palace rulers on your own, or used the metaverse to your advantage at any time—”

 “Ryuji,” Mona warns. Ryuji ignores him. He’s close, he can feel it, if the faint crackle of the air is anything to go by.

 “C’mon, man.” Ryuji reaches out a hand. The shadow—fuck, he can’t think of him that way. This is Ren, even if he’s balls-deep in a subconscious prison—only stares at it, considering. “You’re bigger than this.”

 Ren raises his hand.

 Ryuji beams, body aching to move and give him the bro-hug he deserves, but Ren’s hand lingers. It ghosts across his thumb, before pushing it down, slow but firm. He can feel the chill through his gloves.

 Ren shakes his head, giving a smile. William flares in the back of Ryuji’s mind. “You’re right. I am more than this. There’s so much more to—this. I guess I didn’t see it before.”

 He blinks, languid, and when he opens his eyes they’re a pure, blazing gold. “Thank you for showing me the truth, Skull.”

 Ryuji’s smile drops. “Wait, why’d you c—”

 The air crackles, forcing itself into the tight, strained space. The pressure builds, swells. Ryuji can  ozone and bitter syrup on his tongue. Whatever—this is, it’s building near Ren, inside of him.

 All at once, it stops.

 Oracle’s voice crackles in his ear, “Guys! Back the FUCK up--!”

 The pressure explodes, a boom echoing across the tiny, enclosed room. Ryuji splays an arm across his face as he stumbles back. He tries to open his eyes, but all he sees is a sea of red dust.

 An arm wraps around his waist and jerks him back, the familiar lurch of a grappling hook scrambling his insides.  He coughs. It isn’t until he’s a good distance away that he catches sight of the red leotard holding him—Panther, of course—and Ren’s cell fading  into the background.

 Ryuji sways as Panther stops to set them on a ledge. He groans, clutching his head. “What—”

 “We’ve triggered his boss fight!” Futaba’s tinny voice sounds in his ear. “He’s still transforming!”

 Blearily, Ryuji registers a few other forms joining them on the ledge. He barely manages to get his feet under him when the world shakes, shifts, and—

 The wall in front of Ryuji explodes, parting like a curtain, to reveal a giant, blood-red glove.

 It’s taller than him. Just barely, but it seems to be growing. It’s reaching towards them, bits of rubble sliding off as it inches closer, closer, closer—

 “Gorokichi!” Fox screams, and a physical attack crashes into the massive palm. The hand stops, long enough for Ryuji’s instincts to kick in and launch a grappling hook. He looks back just in time to see some thieves trailing behind him, and to see the hand wrapping around the ledge they escaped. It crumples like Styrofoam in its grasp.

 “Mona!” Panther’s voice is high-pitched, winded, crackling beside Ryuji and in his ear. Ryuji shoots out another hook, a symphony of tumbling stone behind him. “What the hell is doing on!?”

 “I don’t know!” Mona’s voice responds over the earpiece. He’s just as panicked as Ryuji feels, meaning he probably saw whatever—that was, too. “Wild cards aren’t even supposed to have shadows! I can’t predict what it’ll do next!”

 A piece of ceiling nearly caves Ryuji’s head in. He swerves around it, gritting his teeth. Queen’s voice crackles in his ear. “We need to regroup! Get to the roof of the other building!”

 Ren’s palace was split into two halves. One comprised of wide, open spaces, decorated with sprawling, stained-glass windows. A massive panopticon, the outside reflecting whatever they projected. The other—the one that housed the treasure room—was a penitentiary: closed, winding, and damn-near impossible to navigate. They needed keys from both halves to open another door, which provided them with the key to Ren’s cell.

 Right now, the open, multi-colored windows of the panopticon make the perfect beacon. Ryuji hits the floor with a roll. He eyes the still-drawn drawbridge they had to use to cross—the river between the halves was more sludge than water, and Futaba couldn’t find any alternate routes, which meant a buttload of fighting and a severe security increase—and readies his hook. He can already see some of the others on the roof.

 —And can hear the palace crumbling behind him. Ryuji kicks his legs faster, aims, and as soon as his feet touch the drawbridge, he launches clean over the water and onto the roof. Panther, Fox, and Noir land beside him.

 “God, Ryuji, what did you do?” Panther groans, sprawled out like a starfish.

 “What the fuck! I was just talkin’ to him!” Ryuji flails his arms in the direction of the other building. “I didn’t mean for him to go apeshit!”

 “Fighting will get us nowhere—” Queen grounds out, healing them both while helping Panther to her feet, “—Considering we are actively in the middle of combat. Oracle, what’s Ren—what’s the shadow doing?”

 “It’s bad!” Oracle’s voice cracks with panic. “He’s gaining power by the second! He’s almost maxed out, but that doesn’t matter when the palace is about to—!”

 A sudden, deafening boom shakes the earth.

 Ryuji throws his arms in front of his face. Wind whips at him, rubble and smoke pooling into his lungs. He coughs, eyes watering, looks up to find—

 A massive, blood-red glove, followed by a sleeve as dark as night, protrudes from the roof of the second building. A second glove reaches upwards, knocking over towers, clawing past prisons, reaching up, up, up, towards a sky as red as itself. Ryuji can only watch as the hands grasp around the biggest spire, brace themselves, and pull—

 A titanic, familiar head of hair joins them. Ryuji’s stares into the giant, unmasked face of Joker, of their leader, of Ryuji’s confidant and closest, deepest friend.

 Joker’s blazing, golden eyes lock onto their little group, each probably as big—no, bigger than Ryuji’s skull. Even after facing Adam Kadmon, after Yaldabaoth, Ryuji has never quite felt so small.

 Joker grins, unnaturally wide and knife-sharp, and begins to walk through rubble, through stones and tower and brick, towards them.

 Oh, right, they’re in the middle of a fight. Trying to steal the heart of their leader. Against a hostile shadow that’s taller than Wakaba Isshiki’s.

 “Shit,” is all Ryuji has time to mutter, before a wall of the second building falls. Its shadow falls over them, and they’re forced to make a leap.

 Ryuji flails, barely managing to activate his grappling hook in time as the wall crashes down behind him. Queen’s voice crackles in his ear, “Fight! We CANNOT lose here! Keep your guard up! Skull, Violet, Mona, follow my lead! The rest of you, scatter!”

 Ryuji follows her behind one of the tower’s spires. They’re close, too close to Joker’s shadow, but, shit, any stealth would help in this situation. Ryuji tries to imagine hitting the shadow, or it hitting them, and blanches. Violet lands next to him in a heap. “Is there any weaknesses? Anything we can hit him with?”

 “No weaknesses! Shit-ton of HP, SP, and resistances! Attack and defense off the charts! Do NOT get hit by him! I’ll see if I can find a way to debuff him—!”

 The tower sheltering them lurches. Ryuji cranes his neck back, only able to watch as a giant, gloved hand steadily crushes the tower in its grip. Joker’s massive head peeks around, assessing them like one would a pile of ants. Ryuji’s probably, barely the size of his finger.

 When Joker’s gaze lands on him, he pauses. Ryuji’s blood prickles under that massive, golden stare. His voice reverberates across the ruined palace, “I see it now, thank you.”

 Ryuji’s mouth, as it often does, runs faster than his brain. “See what?”

 “My true power.” Joker’s voice echos bigger, louder. He sweeps a hand across the air. “I’m capable of so much more! This world couldn’t contain me if it tried. I’ll be unstoppable, powerful, big.”

 His gaze narrows, and Ryuji’s blood freezes. “Without anyone standing in my way.”

 Joker reaches forward. The shadow of his hand envelops Ryuji, his blood-red fingers blotting out the sky. They curl, slightly, reaching towards him, ready to grab—

 A swirl of black and red pushes Ryuji to the side, and he has the perfect view to see Sumire’s form disappear. Joker’s fingers close around her, stop, and squeeze.

 Her unconscious body emerges a few seconds later, and Ryuji can’t catch the extent of her injuries before he’s yanked away, again, as Diego pulls him off the ledge. Mona screams, “Violet’s down!”

 Ryuji’s fingers find his earpiece. He shudders, letting his body sink into the freefall. “Is—is there anything we can do to damage him?”

 “I don’t know!” Oracle screams back. “I’m looking! Keep him distracted!”

 “Crow!” Panther says. “Have you ever—”

 “Do you think I’d still be alive if I’d ever encountered a shadow like this?” Crow’s voice crackles in his ear. Ryuji can hear his sneer—and a round of fire. “Fuck—!”

 Ryuji finally shoots out a grapple. He flings himself up, catching the tail end of Crow emptying a volley into Joker’s face. Noir’s situated on a ledge, her rocket launcher smoking. Joker stares down at them like someone would a dirt on a duvet.

 Ryuji lands on a ledge, next to Queen. Even behind her mask, the hopelessness on her face is clear as day. She doesn’t know what to do. None of them do. They need a leader.

 They need Ren.

 But, well, Ren is currently wading through a building like it’s ocean water. Ryuji watches as Fox attempts an ice attack, only for him to be slammed into a tower, Gorokichi disappearing as he crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

 Panther’s voice crackles in his ear. “Oracle—!”

 “I got it! The first building!” Ryuji follows Queen’s line of sight, into the massive, open panopticon. The stained glass warps its insides into a kaleidoscope of light. “It’s large enough to hold him! If we destroy the internal structure—or he does—the rubble might stop him in his tracks!”

 “Won’t we get crushed, too?” Panther asks.

 “It’s the only way! Lead him in there and target the pillars! He’ll fit inside no problem!”

 Queen gathers herself, voice hard in a way that’s so, so close to Joker’s. “Rodger that. Panther! Oracle! You’re with me on luring him inside that building! Noir, Skull, and Crow, head over to the building and use your strongest skills on the interior when I give the signal. Mona, I need you to wait outside until we’re done. You’re agile, but there’s no point in healing if he can one-shot us. Revive us only after he’s immobilized. Everyone clear?”

 “Clear!” Ryuji stutters out, to a chorus of the same in his ear.

 “Let’s go!” Queen screams, and drops down to fire a nuclear attack in Joker’s face, before darting away. The skill doesn’t make a scratch.

 Skull does what he’s told, keeping one eye on the group behind them. For their credit, Joker seems to be taking the bait. He pounces like a cat, making precise, lightning-fast grabs at whatever thief darts in front of him. For their credit, they’re able to dodge him, just as effectively as he’s able to destroy a tower in a single swipe.

 Even so, none of them are aerial fighters. Ryuji is painfully reminded of that fact when an attack hits too fast for Queen to dodge, burying her under a heap of rubble.

 “Shit—” Skull hisses, lurching back for her—

 Only to be dragged forward by Noir. The girl’s eyes are hard, stalwartly not looking back. “Remember the plan. Panther and Oracle are almost here.”

 Ryuji grits his teeth, falling into swing with her and Crow. The light splintering off the stained glass of the panopticon nearly blinds him.

 They duck into the entrance—the glass is bullet-proof, a fact they found out after they first failed to cross the moat—and perch themselves on the highest level. It’s the most stressful 50 seconds of Ryuji’s life. Finally, Joker approaches. He steps clean over the moat, lurches forward, and smashes through the stained glass. Oracle’s ship barely manages to escape his fingers.

 Okay. Mission success. They made it. Ryuji wraps his fingers around his mask, prepares to pull—

 Only to throw himself off the ledge as Joker’s hand nearly crushes him and Noir, having crossed over to their side of the room in less than 3 seconds. Because they’re in an enclosed space with an enemy who is 150 feet tall.

 To their credit, Joker doesn’t have that much space to move. He doesn’t really need room, when he just smashed through bullet-proof glass like tissue paper. He crushes the balcony in his fist, Panther narrowly dodging both it and the ensuing explosion. A rictus grin stretches across his face. Ryuji shudders.

 “Herewald!” Crow screams, which is as good of a signal to start firing. Their first attack goes off without a hitch: his, Crow’s, and Noir’s strongest physical attacks shaking the building to its core. It doesn’t fall, not yet.

 Joker wheels on them, eyes alight, and lunges, forcing them to scatter. They find their masks, and attack again.

 The cycle repeats, dodging Joker’s attacks while aiming for the building containing him, since if it hits him it doesn’t do anything. Oracle buffs them when she can, while Panther keeps up a rapid-fire stream of healing. They go in circles, having to stop and switch to more running when Joker starts to catch onto their plan.

 But for every hit they give, they take two more. Rubble rains as the panopticon falls. Shadows run out to see what the commotion is and begin to fire at them, Joker’s stamina remains high as their own deteriorates. One by one, they begin to fall. A pillar lands on top of Noir, smashing through both her and through the massive windows. Oracle takes a critical hit from Joker—which, fuck, can she even be revived? Ryuji finds he doesn’t have time to worry when he’s tagged in the back by a stray Garudyne, and lands in a heap on the floor.

 Joker didn’t notice, which is great, because he would probably be crushed under his boot if he did. His teammates probably think he’s dead, which sucks, because the edge of Ryuji’s vision is starting to blur. He groans, trying and failing to drag himself to his feet. They always need a minute to recover after getting knocked down, but—they’re so close, they just need—

 Crow howls, destroying one of the pillars just as a shower of rubble buries him. Panther aims for one of the few remaining pillars—there’s two, only two, since Joker’s destroyed the walls already. They’re so close--and promptly disappears behind a closed fist.

 And suddenly, it’s just them. Just Joker panting, letting Panther’s unconscious body fall from his hand. Just two targets, and Ryuji barely, barely has enough health to tag both of them. Just the ice-cold fear that permeates his entire body, just the pounding of his own heart.

 Ryuji hauls himself to his feet, channels every bit of phantom thief in him, and moves to duck behind a pile of debris—Only to trip on a few scattered bricks. He lets out a strangled curse. The sound echos through the ruins of the panopticon. Ryuji curls into himself behind the pile, squeezing his eyes shut.

 He opens his eyes. He’s not—eviscerated, which means Joker didn’t hear him. Which means he still has a chance. Ryuji breathes a sigh of relief—

 Booming reverberates from Joker’s direction, rhythmic in a way that could only be footfalls. Ryuji clamps a hand over his mouth. The footsteps—if they can even be called that—draw closer, and Ryuji jumps to hide behind a fallen pillar, about 10 feet away.

 He peeks around the corner, watching Joker grind his heel into Ryuji’s former cover. He starts to look around—and Ryuji follows the side of the pillar, crouches behind it, just as those steady earthquakes draw near. He waits another few seconds, before darting behind a pile of rubble, this one situated farther on.

 The clatter of marble echos through the panopticon, and Ryuji watches only enough to see the tip of the fallen pillar be lifted up, up, up. He exhales, shaky, and takes the opportunity to dart closer to one of the remaining pillars, the one that is so, so close.

 The other is across the room. He’ll definitely alert Joker when he destroys the one nearest to him. That’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

 “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Joker’s voice booms, accompanied by a spray of stone, no doubt him crushing the solid, marble pillar in his grip.

 Everything is not fine. God, Ryuji shouldn’t be the one to do this.

 He isn’t equipped for stealth. He’s loud, obnoxious. He’s fucked them over with his big mouth more times than he could count—be it through Makoto, Akechi, or the countless enemies he’s alerted over their career.

 He imagines Ren as he moves forward. Silent as a cat, even in heels. Able to duck around corners in the blink of an eye. He keeps his body low, like Ren does. Moves only when he knows the coast is clear. He steals glances when he can, channeling Ren’s calculated stealth.

 “I know you’re here,” Joker sings, voice reverberating through Ryuji’s body, each syllable a pounding drum.

 Ryuji shouldn’t be the one to do this.

 He wields electricity, sure, but he doesn’t compare to the literal storm behind him. How could he? When Joker’s voice rumbles like thunder? When every footfall rings like a clap of lightning? When he leaves complete, utter destruction in his wake? Ryuji’s strong, sure, but Yusuke and Haru and even Akechi have always hit harder. They should be the ones to deal the finishing blow.

 He doesn’t back down, because he imagines them, too. They wouldn’t let their fear get the best of them. They would keep pushing forward, no matter the danger, no matter their heartbeat pounding in their ears, no matter the hard, iron knowledge that they’re going to die—

 “Where are you hiding, little mouse?” A crash. A rumble. A spray of stone. Ryuji barely manages to suppress a flinch.

 Ryuji shouldn’t be the one to do this.

 He failed Joker during the shadow talk. Fucked it up, because he handles situations with the grace of a bull in a china shop. He failed his teammates because he’s the last one standing, left watching his hiding spots explode with every step forward. He failed Ren, because he’s his bro and he didn’t notice something was wrong until it was far, far too late.

 He’s so close.

 “You’re testing my patience,” Joker growls, the sound going straight to Ryuji’s spine.

 The pillar is 6 feet away, if that.

 His footsteps boom closer, stopping just behind Ryuji’s hiding spot. “Do you actually think you can hide, little one?”

 He grips his mask.

 “The show’s only just begun,” Joker murmurs, close, far, far too close.

 Ryuji shouldn’t be the one to do this, but he is.

 He will not fail Ren again.

 “William!” Ryuji bellows, and watches the first pillar explode in a cloud of dust. He doesn’t even have time to feel the recoil when a massive shadow envelops him. He throws his grappling hook out. The tip of Joker’s glove brushes his leg as it connects, latching onto one of the last remaining ledges.

 He throws himself forward, Joker’s footsteps booming behind him. Sweat pools on his brow. The panopticon groans around him. A rumble, a sound like Joker snarling, fills the air.

 Ryuji rips his mask off, screaming. He can feel the weight of Joker’s outstretched hand, not 3 feet behind him. He screams, “GOD’S HAND!”

 The pillar explodes. The panopticon groans. The recoil from the attack flings Ryuji through the air, past Joker’s hand and body and towards the glorious, glorious hole Joker made on his way in. His vision wavers. Every movement is agony. Ryuji makes one last grapple to sail through the air and out the gap.

 He turns around just in time to see Joker, lunging forward, golden eyes ablaze—

 Before the place crashes on top of him, in an explosion of sound, dust, and pained, howling screams.

 The fight leaves Ryuji like a gust of wind. He drops down onto one knee, body a tight, hot rod of pain. He hacks, dust twisting in his lungs. In front of him, Joker’s massive face peeks out of the rubble, twisted in agony. Pinned next to him is his hand, frozen in a grasp.

 Ryuji grimaces. Yeah, he’s not moving anytime soon, but—fuck.

 A shower of tiny, green lights wash over him. Ryuji’s pain fades to a dull ache. He whips around, almost colliding with Morgana. His bug-like face is set into something grim. “…Mission success. I’ll go look for the others.”

 Ryuji hacks up another lung. He gestures, both to the destruction and the titanic, prone form before them. “Can ‘y even heal everyone?”

 “It’s the Metaverse. I think I can, so I can.” Morgana shakes his head, grappling into the ruined building. Joker’s eyes follow him. He pauses, still close enough that Ryuji can hear him call back, “Just...keep an eye on him until then.”

 “Ugn,” is all Ryuji can muster in response. Fuck, this place is a mess. There’s not like—long-term consequences for destroying the structure of someone’s psyche, right? Or, rather—he makes eye contact with Joker, unable to stifle a full body shudder. Are there long-term consequences for destroying your own psyche?

 Joker doesn’t answer his thought-question, only continuing to stare. He’s heaving, each breath ruffling Ryuji’s hair like a gust of wind. His eyes are half-closed, his face is set in a grimace.

 With nothing better to do, Ryuji sits cross-legged in front of the massive, trapped cognition of his friend, and waits.

 Soon enough, Yusuke joins them—and the relief that crashes through Ryuji when he sees him is palpable enough to taste. “Shit, man, good to see you.”

 “Likewise.” Yusuke frames his fingers around Joker, frowning. “I take it you’re the one who dealt the final blow?”

 “Yeah. Fuck. Fuck, never again. Are the others…y’know.” He gestures. “Alive?”

 “It won’t be long before they join us.” Yusuke adjusts his fingers, frowns deeper as he takes in Joker’s form. “Not to worry.“

 After a beat, Yusuke hums. “…It’s pathetic, isn’t it? Trapped under the ruins of your own ambition, having only wanted to break the chains that bound you. For such a thing to be made manifest is humiliating.”

 Joker doesn’t make a sound. He only looks away, the glare of his eyes dimming. Ryuji huffs. “Man, you don’t pull your punches, do you?”

 Yusuke blinks at him. “Considering we are often locked in fatal combat with shadows, that would be ill-advised.”

 “Not what I meant, dude.”

 They sit in silence. It isn’t long before the rest of the thieves join them, trickling in every few seconds. First Akechi, then Sumire, then Makoto and Haru, then Ann, before Morgana and Futaba join their group. The center of attention is obvious, even if he seems to be avoiding eye contact like his life depends on it.

 They’re checking over each others’ injuries, sparing glances at Joker every few seconds, when a quiet, monotone rumble fills the air. “I am pathetic, aren’t I?”

 Joker’s gaze is fixed on the distance. Without the weight of his stare, Ryuji can almost, almost breathe. Joker continues, “All I wanted was to fly free, as you all did. You soared so high, you were able to break the chains that tied you down, yet I…can’t.”

 The last bit of rubble sets around them. Haru clears her throat. She steps forward. “I almost didn’t. I was completely trapped under my father’s influence. I believed I would’ve served him for the rest of my life. It was you who showed me that there was more to life than what my father wanted, that I could grasp my freedom myself.”

 “It was the same for me,” Sumire says. “I just wanted to escape, to be someone else. After what happened with my sister, there wasn’t any point in…being me. Than I met you, and the Thieves, and I felt like a person again. I became someone who my sister would’ve been proud of. Although…” She hesitates. “Throughout my journey, I only wanted to be someone like you. You’re so…”

 When words fail her, Makoto steps in. Joker’s gaze swings over to her, and she hesitates for only a second. “Leading is so, so hard. I’m amazed at how you’re able to keep your cool. You’re one of the strongest people I know. During this infiltration, I was only copying what you would’ve done. You’re the glue that keeps us together, and you inspire us, in such a unique way. But…it’s for that reason that I apologize, for all of us, for not noticing anything was wrong before it was too late.”

 Joker’s attention is lazer-focused on them. Futaba creeps forward, having ditched Al Azif after claiming it was too claustrophobic. “I know what it’s like to be trapped inside your own stupid brain. I—I thought I’d be stuck in the mental backrooms my entire life—”

 “Bro—” Ryuji starts.

 “Can it, Skull! This is how I cope.” Futaba fidgets with a strand of hair. “Just…I know what it’s like to be hopeless. And even after my heart change, I was still kinda…” She hurries when the group stares at her. “But—but the Thieves gave me something to live for! There was nothing more badass than changing lives, the way we did. Unlike with Medjed, I wasn’t alone. I had everyone, and I had you.”

 After a beat, Ann steps closer, close enough that Joker could reach out and grab her if he wasn’t pinned. To his credit, he doesn’t move. There’s a ripple of panic nonetheless. Her voice is steel. “What do you think my life would’ve been without you? School would still be hell. I wouldn’t have found a purpose. Shiho would’ve never gotten justice. We’ve made change before, dummy, and we’ll do it again. Metaverse or no, I think we’re still capable of great things.”

 “Indeed.” Yusuke adds. “The world is our oyster. There will always be a new adventure in the future, even if things seem hopeless. If you’re burnt out, there’s nothing wrong with taking a rest. We’ve made quite the change for one lifetime, correct? Though, I’d imagine you’d be amiss if things ended the way that they are.”

 Everyone looks over to Akechi, who scoffs. He picks at the edge of his gauntlets, avoiding eye contact with the group. “You succeeded where I failed. You brought down my father. For that I am…eternally grateful. I’d rather not repeat what I’ve already told you in private, but I take it you remember our promise. And…” He hesitates, before speaking, every word stilted as if they were pulled out with pliers. “You have…something special here, with them. You’d—do best not to lose it.”

 Morgana waddles up next to Ann. “There’s a reason the Gods chose humans as their champions, and why they chose you as the wild card. Humans may be tempted into despair, but you have such a strong will of power. I should know, I’m the embodiment of human hope, after all. You created me, because you decided to fight for me, for the world. Just know that…I’ll always be here to fight for you, too.”

 Finally, Ryuji walks forward, stepping past Ann. Fuck, Joker’s massive. But—painted on those titanic features is pure, unadulterated vulnerability. Ryuji steels himself. “You, uh, didn’t let me finish earlier, man. You coulda gone apeshit at any time—but you never did! You were always there for us. You put your own shit aside for us, like, all the time. Like Makoto said, you’re the strongest person I know. You let us lean on you for—everything.”

 Should he—punch him, or something? No, dumbass, you don’t hit a guy when he’s down. Ryuji rests his hand against his cheek, giving a grin when wide eyes—bigger than his head—lock onto him. “I want you to know you can lean on us, too. We’re here for ya, through—well, anything. Always will be.”

 “Oh,” comes a familiar, quiet voice behind them.

 The Thieves whip around. There, is Ren, clad in sweatpants and a plain, grey shirt. He’s normal-sized, eyes their natural, human color.

 Makoto recovers first, face splitting into a soft smile. “You’ve been standing there this whole time, haven’t you?”

 Ren nods, eyes wet. He walks forward, hands in his pockets, marveling at the scene before him. Ryuji backs up as he approaches Joker. The cognition only stares back at Ren, something like warmth in his gaze.

 Ren ghosts a hand over Joker’s cheek, as if mapping the expanse of it. Joker’s eyes close, a faint light beginning to surround him. “I guess I lost sight of things.”

 “We meant every word,” Futaba says. “We’re here for you, dummy.”

 “...I know that now.” Ren’s voice is so, so quiet. None of them dare to overpower him. In the first noticeable change they’ve witnessed, Ren scrubs at his face, and admits, “I’m sorry, I’m not good with words.”

 Ryuji walks forward and claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m not either, and you still keep my sorry ass around.”

 Yusuke clears his throat. “I believe what Ryuji meant to say is that we understand. No need to worry.”

 “Just—” Ren’s voice breaks. He reaches out a hand, laying it flat on Joker’s forehead. The cognition’s eyes close, at peace. “Thank you. For everything.”

 A million tiny lights swarm around them, and Joker’s form begins to fade. He breathes out, one giant, measured release of breath, before fusing into Ren’s body. The rubble sets in his wake.

 Ren’s Thief outfit re-appears in a burst of flame, adorned with glittering, silver highlights. He turns back to the group, a teary, hesitant smile on his face.

 The Thieves crowd around him, touching him whenever they can. Ryuji slings an arm around his shoulder, while Yusuke marvels over the new additions to his outfit. Makoto begins to corral them into the Monabus, and Ryuji leads them into the middle row, in the center of their friends. It’s almost like nothing’s changed.

 And yet—Ren’s leaning his full body weight on Ryuji, answering questions honestly, without hesitance. His walls are down, and he lets the Thieves pass through them, taking their comfort and ears and love.

 Phantom Thieves or no, they’ll stand by him, and Ren accepting that fact is all the peace Ryuji needs.

[sheetsonfire]

Dead and Waiting | Part 6

Fandom: Chicago PD

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader

Genre: Drama, angst, romance, thriller

Warnings: smut, violence, harassment, swearing, gun mentions, fire, injuries, sickness

Word Count: 4381

Requested By Anon: hi! can i request a jay halstead x reader where you work in intelligence with him and for some reason (maybe undercover work) you have to fake your death and no one knows, not even jay… but you end up returning once it’s safe again and he’s mad but also relieved?

thanks and totally understand if you pass over this request <3

This is Part 6, click for Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (FINAL PART), EPILOGUE |

-

When you next wake up, it’s night. At least you assume it is, as in your bleary haze you realise the lights in the surrounding area are dimmed, it’s quiet in a way that says “Time for sleep.” The bustle from when you were last awake had quietened to a hushed activity of nurses, porters and the occasional doctor passing by from the view out of your room.

It takes time for you to fully come to your senses, eventually taking stock of your well-being you realise that within your stomach is a constant current of anxiety, so strong it has manifested in your body shaking. You feel a stifling heat wrapping around your aching limbs from head to toe. The sensation is unpleasant, it creates an uneasy claustrophobic feeling, one that was hovering in your personal space like a darkened cloud. You try to take a breath and end up with a string of hacking coughs that leave you panting, only to feel the sudden urge to hack again and spit up whatever was fighting its way through your chest.

As you do spit up the phlegm, you see the offending item is thick yellow mucus, streaked with blood. It’s soaking into your pristine white hospital blanket and gown and you wince in disgust, feeling a slight embarrassment of not being able to move and take care of it yourself. Your ribs begin to hurt from the strain, and it jostles the wound in your back, provoking a low groan of pain, still breathing hard as you lay back. Willing your hammering heart to slow, it pulses loudly in your aching head.

Lying still, listening to your own strained breaths, you start to realise it’s actually your own skin that’s hot, it's like pins and needles fizzing through your nerves. The room wasn't the problem, you were.

You don’t feel right, not at all, and though reluctant to associate with the people in this unfamiliar environment, they were all the help you could presently get to. So with fumbling fingers, you press the ‘call’ button attached to your bed, waiting in shivering silence with the occasional wheeze. 

Credit to them, it only takes less than a minute for a nurse to appear with a sympathetic smile, the lights instantly getting a level brighter. The light makes you close your eyes in shock, your retinas feeling overly sensitive. 

The nurse immediately reduces the brightness again, using a panel on the wall. “Hey, hon, sorry about that, is everything alright, Y/N?" She checks your monitors as she eyes you worriedly, seeing your elevated heart rate. 

You shake your head no, your neck feels stiff and the ache travels down into your shoulders and back… “I–...I’m finding it harder to breathe, and my chest hurts, I coughed up uh, mucus? Blood? I don’t, I don’t know…” Your head is fuzzy, you try and gesture to the part of your gown concealed by the blanket, and the nurse’s gentle hand stops you.

“I got it, let me see…” She peels it back to reveal the mucus streaked with blood, her brows furrowed.

She pats your reassuringly, “I’m going to page the doctor on call, and then we’ll get this cleaned up.” She gestures to the mess on your blanket, and you nod silently. You felt like shit, and you wished desperately that you were in the familiar environment of Chicago Med, with doctors you knew as friends.

You wished you were home.

You let out a shaky exhale, the persistent ache in your ribs and chest were nothing in comparison to your homesickness and heartache. You had thought that night at the boat yard would have been your last day stuck undercover, at worst your penultimate day, yet here you were - no closer to the end of what had been a messy situation.

You felt even further away and more cut off from Jay, your friends, and your family than you had ever been. The nausea was unending at the prospect of forcing your loved ones to mourn you, with no control over how and when this would all be over. 

Your eyes well with tears, and the pressure in your head feels immense, accompanied by the uncontrollable fits of coughing that burned your insides, leaving you gasping for breath.

A hand appears on your back as a mask is placed securely over your face, the nurse has reappeared with a doctor in tow, and is sitting you more upright as the newly arrived doctor listens to your chest and lungs, a serious expression on his face.

“We’re going to take you for another CT scan, detective, and we’ll get that sputum tested. If my eyes and ears aren’t deceiving, I think you have an unfortunate combination of chemical and bacterial pneumonia. We’ll keep you on the antibiotics, and you may need a shot for the bacterial side of things.” 

You’re feeling drowsy, exhausted from all the coughing and energy required to stay alert, you nod wearily as they start to wheel you out for yet more scans and tests. 

[In Chicago]

It’s approaching a week and a half after your “death” and Will has been staying at your shared apartment with Jay, Ms Goodwin had been insistent that Will go to be with his brother in such a time of need. After all, besides you, Will was the only person really allowed to see Jay’s layers peeled back in such a raw way. He had been helping him make the necessary arrangements and going through with the daunting task of contacting the family and friends that weren’t immediately in the city. 

In the meantime, your husband-to-be doesn’t sleep, and if he does it’s in fitful bursts that ultimately end in night terrors where he can’t save you from burning, drowning or being trapped under the collapsed building. 

It was expected on Will’s part, he knew that losing you would mess with Jay in a way that would be almost nuclear in nature. Jay smashes things, he drinks until Will tries to intervene, he sobs like a small child in Will’s tight embrace, and he refuses to eat until Will gets upset enough about the weight loss that it guilts Jay into having soup. 

Naturally, as you might do in a reversed situation, Jay tries to get access to the Burden files he no longer has access to, due to being a bereaved family member in the case. To which, Hank rather sincerely advises him to leave it alone, and then reassures him that he is doing everything he can to figure out what happened and who is going to be held accountable - despite ATF’s stonewalling. Jay doesn’t necessarily agree to leave it alone, but he stops coming by the district for a few days.

Jay gets visits from everybody in the team, each of them offering to take up the errands required to arrange your funeral and subsequent wake. Of course, you had other friends that also came to give their assistance, Herrmann offers up Molly’s for your wake and Will graciously accepts it. He knows that’s where you had spent so many important and wonderful hours with the people dearest in your life.

-

One night, when Will is asleep, Jay finds himself outside an apartment that was rumoured to have been used by Jeremy Burden Sr as recently as a day ago. Instead of snooping around the district, he had gone to his CIs instead. Rumour was that Burden Sr had brazenly decided to pursue his business deals, in spite of the wrath from Chicago PD should he be found.

So here Jay was, sitting in his truck, an unusually unkempt beard on his face, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, his freckled skin is pale and his expression withdrawn. He takes a swig of tepid black coffee, jaw tight with anger that continues burning with every waking hour, he keeps his eyes fixed on the apartment and waits. Waits for any sign of the man he knew had the biggest part in your demise. ATF had been incompetent, yes, but it was Burden Sr that had brought literal hellfire onto you. 

He’s not even sure how long he sits in the stillness of the truck, the cold of Chicago nestles in his bones, but he doesn’t even notice the shivering or the light chatter of his teeth, he only feels the immense ache in his stomach that has him clenching the steering wheel with one hand, and the gun in his holster with the other.

The movement of his passenger door has him whipping his head around, weapon drawn, eyes wild with surprise and defiance.

Recognition kicks in and Jay exhales. It was Hank.

“You gonna put that down, kid?” He asks, his face completely neutral for someone staring down the barrel of a gun. 

Jay sighs as he holsters his weapon. Meanwhile, Hank climbs into the truck and closes the door behind him, arms folded over his chest. He takes in the sight of Jay, and his heart sinks, the sergeant lets out his own sigh before speaking. 

“What are you doing out here, Jay?” 

Jay isn’t one for entertaining such questions these days, instantly replying in a matter-of-fact manner, voice almost robotic, “Burden Sr is still trying to do business, this is his place.” 

Hank shakes his head with an incredulous small laugh, “I know what this place is, I’m asking why you are out here, without backup, without anybody knowing where you are. Will is fast asleep, I bet.” 

Jay remains silent, the answer is in the lack of words as he keeps staring out of the windshield before taking a glance back to the apartment, still itching to keep surveillance. 

Hank let Jay sit for a moment, knowing that he was treading a very fine line, Jay wasn’t likely to take too much scrutiny in the best way right now. 

When Jay speaks again, his voice is hoarse, that god awful lump of anguish back in his throat that he couldn't mask. 

“I need to do something. I need someone to pay for this, I need him to pay for this. I need someone to hurt like I’m hurting, Hank.” 

Hank brings a hand to rest on Jay’s shoulder, his heart was breaking for him. His own grief for you was nothing in comparison to what was in front of him.

“I know, Jay, I know. And I’m working on it, but you can’t be out here jeopardising what I’m working on. More importantly, I don’t need you out here jeopardising your life. Y/N wouldn’t want you out here, bro, not without us anyway.”

Jay swallows, thumbs pushing at the steering wheel for distraction, his stomach drops and he looks down as he answers, 

“She doesn’t want anything, Hank. She’s dead.”

The silence is resounding, Jay lets out a sneering half-huff of a laugh, still feeling that resounding rage that you could be taken from him like that. 

Hank knows better than to push the issue at that, squeezing Jay’s shoulder in silent understanding. 

“Come on, time to go back. Will will have a meltdown if he finds you gone. I’ve got things controlled here.” 

Jay looks at your sergeant now, “You’re just saying that so I’ll go home.”

Hank grunts in amusement, “When do I ever say things just for fun? Flash your headlights twice.” 

Jay huffs, indulging in the request as he flashes his high beams twice. Almost instantly two flashes are returned. 

Hank’s mouth upturns into a slight smile as Jay raises his eyebrows, the relief Jay felt was visible. He could cope a fraction better knowing Hank was just as driven to get justice as he was.

“See? It’s all in hand, Jay, I don’t want to lose anybody else… Anything you need, you got it, alright? Do you need more time after this week?”

Jay shakes his head almost instantly, “No, I can’t be in that apartment any longer than I need to, and Will can’t babysit me forever.”

Hank shrugs and nods, “I get it. Listen, you can partner with me come Monday, we’ll take it one week at a time. If I think you need a time out, or you need to stay in the District at a desk, I will put you there. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, sarge.”

“Okay, I’m gonna tail you back home, and then I’m gonna see you first thing, we’re gonna pick up the flowers and Will's making sure everyone knows the schedule for the day.”

The expression on Jay’s face turns back to morose at the end of that sentence, he had been trying to catch some news on the Burden Sr front so he wouldn’t have to think about the fact that tomorrow was going to be your funeral. 

“Okay.” He murmurs distantly. 

“Okay.” Hanks clears his throat, patting Jay’s shoulder one last time as he climbs back out of the truck and heads towards his own SUV.

Jay presses the heels of his hands into his aching eyes, body stiff from lack of sleep and sitting in the cold. He needed to shower, shave and prepare to speak about you in front of everyone else. He didn't know how he was going to manage it, but he was gonna be damned if he didn't find a way.

[Elsewhere]

The next few days pass in a blur of fevered pain and coughing up what you feel like must be at least one lung, working on two. You drift in and out of fevered dreams where you’ve been crying out for someone to help, for Jay to help. His gentle face would always morph into a hardened one, leaving you behind in the fear and darkness of being alone, flames licking at your skin, the water sloshing as you can’t stay afloat. Your exhaustion continues to win out over your desire to stay awake and away from the nightmares. 

When you are awake though, you think of him, you think of his soft kisses and his laugh, the way his green eyes light up when you tell him a joke or tell him how much you love him.

You think of the moments on stakeouts where you'd talk about anything and everything in the car, poking fun at each other, sharing lunch, you name it. Of course, there were the moments where you'd have each other's backs, working in secure knowledge of the other’s thinking. 

There were the times between cases when you could find the time to go to the movies or to see a baseball game; when you’d hang out at BBQs that Severide, Casey and Boden would put together; when you’d go ice skating, or stay in cosied up on the couch. Enjoying time with Will and feeling how much of a family you had all become.

Massaging the aches from each other after a long day or tough case, feeling each other close and intimately, simply in a world for the both of you. You would encourage each other, and better each other, your jobs and lives didn’t come with only roses and sunshine, but it made the darkness feel a little more manageable.

You were strong together, strong as individuals and now you found that you were damn resilient when it came to being apart from the person you loved. So you wanted to fight, you would fight to get better, to make it out of this strange liminal space of a hospital, to work towards the day you could go home to Jay, home to your life.

There was, of course, the small matter of rocking back up and saying “Hey, guess what, I’m alive!” but that was another problem you could kick down the road for now. 

[In Chicago]

True to his word Hank turns up at the apartment at 8 the next morning, Will had been up since 5, making breakfast and getting himself ready for the day ahead. He managed to wrangle Jay at the table for some kind of breakfast and a glass of water, offering Hank some coffee and a waffle. The two men sat making idle conversation, keeping it to a minimum given the occasion, they would from to time eye Jay who simply stared at nowhere in particular. Looking at him he was now almost clean-shaven, dressed in his suit he looked smaller, more withered, he’d lost weight rapidly in the past week. Your engagement ring sits next to his on the chain still around his neck underneath his shirt, he feels the metal press lightly against his chest, like you were pressing against his heart. 

They eventually move on to how the day will go, what time your parents were due to arrive, and what Jay’s “safeword” would be if he wanted to get away from everything and everyone. It was agreed that either Will, Hank or one of the team would help him get to a quiet and safe space to take a minute if he needed it.

The friends you had at Med, at Firehouse 51 and at the various Districts would all be in attendance, for both the funeral and the wake. You would be honoured by the Ivory Tower, a sure deal as Platt was hot on that case. They had tried to say that given the unresolved circumstances of your death, and lack of a body, they would need further time to consider such an event, but that had quickly been quashed by Trudy’s fiery demeanour and sharp tongue. They had agreed to proceed as planned, almost immediately.

Leaving the apartment made Jay feel uncomfortable, like in the daylight everyone could see how broken and ghostlike he was, not just on the outside but on the inside too. Will kept a reassuring hand on his elbow as they took him to Hank’s truck, he thought Jay might shove the hand away but was sadly surprised when he didn’t. He was so used to Jay being assertive and confident, playful and teasing, now it was like that part had been turned off and sealed away.

The car ride is silent, Will watches Jay from the backseat, his heart aches to watch his brother feel the loss of you so profoundly. He texts Adam to let him know they were on their way to the florists, then they’d come to the District - everybody would be going from there to the service together. Hank keeps his eyes on the road, glancing occasionally to check on Jay who sat looking down, hands folded securely in his lap.

Jay stays in the truck when Hank and Will put the flowers in the trunk, he brings himself to look up from his hands, watching the world go by with a vacant expression. He absentmindedly fiddles with the dial on Hank’s dash, turning up the heat, always feeling cold since he started to lose weight. Longing to have your warmth wrapped up in his arms, where he could press kisses to your hair, nuzzle into your neck as you’d hum contentedly. 

By the time they’re at the District in an orderly procession with your empty casket on his shoulder, Jay feels like he can’t move his legs. It feels like a betrayal to carry a casket that doesn’t have a body in it. Heavy with dread and denial, he puts one foot in front of the other, accompanied by Will, Hank, Adam, Kevin, and Antonio who had flown back in to be there. He tries to block out the sounds of hushed sobs and quiet sniffles, murmured well wishes and commiserating words of love as you would soon be laid to rest.

He is keenly aware of the fact that many of your family members are directly behind him in the procession, he knows at some point he’ll have to talk to them. Over the almost fortnight that it had been, he had developed this odd fear that they’d somehow blame him for your death. Fear that they blamed him for somehow attracting you to stay in Intelligence, for allowing you to go undercover. Even though he knew you loved Intelligence for its own merit, and nobody was going to tell you what you could or could not do. Especially as he knew you were damn good at your job, one of the best he’d worked with in his near-decade tenure in Hank Voight’s unit. If he was being true to himself, it was his own guilt that was eating at him, no matter how illogical.

The priest’s words sail past his ears as he stands in the church, looking at your casket in a vague sense of disbelief, willing you to burst through the doors from behind and say “Surprise!” But as far as he knew, you weren’t going to and couldn’t do that. So he remains in solemn silence, feeling the rest of his life tick by in meaningless minutes that he wouldn’t share with you ever again.

“And now Y/N’s fiance, Jay Halstead, will say a few words. Jay?” 

Somewhere in Jay’s glassy gaze into nowhere, his brain registers that it’s his turn to get up there and bare his soul to a room full of people. The realisation however comes later than was apparently socially acceptable, because Will has to lean over and call his name again in a gentle whisper with a small nudge. 

He snaps back to reality, taking in the sobering expanse of the high ceilings and the decor that was so opulent that it felt somehow wrong for such an occasion, too gaudy, too fake. With a clearing of his throat, he shuffles out of the pew and towards the lectern, the adrenaline kicking it up a gear as he turns to face the crowd of familiar, mourning, faces. 

He pulls neatly folded paper from his pocket, his own scrawl just about legible as he begins to read, a slight tremor in his words,

“When I first met Y/N, I didn’t know what to think of her. She was my new partner, and I’m sure you can understand that new partners mean change, and I wasn’t all too ready for change at the time…” Jay looks up, swallowing as he continues, 

“But she proved me wrong in about a week, she showed me that she was just about the best kind of change I was going to get in my life. She was self-assured, she was sweet, she was patient with me but she also let me know she’d whip my ass if I didn’t give her a chance.” He lets out a half-laugh, laced with sadness,

“This was going to be part of my vows… I never thought it would be used in a eulogy instead…" The room somehow falls into more silence than it had already been in, Jay feels his stomach drop and hurries himself along before he started to rant about how unfair this all felt.

"...So yeah, I have spent every day since that moment building something with her, we have seen each through just about everything. It's my honour to call Y/N Y/L/N my partner in every sense of the word, and I know she'll be remembered, revered and missed for lifetimes to come."

Jay swallows, nodding as he weakly gives a smile of gratitude, "Thank you for coming."

With reserved haste, he makes his way back to his spot between Will and Kim. Will wraps his arm around his shoulder, and Kim takes one of his hands and squeezes it reassuringly. Both of them cry silent tears as Jay looks down at his feet.

-

The wake, though a kind gesture on Will and Herrmann’s organisational part, was the last place he wanted to be after the funeral. He sat in the back room with the stock and the spare glassware for a good 20 minutes before Will managed to find him and sit with him. To his credit Will did stay silent and just let Jay be, the presence was more for his own comfort than Jay’s - a feature of solidarity and support, even if it wasn’t necessarily desired right now.

During the course of the afternoon and early evening, Jay eventually speaks to your mother and father, and they embrace Jay in warm and long hugs. They viewed him as part of their family and they had no intention of changing that, inviting him to either visit or video call them anytime.

By the end of the time at Molly's, Jay can't keep his eyes open. The day had taken everything from him, and it's with a weary shuffle that he lets himself be led again by Will from the car to the apartment. Not even batting an eyelid as careful hands remove his shoes, Will's gentle demeanour and voice guide him to bed as his brother helps him get down to boxers and a shirt, wordlessly squeezing Will's arm in thanks as he settles under the covers, turning away to stare at the wall.

Will's stomach drops, sadness filling his chest once again. He strokes a hand through Jay's hair briefly, murmuring, "I'll be right down the hall, bud. There's water and painkillers on the table next to you. I love you, brother." He dims the bedside lamp enough to let Jay sleep, but leaves it bright enough that Jay wouldn't be left in the dark during a potential night terror.

With that Will turns and heads toward the bedroom door, gently shutting it to almost closed, leaving it ajar so he could hear any commotion that might happen during the night.

He sits on the couch with burning eyes, his tie now lying haphazardly on the arm of the couch with a beer in one hand. He was so tired but he found himself wanting to scroll through some old videos of him, you and Jay on various occasions. So he did, he watched videos of the three of you hiking, playing board games, at a baseball game, at Molly's, at a Halloween party, at a concert… There were so many memories that made him laugh and smile through the tears. Starting to truly feel for his own loss of you, his sister-in-law, and the loss of you, his brother's world…

-

End of Part 6

A/N: I initially was going to give you the beginnings of Burden Sr's capture in this chapter, but then I thought of a better way to make it happen. So y'all are gonna have to wait for the next part, I'm sorry!

Tags: @briannareneea985 - @mrspeacem1nusonee - @elius-learns-to-write - @burgstead