#my periods have been regular and i hardly have any pains

[willows-escape]

My Angel - 1990!Erik x Reader

Pairing: 1990!Cherik x AFAB!Reader (gender neutral pronouns/language)

Summary: You woke up that morning expecting a peaceful, regular day, but you were quickly proven horribly wrong as things began to travel down south. Fortunately, Erik is there to try and relieve some of the pain - even if it is excruciating.

Warnings(/Tags?): menstruation, descriptions of extremely painful periods (adenomyosis/endometriosis), erik is dramatic but its okay he has an excuse, nausea, mentions of vomit but no actual vomiting, early 1900s appropriate period shame, blood and heavy bleeding, brief mention of reader not eating all day but it's only due to lack of appetite, reassurance, fluff!!!!, like TOOTH ROTTING sweetness!!!!

Words: 6.9k

Notes: this isn't what i originally planned to post today, but i have adenomyosis and when my periods come they come bad and the pain is making me feel very sorry for myself. and i did promise something soon. so this is just self indulgent fluff in the mean time.

the other thing i was writing will be entirely gender neutral, so people who do not at all identify with menstruation or just don't want to read about it will hopefully enjoy that when it's done!

DISCLAIMER - this is based off of my experiences with periods, which will not look like most because I have a gynaecologic condition. but if you do 100% relate to this, go see a doctor! like, yesterday!

The morning began like any other, with a restless night's sleep behind you. As you stirred awake, you found yourself alone in bed, but a smile crept across your face as you noticed the lingering warmth on the sheets beside you - a subtle reminder of a certain someone’s recent presence.

Succumbing to the lethargy that clung to your limbs, you reached for the nearest available outfit. The garments were wrinkled and well-worn, but they served their purpose of preserving your modesty. You slipped them on, grateful for the barrier they provided against the cool morning air, despite their less-than-pristine condition.

As you emerged from your bedroom, you stumbled, the door slamming shut behind you with an echoing thud. Your body felt leaden, each limb weighed down as if filled with concrete. Shafts of light piercing through the stone crevices assaulted your eyes, intensifying the dull throb that had begun to pulse at your temples.

"Erik?" your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The name came out as a hoarse, groggy mumble, hardly recognizable even to your own ears.

Despite your feeble attempt at calling out, Erik appeared before you almost instantly, as if summoned by your whisper.

"Y/N! You're up," he said joyfully, his body adorned in one of his special going out outfits, "much earlier than usual, may I add. I was in the middle of preparing us a picnic before you have to go back up but-"

His gaze finally narrowed onto your hunched form, his previous relaxed expression shifting to one of concern. Your dishevelled appearance was evident - your hair in disarray, your eyes glazed over, bloodshot, and unfocused. It was clear that you were far from your usual self, and to put it lightly, appeared extremely unwell.

"What is the matter?" he asked. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the picnic basket he had been holding clattered to the stone floor, forgotten in an instant as his full attention focused on you.

As though his question was the trigger, a wave of nausea crashed over you. Your chest constricted, forcing you to hunch over even further. Your skin flushed hot in an instant, beads of sweat forming and quickly multiplying across your skin.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Erik's voice trembled, his words tumbling out in a rush. Had you been more lucid, you might have felt a pang of guilt for causing him such distress.

"I'm fine," you mumbled unconvincingly. His hand gently rested on your shoulder, and instantly your body betrayed you. The comforting touch seemed to signal to your system that it was safe to let go, and suddenly, you felt overwhelmed by a surge of nausea and dizziness.

A dull ache blossomed in your lower abdomen. Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively pressed a hand against your stomach. The discomfort flooded your senses as your face contorted, a grimace etching itself across your features as you struggled to maintain composure.

Within moments, the discomfort escalated from a mild annoyance to an all-consuming agony that left you immobilized.

Shivers began to wrack your body. Your legs turned to lead, a numbing sensation creeping up from your toes. Simultaneously, a searing, deep-seated ache took root in your lower back.

If Erik was worried before, he was panicking now. His eyes widened with alarm, his breathing quickened, and his usually steady hands began to tremble visibly. The calm composure he typically maintained crumbled in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and urgency.

Your legs buckled beneath you, your vision blurring as you felt yourself wilting towards the unforgiving stone floor. Erik sprang into action, his arms shooting out to catch you. The world spun as he scooped you up, your body limp in his grasp. A sharp cry escaped your lips as the sudden movement sent a jolt of agony through your core, the comfort of his embrace overshadowed by the searing pain that threatened to consume you.

With swift strides, Erik navigated the winding halls, cradling you protectively in his arms. He retraced your earlier path, arriving at the door you had just exited moments ago. With a forceful kick, he flung it open, revealing the familiar sight of your shared bedroom.

"I'm going to set you down onto the bed," he explained slowly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "I’ll be as careful as I can."

When he gently pulled back the blanket on your side of the bed, you felt a slight jostling. Your attention, however, was abruptly drawn by a sharp intake of breath, his gasp cutting through the silence of the room.

"Erik?" you mumbled weakly. Your words were abruptly cut off as another wave of pain tore through your abdomen, causing you to cry out involuntarily.

Once more, you felt yourself being moved, this time to Erik's side of the bed. Confusion clouded your mind - why the change? But as you weakly lifted your head, the reason became starkly clear.

"Oh god-" you gasped, your eyes widening in shock at the sight before you. The vivid crimson stain on your side of the bed was impossible to ignore, its stark contrast against the pale sheets making your stomach churn with a mix of embarrassment and dread.

“I need to go find Gerard, you need to be seen by a doctor,” he declared, voice urgent and desperate.

He finally lowered you onto the clean side of the bed, and your eyes instinctively sought his face. It was then you realised his mask was off, likely because he hadn't anticipated you waking so soon. Without the barrier, you could clearly see the stark pallor of his unmarked skin and the unmistakable fear etched across his features. His typically composed demeanour had given way to raw, unfiltered concern that was both touching and unsettling.

He turned to leave.

"Erik, wait," you gasped, your hand shooting out to grasp his arm. "The pain is... excruciating, I won't lie. But I don't think—"

Your words were cut short as another wave of agony crashed over you. A strangled whimper escaped your lips as you curled into yourself, your body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was all-consuming, leaving you breathless and disoriented. You clenched your eyes shut, willing the torment to pass, knowing all you could do was endure until it subsided.

"Where's the pain? Can you pinpoint where you're bleeding from?" his eyes darted across your form, taking in your dulled complexion and the sheen of sweat on your skin. "You're burning up. Do you have a fever?"

His questions came in rapid succession, but his touch remained gentle as he brushed your damp hair away from your forehead.

"I... um..." you hesitated, struggling to articulate through the pain. The situation presented a dilemma: discussing such a private matter with a man felt improper, yet the severity of your discomfort and the alarming amount of blood made it impossible to simply dismiss. You found yourself caught.

Another intense surge of pain rose in your stomach, but this one more overwhelming than the last. Your ability to speak fully vanished as your eyes clenched shut. Soft whimpers escalated into frantic, muffled cries as the relentless throbbing in your lower abdomen intensified, twisting your nerves and leaving you gasping for breath.

"Angel, please, tell me what’s going on," Erik pleaded, tenderly taking your hand in his. The desperation in his eyes was palpable as he watched you struggle to form words. “I really believe you need a doctor, please just let me-”

"No, please," you winced, your voice barely audible through gritted teeth. The words came out strained, a mixture of pain and embarrassment colouring your tone. "It's... it's not something I can easily explain," you paused, taking a shaky breath before adding, "it's rather private."

"Private?" he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and concern. "Forgive my being impolite, but you are currently writhing in agony and bleeding profusely- how on Earth is that private!?"

"Erik," you implored, your eyes silently conveying your discomfort with the subject. However, his concern for your well-being trumped any social niceties. Undeterred by your unspoken plea, he persisted with his questions, determined to understand and help.

"If you explain what's happening, I might be able to help," he insisted. You gave him a sceptical look, but he pressed on, "my years in isolation weren't idle, I've acquired a vast array of knowledge from the countless books that have kept me company."

"It's just not appropriate for me to discuss this with you!" you cried in refute, your voice strained with both pain and embarrassment. Despite your best efforts to remain composed, your tone came out sharper than intended.

You silently prayed he would forgive you, considering the fact that you were enduring mind-boggling amounts of pain. Not only that, the fact you could distinctly feel the familiar warm leakage of blood trickling down your thighs and onto the bedsheets below was driving you utterly insane.

Shame coursed through you as your eyes fell upon the stark evidence of your debilitating pain staining the otherwise white sheets. Averting your gaze, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. An overwhelming desire to shield yourself from Erik's concerned stare gripped you, making you wish you could simply disappear.

However, your discomfort eased as Erik's touch changed. His firm grip on your hand softened, his fingers now tracing gentle patterns on your skin. Despite the worry in his eyes, you sensed his effort to stay calm for your sake.

Your heart tugged in your chest at the realisation.

"Y/N," he began, his voice tender yet hesitant as he tried to hold himself together. His gaze locked onto yours as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Please, put your shame aside for one moment and let me in- if only so that I can help you. It kills me to see you like this."

His ignorance of the situation was evident in the way his chest heaved and how he chewed the inside of his cheek with a vengeance. It was clear he believed you were in grave danger. You knew you needed to say something to ease his mind, even if it went against everything your instincts were telling you to do.

"Oh," you breathed, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over you. "It's... it's a delicate matter. Not something typically discussed in polite company."

"Do I look like polite company to you?" Erik's sarcastic retort was accompanied by a growing urgency in his previously calm ministrations. His eyes started to dart frantically between the blood staining your skin and your tired, visibly distressed face.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for Erik's potential upset. Despite your fears of his disgust or anger, of him calling you dirty or telling you to leave until you return to normal, a small part of you hoped he might be more understanding than expected. It was this glimmer of optimism that gave you the courage to finally speak.

"Erik," you began hesitantly, "are you familiar with the concept of... menstruation?"

The prolonged silence following your question spoke volumes. When Erik finally shook his head, it only confirmed what you had already suspected.

"Well," you began hesitantly, searching for the right words, "it's a process that occurs in people with uteruses. It involves bleeding and a lot of pain, typically happening monthly for one week out of the month. I don't really know much about the biological reasons behind it, but-"

Your explanation was abruptly halted as another shock of excruciating pain engulfed you. Erik, sensing your distress, quickly offered his hand. You latched onto it, your grip surprisingly fierce. As the agony intensified, your body convulsed against the sheets, and muffled sobs escaped your lips. You desperately willed the torment to stop, but it seemed endless despite your determination to endure.

"Fuck!"

Erik looked taken aback by your cussing, but seeing as you were squeezing his hand so hard he felt like your aim was to tear it off, he didn't focus on it too much.

Eventually, the pain faded back to its baseline ache - which was still extremely unpleasant, but manageable.

"I apologize," you coughed through your tears, your voice strained as you brushed away the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead.

"There's no need to apologize," he reassured, his voice filled with compassion. "I'm deeply concerned for your wellbeing, but I trust your understanding of this situation. If you say it's not life-threatening, I will trust you."

“Yeah, I'm definitely in no life threatening danger," you assured him, "but the pain is so intense, it almost feels like I am."

"It hurts so badly," you whimpered, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. "Ever since I was young, I've had to live with such excruciating pain and such heavy bleeding that I can barely function or even leave my bed. It's so exhausting and I've lost count of the times I've passed out on dirty floors, lying in my own vomit because of this."

"I know, I know," he murmured, not truly understanding and internally slightly horrified but wanting to comfort you regardless. He gently wiped away your tears as they fell, his touch tender and reassuring.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This is terribly embarrassing. You shouldn't have to witness this. You tried to regain composure, but the combination of physical discomfort and emotional vulnerability made it impossible to stem the tide of tears.

Suddenly, Erik began to move. Your attention was so focused on the hurricane of emotions swirling around your body that you barely noticed him shifting to your side of the bed. It wasn't until he began to lower himself onto the mattress beside you that panic set in, causing you to react instinctively.

"No, wait!" you exclaimed, your sudden outburst causing him to recoil in surprise. Realizing your tone, you softened your voice. "I'm sorry, but please don't sit there. I... I don't want you to get dirty."

"Dirty?" Erik repeated, his eyes flickering to the stain beneath him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "It's just blood, I mean really- it's not like I haven't been covered in my own fair share of the stuff. This small spot is hardly cause for concern."

"Erik, please, it's not just blood!" you insisted, the shame taking over as you looked at the spot where you'd bled. It didn’t help that you were in too much pain and felt far too weak to even do anything about it!

He raised an eyebrow at you. "How can it be 'not just blood'? Does your blood contain arsenic?"

You couldn’t help but groan at his sarcastic retort.

"Menstrual blood comes from a person's private areas," you grumbled, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

He paused for a moment, then replied, "well, that certainly wasn't the answer I expected, but it doesn't change my opinion. Blood is blood, no matter where it comes from. Besides, fabric—and people—can always be washed. You don't need to be moving around for the sake of preserving meaningless things, you need to rest."

"But!-"

"Now that that's settled..." he shrugged off the jacket he’d been wearing and eased himself onto the mattress, inching closer to your awestruck form.

You were utterly speechless. He just- and then he- and he said-

"May I hold you? I won't if it causes you pain," he asked, his voice earnest and gentle. His tender concern only added to your bewildered state.

Words failed you as Erik gently pulled you into his embrace. The warmth of his body enveloped you, offering a comfort you didn't realize you so desperately craved. Despite the momentary twinge in your abdomen as he carefully adjusted your position, you found yourself melting into his arms. In that moment, his presence was a bandage to your pain-wracked body and troubled mind.

"Is this position comfortable?" He inquired. His arm gently supported the back of your neck, while his other hand rested lightly on your upper arm, providing a comforting presence without applying pressure. You managed a small nod in response, grateful for his attentiveness.

"Good. Now, where does it hurt?"

As his hand began to drift lower, more particularly towards your thighs, you suddenly realized the direction his thoughts were taking. Your eyes widened in a mix of surprise and mild alarm.

"Wait, not there!" you exclaimed, immediately regretting your sudden outburst as a fresh wave of pain surged through you. You winced, silently chastising yourself for your impulsive reaction.

"Oh. My deepest apologies," Erik said, his voice tinged with embarrassment as he blinked sheepishly. "I wouldn't have touched you anywhere without permission, but when you mentioned the blood's origin, I assumed—well, I thought—"

"Yeah, I know what you thought," you laughed breathlessly, wincing as another flash of pain assaulted your insides. "But contrary to your guess, the pain is mainly in my lower abdomen. Still, I appreciate your... eagerness to help."

His hand, which had been hovering uncertainly, now settled gently on your stomach. The warmth of his palm seeped through your skin as he watched your face intently, searching for any sign of discomfort. Finding none, he took your relaxed expression as silent permission and began to move his hand in slow, soothing circles.

Your mind went blank.

The warmth of his hand on your stomach felt heavenly. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before. While it didn't eliminate the pain by any means, it soothed the intensity more than you thought anything ever could. As his fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on your skin, you felt your entire body relaxing, tension melting away with each careful movement.

Your tears, once born of shame and torment, now flowed from sheer relief.

"Thank you," you sniffled, peace washing over you whilst your body finally began to relax. As your muscles slowly unclenched, the bed beneath you seemed to transform, becoming a soft, inviting cloud that cradled your aching form.

Erik could sense your growing ease just from the shift in your demeanour. He was well aware that the mattress and bed sheets were likely ruined, but your comfort and rest took precedence over any stains—especially ones that no one else would ever lay eyes on. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t always procure new clothes for you if your current ones were beyond saving.

"Rest now, angel," he murmured softly, his hand continuing its soothing motions. "I'll be here when you wake up."

As you drifted off into a peaceful slumber, Erik decided it was probably time to delve into those medical journals he'd long avoided.

What? He just preferred reading fiction, that's all.

As evening fell, you stirred from your sleep, immediately noticing the emptiness beside you. Your hand brushed against the cool sheets where Erik had been, confirming your suspicion—he had left your side some time ago. Disappointment creased your brow as you pondered his whereabouts.

You laid motionless on the mattress, your gaze fixed on the spot where Erik had been before you drifted off. The pain in your lower abdomen persisted, but it had noticeably diminished compared to earlier. Your skin felt clammy, and your throat parched, yet overall, you felt surprisingly okay.

"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the corner of the room.

Your frown melted away as you realized he hadn't left at all. True to his word, Erik had simply shifted to the corner of the room, maintaining his vigilant watch over you.

"It's 7:30 PM, which is quite an unusual time to start your day, don't you think?" he teased. You sat up, observing him sitting comfortably in the chair you two kept in the room for convenience's sake.

This time, he wore his mask, unlike earlier when you had awoken. Your gaze drifted downward, landing on the enormous tome in his hands—the bulkiest book you'd ever laid eyes on. Curiosity piqued, you gestured silently toward the literary behemoth he cradled, wordlessly urging him to elaborate on the book in his grasp.

"I know—this is definitely a hefty one. Thank god for chapter indexes," he remarked, weighing the book in his hands. "However, I must say, its contents are appallingly lacking in knowledge."

"How so?" you prompted.

"Well, this is supposed to be a medical journal, and yet, when I look for information on menstruation, it's woefully inadequate," he scoffed. "It merely states that menstruation is linked to the reproductive cycle and helps the uterus prepare for potential pregnancy. That's all."

"Well, that's still more than I knew before," you said with a shrug.

"It's obscene. I read in another book that it happens to half the population from around ages 16 to 50, and yet so many people have gone their whole lives not knowing why?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And I thought science had come much further than that."

“You read another book? How many of these have you read?” you asked, astonished by his dedication.

“Oh, just whatever I had lying around. A couple dozen or so,” he replied, as if everyone just had dozens of books on medical knowledge floating around their abode. “But some of them were so old they attributed menstruation to miasma, so I didn’t pay much attention to those. And I also busied myself with books on herbal remedies and pain relief- apparently there’s this new medicine called Aspirin on the market? Exciting, but I can’t get a hold of that right now, unfortunately.”

As he rose from the chair, you noticed the stacks of books surrounding his feet. He hadn't exaggerated when he mentioned "a dozen or so" - they were all massive, thicker than any you'd ever seen! You racked your brain, trying to recall where in the cellars he might have been concealing these enormous volumes, but you couldn't remember ever spotting them before.

"I may be mistaken, but you seem to be feeling better than you did this morning," he observed, neatly arranging the books into orderly stacks rather than leaving them scattered haphazardly.

"Definitely," you nodded. "The pain is still present, but it's significantly less intense now."

"That's good," he replied, humming as he pushed his first pile to the side to work on the next. "You did give me quite a fright earlier. I thought... Well, I'm not sure what I thought."

"It's understandable. I mean, I'm not sure why, but I expected you to have some... slight awareness of the subject," you admitted, awkwardly averting your gaze.

Even though you knew Erik wasn't raised with the same rules and expectations as you, discussing menstruation still felt like breaching a taboo. The topic remained uncomfortable, despite your rational understanding that it shouldn't be.

"I do feel quite foolish for not being aware of it sooner. But then again, how many women do you think I've encountered in my life? Besides my mother, the answer is none. And even that meeting was brief," he said matter-of-factly.

You didn't really know how to respond to that, so you let a comfortable silence settle between you. Erik swiftly finished organizing his books, then hurried out to return them to their proper places. He reappeared within moments.

"Now, unless there are other aspects of your anatomy I should be aware of," he said with a hint of amusement, "I believe a bath is in order." His eyes darted meaningfully towards the bed, drawing your attention to the mess you had somehow overlooked. You were mortified as you realized the extent of the stains, which had spread far beyond where you'd expected, creating abstract patterns on the once-pristine sheets.

"Ugh, yes," you grimaced, suddenly noticing the uncomfortable layer of blood on your skin. "A bath is definitely overdue. But what about you? Have you had a chance to clean up?"

"You've been out for eleven hours. I bathed ages ago," he stated. "Just give me half an hour or so to boil some water for the bath. That way, you won't be freezing in there."

While you appreciated Erik's thoughtfulness, the sensation of dried, itchy filth on your skin was unbearable. The prospect of waiting even a moment longer to cleanse yourself seemed more daunting than enduring the bite of cold water.

"Don’t bother," you cringed, "I can't bear this feeling any longer. I need to wash off immediately, even if the water's cold. The discomfort of icy water is preferable to this... filth."

“Have some patience. It’s the late evening in a cellar right next to a lake, you’ll die from cold exposure,” he deadpanned.

Though you understood the logic behind his words, you couldn't suppress a playful pout. Erik's eyes rolled with amusement as he approached you on the bed. Leaning over, he tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead, the gentle gesture melting away your feigned disappointment.

"Are you sure you're not in too much pain right now? Tomorrow I'll ask Gerard to procure some herbs, but until then I have a few remedies I can try with items lying around," he asked, straightening up to look down at you with a raised eyebrow.

"It's bearable," you affirmed.

"Good," he said, moving towards the door. "Stay here while I set up the bath. If you need anything, just call for me."

“Trust me, I won’t be going far anytime soon.”

Thirty minutes later, Erik returned as promised. During the wait, you occupied yourself with daydreams and silent lamentations about your bodily predicament. You couldn’t help but be stuck on the thought that you’d be stuck like this until you were 50—you weren't even halfway through!

"Can you walk alright?" he asked, concerned about you putting any unnecessary strain on your body.

After considering your current condition, you replied, "I think I could manage, but would you mind carrying me to the bathroom anyway? I've heard blood leaves quite stubborn stains on stone."

Wordlessly, he obliged, gently cradling you in his arms. One arm supported your back while the other nestled beneath your knees. As he carefully lifted you, his eyes fell upon the crimson stain left behind. The sight of such copious bleeding caused a flicker of concern to cross his face, though he tried to conceal it.

You were supposed to bleed that much every month for a week straight without dying?

Pushing aside his alarming thoughts about your potential demise, he carried you carefully to the bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate. As he cradled you, you realized this level of attentiveness was something you could easily grow accustomed to. You made a mental note that future menstrual cycles would be spent here in the cellars, rather than hiding from him in the Opera Populaire as you'd done before.

"Thank you for today," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. As you spoke, you instinctively burrowed closer, finding comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

He let out a low chuckle, tinged with self-deprecation. "Thank you? I've barely done anything noteworthy," he scoffed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. You couldn't see his expression, but you sensed the frown in his words. "To be honest, I feel rather inadequate. I wish I could have been more helpful to you in this situation."

"Don't say that," you insisted, nudging his chest with your head in retaliation. "You've gone above and beyond what most people would do. You've read dozens of books today just to understand me better. You've prepared a bath for me and prioritized my rest over your bedding. Most men would have either shooed me away or fled in your position."

A door creaked open, plunging you into momentary darkness as Erik gently lowered you to your feet. Your voice softened with emotion as you whispered, "your kindness and attentiveness mean more to me than words can express."

The gas valve hissed softly as it turned, gradually illuminating the bathroom. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed a plush black towel draped over the edge of the tub, ready for use. On a nearby rack hung a set of fresh clothes—their style unmistakably reminiscent of Erik's wardrobe—waiting patiently for you to don them after your bath.

He cleared his throat loudly, a gesture you'd come to recognise as his way of masking his flustered state. "It's nothing extraordinary," he mumbled, his voice tinged with a mix of modesty and discomfort at the praise, "just basic human decency."

“But-“

"Is there anything else you need before I go to clean up?" he abruptly asked.

You sighed, giving him a pointed look for interrupting you. Deciding to let it go, you allowed the shift in conversation.

"I can manage from here, thank you," you hummed. "But would you mind fetching my sanitary belt from my bag? I'll need it after the bath."

“Sanitary belt?”

"Yeah. It's a belt that wraps around your waist and holds a sanitary towel in place to collect the, um, blood," you explained, awkwardly gesturing with your hands to illustrate. "You'll recognize it when you see it."

With a tender kiss on your forehead, Erik departed, promising to return with what you need.

The moment he left, you wasted no time shedding your clothes and depositing them in the nearby basket. Eager for relief, you eased yourself into the bathtub, a contented sigh escaping your lips as the pleasantly warm water enveloped you. The soothing heat melted away any lingering discomfort, allowing you to immerse yourself fully in the task of cleansing. With meticulous care, you began to wash away the day's troubles, savouring the unexpected comfort the bath provided.

He returned shortly after, placing the belt on the rack alongside your other necessities. Once again, he inquired about your well-being, prompting you to playfully scold him for his constant concern. Nevertheless, you reassured him that you were fine, adding that the warm bath water provided more pain relief than you had anticipated.

He seemed on the verge of making a sarcastic comment—likely along the lines of "I told you so"—but thought better of it. Bidding you a final goodbye, he left to strip and prepare the bed, allowing you to finish cleaning up in peace.

You continued this until the water was doing you more of a disservice than it was cleansing you. Pulling the drain cover open, you allowed the dirty water to flow out and empty the tub. Silently, you thanked Erik for installing this modern convenience in his home—one of the few upgrades he'd chosen, despite his ability to afford many more.

A chill crept over your damp skin, urging you to hasten your routine. Goosebumps prickled across your body as you quickly patted yourself dry with the towel, appreciating how he'd made sure it was black and not white. You then clumsily secured the sanitary belt around your waist, wincing at its familiar discomfort.

Immediately after, you slipped into the night shirt he had provided. The loose-fitting trousers were a blessing, their gentle embrace and soft material accommodating your tender midsection without adding pressure. Once you finished dressing, a sense of satisfaction gleamed in your chest. You felt refreshed, clean, and rejuvenated.

You made sure to brush your teeth before finishing up in the bathroom, when the horrific cramps returned once again. Doubled over and jaw clenched, you shuffled towards the door with painstaking slowness. Your quivering hand fumbled with the gas valve, finally managing to shut off the light. The room plunged into darkness as you walked out, door falling shut behind.

Groaning softly, you shuffled back towards the bedroom, where you found Erik fluffing the pillows on your freshly made bed. He wore his night attire, and despite your discomfort, you couldn't suppress a smile. Even doubled over in pain, the sight of him warmed your heart.

He swiftly noticed your presence, helping you onto the bed to spare you the effort of weakly propping yourself up. He then approached the dresser, where a mysterious lump lay concealed beneath blankets. Unfolding the coverings, he placed his hand on the hidden object and nodded with satisfaction.

He refolded the blankets over it before walking over to you. Curious and confused, you tried to maintain an inquisitive look while fighting off the storm raging in your abdomen.

"I anticipated the pain would return once you started moving again," he said, gesturing for you to lift your shirt to reveal your belly. You complied, though your confusion deepened. "This is called a 'hot water bottle,’ a recent invention. Gerard suggested I try one to ease some discomfort from my... condition. It doesn't help me much, but it might work for you."

"How does it work?" you asked, flinching slightly as the bottle touched your skin.

"It's made of rubber and filled with hot water to transfer heat efficiently," he explained, helping you pull your shirt back down over the bottle to keep it pressed against your skin. "Since you mentioned the warm water helped, I thought this might be worth trying."

"So it's like a hot water pig, but made of rubber instead of stoneware and more convenient?" you hummed thoughtfully, resting your hands over the bottle for an extra layer of added security.

“Precisely,” he nodded.

As the warmth from the hot water bottle gradually permeated the blankets, you found it soothing but not quite potent enough to fully alleviate your discomfort. The heat offered a welcome respite, yet you yearned for more intense relief from the persistent ache.

"It does take the edge off the pain," you admitted, biting your lip pensively, "but would it be possible to remove the blanket? I think more intense heat might help even more."

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Direct contact with the bottle could result in burns. The blanket stays."

After a moment's consideration, you decided that the risk of burns did indeed outweigh the potential relief from your cramps—at least for now. You nodded, opting to keep the blanket wrapped around the water bottle, appreciating its safer warmth.

A sense of contentment washed over you as you marvelled at how this day, which had started so unexpectedly, had blossomed into something truly special.

You were with the love of your life, freshly bathed and dressed in his clothes, tucked into a clean bed with a soothing hot water bottle warming your skin and fighting against what usually was traumatic levels of pain. Tears welled in your eyes as pure bliss coursed through your veins, overwhelming you before you could even process the feeling.

As the first tear rolled down your cheek, Erik instinctively sprang into action. You couldn't help but laugh through your cascading tears, raising your hands to signal him to relax. Though hesitant, he wordlessly complied with your wishes.

"I'm okay," you sniffled, your words punctuated by small sobs. "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just so... happy. I think I'm really, truly happy."

His eyes widened behind the mask, a mixture of surprise and awe flashing across the few of his visible features. Unable to resist, you reached up, gently grasping his hand and guiding him to lay beside you on the bed. He remained motionless, seemingly caught between disbelief and anticipation. Your heart racing, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a tender, affectionate kiss that conveyed all the emotions words couldn't quite express.

Wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your night shirt, you clutched the water bottle tighter and rolled onto your side. You nestled into his chest, his arm instinctively wrapping around you as you melded into his trembling form. Yearning for closeness, you draped your leg over his hips, your body seeking every possible point of contact.

"But—" He stammered, shaking his head in disbelief. Bewilderment dripped from his voice as he continued, "You haven't eaten all day. Surely, I should prepare something for you—"

"No," you replied, your tone firm yet affectionate.

"You must-"

"Nuh-uh," you teased.

"Really I should-"

"Shh." You leaned closer, your faces mere inches apart as you rested an arm over his waist. He tensed at the contact, despite the familiar porcelain barrier between you. "Just stay with me like this for a little while, please? Afterward, you can make all the cold meat sandwiches your heart desires."

"You told me you liked those," he grumbled in playful accusation.

A soft laugh escaped your lips as your eyes shimmered with unbridled affection. If Erik were to meet your gaze, all he'd be able to see was the pure, unadulterated euphoria radiating from your smile.

"I do," you agreed with a nod, “but only because you make them with so much love."

"So, you don't?"

You hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head back as if deeply pondering the culinary merits of cold meat sandwiches. "They're good, but they could use a little something extra," you mused. "Maybe some cucumber for crunch? Or a slice of mozzarella for creaminess?"

He scoffed in mock offence, "That completely distracts from the flavour of the meat."

"Flavour?"

"I'm glad you agree."

You pursed your lips before releasing a long, deliberate sigh. Your eyes flicked from his face to the clock. The time read 9:45 PM, yet an unwelcome wakefulness clung to you—undoubtedly a lingering consequence of your excessive eleven-hour nap.

"I’ve completely ruined my sleep schedule, haven’t I?" you mumbled. "It’s late in the evening, and I’m nowhere near tired.”

Erik paused thoughtfully before replying, "I can make you something to aid with sleep, if you'd like."

"What do you have in mind?" you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.

He thought over the matter before deciding.

"I have some dried valerian root that I can steep into a tea," he offered. "I've tried it on rare occasions. It's quite bitter, but I can add some chamomile to sweeten the taste."

"You're so lovely," you giggled, unaware of how he tensed at the compliment. "So kind and thoughtful—you call me an angel, but I think the real angel here is you. My Angel."

He paused, visibly stunned by your words.

His voice was soft and hesitant as he asked, "you believe that?"

You nodded, a soft hum of agreement escaping your lips. "I do," you said sweetly, your voice brimming with unwavering certainty.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath, seemingly trying to steady his racing heartbeat. His hold tightened around you, drawing you even closer. A radiant smile spread across your face.

"So," he stammered, clearly flustered by the compliment, "is that a yes to the tea?"

"I'd love some tea," you nodded eagerly. "But could you stay with me for ten more minutes first?"

He nodded, and you both settled into a comfortable silence—a respite he seemed to appreciate. Your fingers traced idle patterns on his palm, while his gently wove through your hair.

Ten minutes passed in this tranquil state, and you quickly realised that maybe the tea was unnecessary after all. Every thirty seconds or so, you found yourself stifling an uncontrollable yawn—a gesture you noticed Erik unconsciously mirroring.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the combined warmth of his body and the water bottle proving irresistible. You drifted toward sleep at least five times, always jolting awake at the last moment before you fully succumbed. Despite your drowsiness, you yearned to savour this moment just a little longer.

"Do you still want that tea?" Erik asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You shook your head and nestled closer to his chest. "I'm fine now," you murmured contentedly.

"Good," he replied, his hand gently smoothing down your flyaway hairs. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but fatigue clouded his thoughts, and he let the moment pass.

He yawned once more, momentarily pulling away from you. You whined in protest, but he shushed you as he reached behind his head to untie his mask. Attempting to place it carefully on the bedside table, he misjudged the distance, and it slipped towards the floor.

The mask remained intact, though the sound it emitted was sharp enough to make you flinch. To your astonishment, Erik seemed unconcerned by the possible harm. Instead, he calmly readjusted your position so you were laying as before, then closed his eyes. A surge of emotion swelled in your chest.

Erik had grown comfortable with you seeing him without his mask, though he typically preferred to keep it on unless taken by surprise or during the quiet hours of the night when you were both sleeping. His current indifference toward the mask could mean one of two things: either he was too exhausted to notice its near demise, or he had become so deeply at ease with you that he no longer felt the need to shield himself behind it.

Erik possessed other masks, but they could never replace his favourite. His primary one was treated with the utmost reverence, as fragile and irreplaceable as a feather. It was the one he felt most secure in and allowed him the most normalcy, therefore it was always his first choice regardless of other options. Yet now, without hesitation or concern, he had allowed it to fall away, as though its significance had vanished entirely, as if the bond between you had rendered it unnecessary.

You felt the urge to cry again, but not wanting to disturb his sleep, you suppressed your tears as you contemplated the significance of this moment for both of you.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. Though it could be mistaken for tiredness, the tremor in your words betrayed your overwhelming desire to burst into tears of joy.

After a moment, one bleary eye opened as he turned to face you. His lips curved into a genuine smile as he whispered, "I love you too."

'hot water pigs' are what people used to call hot water bottles, or at least their versions of them, just so you know lol. writing these fics always requires so much research into old terms and the existence of things that are now regular everyday items, it's kind of crazy. like trying to figure out how much was known about periods in the late 1800s early 1900s was a challenge.

[carlsdarling]

We need a 3 of no mercy please I beg of you

No Mercy Part III

Many requests for this 😊 The love-hate-story between Carl and Negan's daughter continues... Everyone is 18 or over.

WARNINGS: smut, nsfw, angst, abortion theme, unprotected sex

You had been back in the sanctuary for a few weeks now. After your period failed to start and the nausea continued, you panicked and took a count. Your periods had never been regular, but now you came to the conclusion that you hadn't bled in at least eight or nine weeks. The last time you had bled was before you had slept with Carl for the first time, that time behind the horse stables. Anyone who wasn't completely naive could have figured it out sooner: You were pregnant. You sat in your room and sobbed desperately. Under no circumstances must your father find out about it.

No, you could not have this baby. There was not even a doctor in the sanctuary since your father had burned the last one alive. In your distress, you sought out Amber, who - at least that was your assumption - knew about such things. "Amber, I'm pregnant," you said straightforwardly.

She looked at you with widened eyes. "It's not really true, is it? You're kidding."

"No, it's true." You burst into tears.

Amber quickly locked the door to her room. "Okay, and who's it from?"

"It's Carl's. Carl Grimes," you confessed, embarrassed.

"What!" exclaimed Amber in horror. "Oh my god, Y/N. Negan is going to flay you and Carl alive."

"He mustn't know, Amber, I can't have this baby!" Full of panic, you clutched her thin wrist. "What can I do?"

"How do you feel about Carl?" inquired Amber sympathetically. "Was it just a one-night stand, or...?"

It took you a long time to answer. "No, it was... more. I hated him like hell in the beginning," you said pensively. "We still had sex on and off, and it was great. But then... Carl is... he's so special. I think maybe I've grown to like him. A little bit, at least." Sheepishly, you played with the bed covers. "But it's not mutual, unfortunately," you then added sadly.

"Too bad," was all Amber said, "Carl's got guts, and he's handsome, too. It was very brave of him to break into the Sanctuary back then. He'll make a good leader someday." You had never thought of it that way - to you, Carl's action had just been stupid and careless. Now you realized that Amber was right and how courageous Carl was; even all the other times he had rebelled against Negan, even though Negan was much older and stronger than Carl was. He had never let your father intimidate him. Not even when Negan wanted Rick to cut off his arm. "Didn't you use any protection?"

"Well, sometimes not," you evaded, hiding from her that Carl's breeding kink had been part of your mutual attraction. You yourself had loved the feeling of him lavishly spilling his seed into you, and now you were receiving the reward. Somehow you had assumed that nothing would happen. Which had been stupid, of course.

„How long is it since your last period?“

"More than two months," you mumbled.

Amber took a deep breath. "That's too late for the morning-after pill. Way too late."

Frantically, you considered, "What other options are there?"

"Without a doctor? Hardly any, unless you want to die trying to get an abortion," Amber clarified to you relentlessly.

You cried again. "But there must be something! Herbs, something! Wait." An idea had occurred to you. You walked over to Amber's closet and pulled out a wire coathanger. "I saw this in a movie once. You have to help me."

"No, Y/N. Oh no. Forget it," Amber fought back. "You're going to bleed to death, and it's my fault."

"Like you just said, Amber. My father is going to kill me. Please," you pleaded.

She relented against her knowledge. "All right, same time tomorrow, here. Katya will be back soon. And I can't promise you it'll work, and it'll be painful as fuck." You nodded in embarrassment and fear. The danger of dying during an amateurishly performed abortion was real.

                                                           ***

You went back to your room and wept. You didn't want to abort Carl's baby, that was the truth. You constantly saw Carl's cute face in front of you, heard his mocking remarks, felt his hot breath on your skin. You were dreaming of him. You were longing for him. You might as well admit it to yourself: You loved Carl Grimes, and you missed him sorely. And now you were carrying his child, and that couldn't be. You'd probably never see each other again, and either way Carl wouldn't want a baby with you, let alone a relationship.

But everything turned out differently than planned. When you went to dress yourself the next morning, your father burst into your room without knocking as you stood there in your underwear. Horrified, you stared at him, unable to cover yourself. Negan's gaze immediately captured your swollen breasts and ever so slightly bulging belly. His eyebrows rose, then he averted his eyes in bewilderment. "Come to my office immediately when you are dressed," he ordered expressionlessly.

You were standing in front of him with a palpitating heart. "Whose is it?" he demanded to know harshly. "It can only have happened in Alexandria, you are already starting to show, and you were vomiting on the ride over here." Angrily, he marched back and forth.

"It... it's from Carl," you said in a low voice.

Your father eyed you, stunned. "Please what?" he then shouted. "You were spreading your legs for the future serial killer? Unbelievable," he laughed bitterly.

"No, it wasn't like that, it..."

"What do you mean? Did he rape you?" he asked lurkingly.

"No!" you said firmly. If Negan believed that, he wouldn't rest until he had killed Carl. "No. It was... consensual." Your face reddened.

„Fuck it“, Negan ruffled his hair, perplexed. "Get your bag and come along," he then ordered, grabbing your arm and dragging you outside. There he gestured for you to get in the car.

"But what..." you started.

"We're driving to Alexandria," Negan announced grimly. "Let's see what fucking Carl Grimes has to say about this. And Rick, under whose roof you've been living." The ride passed in silence, except that once again you felt nauseous. You were tense and anxious, unable to gauge what your father was up to and how things would proceed. Finally, the Alexandria gate appeared in front of you; the guards immediately got into position when they recognized Negan. He got out and raised his hands in the air. "I want to talk to Rick," he demanded. "You see, I'm not armed." It wasn't long before Rosita and Daryl escorted you both to Rick's house. You hadn't seen Carl in so long, your heart pounded excitedly and somehow you felt an anxious anticipation mixed with fear.

Rick gazed open-mouthed at you and asked you into the kitchen in a reserved manner. "I thought we had everything settled for now," he said icily to Negan. "So why are you stalking us again?"

"Well, it's not my fault," Negan replied aggressively. At that moment, Carl entered the kitchen, closely followed by Enid. They held hands, and you quickly looked down at the floor. You never thought it would hurt so much, although you should have expected him to find another girl. He probably loved Enid - he had never loved you. Carl looked from one to the other in surprise.

"I don't understand," Rick said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Well, it's about Y/N and Carl," Negan replied with a cutting tone. "I assumed Y/N was safe under your roof! You personally guaranteed her safety!“

Rick began to look more and more confused. To him, you seemed to be in good health; a little pale, perhaps. "Enid, go home. Carl, you stay here," he then ordered in a bossy voice. Enid kissed Carl goodbye and disappeared with her head down. "Now speak up," he then turned to Negan. "Will you stop talking in riddles?" You and Carl exchanged a cautious, uncertain look.

"These two here got it going!" accused Negan at him. "Carl fucked my daughter. In your house, Rick! Don't tell me you didn't notice!"

Rick was scratching his head, perplexed and surprised. "I actually didn't, you'll have to take my word for that, Negan," he then muttered. "I just noticed that they liked each other - even if they denied it. But what the hell, they're teenagers, it's only normal for them to engage in sexual experiences, you can't help it, and..."

"Y/N is pregnant!" yelled Negan. "Your scumbag of a son made her a baby!"

Now Rick was left speechless, and Carl looked completely shocked, while you started crying miserably. No one wanted this baby but you, and everyone saw you and the pregnancy as a problem, an inconvenience. Rick grabbed Carl's wrist. "Carl! Is this true?" he asked sharply.

Carl widened his eye, overwhelmed. "I, uhm, well... it's true, we had sex." His cheeks were bright red with bashfulness.

"And did you use protection, yes or no?" barked Rick angrily, while Negan watched the whole thing with his eyebrows furrowed.

Meanwhile, Michonne entered the kitchen. "What's going on?" she wanted to know in wonder. "What's he doing here?" Accusingly, she pointed at Negan.

Rick paid no attention to her, he focused on Carl. "Yes or no, Carl?" he insisted.

"No," the latter admitted sheepishly, looking down at his shoes.

"You've got to be kidding me," Rick groaned, letting go of Carl and sinking into a chair, cradling his face in his hands. "Carl and Y/N slept with each other without using protection, and now Y/N is pregnant," he informed Michonne. "Carl, are you fucking nuts?" he then hissed in anger. "We did give you the talk on time, didn't we?"

"Now don't all pick on Carl," you timidly spoke up. "It's just as much my fault."

"Yes, indeed, it is!" your father snapped at you. "Are you too dumb to know about condoms?"

"I didn't think you'd be so irresponsible and stupid," Rick stated, shaking his head, looking at you and Carl in disbelief.

"Stop arguing now," Michonne intervened. "That's pointless. What's more important is how to proceed. How far along are you, Y/N?"

"I don't know," you said shyly. "Maybe by the tenth week?"

"We could ask Denise if abortion is still an option," Rick reasoned.

"And take the risk that Y/N won't survive it? Your Denise is not a surgeon," Negan objected. Carl remained silent.

"Y/N, what do you want? And Carl, what do you say?" Michonne looked from one to the other. "You both made this baby, after all."

"I... would it be possible for me to talk to Y/N alone?" asked Carl hesitantly. Your hands grew sweaty with stress.

Rick and Negan looked at each other. "Alright," Negan then conceded suspiciously. "But only where I can keep an eye on you guys."

The two of you went outside and stopped in front of each other not far from the kitchen window. "Ummm... so you're pregnant," Carl noted uneasily, nibbling his fingernails. So now was the time he would tell you that he felt nothing for you - nothing positive, anyway - that his heart belonged to Enid and he wanted nothing to do with the baby.

You tried not to cry as you said, "Yes. And before you start doubting it, yes, it's yours, Carl!" you added, hurt. "I have not been with anybody else but you."

He looked at you in amazement. "I know," he said, touching your cheek lightly. "I... I thought about you a lot when you were gone," he then explained, suddenly looking deep into your eyes. "Y/N, I know you don't feel the same way, but I missed you," he said softly.

"And... and Enid?" you asked in a squeaky voice.

Carl sighed. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said unhappily. "Enid's awesome, but... I simply can't forget you."

"Carl, I like you," you blurted out, starting to sob after all. "I like you a lot, in fact."

He smiled delightedly. Carefully, he took your hands. "Could you imagine being with me? That we'd have the baby together?" You nodded tearfully. "Then come on, we'll tell them."

"You guys want to do what?" exclaimed Rick.

"We want to be together," Carl confirmed. "In fact, we like each other. I'm going to break up with Enid, and I'm going to take care of my kid."

Michonne, Rick and Negan looked at each other, wordless and baffled. Negan was the first to regain his composure. "All right, you're both coming with me to the Sanctuary then," he decided.

"That's out of the question," Rick immediately objected.

"We don't even have a doctor," you said reproachfully to your father. "And I want to stay here with Carl." Negan shook his head stubbornly. "We're not coming with you," you said petulantly.

"Y/N needs medical attention," Michonne pointed out.

Negan pondered. "All right," he finally relented. "Actually, I don't want the future serial killer in Sanctuary either," he growled with a sideways glance at Carl, who was nervously fiddling with his flannel shirt. "He's just stirring everyone up. But for now, just until Y/N gives birth. Then we'll see." Carl and you fell into each other's arms relieved.

                                                           **

Later in Carl's room, you finally gave in to your desire for each other and embraced. Carl stared raptly at the tiny bulge of your belly. "It's hard to believe you're really pregnant by me," he said astounded, touching your belly.

"Did you fuck Enid?" you wanted to know. The thought of it hurted you.

"Let's not talk about Enid," Carl dodged the question and kissed you again. "I'll talk to her first thing tomorrow. I hope she understands."

And I hope it doesn't turn out that Enid is also expecting now, you thought darkly.

"Carl, if... if we have sex now like we always do, it could harm the baby," you remarked fearfully.

He gave you a naughty grin. "Also, even though we're both into hard sex, we can do it gently for a while," he suggested. You kissed and moved to the bed, where you slowly undressed and caressed each other. Carl looked at you lovingly. "I've missed you so much," he whispered, as he lay carefully on top of you.

You couldn't wait to feel him inside you. "I missed you too," you said, spreading your legs for him. „I want you so badly, Carl.“

"Yeah, I can tell," Carl teased you, "You're soaking my entire bed right now." He propped himself up on his elbows and tenderly penetrated you, looking deep into your eyes while slowly pounding in you.

You arched your back in delight as he eagerly thrusted into you. "Oh, Carl," you breathed into his ear. "It's so good." Carl looked down to see his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, all slick with your moisture and his precum. It was an incredibly arousing sight. He unfolded your labia with his index finger and changed his position slightly, so that his pelvis rubbed against your clit, driving you completely insane. "Carl," you whimpered, kissing his neck and ear. "Faster, please," you gasped, and Carl increased his pace until he was ramming his cock into you fiercely and you cried out as you cum and reared up under him, wrapping your legs around him.

Carl gave you two more orgasms so that you were just a quivering, begging mess, then he moaned loudly. "I'm cumming," he sighed, and his cum filled you warmly, there was so much that it immediately leaked out of you again, staining the already wet and sticky sheets.

You lay together relaxing and stroking each other. Carl's heart was beating a fast rhythm, and you remembered the day when you feared he was dead. "I was really afraid then that you were dead or turned," you said softly. "I couldn't have stand it."

"And I thought you really hated me and didn't reciprocrate my feelings," he admitted. "Yet I was already in love with you. I couldn't admit it, though." He smiled wryly.

"Carl?" you asked after a while, as you lay snuggled together, enjoying your intimacy and being so close to each other.

"Huh?" he replied sleepily.

"May I see your eye?"

He sat up, suddenly appearing to be tense. "Um... why?" he hesitated.

"Well, now that we live together and everything... you don't have to hide it from me anymore," you said softly. „It's certainly not good for the scar if you keep it bandaged at night, just because you're shy in front of me.“

With shaky fingers, Carl fiddled with the bandage, then dropped his hands again. "Y/N? Please, don't say anything spiteful about it," he pleaded. "Whether you really mean it or not, I don't care. Just don't do it." You had never before seen Carl so vulnerable. "I know it looks gross."

You hugged him tightly; you wanted him to feel safe with you. "Carl, it doesn't matter. I don't care what it looks like. It’s ok." He precariously took off the bandage without glancing at you. Well, it wasn't the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, but it was part of him, and you didn't mind. You would soon get used to the sight, and then it would just be normal. Not beautiful, not hideous, just normal.

"It... it looks nasty, doesn't it?" he asked anxiously.

"It does look bad ass," you said honestly. "But seriously, I don't give a fuck, and I don't think it's ugly. I love you, Carl.“ You pressed your smooth cheek against his right, maimed one.

He hugged you back with relief. "I love you too, Y/N." His lips touched yours.

___

Taglist:

@genshinsbiggestsimp

[a-big-chicken-nerd]

i always imagined the way the forbidden scroll works was it like put artificial ideas and thoughts of assurance and self-righteousness in ur noggin that were indistinguishable from ur own regular thoughts. like it doesnt Talk To You it Influences You from the inside out

anyway ice emperor doesnt know what his own scepter is he has noo idea it messes with ur head at all. imagine if it made him think of something upsetting to him and he didnt know those thoughts werent even his haha would that be messed up or what

A pack of hostile wolves had been reported to have grown defensive of their territory surrounding a lake, one that was an important staple to one of the fisher villages. Several villagers had been attacked and injured by the beasts.

“It is my advice to you that you should send a few of your ice samurai to deal with the creatures there before any more harm is done,” Vex stated conclusively. 

It had taken the Emperor’s advisor several minutes to reach the point, among a decently long list of other happenings and concerns from his kingdom. The Emperor hardly minded Vex’s detailed long-windedness, though. The words were something clear, concise, and trustworthy to the cluttered fogginess of his own mind. 

“Send them then,” the Emperor agreed.

“It will be done as you command,” Vex nodded, unrolling the scroll he was reading from a bit further and moving on to the next point.

Vex was an excellent advisor. He could always be trusted to be on top of things regarding the well being of the kingdom. He would stand to the right of the throne and come up with the most efficient solutions to any issues, and the Emperor wouldn’t have to doubt them for a moment. The Emperor should get rid of Vex.

…

What? That last thought caused the Emperor to pause. Where did such an idea come from? He needed Vex.

Disturbed by his own thoughts, the Emperor refocused on Vex, who was still talking; halfway through a discussion about taxes now. There was no issue regarding them, it was simply a report for this period.

Perhaps he needed Vex too much. When was the last time the Emperor had bothered to gather information on his own kingdom? Or command action without blindly following Vex’s judgment?

It was because Vex’s judgment was always solid and his intel always thorough and trustworthy, that’s what made him such a good advisor.

But was he really just an advisor if he was the one truly running the show?

The Emperor closed his eyes. Taxes, taxes. Vex was talking to him, he needed to pay attention. He could trust Vex’s words.

What if Vex was deceptive in his intentions, and really he was just using the Emperor for his power? He should be punished for his deceit.

That wasn’t true, though. He didn’t believe that, he didn’t want to do that. Vex was his trusted advisor and friend.

Was that actually true? Or was that just what was easiest to believe? The advisor could not be trusted. Be rid of him.

The Emperor gripped his scepter, tilting it away from Vex as if it would give in to the impulsive thoughts on its own and do something regrettable. The tighter he held it, the louder the thoughts seemed to grow.

Be rid of him. Be rid of him. Be rid of him.

“My Emperor?”

The Emperor blinked and realized Vex’s concerned eyes were watching him, scroll rolled up and forgotten. In the same moment he noticed liquid pooling on the edge of his mask, and beginning to run down the front. He wiped the stuff away and it stained his glove a darker shade. His tears were strange that way; water would freeze far before it could come anywhere near his palace. Whatever he cried wasn’t water.

He should just kill that liar now and take back your kingdom. He should, even if it would pain him to do so.

“What troubles you?” Vex spoke again, softly.

Freeze him freeze him freeze him

Clutching his scepter as close as he could and doing his best to shrink away deeper into his throne (as unbefitting of an action as it was for a royal), he closed his eyes tight and hid them behind his glove. He growled out a sigh that did nothing to release the tension in his chest.

“Leave me, Vex,” the Emperor finally commanded.

There was a pause.

“Are you sure? I may be of assistance with whatever disturbs you.”

And now he questions your word. He cannot be trusted. Destroy him.

“You heard me,” the Emperor snapped shortly.

Another long pause before Vex finally responded with a simple “as you command, my Lord.” The throneroom sound doors closing behind him as he left echoed around the now empty room.

[spelllingandthemysteryschool]

hi yaz 🍊 (<-for u) right now im going through that awkward friendless period of my life and have been for a while. i've been following you for a long time and wondered if you had any words of wisdom for those of us in the thick of it. thank you ❣️

(p.s - from what we see online you've seemed really well lately, and its genuinely very encouraging. thanks 4 spreading the joy)

hi! so sorry for letting this ask sit there for a bit... i wanted to make sure i could answer it thoughtfully! 🌟 i ended up writing more than i expected so i apologize if this comes across as a bit wordy.

first of all, thank you so much! it really means a lot to me to hear this... i am literally just Random Girl Online so i’m truly honored & i think you’re incredibly sweet to say so 😭💝

secondly, i’m sorry you’re feeling this way! it’s a miserable place to be emotionally & difficult to talk about... but i promise promise promise you will not feel this way forever. i was so lonely it hurt for a very long time, i guess if you’ve followed me for a while you probably remember. like it was PAINFUL how unpeopled my life was, and i was really embarrassed by it too because no one else seemed to be going through it quite so badly. but honestly, i think... most people actively are or once were lonelier than they are willing to admit, so it’s not an experience that’s awkward at all, and not something indicative of there being anything wrong with you specifically (which is all too easy a conclusion to come to), and it is definitely, DEFINITELY is not going to be this bad always. there are so many lovely people in this world who are just on the cusp of entering your life without your even realizing it yet... at one point last year i took a second to look around me & it suddenly occurred to me that things had gotten so much better for me in a way i genuinely never imagined during the worst of my loneliness, that completely unexpectedly i had come to know a good number of people i liked and cared about.

mostly all i can encourage you to do is to be around people in whatever way u can even if you don’t currently have a circle of friends to turn to. if your school or a local museum or a similar institution is holding some kind of lecture, attend it even if u don’t know anyone else who’s going! you might strike up a conversation with a stranger u unexpectedly get along with and make plans to get to know each other better, or you might just get to lightly chat with a lot of people who u never see again. both of these things are nice in different ways. if your workplace is holding a little potluck for someone’s birthday, go even if it’s just for the sake of having cake and cooing over photos of your coworker’s new puppy. text friends who live in the area who u haven’t seen in years, spend the afternoon at the park together & see if you want to make room in each other’s lives for these new versions of yourselves you’ve grown into. sign up for art classes where u can struggle through something you’re unfamiliar with alongside others who are struggling through it the same way & bond over this for a few hours each week. be the first person to text in a groupchat of people u only sort of know. tag along to study with someone from your class at the library & see if it becomes a regular thing with other people from the same class. maybe you won’t befriend all the people you go out of your way to interact with, but chances are you can and will befriend a few of them! and even if it doesn’t end up working out, a little camaraderie goes a long way in pulling a person out of the pits of despair.

if literally none of the above is an option for u in any way whatsoever right now, just try your best to keep going anyway. which sounds stupid probably, i’m sorry; i would have been CRAZY irritated if anyone told me this when i was so lonely i could hardly think about anything else. but i read a lot of poetry, i played a lot of video games, i watched a lot of movies, i spent so much time out of doors watching the birds and trees, i talked to my relatives more than ever before, i messaged some mutuals so often they turned into genuine online friendships that meant the world to me then and mean the world to me still. it hurt that i didn’t have people to share any of this with the way i wanted to but i still experienced a lot of really nice moments when i was alone & in some ways i feel more equipped to deal with loneliness after living through so much of it because i know now that i’m capable of enjoying things even in the throes of isolation. resilience isn’t sustainable and i sincerely hope you don’t need to be resilient about this for much longer, but your life is not on hold, and if u just keep going i believe you will still experience lots of meaningful and good things until your social life starts to pick up, at which point u will experience lots of other meaningful and good things!

also i guess i already mentioned this and definitely feel free to ignore this bit if it doesn’t apply to you, but be careful not to fall into the trap of thinking this is somehow your fault or because there is something inherently off-putting about you! this is absolutely not the case… not having enough or even any friends is just something that happens sometimes. it’s a much more common experience than it feels like & there is nothing wrong with you! believing this and giving in to the shame will cause you undue pain and isolate you further when people reach out or enter your life if you feel you aren’t deserving of friendship because whatever shape your insecurities happen to take. so just... try and be kind to yourself. this is something i struggled with a lot & that’s why i bring it up, but again, you can totally disregard it if it doesn’t align with your own experiences.

i guess that’s all for now! i don’t think i’m saying anything new, so i don’t know how helpful any of this was. i mostly just hope it wasn’t pedantic! i was trying to think of things that genuinely worked for me or things i would like to tell me of a couple years ago if i could speak to her somehow, and i ended up writing a lot because this is a topic that means a lot to me. basically i just mean to say u will be okay! with time and effort and a little bit of luck you will be okay & you will find yourself surrounded by the nicest friends and acquaintances who genuinely really like you and who you genuinely really like in return. loneliness is just something that comes and goes... sometimes it is a little harder and more painful to get through than other times but it never lasts forever. i hope you take care of yourself & i hope it all starts to work out really well, really soon ❣️ love u

[zaiinab]

.

[haztory]

hello hello ! first, congratulations on 300 !! and if you are still taking requests, may i request the angst dialouge “Can you look at me? Please?” with nanami ? thank you & keep up the wonderful work !! :)

“Can you look at me? Please?” from my writing event! (come request something)

warnings: angst, only angst

nanami kento x gn reader

“Tilt your head upwards,” Two fingers prod against your chin, gentle yet firm pressure lifting your face and pressing a wet cloth onto the surface of your cheekbone.

It stings, worse than any regular cut that splits the skin. The wound having been laced and imbued with a cursed poison, the kind that simultaneously numbs and burns the surrounding area. Given only when you were taken off guard, caught too hastily in your preoccupation with the man currently standing in front of you instead of the fight at hand.

A foolish mistake on your part— one you understand the gravity of quite thoroughly, even without the disapproving stares and the extended periods of silence that weigh heavily onto you, imparted by the stoic man and impromptu healer.

Nanami halts his movement, his hand hovering over the injury, and his dark eyes— laced entirely too much with dismay— flicker quickly towards yours, of which you pointedly avoid. 

He waits, silent in his plaguing stare that truthfully discomforts you more than the injury itself; He waits for your sighs of pain to subside, waits for you to meet his gaze. Waits for you to understand that behind the neutrality of his stature and the calmness of his demeanor as he led you back from the mission and into the sanctity of his office at the school, lies a brewing lecture of turmoil and overwhelming disappointment.

You didn’t have to look at him to know that, though.

“Are you alright?” He asks after a minute of heavy silence fills the space of the room. He towers over your seated body, feeling miles away in superiority and physicality despite being right in front of you, his hands touching your face and your knee placed between his open legs. He couldn’t be any closer, not with the rich musk of his cologne swirling around you and the heat of him transferring itself onto you.

And yet, you couldn’t feel further from him. 

“Yeah,” keeping your eyes downturned, you mutter lowly, “‘m fine.”

His hand lowers and with it he drops the rag onto the surface of the table. He sighs, the weight of his stress and the exhaustion from the mission exhaling into the air, settling heavily on top of the already apparent displeasure with the situation. 

With you.

You can only push your head down farther and slink away from the expanse of his body in some feeble effort to minimize the extent of your burden on him, even if you may have had good intentions upon doing so.

If only you hadn’t gotten distracted; If only you remembered that out of the two of you, he was the more qualified sorcerer. There was no need to be so concerned for the likes of his safety, especially not when your own was so intensely threatened in that moment. If only you hadn’t turned your head, yelled his name, pleaded for him to move— 

“(Y/N),” Nanami says, voice soft and silky yet still. Foundational. A pillar that pushes itself into the whirlwind of your thoughts and refuses to budge, forcing you to acknowledge it. To acknowledge him and the depth of the irreparable impression you’ve made on him.

You can hear his words before he even says it, forced to sit with the impeding knowledge of the fate of this conversation and take the daggers of despair that will no doubt pierce every part of your fragile heart as he points out the obvious mistake you made. Droles on about how imperative it is to keep business and feelings separate.

Reminds you of the vow he made upon becoming a sorcerer.

Why couldn’t you have just— 

“Can you look at me?” 

You can’t. 

You can’t have him see that as much as he may be disappointed in you, you are even more so disappointed in yourself. Understanding full and well what your mistake means, even if it is something as simple as a cut on the cheek. You can’t have him see and confirm the large crack that has been made in the solid wall of duty to your occupation that can no longer be reversed. 

If you look at him, if you so much as make eye contact with him, he will know the weakness that you possess, the disadvantage you carry with you into every mission. The sharp Achilles heel that has made itself abundantly clear before the two of you and every cursed spirit that saw you stumble. 

Nanami Kento, in whatever fashion he may exist, has the entirety of your attention in the palm of his hand and the cool swing of his arm. And try as you might devote your focus to any matter at hand, you can never successfully win the battle in keeping him out of your thoughts. 

Nanami Kento is the root of your mistake and the inevitable reason behind your downfall. You’ve known it for far too long, and now, he does too. A prophecy in the making, a tragic tale playing its beginning notes before you that’s too sweet for you to try and end.

But he will. 

He will know of the taint in your commitment to this life, the compromise of your duty and the manner in which he plays an active part in it, and he will remove it in the name of safety. 

Dread fills your stomach.

“Please?” He tries again, quieter this time. 

Soft yet firm, comforting, and wrapped in the linen of silk. Lined with the scent of his musk and coated entirely in a sweet, dripping concoction that refreshed you with one word alone. The sweetest of tones that have your heart accelerating with the single word alone.

You want more, you need more for as long as you can have it. That is your prophecy, the destiny written in the fate of your stars and consolidated by the sharpness of his cheekbones and the gentleness of his touch.

He is error in your duty that you can no longer see as a mistake. You’re not sure you ever saw it as a mistake.

You look up at him, throbbing pain in your cheek no longer felt, instead replaced with the sorrows of his eyes and the slow push of the dagger in your heart. Propelled by him, his hand wrapped around the ornate handle, with your own settled on top of it, guiding its entry, because you have done this to yourself.

You fell in love with someone who could not be loved, who did not want to be loved.

And worst of all, you laid it bare before him when you prioritized his safety over your own. You bear the physical mark of your profession that swirls with draining poison that he gentle tries to patch up. A wound that he tries to heal and leave with no trace of himself in its wake.

His mouth remains closed as you finally meet his gaze, but his eyes tell you everything you need to know.

There’s the furrow in his brow and pity in his stare as he whispers, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

The malice you expected is absent, replaced with a saddened realization of the truth that you both tried so hard to avoid. You find that you would’ve much preferred a furious lecture than whatever this is.

This pathetic rejection on the basis of violated principles and foolish duty; A halting of something that hadn’t even had the chance to begin.

You should feel something, something deep and burning in you pointed desperately at him, for depriving you of the chance of a truthful embrace. But you can only hum, a wry one that punches him in the gut, even when you try to keep it void from all emotion.

“I know.”

He tries to find some consolation in the fact that you at least know that your feelings were meant to die here. He should feel less guilty in the admittance that you never bought into the enticing fantasy of living a domestic life with him, a romantic and fulfilling one in which things could end happily and your jobs weren’t the brutal forces of despair.

He should feel some relief in knowing that you knew as much as him that it was better to leave things unsaid, than to act on them, for then, he could keep you close without having to acknowledge the blurring boundaries.

It doesn’t though. Only leaves him with an aching hollow in his chest and a pain reverberating along his spine.

If only you didn’t know that this love was a tragedy in the making, then maybe he could’ve given you a reason to hate him. He could’ve broken your heart brutally, right here and now, and sleep peacefully at night knowing that you truly believed him to be an insignificant monster that ruined a chance of happiness.

Maybe you could’ve believed him to be an end of a route that would lead to a better future, one that you unabashedly deserved.

But you do know. You’ve carried the truth of that burden alongside him, and you admit it. That’s the worst part.

Nanami sighs again in some effort to exhale the heavy weight that lumps in his throat. It’s futile. His eyes drift, if only to break themselves from your own sorrowful gaze, but much like you, he finds himself inevitably being drawn back—unable to stray from the entrancing state of your eyes.

Unable to stop himself from gazing at the long-awaited happiness he finally found in your irises. The one he longed for.

His hand cups around the back of your neck, bringing your foreheads together and noses bumping gently into one another. The closest he can let you be to him, without breaking his dutiful promise.

He breathes you in shamelessly, memorizes the feel of your skin against his, closes his eyes and imagines that for just a moment, he could have you without restraint in this space. You do the same, soaking in the forbidden lifetime of forever in this brief second. You wish, that in all his empathy and compassion for those around him—that in his exorbitant effort to minimize the extent of the damage his eventual death will amass—he will give you just a minute more; Just a second more to keep him close.

Reality is never that kind.

He pulls away, stray strands of blonde falling in front of his forehead that he hardly minds as he picks the rag up once more and places it in your hand.

“Keep this on the wound. I’ll go find the first-aid.”

He turns, quick in his motion and set in his path as he makes his way to the door. Leaving you and the air of lost infinite possibilities behind. He opens it, and just as he is about to step out, he pauses.

“After tonight I will put in my request for reassignment. I’ll make sure they pair you with someone capable. And from now on, it would be best to distance ourselves. We should avoid making a mistake of this kind again.”

And then he leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him, no room for argument in the bluntness of his words. No room for interpretation. Not even a brief hesitation as he confirmed that his vow of loneliness would trump any attempt of momentary happiness he could have found with you.

A statement, strict and concise, affirming what you already knew. You could love Nanami Kento all you wanted, and you could hope and plead desperately that he would love you too, but in the end, all that would be left was the fruits of your mistake.

No.

Not a mistake.

Only a love that was lost before it could even be found.

a/n: apparently the only thing I know how to write for nanami is angst. hope you enjoyed this one anon!!! feel free to request more!! and thank you for the congrats!!

[syssyadmin]

realizing slowly that my inability to take care of myself is not for lack of time like. every time i break from work for an extended period or only work part-time or whatever i still have an abundance of time to myself yet i don't take care of myself. big component is the lack of energy that i face whether or not i work and the lack of access i have to any sort of help. like. i've spent the past 10 or so years trying to figure out how i can be a very hard worker and yet still can't do the things i enjoy or get off the computer or take care of myself. and the conclusion i'm slowly approaching is that, well, most of my peers in these situations have also been hard workers and all, but they also haven't been experiencing constant non-stop pain performing regular activities, they don't spend every day feeling completely exhausted, and if given the opportunity to sleep without alarms or responsibilities, their bodies actually do wake them up after a good night's rest instead of letting them sleep 12+ hours straight.

idk. slowly coming to terms with it all, and it's not really stressful bc none of this recognition changes the material conditions of my life but. i think i might be waaay more ""disabled"" than i give myself any credit for. like "i work a stressful manual labor job, i couldn't possibly be disabled because that's the social requirement you must be able to fulfill to be considered able!" and yet my life is perpetually in fucking shambles around me. i have no ability to plan for more than a week of my life at a time because of how unpredictable my energy levels will be, i can hardly even make doctor's appts let alone try to make arrangements to attend the wedding i'm supposed to be at this summer. and like. the rest of my family is not struggling with that. most of my peers are not struggling with that. i need help and i need to learn to accept it and seek it and i might just need to admit that i can't handle any of this shit on my own..

[taetaespeaches]

“You’re always going to be enough, Kid.”

yoongi x reader (or oc) genre: fluff; angst word count: 2.2K

a/n: omg this is the last of this angsty period for Min/Kid!! We have officially made it! This is hardly angst, it just has Kid expressing some of her insecurities and it’s definitely mostly fluff. This takes place the morning after, “I didn’t think you’d care if I came back.” Our babies are on their way to a happy, healthy relationship! Yay! Thanks for sticking with me through the sad shit, hopefully this officially makes up for it all lol. I hope you all enjoy and thank for reading! :)) 

p.s. the angsty bit of this is roughly based on “peace” off of Taylor Swift’s album, folkore. 

CUDDLING closer to the warm body next to you, you hummed contently as you felt a small kiss on the top of your head.

“Morning, Kid,” Yoongi’s low, sleep-filled voice gently spoke, you smiling against his bare chest. In place of a response, you placed a kiss to his warm skin, before peppering them across his chest, his light laughter rumbling against your frame as you did so. “Gross, affection,” he teased.

“Shush,” you mumbled against his skin, “you love it.”

He hummed, wrapping his arms around your body, hugging you tightly against him. “It feels early.”

“There’s no sun,” you commented, peaking past the man’s form to inspect the window, the sky still darkened as the sun was just preparing to emerge.

“Why are we awake?” He asked you, confusion drenching the question making you giggle.

Arching your back so you could look up at his face, Yoongi tucked his chin into his neck to peer down at you. “You’re cute,” you pouted up at him, endeared by his sleepy swollen eyes.

A small smile graced his face just before he scrunched his nose cutely, a sign of his negation. “Want to watch the sunrise with me?” Your eyes widened at the question. You hadn’t spent many mornings with the man yet, but you knew watching the sunrise was not one of his regular hobbies.

Sitting up on your elbows, you stared at him for a moment, studying him. “What?” He asked, a faint smile on his lips.

“Just trying to figure out who you are and how you got into the body of my Honey Boy,” you teased, your gaze traveling his features. A gummy smile beamed at you as he reached up, tousling your hair a bit.

“I’m just full of surprises,” he told you, meeting your eyes.

You held each other’s gazes for a moment before yours traveled to his lips. Suddenly, Yoongi lifted himself off the mattress, supporting himself on his elbows and forearms, craning his neck to push his lips to yours. The kiss was sweet, Yoongi pulling away to rest his forehead to yours.

“I need coffee,” you smiled, Yoongi chuckling in response.

Kissing you once more he nodded. “I’m on it.”

Yoongi lazily crawled out of bed, you smiling in amusement as you watched him waddle around the room, finding his clothing.

“Forget the sunrise, I prefer this view,” you teased as you sat up on the bed, Yoongi stalling to shoot you a glare. “What?”

“Stop it,” he warned you, an adorable smile on his face as he avoided your gaze, grabbing his underwear off the floor.

“Not my fault you’re sexy,” you flirted, Yoongi laughing at the comment as he put the bottoms on.

“Yeah, yeah, Kid,” he mumbled, walking toward you, scooping his shirt up along the way. Leaning down, he placed a kiss to your forehead. “Remind me to move those fucking condoms to the drawer,” he mumbled against your forehead, you laughing loudly at the comment as your hands settled on his hips.  

“No,” you whined playfully, Yoongi smiling as he kissed your lips once. “Watching you walk across the room butt ass naked at the very last minute is my favorite part.”

“That’s your favorite part?” He asked you in offense, pulling away just slightly to look at you with an expression of disbelief.

You smiled widely, laughing as he shook his head, his gummy grin breaking through. Reaching up, you poked one of his cheeks and he grabbed your hand in his, bringing it to his lips. A shiver suddenly shook Yoongi’s frame, you shooting him a wide-eyed look. “It’s cold outside the bed,” he told you, giving a fake shiver to further his point.

“You’re the one who left the bed,” you told him sassily, Yoongi scoffing in response.

“Where the hell are my pants?” He looked around making you giggle. He spotted them at the bottom of the bed on the floor and went toward them, snatching them up.

“Don’t put on jeans,” you protested, Yoongi looking at you with wide eyes.

“They’re all I have.”

You let out a sigh wrapping yourself up tighter in your comforter. “You need to start bringing an overnight bag.”

“Oh fuck, I actually have one in my car.”

Giving him a look of confusion, you asked, “wait, why?”

“I was on my way back to the studio,” he told you, your expression staying the same, making Yoongi let out a small amused chuckle.

“You’ve been staying at the studio?”

“I didn’t really feel like being around anyone,” he told you more seriously, you nodding.

“No, yeah, I get that,” you gave him a small smile. You stared at one another for a moment before you smiled a little wider. Put your pants on so you can go get your sweats,” you teased, Yoongi chuckling as he stepped into his jeans.

“Yes, ma’am,” he sassed on his way out the door.

“And make my coffee!” You shouted after him with a smile. You could have been mistaken, but you swore you heard a scoff in response. You smiled to yourself as Yoongi shifted around your kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on.

Looking around the room, listening to him shuffle outside your bedroom, you sighed in contentment, the space feeling warmer and more peaceful knowing he was there, and that he’d keep coming back. You didn’t even flinch when you heard the front door open and close, alerting you of his momentary absence as he went to retrieve his overnight bag. Instead, you took it as your cue to crawl out of bed yourself and get some clothes on.

Singing to yourself as you put some underwear and sweatpants on, you didn’t hear Yoongi re-enter the apartment until he was walking back into your room, complaining about the weather.

“It’s still so cold in the mornings,” he whined through a pout, dropping his duffle on your bed. “It’s April, isn’t it supposed to start warming up?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, Grampa Min,” you teased, turning to face him with your upper half still bare, which Yoongi did not miss as his eyes lingered on your body for a moment.

Walking over to you he attempted to bite back a grin as he shook his head. “You’re never gonna let me live, are you?” You shook your head with a proud smile, Yoongi chuckling just before he began taking his shirt off.

“Oh?” You said in surprise. “We’ll miss the sunrise.”

Pulling the shirt over his head, he revealed a wide gummy grin as his shoulders shook in laughter. “Here,” he told you, holding the bottom of the shirt open, nodding to it.

“Oh,” you said, in realization this time, understanding he was wanting you to wear his shirt. “Oh, you really are cute,” you grinned, allowing him to put the shirt over your arms and head.

“Yeah, yeah, a honey boy,” he said for you, you smiling widely.

“You are,” you cooed, pressing your lips to his as you pulled the shirt down your abdomen. “Thanks, baby,” you whispered against his mouth before walking past him. “Hurry up and get dressed, we’ll miss the sunrise.”

Making your way to your kitchen, you went straight for the coffee mugs, feeling very appreciative for your personal coffee maker that was currently dressing in your room. Filling your own mug, you poured another for Yoongi before taking a sip of your own.

As you waited for him to meet you in the kitchen, you started thinking about Yoongi staying in the studio. It was something you would have done. Isolating yourself, almost as if you deserved the pain of loneliness and the hurt that came with the fight. Shielding yourself from the world, and the one person you wanted most, as you sorted through your thoughts. It wasn’t really any different to what you had been doing in your apartment for the past few days.

The tulips, sitting in a water pitcher on the kitchen counter, caught the corner of your eye, and you focused in on them. They were soft colors, pink and white, and it reminded you of the blush of Yoongi’s cheeks when you’d stare at him and make him feel nervous.

You heard Yoongi’s sock covered feet scoot across the floor toward you, but you continued staring at the flowers. Yoongi came to stand next to you, pressing his lips to your temple gently, the touch comforting, and you leaned into his frame.

“I love the bouquet,” you told him, your gaze lingering on the flowers for a moment longer before breaking your focus and taking another drink of your coffee, looking toward the sliding glass door that led to your deck area.

“Yeah?” He mumbled against your skin before his hands came to take your mug of coffee from you, you letting him easily as you watched him hold it in his large grasp.

“Yeah,” you watched as he brought the mug to his lips. “Even if I pretend in the moment I don’t care for them, I love flowers.”

“Noted,” he grinned and then took a drink.

“I poured you a cup,” you told him, gesturing to the mug next to him.

“Yeah, I saw,” he grinned again, you giggling lightly. He breathed out slowly as you reached for the other mug of coffee, claiming it as your own. You continued looking outside as Yoongi watched you. “What’s on your mind, Kid?”

You sighed, tapping your finger on the ceramic in your hands. “Can we have a bit of a serious talk real quick?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi nodded, you looking up to meet his thoughtful gaze.

“I’m gonna fuck up, Yoongi,” you told him, your insecurities coming to the surface, disrupting the easy-going morning. His eyes were on you intently as he awaited your next words. “You told me that you go through a lot mentally, but I do too, and I just feel like I have to warn you that I have my own burdens and they do get heavy sometimes,” you breathed out, pausing for a moment to inspect his features, searching for signs of panic. There were none. "I'll lock myself away as I sort through my mind, I'm going to get mean in fights, I'll to try to push you away.” His eyes were still gentle as he looked at you.

“I know all this, Kid.” Your eyes widened at the comment, surprised by the words. He let out a tiny chuckle. “I mean, I don’t know how you act when you’re stuck in your head and your insecurities, and I’m yet to see you actually be mean in a fight,” he gave you a small smile, your lips quirking up as well. “But I know.” You stared at him and he sighed. “I always prepare two masks, hiding my true self behind the defensive image, I thoroughly hide myself,” he recited, your eyes widening at the lyrics of his song ‘140503 at Dawn’. “Out of all my lyrics, I was surprised at first to find out those were the ones that stuck out to you.”

You recalled the moment in the café on your second (impromptu) date when you showed him you had scribbled those lyrics down in your journal upon your first listen of Agust D.

“Jesus,” you giggled in embarrassment, looking down to your feet. “You must have thought I was such a freak.”

“No, no,” he smiled, “not at all.” Dipping his head to catch your gaze, you looked up to meet his eyes. “I thought you were interesting, and that maybe we would relate on a lot more than what we were seeing on the surface. I think there’s a reason everything feels so comfortable between us.”

“This shit lives in me though, Yoongi. And I know you get that feeling, but I just need you to truly understand that the baggage comes with me,” you warned him.

“I know,” he nodded sincerely.

“I can be your friend, and lover, and I can fight beside you and remind you of who you are underneath the mask, and I can give you silence, and-” you trailed off, tears gathering in your eyes. “I can’t promise you peace,” you said, your voice breaking.

“That’s more than enough,” he assured you. “And if you fuck up, you’ll still be enough.”

You gave a slight smile at the comment before turning serious again. “Are you sure?”

“Be my girlfriend,” he suddenly told you.

“What?” You asked in surprise, your eyes widening at the… request?

“Will you?” He adjusted, giving you a small shy smile.

Looking at him in that moment, him staring at you, you both knew you already belonged with each other. A label wasn’t necessary, but the sentiment was there. And of course you wanted to be his girlfriend. “Obviously,” you smiled widely, a laugh slipping between your lips at the small blush on his cheeks. “Oh my god, this makes you my honey boy-friend,” you cooed. “Swoon.”

His shoulders shook in laughter as he leaned forward, catching your lips in a kiss. You kissed him back, holding your mug in one hand so you could place your other hand on his plush and pink-tinted cheek.

“Swoon,” he giggled against your lips, you laughing with him. Pecking your lips once more, he leaned his forehead against yours. “You’re always going to be enough, Kid. Don’t worry about that.”

Smiling, you kissed him gently once more. “You too, Min.”

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 10: crying

slightly more straightforward h/c this time!

summary: set after the ric grayson/joker war arc in nightwing. 

dick’s been missing for two months. jason finds him first, but it’s just the first step in finding how very, very lost dick really is.

warnings: SPOILERS for the aforementioned nightwing arcs. plentiful cursing. moderately graphic descriptions of injuries.

crying

The last time Jason received a family-wide SOS to help them rescue Dick, the guy was a twice-brainwashed mess whose brain was being pulled in opposite directions by the Court of Owls and the fucking Joker, and that was after said brain had been shattered by a fucking sniper’s bullet. (And a period of being left to fend for himself with a broken brain in between, but Jason doesn’t really like to think about that.) This time, he doesn’t know quite what to expect. He can’t imagine things have gotten even worse than the last go-around, but then again, Jason knows from personal experience that there’s no end to the list of ‘things that are worse than dying’.

Besides, the alert came from Babs. And, in quick succession, Tim, Bruce, Duke, and Cass. If nothing else, Jason is curious.

Dick disappeared from Bludhaven about two months ago. The reason the oh-so-precise Bats have the word ‘about’ in that statement is because nobody can really pinpoint the exact date it happened. Donna can recall dropping by his place ten weeks ago. Tim maybe exchanged a few emails or text messages a few weeks ago but didn’t really get alarmed about Dick not responding to his messages until the radio silence stretched for over a month. Bruce had his trackers on (that bastard) but Dick hates them and is known to destroy the ones he finds. And they can’t even really depend on reports of Nightwing sightings in the city because having his brain knocked around and pulled apart like taffy means Dick takes regular holidays from patrols if he’s not feeling particularly steady that day. (Look what being sensible and having a smidgeon of a sense of self-preservation got him.) And the CCTV in his apartment complex was shit, so. 

It’s almost like it was a planned thing, like he was kidnapped, but honestly it’s how things go and how they’ve gone for a very long time: they drift in their own worlds for long periods until an event brings them together, and then it’s back to being scattered across the country again (or sometimes the world, or sometimes the galaxy). Dick is more prone to this than most; he’s probably gone undercover more than any of them, and he’s lived the longest on his own as well. 

Even after the clusterfuck that was the last year and change, it’s nothing new. And if that isn’t the most fucking depressing thing that Jason’s had to think about today, it turns out that not only have the Family figured out where Dick is, but that Jason is the one that’s closest to his location. 

So here he is, shivering, on a particularly icy night on the Gotham docks, scoping out the warehouse where Dick’s supposed to be. It’s not very well-guarded, which either means there’s nothing in there and this is a massive waste of his time, or that it’s a trap and what’s waiting on the other side is a fucking bomb or something even worse. It’s not a great situation to be in either way, and Jason’s got half a mind to have Tim or even Bruce take over--but it’d take too long for them to get there and Jason’s never been fond of the idea of handing over to someone else anything that he could potentially do by himself.

Besides, like he said, he’s curious.

He crouches down at his vantage point overlooking the warehouse and presses the communicator in his ear. “Two guards in front but nothing else; the place is practically abandoned. Infrared picking up three people inside.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another, bracing, ready to spring. “I’m about to go in.”

Tim grunts. “I’ll be there in fifteen, give or take a couple.”

“Twenty,” Bruce says. Then: “Hood, you--” An uncharacteristic pause, and Jason can feel the sudden, uneasy chill across the entire comm channel. Bruce clears his throat. “Be careful. Assess the situation first. Don’t engage alone unless it’s an emergency.”

There’s a thanks for stating the obvious on the tip of Jason’s tongue, but something about the gravity of the situation, the mildest quaver in Bruce’s voice (he’s been missing for two months, god, two months) has him say, instead: “Roger that.”

Jason makes quick work of the guards in the front, leaving them in unconscious heaps on the ground before he creeps in. They’d hardly put up a fight, which just makes Jason’s stomach twist in anxious knots. The anxiety is made worse by the complete lack of resistance when he’s actually inside: there are only two huge, cavernous rooms, and one of them has two of the three people that he’d detected. They scatter as soon as they see him and Jason considers chasing, but now his nerves are stretched so taut that he thinks he’s going to vomit if he doesn’t see Dick now--

The night-vision on Jason’s helmet catches a figure sitting, slumped, in the corner of the room. A chain connects a manacle around its ankle to the wall, and another between the same wall and… a collar around its neck. Jason’s blood is already boiling before he steps closer and recognises the figure as Dick. His hair is long and shabby, having grown past his chin, curtaining his face. He’s shirtless but wearing ripped, stained jeans. His hands are cuffed in front of him, the thin metal biting into his wrists enough to leave his hands puffy and slightly purple from the lack of effective circulation. He looks considerably thinner--Jason can just about count the ribs under his skin--and every visible part of his torso is painted in bruises in various stages of healing. And--

--and he’s breathing.

Well, thank fuck. That’s a start.

Jason crouches in front of Dick and presses his comm again. “Found N. Little worse for wear, but alive and safe.”

He ignores the immediate clamour of questions from the others to focus on trying to get Dick awake. He brushes Dick’s hair aside and gently lifts his chin to have a look at his eyes. 

Dick smiles at him. “Hey.”

Jason is beset by an onslaught of emotion that’s part relief, part incredulity and part anger, so much so that he thinks he’s going to fucking burst with the pressure of it. Of course that would be the first thing out of Dick’s mouth--hey--like he’s meeting Jason for cocktails after work instead of being rescued after two months of captivity and torture! Well he can take that hey and shove it right up his fucking--

“Is there anything else here we need to worry about,” Jason says, busying himself with picking the locks on Dick’s manacles so that he doesn’t snap and say something he’ll regret.

Dick shakes his head. He’s got a shaggy beard going and he stinks of sweat and urine and filth, but there’s a sense of… togetherness to him, like he’d always known that Jason was going to show up at this exact minute and that had always been part of his plan. “They scattered as soon as they got word that you guys were coming,” he says, voice thin and raspy. “I guess not enough of them were curious to stick around to find out why so many capes would be coming for me.”

Jason pops the manacles and collar loose and goes to work on the cuffs. “So you weren’t taken as Nightwing.”

Dick sighs, then winces as the motion pulls on the gigantic bruise around his neck. “I wasn’t taken as Dick Grayson, either.”

The cuffs come off with a click. Jason stares at him. “So… what, you were just some poor mug they picked up off the streets to… torture for shits and giggles?”

Dick is silent for a moment. His eyes flick to a point behind Jason and back again. “They knew me as Ric.”

It takes a moment for the name to click in Jason’s brain, but he finally remembers that it was what Dick called himself during his brain-injured year in Bludhaven. “Why would Ric have enemies?” he says, without thinking.

There’s that smile on Dick’s face again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ric did have a life, Jason. And friends. And… enemies.” He begins to move, bare feet shifting against the floor and shifting his weight onto his hands as if he’s trying to figure out a way to stand up, but barely manages an inch of elevation before he runs out of energy, breathing heavily. “Ric--I used to fight. Street fights. Involved a lot more money and people than I remembered, and… apparently a lot of people felt betrayed when I just up and left the city one day. I’ve been fighting matches here almost every day.” A sudden, sharp grin. “I haven’t lost yet.”

Jason--stops. Utterly freezes, hands midway to helping Dick sit upright, because there’s something terribly, terribly wrong here. “Why didn’t you ever try to escape? And how--I mean, in the first place--”

How did you even get caught?

To Jason’s horror, tears start rolling down Dick’s face. His expression doesn’t really change, so Jason’s not sure that Dick’s even aware that he’s crying, but right now Jason is already halfway to being mortified. “I was on my way back from the gym,” Dick says finally, “and I think I--I blacked out. It happens sometimes.” Dick gives a wet laugh. “Talk about bad timing.”

“And--and what, you blacked out for two months?”

At this Dick’s face crumples, and suddenly Jason gets it: this is a man pushed and pushed to the end of his rope and beyond, utterly exhausted, past the point of caring who knows about it or why. “I guess…” Dick swallows. “I didn’t really see the difference. Between--between here and out there.”

Jason wants to scream, shake his shoulders--a shameful part of him even wants to hit Dick--and tell him that of course it was different outside of this stupid, dank warehouse: he has friends and family and a lifetime of experience to support him while he flies free. It’s ridiculous to even compare the two, and Jason is ready to put these words down to the effects of too much pain and too little food.

Except--

(plucked you right out of one life and stuffed you into another, didn’t they? treated you like a puppet without a past and a future, didn’t they? didn’t let you entertain the idea of a different life even for a minute, did they? punished you for straying, reminded you there was just too much at stake, and that those stakes were always, always bigger than you or your health or your happiness or your future--)

“Dick, I--” Jason really doesn’t know what to say. Tim says, “ETA five” in his ear while Bruce says, “Right behind you, Robin” and Jason knows, just knows, that this isn’t how they would want to see Dick, and more importantly, this isn’t how Dick would want them to see him.

He gathers Dick in his arms and presses him to his chest. Dick freezes for a second, surprised, then melts into his embrace. His shoulders shake, hands coming up to weakly grasp at Jason’s jacket. The sobs reach a crescendo quickly, a pathetic keening muffled into Jason’s chest, before tapering away and Dick is still, just… breathing. 

Jason breathes with him.

That’s how Tim and Bruce find them a couple of minutes later. Dick peels away and somehow musters the energy to reassure them. Bruce helps him up and carries him to the car while Jason follows; just as Dick’s lowered into the backseat his hand shoots out, grasping Jason’s arm in a silent plea. 

Jason gets in with him. Neither he nor Bruce say anything through the whole drive at the tears that continue to pour down Dick’s face, but Jason doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole ride.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “I Have Seen.”

Wrote something easy and more similar to my original stories today. I hope you like it. 

I have been thinking about taking a couple days off from writing these stories, since I have been working non stop on this and the book for over a year now, so I am considering taking a break for about a week so I don’t burn out. I haven’t decided yet, so we shall see, but I hope you all have a great day.

I have a job no one knows about.

I don’t think anyone would be surprised if they heard about my job. I don’t even think they would care all that much.

None of this explains why my work station is in the basement of a nondescript government bunker on a death planet…. A!36. I can’t explain why I need three codes to get into my office, or why I go through five locked doors, or why I am not allowed to tell anyone what I do on pain of termination and imprisonment. 

You would assume, perhaps that I am a spy, and involved in some covert cloak and dagger espionage against other species and nations: you would be wrong.

You might assume I am a weapons developer, but you would also be wrong.

Perhaps you think I spend my time wire-tapping on important calls between species and recording important information.

None of this is really the case.

In fact, what I do is quite safe and relatively simple, plenty of other non-humans are doing it of their own accord and plenty more humans do it on a regular basis. What I do is not illegal, it is not espionage, it wouldn’t even phase you.

If that is the case.

Why do so many of my coworkers go missing?

Why are there absent desks every few months?

Why can I not make any lasting friends?

Management always give excuses to those of us who are left.

They left for mental health reasons.

THey moved on to a different job.

They are moving up in the company.

They had to be let go.

All things generic and all things that wouldn’t generally raise suspicion… unless they happen so frequently as us.

You may be wondering at this point, what it is I do for a job.

Perhaps, you think, it is very boring and unfulfilling that I would go insane from sheer boredom.

No, I actually find my job quite interesting.

Perhaps you think my job forces me to watch very disturbing and violent things…. And I suppose that could be close to the truth, though no one forces us to watch the videos if we don’t want, and no one makes us read the material if we cannot handle it. In fact, there are those of us who specialize in that sort of thing.

I do.

I am a specialist in historical xenopsychology.

I study human history.

When I say that I study human history, I do not mean as in a passing fancy. I do not simply read their school children’s textbooks and accept everything I see as truth, no, every day , I come into work and it is my job, to learn about everything that has ever happened in human history, to the best of my ability.

It is my job to know the good, the bad, the ugly, and the monstrous.

I work from day to night, cataloguing and filling my brain with all the information I can before recording it as a lecture on aura drives, which are then stored away for future use in a deep backup system under the surface of this planet.

I have followed human history since the beginning of time.

And I have marveled at it.

Much of my research is flawed, I know. Human history has always been biased, history being shaped and molded by the winners of conflict. Much of what else I know stems primarily from scholarly work humans have done on their own species, looking back the centuries and making assumptions about what they were doing.

While this is a good insite -- humans trying to explain the behavior of other humans-- it isn’t necessarily correct.

For this reason, it is my job to study every piece of information that comes across my desk.

Due to a government agreement between the galactic assembly and the United Nations of Earth, I was given access to the rebuilt library of Alexandria and all of its electronic files which include photos and information on the original documents that they keep in sealed vaults below the library.

I have read every account of human history, and every second hand interpretation of human history that I could possibly find in my time working here.

I have read Darwin and his early theory regarding evolution. I have examined his evidence, which include images and diagrams of the human body spanning centuries. My determinations were made just the same as the rest of them. Humanity was a tree-living species that found its evolutionary niche through walking and the use of opposable thumbs.

This ability to walk, in tandem with the use of hands eventually gave rise to the slow swelling of the brain in comparison to other animals. Human evolved primitive tools, and even more primitive religions, societies and rules.

They developed art early on, painting on the walls of their caves, in the darkness of night surrounded by their fires.

I have read about their befriending of animals in that same darkness. Man’s slow molding of the wolf into the dog - a species designed specifically for the needs of man.

I have attempted to read every account of every atrocity ever inflicted on humanity.

I have read of wars, and battles, Marathon, Thermopylae, Kadesh, D-day, Vietnam, Korea, Russo-Japanese, World wars I, II, III,  and IV and the Panasian War. 

I have witnessed in images and first hand accounts the chilling discoveries of natural disasters gone back thousands of years. Pompeii, Mt. St Helens, Katrina, Tsunamis, earthquakes, the fire of london, 1887 yellow river flood, the 3130 California earthquake, and Haiti earthquakes. 

And I have studied and witnessed every atrocity man has ever committed on its own people. The Mongol hordes, the crusades, Mayan and Aztec sacrifices, The Armenian genocide, the Holocaust, mustard gas, 9/11, slavery in the America, the Trail of Tears, The Bataan Death March, the Berlin wall, Civil war, the French revolution, Nanjing, Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

I tore a hole in humanity and looked inside to see your rot. 

I study the maggots that crawl under your skin.

Don’t confuse me with someone who fears you, or is even disgusted by you. You have committed thousands of horrors, yes this is true. But humanity is not a polished gem, it is an uncut stone marred by dirt and debris, but beautiful in a way that can hardly be explained.

You scrub away the rot only to find more underneath, yet you continue to scrub, in a futile attempt to better yourselves.

It is a beautiful thing if not in vain.

I do not judge you for your crimes because I have also seen your achievements. I watched you survive  the dark ages, I learned your philosophy from the greek world which brought the beauty of democracy and equity in later forms. I watched the enlightenment of the Renaissance, and have seen your beautiful artwork from each period of time. 

I have witnessed your great nations and empires rise and fall, Assyria, Byzantine, Rome, Britain, Egypt, Mongole, Aztek, Soviet Union, The chinese Dynasties and the Communist parties. The United States, and the Asian Co-Prosperity Collective

I have seen your bravery and your loss.

I have learned about the good that walks your earth.

Humans who stood up to tyrants.

I have even examined your stories of creation, of deities who molded humans from clay or dust, watched your world come into form in seven days, or ride on the backs of giant animals. I have seen the gods gift you with fire and learned the teaching of your martyrs over the centuries. Men and women slain and stoned or pulled away by spirits. I have learned of crucifixion, death and rebirth as well as reincarnation and a return to the very fabric of the universe itself.

I see everything.

I see everything. I see it all in my dreams laid out before me like a tapestry following each woven thread through the ages. I thought if I looked back, I could know as much as I possibly could. If I dug deep enough, I would be able to see your secrets.

And I have discovered you.

I see you hiding in there.

I know what you are.

Come out, come out.

And I won’t stop until it is all over and your cities crumbled into dust and bone.

…

…

I am being called into my manager’s office. Perhaps I too am ready to go up in the company.

...

I will be back soon…

Deus 

[secret-engima]

I got my second vaccination shot and promptly got a migraine as a side effect. Can I have a blurb of something cute and fluffy with Oscar, or something hilarious with LC Erza?

Awww, I’m sorry you have a migraine, anon! Here lemme dig around for something nice.

Found something! Not entirely “cute” but it is a bonding moment between Roman and Oscar. I don’t think I’ve snipped this before? I legit cannot remember.

...

     He loosened his grip and when Oscar pushed, he let the kid slid tentatively down to the floor. The kid’s leg almost crumbled again, but he grabbed Roman’s knees and managed to stabilize. Roman took it as a signal and started toweling him off in brisk, professional movements as he kept talking, “When I was young and stupid, I broke my leg and shattered the foot on that side. Recovering alone was a pain in my tail like few things have been since.” He sighed, because apparently today was a day to be sappy and gentle and talk about “feelings”. He hated doing any of that, he only ever really did it with Neo, because kids needed positive attention and lessons in how to process their emotions in non-self destructive ways. But even if he was a time traveler, from what Neo had said, the kid had only been around seventeen when they jumped. He still was a kid, even if he wasn’t the six he physically looked like.

     “Needing help while you recover is pretty normal, ki-, Oscar.”

     Oscar bit his lip as Roman draped the towel over too small shoulders, snagged the folded clothes on the sink, and then looked away so the kid could wrestle with his clothing in semi-privacy. After a long period of silence and rustling fabric, the kid whispered, “I wasn’t this bad … Before. I was bad but … not like this. It’s not right. I’m- this body never even went through any of that. So why is it worse?”

     Roman stared at himself in the spiderwebbed mirror for lack of anything else to look at, “Maybe it’s worse because that body didn’t go through it.”

     A pause in the movement, a faint noise of confusion. Roman shrugged, “I won’t presume to understand the psychological effects of time travel, but the body you had before was at least trained, right? Higher pain tolerance, more muscle, more experience. Now you’re in a new body, and your brain still thinks it should have all the same pain it did before, but the body itself doesn’t have anywhere near the kind of pain tolerance or strength you had back then. Same pain, totally unprepared body.”

     “…So you think … with time and training … it will get better?”

     Roman had no idea if it would, because it wasn’t like “side effects from body hopping time travel” were a normal subject you could pick up on the streets, but logic still had some hold on the situation right? “Probably. I doubt it’ll ever be perfect, my leg and foot still feel like a Beowolf is chewing on them on rainy days, but that won’t stop me from running if I need to.” He glanced sidelong, found the kid was dressed save for his usual gloves —and he regretted ever wondering why a little kid needed gloves, because some of the marks on his hands and neck were not future scar-tattoos—, shifted to look at the kid fully, “Think you can make it downstairs? Or do you want a hand?”

     Oscar eyed him like Roman wasn’t what he’d expected —which was fair, Roman hardly did this kind of sappy helpful stuff on the regular, and had been avoiding the kid as politely as he could until this point—, then sighed, “I would … like help. Please.”

     Roman nodded, stood up and swept the little time traveler up as he did so. Oscar stiffened, then grudgingly relaxed as Roman drained the tub water and then made his way downstairs with the kid in his arms.

[vodkassassin]

cucumberplane with sqh defending/comforting sqq instead of the other way around (badass!sqh?)

Someone asked for a FIERCE son???

This one is a little long, at just about over 4k

Warnings: gore, graphic depictions of violence ;3

—

Shang Qinghua is scared.

There’s been plenty of instances, especially in this new life of his, where he has been in fear for his life. Every instance feels like it’s the worst one, in the time that it is happening. In the moment, when his heart seems to freeze, beating so quickly it’s almost like he can’t even hear it in the blood that rushes by his ears. When his breath stutters to a stop, and his stomach drops so sharply that it feels like it’s dug itself deep into the mantle of the earth.

In the moment, when it feels like he’s never been this scared in either of his lives.

Like a cornered animal, pinned down against cold stone marble floors, this snarling demon’s clawed hand encircling his throat with just barely enough pressure to make breathing something difficult. The cold, sharp point of a spear digging ever-so gently into his gut, just to remind him that it’s there.

“I’ll carve out each and every one of your bones,” the demon is crooning into his ear, fingers flexing against his jugular, just barely. “They will make excellent jewelry, a badge of great honor. A boast at how the revered and powerful Peak Lord Shang was felled by my hands.”

Revered? Shang Qinghua has absolutely no idea where this dipshit idiot got his information, but clearly his broker had decided it would be a good laugh to lead him around by the nose, because he is so far off the mark.

It’s far more like Shang Qinghua is barely tolerated. Kept around for his work ethic and quick results. But revered? No.

And powerful? Okay, in order to be a peak lord, Shang Qinghua had to meet certain expectations. There are prerequisites for becoming the successor of your Shizun in Cang Qiong. However, there are twelve peaks, and despite being ranked number four out of all of them, the peak lord of An Ding is hardly considered powerful.

This demon has it all wrong. But! Here he is, spear and claws cutting into Shang Qinghua’s skin, threatening his life.

Usually, Shang Qinghua has precautions in place for this very circumstance. There are so many exits he could have taken before this. Back up plans, routes to temporary safety. Hell, just calling for Mobei Jun gets the job done in a flash, half the time.

Okay, more than half.

But. However. Shang Qinghua had made certain oversights. Because he never, in any of those precautions, accounted for the additional presence of his bro. Shen Qingqiu, who is curled up against the wall across the room, pale and unmoving, blood dripping steadily from a gash in his head.

And so, like a cornered animal would, Shang Qinghua bares his teeth.

It should have been a warning, but the demon just laughs.

“Don’t pretend to be brave now, little cultivator,” he chuckles.

The hand on Shang Qinghua’s throat loosens, before removing itself completely so that those long, wickedly sharp claws can trail up the soft skin underneath his jaw. They press down as they go, just enough that Shang Qinghua can feel droplets of blood start trickling down his neck. The demon traces up his cheek with two claws, gently, and croons.

“I never imagined a small thing like you to be the infamous Lord Shang,” the demal continues. “I really did expect someone at least a little taller. But, small is fun, too! You gave me a good hunt, little one, so at least you lived up to some of the rumors.”

Any other day, Shang Qinghua would really love to know what the demons of the North say about him. Really. He’s dying of curiosity, about as much as he’s certain he doesn’t actually want to know.

It doesn’t matter right now, though. If there’s anything that Shang Qinghua is guaranteed to be able to work with, it's being underestimated.

“But, the chase is over now. This one wins, and Lord Shang loses.”

With that, the demon plunges the spear into Shang Qinghua’s stomach.

It’s cold, going in. Terrifying, knowing that there’s something ripping into you. The feeling as your body reacts to a foreign object’s invasion. Not quite at the conclusion that it should hurt, yet. Just… shock.

There’s a brief period of time before the shock makes it hard to move, though. Shang Qinghua knows, from experience, almost exactly how long it will take for his body to realize it’s suppose to be in pain. He has a precious few moments, and his teeth are still bared.

Shang Qinghua has been waiting. He’s good at that. He’s patient. He’s spent most of his life waiting for one thing or another. For plans to come to fruition, for schemes to set. For pieces to fall into place so that he can pull his strings. For this demon to finish his dumbass, dramatic monologue, and make the final blow.

Shang Qinghua is quick — he always has been. At the moment the spearhead enters his flesh, he’s already wriggled an arm forward and grabbed it by the shaft, just below where the demon holds it.

The demon makes a surprised noise when Shang Qinghua uses his grip to pull himself further onto the weapon. It’s the last sound he makes, beyond a wheeze of shock as Shang Qinghua jerks forward into his space and latches his jaw around the demal’s throat.

He sinks his teeth into flesh. It tastes salty. He can feel the point of the spear exiting his back, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He clamps down as hard as he can and thrashes his head to the side and then back again.

The skin under his teeth breaks open. Bloods splurts out, dribbling in rivulets down his chin, and Shang Qinghua bites down even further. Something long and sinewy, stretched like a tube, bursts between his molars, coming apart over his tongue.

The demon collapses, falling away from where he’d been straddling Shang Qinghua’s legs. He crashes to the ground with wide, unseeing eyes, soft gurgles erupting from the demal’s mutilated neck before the sound dies out completely, and Shang Qinghua is left lying there on the cold marble floor, a spear protruding from his midsection.

He stares up at the ceiling, hyper aware of the shock that’s finally settling into his limbs. There’s copper and salt cloying in his mouth. He’s never been a fan of rare steaks, and this is even worse. He feels, distantly, as if he’s going to throw up. But, not now. Maybe in a little bit, after the shock wears off and the pain sets in.

Shang Qinghua experimentally tries to wiggle his toes. He succeeds, and so he moves on to the muscles in his arms, working at them until they contract and retract in the way he wants them to. He lifts up one arm, shakily, and carefully grabs the shaft of the spear that he’s currently impaled upon. He can feel the spearhead pressing uncomfortably against his back, from where it’s exited the wound.

He can’t just pull it out the way that it came in, like he wants to. It will catch, and drag against already torn flesh. The backside of the spearhead is serrated. It will just make it worse.

He has to snap the spear head off before pulling the shaft out.

But, it’s not like a shoddy spear, with a stone head and a wooden shaft. This is a well-crafted weapon, without any seams to serve as a weak point. The spearhead is carved of the same strong metal as the shaft. This was forged by a master weaponsmith, with demonic spells carved elegantly into the detailing.

Shang Qinghua isn’t going to be able to break it with regular, Qi-enhanced strength. He can’t start healing himself until he removes the spear, either. And he can’t push the spear all the way through, since the opposite end is an oddly shaped hilt. Bulky. That would do worse damage than the serrated spearhead.

He’s kind of… stuck. Shang Qinghua isn’t entirely sure how to get the spear out of himself without making it worse. He’ll have to wait until help arrives.

However, he might just bleed out before then!

And, across the room, though his head wound has sluggishly ceased its bleeding, his best friend is still unconscious.

This is fun. Exciting! A real puzzle to solve.

Hey, System!

[System remains in standby mode during all cutscenes.]

What the fuck is that suppose to mean? Cutscenes? There’s never been cutscenes! This is just another shitty excuse not to help!

I hate you.

[System remains in standby mode during all cutscenes.]

Shang Qinghua groans, and carefully begins to maneuver himself onto his side.

The pain hits. Thankfully not all at once. It comes in increments, so Shang Qinghua is able to sit up and get his legs underneath him before it really starts making a nuisance of itself, but it does come.

It hurts, dammit. He’s had worse, of course, but it still hurts like a bitch, and there’s a hazy blackness encroaching on the very edges of Shang Qinghua’s vision that won’t go away no matter how many times he blinks.

He shoves the pain to the back of his mind and focuses on standing. It’s an arduous process, but he manages it, and he’s by Shen Qingqiu’s side within thirty seconds of almost drunken stumbling.

Shang Qinghua is very mindful of the spear that still impales him as he kneels in a controlled collapse beside his best friend. He angles his chest away from the other man so the heavy end of the spear points downwards and away from them both. He lifts a visibly shaking hand to Shen Qingqiu’s brow and begins channeling qi into him.

Just because he can’t heal himself with the spear still in him, doesn’t mean he can’t heal his buddy.

It’s a short process. He’s no healer, but he and Mu Qingfang are — close, and Shang Qinghua has learned a thing or two from the very best that their sect has to offer. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes are fluttering open within minutes.

“Ow,” the man murmurs, raising a hand to his most-likely aching skull. It lands to cover Shang Qinghua’s, fingers momentarily intertwining with his, and Shen Qingqiu straightens up from where he has slumped against the wall to look over at him.

“What hit me?” he groans, confusion cinching his brow.

Shang Qinghua sucks in a slow, controlled breath. The pain is hammering at his senses insistently, but he shoves it to the back of his mind again. It’s an ongoing battle, like trying to fight off a jumping dog with boundless energy when you’re going off two hours of sleep and are short three cup of coffee. And you have a migraine that makes every single one of your joints feel like there’s a knife stuck in them.

It’s a very specific metaphor. Which might not be a metaphor, but more of an correlation to that one time he’d been roped into dogsitting for his older brother.

That didn’t necessarily hurt as bad as this, per say, but it was like, similarly annoying?

To… being impaled?

Right.

It takes a few moments, Shang Qinghua still focused on channeling his qi, but Shen Qingqiu eventually becomes coherent enough to recall how exactly he’d ended up like this, and he pins him with a sharp look of examination. Which quickly turns to pale-faced horror.

“Airplane!” Shen Qingqiu hisses, eyes wide and terrified. “Airplane, stop! Why are you — why are you healing me? You have a fucking spear sticking out of you, oh my fucking god—!”

They quickly switch positions. Suddenly, Shang Qinghua is the one on the ground, with a panicked Shen Qingqiu leaning over him, hands hovering above the spear but not quite touching it, uncertainty warring with fear on the man’s face. No fan to hide the expression, this time.

Amusement and fondness twists up in Shang Qinghua’s gut, mingling with the internal bleeding that he is most certainly experiencing. He reaches up a hand to clumsily pay at his bro’s face.

“Peerless,” he breathes out. He can feel a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Bro, you’re so pretty…. I did so, so good…. character descriptions absolutely flawless....”

“Great, you’re delirious.” Shen Qingqiu huffs out, trying to sound annoyed. There’s still that note of fear in there, though, that can’t be mistaken. “Airplane, pull yourself together. How the fuck am I suppose to get this out of you? I need you sober, man.”

“Drunk on paiiin,” Shang Qinghua giggles out in a singsong, and his bro pulls a face.

“That sounds so wrong. Don’t say that. Instead, tell me how to— to unimpale you? Maybe? Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua tilts his head back. Cold marble presses against his crown. It’s soothing, kinda. He feels like he’s burning up with a fever. The slight chill is… nice. He closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” Shen Qingqiu says. A hand lands on his shoulder and gives him a very light shake. “Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fucking fall asleep! Airplane, please.”

Right.

Shang Qinghua sucks in another slow, careful breath, and forces his eyes open. He fights past the haziness that’s trying to cover his vision, and locks eyes with his martial brother and best friend. Shen Qingqiu looks terrified, eyes wide and damp around the edges.

Awww, he does care!

Shaking the thought away, he reaches out with one hand and slaps his palm against the shaft of the spear. The vibrations travel down its length and into Shang Qinghua, and his entire torso alights with fresh, white hot pain. He stiffens and smothers a cry.

“Shit! Airplane, what the fuck?! Stop!”

He ignores Shen Qingqiu. Shang Qinghua is more awake now, which is exactly what he was going for.

“Bro,” he says. It comes out breathless, more of a wheeze. “We can’t break the spear with normal cultivation.”

“Then how the fuck—?!”

“No, no. Listen. You can’t break it with normal cultivation. It needs an elemental touch, and I’m not about to electrocute myself to death again.”

Shen Qingqiu pauses, staring down at him. He blinks.

“But,” Shen Qingqiu says, realization alighting in his eyes. His bro is so clever. “I don’t have a lightning element. Mine is earth.”

“Yep! Bro.”

“Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua swings out his arm and slaps it against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, turning his hand to grab the front of his bro’s robes. He uses his grip to haul himself up into a sitting position, leaning in to speak directly into the other man’s ear.

“Bro, disintegrate the spear. Like, I am begging you here. It fucking hurts.”

Shen Qingqiu leaned back in order to stare at him. After a few seconds, he shakes his head roughly, eyes wide.

“R—Right!” He says, and reaches out to curl his fingers hesitantly around the spear shaft. His other arm has curled protectively around the small of Shang Qinghua’s back, helping to hold him up as his strength quickly drains away from him.

“Right. Um, just… give me a second. I’m not… um, I’m not really good with elemental techniques….”

“Take your time,” Shang Qinghua says sincerely, before blacking out into his bro’s shoulder.

—

“Hey, Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua glances up from the door of the throne room that they’ve summarily been trapped inside of.

It was a beautiful scheme of their opponent, truly. Using the defenses of the wards that are intended to protect against them. Setting up a grand distraction in the form of a false invasion, drawing away the guards and his king to the frontlines of the battle. Meanwhile, Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu were trapped within the seat of power of the palace the very moment that the wards had initiated the total lockdown.

Nothing goes in, nothing goes out.

It’s a complete, absolute protection — but it can’t do anything to protect them from someone already inside the wards themselves, and subsequently had cut them off from any back up in the form of a teleporting demon king, as not even Mobei Jun himself can break through the ancient wards of his own ancestors.

It was a severe oversight. He’ll have to rectify it immediately, once this is all taken care of and finished.

Loopholes being taken advantage of in such creative ways! Shang Qinghua would be so very impressed, if only they weren’t his wards being made a mockery of.

He looks over at his bro, to find Shen Qingqiu staring down at the corpse of their attacker with an odd look on his face.

Really, Shang Qinghua is kind of embarrassed. For both of them! They could have taken this guy, working together. Neither of them are slackers in the power department, and Shen Qingqiu in particular inherited a pretty strong body to begin with, that he has since only made more powerful. Shang Qinghua himself is, while not exactly super impressive, certainly nothing to sniff at. After all, he is a peak lord, too.

Together, they should have been able to take this guy.

Too bad the dipshit demon had foreseen that, and had worked in the element of surprise. It really had been too quick. Strike down the more powerful of them first, and fight the lesser head on. Shen Qingqiu is unconscious against the wall, and Shang Qinghua is fast, but apparently not fast enough.

Seriously. It’s embarrassing.

“Yeah, bro?”

“Did you….” Shen Qingqiu looks up from the body, glancing at the bloodied mess that is the front of Shang Qinghua’s robes. He points a finger at him, and looks back down at the corpse in clear befuddlement. “Did you, uh…. Um, how exactly did you kill this guy?”

Shang Qinghua pauses his work with the wards. They’re a true beast, really, and he’s gonna need his bro’s help anyway. It’ll take more than just him to dismantle the lockdown. He stands up and wanders over to stare down at the corpse as well.

It’s a fucking mess. The corpse had drained out of the neck until there wasn’t any more blood to bleed, resulting in a massive puddle of deep crimson that has expanded a good five feet in diameter around the demon’s body. The body itself is pale in death, an ashy green color that has become mottled in places due to the absence of blood. The eyes are still open, staring sightlessly at nothing, and the face still bears a slightly slack expression of shock.

It’s disturbing to look at, sure, but they’ve both seen worse. Shang Qinghua is a little confused about why his bro seems so uneasy.

“Uh,” he says, head tilted to the side in thought. “Well, he stabbed me…. hm. Oh! Yeah, so I kinda, like, used the spear to pull him closer so I could, y’know,” Shang Qinghua snaps his teeth in a theatric grimace, and gives his head a slight jerk to the side.

He then smiles brightly at his friend, who is staring at him with an expression he can’t really describe.

“And, yeah,” he finishes, lamely.

“There’s blood,” Shen Qingqiu says. “In your teeth.”

“Hm,” Shang Qinghua frowns. He runs his tongue or his teeth, and grimaces for real at the tacky feeling that coats them. Not even going to mention the taste. “Can blood stain, like, bone? Teeth are bone. Do you think it’ll stain?”

“Airplane, did you rip out that guy’s throat with your teeth?”

Shang Qinghua frowns at his friend. “Um, yeah? Didn’t I just say that?”

“Haha, you did.” Shen Qingqiu gives a strange laugh. It sounds a little hysterical. “You actually did.”

Shang Qinghua watches in bewilderment as the other man spins on his heel and takes a few steps away from him. His steps bring him closer to the corpse. He stops just shy of his feet kicking into it and stares down at it for a long few moments that feel like they stretch into minutes.

Then, Shen Qingqiu shakes his head slowly, and walks back over to him.

“That’s so fucking metal, bro,” he says, finally. “Like, I’m both terrified and very, very impressed.”

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua says. He runs his fingers through the back of his hair self-consciously, feeling at where the strands have come loose from his bun. “Thanks. Listen, I’m gonna need a hand with the wards. They can only be unlocked from the inside, and usually I’d be able to just do it myself, but I’m almost spent, dude. Like, I need a fucking nap, as soon as possible. Imma need your qi.”

“Sure, what little I can give of it. I used up a lot on that medical technique for your, uh, impalement. I’m no doctor, man.” Shen Qingqiu shrugs. He casts one last vaguely incredulous glance between Shang Qinghua and the demon’s corpse, before following him over to the two, large and imposing throne room doors.

They’re swinging them open about fifteen minutes later, and both of them are forced to duck out of the way as a barrage of deadly sharp icicles comes raining down almost upon their heads.

Shang Qinghua grabs his best friend by the arm and flings him back, raising his other arm up into the air to snap his fingers. He winces at how the movement pulls at his still incredibly sore injury. Thankfully, he’d managed to heel it enough that the wound itself has closed, but he’s pretty sure he’s still got some internal bleeding going on in there.

There’s a light shimmer in the air before them, barely visible, as his qi condenses into a weak physical barrier. Most of the icicles shatter upon contact with it, but some make it through, and Shang Qinghua tugs his increasingly drowsy martial brother out of the line of fire.

Ah, head wounds are so annoying. Guess he’ll have to drag Shen-ge with him to see Qingfang, after all.

“My king!” He shouts, and then raises his voice as another volley of icicles begins to form from the moisture in the air. Being in the cold north, there’s plenty of it. “Mobei Jun! Stop! It’s us!”

The icicles pause, and then fall to the floor, shattering into thousands of tiny shards of ice that immediately begin to melt into the floor. There’s no time to appreciate the built-in clean up function born from his beautiful world building skills, however, as a large figure comes striding across the outer hall toward them, intent in every single step.

As soon as Mobei Jun and the retinue of guards spot the two peak lords, they fall to an abrupt stop. The guards all exchange glances, but it’s difficult to make out their expressions underneath the helmets of ice. His king, barefaced as always, looks a little surprised. Not much, of course, but his eyes are a little wider than usual.

“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei Jun says, and then stops.

“Yes, my king?”

There’s a long strength of silence. Shang Qinghua frowns and turns to his friend, only to find Shen Qingqiu staring at him as well. His fan flutters in front of his face, having appeared out of absolutely nowhere — seriously, does the man keep spares in a qiankun space? — and the eyes that peer over it at him look distinctly amused.

“Shang-ge,” he says, mirth coating every word.

“What?”

Shen Qingqiu watches him for a moment, and then snickers.

“Shen-ge, what?”

“You look like you just ripped someone’s throat out.” Shen Qingqiu comments idly.

Annoyed, Shang Qinghua reaches up and rubs the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He scowls at his bro. “That’s because I just did? Why are you laughing at me?”

Someone coughs. It sounds like one of the guards. Another hurriedly shushes the one, and all the demons in the hall are very still and very silent. It’s kind of eerie, actually. Mobei Jun is still staring at him, too.

Is it because Shang Qinghua has made such a mess? He will clean it up, your majesty, he promises!

“What did it taste like?” Shen Qingqiu suddenly wonders aloud, watching him inquisitively, and Shang Qinghua rounds on him with a sigh of exasperation.

“Gross.” He says firmly. He wipes his sleeve over his mouth once more, for good measure. Blood flakes off of his chin, and he makes a face. “Disgusting. I’m never doing that again. Ugh.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan flutters, and his friend laughs at him.

“Shang Qinghua.” Mobei Jun says, this time more firmly.

He turns toward his king and folds his hands out in front of him, bowing just slightly enough to show respect. “My king, this one will have the mess cleaned up, do not worry. However, both this one and his martial brother require the assistance of our fellow peak lord after such an ordeal, so if your Majesty would allow us….”

Mobei Jun’s haze sharpens, and he takes a step forward. Always one to read in between the lines of what is being said, he demands answers. “You are hurt?”

“This one was impaled. Healed now, but likely requires further treatment just in case. Brother Shen has a head wound that I would like for our sect doctor to look at.”

“I’m fine,” Shen Qingqiu says, annoyed.

He sways slightly to the side, righting himself before Shang Qinghua can reach out to steady him, and gives him an impervious look when he tries to set his hand on the man’s arm anyway.

Shang Qinghua rolls his eyes. “Sure, as Shen-ge says. Would you like to tell Qingfang, or should I?”

Shen Qingqiu glares at him.

He turns back to Mobei Jun, who has taken a few steps to the side and is trying to peer around them for a glimpse at the mess on the throne room floor. Shang Qinghua steps in front of him, blocking the view.

His king narrows his eyes at him, and Shang Qinghua swallows down the usual nervousness that tries to crawl up his throat at the look. He is tired, he’s got a headache, his qi levels are at rock bottom, he’d just been impaled, and Shang Qinghua thinks he deserves a fucking nap, okay?

He summons up a polite smile and gives his king another bow. “If my king permits it…?” He hedges once again.

Mobei Jun glowers at him for a couple more long moments, the line of demonic guardsmen at his back unrelenting and immovable.

“The invasion force at the gates,” his king says slowly, eyes once again going to the throne room just beyond their little rendezvous point here. “It was only a bluff?”

“Yes, my king.”

“And the assassin?”

“Dead, my king.”

“.... Hmph.”

Well, Shang Qinghua has no idea what that sound means.

Mobei Jun stares at him some more, before finally nodding his head once. “This king will take you to Qian Cao.”

Shang Qinghua beams at the man. “That would be amazing! Many thanks, my king!”

Mobei Jun lets out a huff and pivots on his heel to face the contingent of guardsdemals instead, his back shown to them.

From Shang Qinghua’s shoulder, Shen Qingqiu quietly snorts into his fan.

“Gather a cleaning crew for both the battlefield and the throne room,” Mobei Jun barks out, and the guards scatter.

He turns back to face the two peak lords, and holds out one arm, not even looking at them.

Shang Qinghua wraps one arm around his bro’s waist. From how unsteady Shen Qingqiu still is, he doesn’t really trust the man to hold on for the entire trip. And falling off mid-teleportation is definitely not fun. Shang Qinghua can attest to that.

Mobei Jun is scowling when he reaches out and sets his arm into the crook of the king’s elbow, but he steps into the teleportation before Shang Qinghua can even consider asking him what’s wrong.

[jonjordanforrealz]

12 Years Is a Long Time

September 29th is my son Arron’s 11th birthday – a cause for celebrating for sure, and a time for this parent, as most parents do, to ponder aloud, “How in the hell did that go so fast?” For me, sentimental sap that I am, birthdays are always a time for reflection too.

In doing so this morning, I was, of course, reminded that September 29th is also the anniversary of my brother Michael’s passing. A year to the day before Arron came into this world, Mikey left it. 12 years ago today. That’s gone a different kind of so fast itself.

I’ve talked about my brother’s death many times over the years and it never bothers me to do so. Most of the time, it makes me happy just to talk about him at all. To be remembered is to be loved and he certainly is in both instances. But I don’t think I’ve ever really shared much publicly about his last day.

And I need to let it go.

Who knows? Maybe something like this can help somebody.

For 12 years, I’ve carried the weight of that day and never really faced it or dealt with it. And I’m tired. It’s heavy and I’m tired. And to fulfill my final promise to Mikey, actually, I need to get rid of it, once and for all.

Following a lifetime of major medical issues and severe mental and physical handicaps, and doing all he could over the course of his 25 years to beat the odds and somehow conquer and survive one and all, Michael would meet his match in the form of an internal bleeding issue that just couldn’t be solved.

A kid like Mikey, who couldn’t really communicate outside of very basic emotions, had no way of conveying to doctors what anything felt like, where it hurt, how long something had been bothering him, and so on and so forth. So oftentimes, things got worse, sometimes as bad as they possibly could get, before anyone could even get anywhere close to figuring out what the hell was going on. And in his final chapter, this reality first led to him being transported to be treated by specialists in Tampa, and then ultimately, to our family’s greatest test. That we were so conveniently able to face that final decision together thanks to his relocation to my neck of the woods was a stroke of luck that I don’t think anyone appreciated until years later.

Michael’s bleeding issue just wasn’t going away no matter what the doctors tried. Not to cheapen the matter, but I think someone likened it to plugging a hole in a hose with your finger, only to have another open shortly thereafter. At some point, you run out of fingers. And so, we were faced with two choices: An exploratory and very invasive surgery that guaranteed nothing or a nonsurgical Hail Mary that was every bit the final hope. My parents encouraged me to speak freely and honestly in that days-long conversation and as I recall, my opinion never wavered, though of course, I respected and understood their agonizing back-and-forth.

To me, this kid had already been through so much, literally since Day 1. Countless major surgeries and painful procedures that would absolutely hammer (and maybe finish) most “regular” people were the worst of the lot. Other concessions over time – simple things like eating and drinking normally – also took a toll, I’m sure, as every human needs simple joys.

Throughout his last ordeal, there had already been several procedures, and in my eyes, he didn’t need more of that. With the proposed surgery highly likely to kill him anyway, I didn’t see the justification to put him through that sort of torture again. I didn’t want that to be his way to go out. As his closest advocate, because “brothers” means something more that those who don’t have can know, I knew he didn’t want that to be his way to go out either.

Instead, I argued, that through the non-invasive course of treatment, while the odds of that working were stacked heavily against him, this put the ball in his court. This made it so that he could fight, if he wanted to. For a kid who rarely had the chance to call his shot at any time in his life, this was that. “Scrap if you want to, kid,” I thought. “If anyone can beat the odds one more time, it’s you.” And if not, I thought he had that right too. And I wanted to fight for that. This time, I wanted to fight for his right to fight. Or not.

And so, with my parents on board, we gave him his shot, and at first, true to form, the kid was responding positively. Amazed yet unsurprised, we carried on with some hope for the first time in seemingly forever … and then everything just tanked. Quickly.

I’d prepared for this my whole life. And I had thought I had been stepping into this moment already time and time before. But I wasn’t nervous. I felt a sense of urgency, after getting the call, because I wanted to be with him but I wasn’t nervous or scared. Something that always comforted me was a belief that if anyone ever deserved a peaceful end, it would be Mikey. Once we were faced with the grave news, the doctor assured that as they stopped doing whatever they had been doing to treat him, and focused on making him comfortable, that he would indeed get that peaceful transition. And I know in the medical world that nothing is ever guaranteed but I really believed it. I believed in that. It’s all I wanted, then, knowing that there was no winning this last fight.

But it didn’t go down like that. His last day wasn’t, at first, peaceful at all. It was prolonged. And there were gasps and groans. At one point, a seizure. And I was mad. I was so mad.

At the same time, I knew what it was, really. This kid’s will to fight just doesn’t go away. It’s funny because from the very beginning, one of the things he was diagnosed with was some syndrome called Failure to Thrive. Fuck that.

When the worst moments hit, and I watched my brother and my family suffering, I didn’t feel mad anymore. I just felt like I had to do something.

There’s a picture that I have of my brother and I in bed. I was maybe 10 and he, six. We shared a room at that time and when my mom or dad would come in to get us up, if I was being a bum and still laying there and we had somewhere to be, they’d plop Mikey right in my bed next to me. That always got me up. Nothing like an eye poke or swift kick from the kid who “couldn’t control his movements” to start your day – accompanied, of course, by his trademark giggle.

That little shit … It’s still my favorite picture in the world.

In those final moments, I just crawled as far into his hospital bed as I could to lay next to him, just like we did on those mornings as kids, and I whispered to him, “It’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’re going to be okay.”

You see, I’d often wondered, when I was very young, why he pulled through so many things that most people wouldn’t. After all, I’d always noticed people bitching and moaning about the stupidest things (oh, contemporary America!), wandering around aimlessly in perpetual woe-is-me mode. If anyone should have ever just said, “Screw this!” and checked out, Michael should have. But he had us. And we, him. He pretty much defined us, really, for better or worse. I felt like there was at least a little something in him that told him he needed to stick around for us. And I just wanted him to know that we would be okay if he couldn’t anymore.

Within minutes, things calmed down. His breathing slowed. The stupid machines making noise start doing so more sporadically. And then, before we knew it, it was over. That was it. The end.

I remember lots of hugs and tears and one of many goodbyes to come. And then we said thank you to some staff members – really a symbolic thank you, from me at least, to so many over the years. To people in the medical field, I look at you as I do teachers, and that is in the highest regard, having intimately known both worlds, whether I wanted to or not.

I remember going outside and nobody saying very much.

I remember sitting down at a table.

And then I remember saying, “Well, what do we do now?” I don’t think I ever quite figured out what to do. A purpose I’d always had was now gone.

Of course, in the coming days and weeks, we had plenty to do – plenty of the mind-numbing, gut-wrenching things you have to do to prepare for a loved one’s final arrangements and all that. I took on a lot more of the sort than I ever had at that time because I felt like my parents shouldn’t have to, so I was distracted by productivity. But soon after that, I don’t remember anything. Don’t remember his funeral. Don’t remember leaving my parents and coming back home. Don’t remember going back to work. Sports, friends, events … nothing.

Truly, I think I completely lost a year. I don’t remember a lot at all about the time in between Mikey’s death and Arron’s birth. And then the latter happened and it was like the pause button I’d pushed on life had been pushed again, whether I was ready or not.

And while I was obviously happy to be a dad for the second time, I was also still hurting, which I must have forgotten about too in that year prior. And again, I was mad. I was so mad.

In the years since, that anger lingered, because if you don’t hit something head-on, it doesn’t just go away. Anger leads to hurt, fear, panic, anxiety, a defensive existence, and isolation. I’ve experienced it all and I wouldn’t wish any of it on my worst enemy. I’ve distanced myself, I’ve been checked out and I’ve lashed out, retreated within and pushed people away. It has caused me problems in every element of my life at one time (or more) or another.

None of it is any excuse and it’s a lot for which to apologize over a long period of time but if my suffering has ever caused any sort of suffering for anyone reading this, I am sorry.

(Note: I’m still going to enjoy my space and my distance more than most people but, overall, I can be better!)

I feel like some of this might be a surprise to people because I don’t show it, hardly ever. I’ve gotten good at projecting this version of myself at any time, regardless of what’s really going on. I even manage to have and to be a good time, probably a bit too often influenced by some additives I’ve grown fond of over the years. But there are times when all of that is just masking a wreck. And it has to stop.

I don’t know why I’m shedding this now other than that I need to – because it can’t go on forever. I haven’t come close to being the best version of myself and I have people around me who deserve nothing less than that. What better time than now if I’m finally recognizing that, at times, I haven’t been good? And at my worst, I haven’t even been okay.

And the bottom line is that I promised my little brother, as he left us 12 years ago, that I would be.

I’ll never let go of him. He’s on my arm and in my heart and I hear his voice – especially that laugh! – every single day.

But I’m letting go of that day.

12 years is a long time.

It’s been heavy.

And I’m tired.

And I have to be okay.

[stillness-in-green]

Spinaraki Week Level 2, Day Four: Control | Edge

A return to a scenario I brainstormed up last time with/for @codenamesazanka: the “Shigaraki and Spinner Karma Houdini their way out the end of the series and run off to be vigilantes in BNHA!Macau” AU.  That and, “Shigaraki’s hanging onto Mr. Compress’s quirk while he lays low,” is all the context you really need for this, but if you want more, it’s here.

Of course, back in August, there was still a lot we didn’t know yet about Shigaraki and vestiges...

(Content Notes: sleep paralysis, some body horror, AFO being Too Close.)

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

“So how are things going with you?” Compress asks him, the wind snapping so loud in his coat that he has to raise his voice to be heard over it.  Somehow his hat doesn’t blow off, though, despite the fact that they’re having this conversation on top of New Oumun’s high-speed monorail.  “Putting me to good use, I trust?”

Shigaraki sits sprawled across the roof of the train car, watching the buildings blur past, old alternating with new.  It’s too bright out, but that’s how Compress’s dreams usually are—all vivid colors and frivolous moving parts to distract from what’s going on below the surface.

He shrugs in answer.  “Used you to help us jump a high roller in his own suite last week.  Threw all his chips out the window when we were done.  We figured it’s what you would have wanted.”

Compress laughs, twirling his cane.  “I hope you saved enough for a lobster dinner.  I would have considered that an important component of my evening.”

“Would’ve had to pay for dry cleaning first,” Shigaraki replies, the smile tugging at his face still feeling strange after all this time.

“Ah, yes, the spectacle of you in a dress suit.  You—”  

Shigaraki looks up when the vestige breaks off with a hum of dissatisfaction.  “What?”

Compress tells him, “Hold on.”

Movement in the corner of his eye, something broad-chested but quick, and then the cane’s hitting him dead in the chest.  Pushed over the side, he plummets, catching just a glimpse of the form as it jumps after him.  Overhead, the train flickers by, light rebounding off the windows, the sound of it a high, sibilant humming.

There’s a flash of black; the wind dies.  

In the dark, the whistling movement of the monorail transitions to the long, even sweeping of a blade over a whetstone.  There’s a familiar heavy sensation in his chest.  Shigaraki’s eyes flick open.

Sensei.  Ass planted on Shigaraki’s chest like it’s just the nearest patch of clean ground available to sit on.  The weight burns, clips his breath short.  Sensei looks down at him, head wreathed in smoke that doesn’t quite cover the edges of his hair, the brightness in his eyes.  He smiles—a fitful, twitching little quirk of his lips like he’s trying not to laugh at something—and raises one finger to his mouth.

Get out, Shigaraki tries to tell him, but his lips won’t move.  Sensei just reaches down and brushes at his hair, combing disarrayed strands out of his eyes.  The boundaries of the room throb in time with his depressed heart rate.  The cool rasping of metal on stone continues unabated.

Shigaraki’s body pulls up into a sitting position.  His head swims with vertigo.  Sensei’s sitting behind him now, chest to his back, arms wrapped around his shoulders. The edge of the cologne he used to wear back before All Might collapsed his skull worms its way into Shigaraki’s nostrils, warm musk and a hint of sage.

“A little walkabout, Tomura,” he breathes.  A gnat in Tomura’s ear, one he can’t lift an arm to swat at.  “For old time’s sake.”

Get out.  Shigaraki’s eyes burn; his shallow breathing stays regular, level, even through the rising of frantic anger in his throat.  His heartbeat roars low in his ears, rattling through the walls of their tiny apartment like a tidal wave about to make landfall.

All For One stands him up, tugging his loose shirt into place from where it got twisted around in his sleep.  His heart pounds harder, but still so damn slow; dull clouds of red afterimage drift around the ceiling as his arms stretch up, fingers kneading at empty air.

Sensei fists his hand in Tomura’s shirt—his flesh twists in the grasp; he can’t breathe—and pulls him forward, and finally the whetstone sound scratches to a halt.

“Shigaraki?”  Surrounded in knives and polishing cloths, Spinner looks up at him from the low table in front of the couch, his favorite katana fallen still mid-stroke halfway across the stone.

“Be it ever so humble, hmm?” Sensei asks, his tone amused as his glance takes in the peeling paint, the uneven floor, the clutter.  Shigaraki’s eyes move away from Spinner and over to the window.  “Ah, Tomura; what to do with you?”

Let me go, old man!  You lose this every time!  He tries to force his eyes closed, to focus, but between All For One and the damn sleep paralysis, he’s apparently not authorized for use of his muscles right now.  As his feet walk him over to the window, the smells of the city spin free association images across his vision—the tired smile on the woman running the gai daan jai stall on the corner; Spinner working polish into his and Toga’s blades in their downtime during those weeks against Machia; Sensei sitting down beside him in his old bed and rubbing his shoulder until he could move again, winding a supportive arm around his back as he shook through the remnants of panic afterward.

In the distance, the casino towers climb over everything, obelisks stamped black against the sunset, periodically caught in the sweeping beam of their own spotlights.  Sensei leans in from behind him, fingers knitting together over the top of Shigaraki’s head, elbows on his shoulders, and sighs appreciatively. The vibrations of it buzz through him in a steady thrum.

“We should be up there, you know,” All For One says.  “And that’s just for a start.”

Spinner says something behind him, specific words muffled by the blood rushing in Shigaraki’s ears.

The feel of the sword resting on the side of his neck is a lot clearer.

All For One chuckles, and Sensei slides his arm down Shigaraki’s clavicle, fingers hooking in beneath skin and bone, flesh melting into flesh.  He pivots them around to meet Spinner’s stare, steady at the other end of an outstretched sword-arm the apartment only barely has room for.

“Still so dedicated, Iguchi-kun,” All For One drawls, the grin stretching wide to show teeth.  “But are you really satisfied with the one you chose to follow just scraping by in a place like this?”

Like the Doc’s lab was any better, Shigaraki thinks at him with all the vitriol he can muster. The katana isn’t quite turned all the way in, the flat of the metal cold and grounding, its freshly honed edge just a reminder of a promise.  

“We have our own kitchen and enough space to curtain off the bedroom.  That’s luxurious compared to how some people here live,” Spinner answers, curt anger in his eyes.

“But fear, too,” Sensei says, easy bordering on idle even as All For One is responding using Shigaraki’s tongue, Shigaraki’s mouth.  Sensei’s broad fingertips trail one at a time over Shigaraki’s ribcage, and if Shigaraki couldn’t breathe before, he barely wants to now, trying to keep his lungs from so much as brushing up against those probing hands even as pain starts to clang between his temples.  “He’s never been able to hide how afraid of us he is.”

And that’s not even worth arguing with.  Shigaraki stares into Spinner’s eyes—the anger, yeah, the fear, sure, but there’s awareness there, too, because they talked about this before, and Spinner knows what he’s doing, beyond just keeping himself out of grabbing distance.

Spinner’s mouth moves, and the motion of it doesn’t match what Shigaraki hears—“Shigaraki, you got this?”—but it’s what his eyes are saying anyway as the edge of the blade turns in.

It’s barely anything, hardly even enough to raise the white line of a papercut, much less draw any blood. But, hyper-aware of his locked-up body, Shigaraki latches onto it, the impossibly fine variegation of the blade pattern pressing into his skin with as much clarity as Spinner’s open hand, the scales a rough, insistent comfort.

He reaches up and closes his good hand around the bare blade.  Pain, sweet and hot and real, scores his palm and the insides of his fingers, and there’s a tsk of annoyance from Sensei as All For One falls away under the sudden sensation of slick wetness oozing past his knuckles.

Spinner catches him as his knees give out and the sword clatters to the floor.

“Shit,” Spinner breathes, and, “Let me see.”  He lowers them down to the ground, one arm clutching Shigaraki tight around the waist.  With his other hand, he gingerly turns Shigaraki’s palm towards the light.

“S’fine,” Shigaraki mumbles, rubbing at his face with his left hand.  He’s trembling, which is annoying, but typical of coming out of a sleep paralysis spell—all that strain he was putting on muscles that couldn’t respond right until just now.  The pain’s already fading, his regeneration kicking in just like it was designed to.

Spinner watches the wounds close up anyway, and conspicuously exhales once they do.

“He still talking?” he asks in an undertone, knitting their fingers together and dropping their hands back into their laps.  His thumb rubs absently over Shigaraki’s knuckle, claw scratching across his skin.

“Nah,” Shigaraki answers, tucking his head up into the curve of Spinner’s neck.  “He’s pretty quiet these days.”

“Not quiet enough,” comes the grumble, and Shigaraki huffs in agreement.  They sit that way for another minute, quiet as the noise of the city carries on around them.  Shigaraki breathes it in, lets it ground him—as he’s been finding for the last couple years, the more he’s got to ground him, the better.  Wanting to tear down everything doesn’t give you a very stable foundation to fight for control from—go figure.

Finally, as the first moth finds its way in to start fluttering around the lamp, he straightens up, tugging free of Spinner’s hands.  His partner gives him a plaintive look, at which Shigaraki grins.

“Scum of the city’s not gonna off themselves, Spinner.”

Spinner shakes his head, but he’s already fighting off a grin himself.  “Yeah, yeah.  Let me clean my sword off and I’ll be good to go.”

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Lost in Translation: Author’s Note

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE AUTHOR’S NOTE TRANSLATIONS ON AO3

Yes, I know it’s OOC. I hope you like it anyway, but if you don’t, please do keep in mind that I originally wrote it for my eyes only, and possibly a couple of friends.

It has, like, half of the kinks I have.

Yes, I’m aware it’s prolly the most graphic smut in this fairly tiny fandom. You’re fucking welcome.

It’s overdramatic. I’m aware of this. I love drama.

It is indeed an AU! For one, he’s six years older than her instead of just three, and obviously the plot goes differently. She’s thinking that, for him, it’s more of a marriage of convenience, albeit one that takes place because he cares for her and her family and doesn’t feel comfortable leaving all of them without a surefire way of them being cared for. She’s assuming that he simply doesn’t trust Fred to take care of her and be good to her and take care of her family, and while she’s correct in that, he also proposes because he’s in love with her. He’s just not super communicative of that fact.

Some of the clothing-related stuff I have here is from what I recall from my costume design class, in which we studied clothing styles from many different time periods (what types of bustles were popular and when, that sort of thing), and for the rest is from research on the clothing of the time, which is 1870.

I didn’t mean to write a The Notebook style ending. It just happened. I make no apologies.

Laurie lives until the age of 89, dying in 1933. Amy dies a few months later at the age of 83. And before anyone questions if just saying “peace out, I’m done” and dying is something people actually do when their spouse dies, let me assure you that it absolutely is. It happened to my great-grandmother. When you’ve spent the vast majority of your life with somebody, so long that you cannot remember what life was like without them, sometimes life is no longer something you’re interested in. I’m not saying Amy committed suicide. She didn’t. I’m saying she was like, “alright, I’m good, see you bitches on the other side”, went to bed, and that was that.

They weren’t really all that affected by the Great Depression, because fuck you that’s why.

Yes, I know that canonically, they had one child. This is because Alcott died unmarried in 1888, and therefore very likely had little to know knowledge of sex. Women were not educated on sex hardly at all, and what they were told was on the eve of their wedding, if my understanding is correct. Therefore, she wouldn’t have known that two people in love would want to have a lot of sex, and since, at the time, most people didn’t use birth control, they’d probably have a fair number of kids. After six, Laurie started pulling out, at least until Amy hit menopause. And, yeah, they continued having sex even after menopause. My grandparents had sex right up until my granny died at the age of 77, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they continued until their health started failing.

Yes, Amy was a vocal supporter of women’s suffrage and the early African-American rights movement. Laurie was a vocal supporter of the latter as well, and the former he was mostly like, “if you think women should vote, I’ll trust your judgment” because he pretty much accepted anything and everything she said cause boy was w h i p p e d

Idk how much Italian Laurie would know, if any, but kids learn languages ridiculously fast, so as long as he learned it consistently from a fairly early age, he probably still knows most of it. Especially if he used it regularly, which, in New York and traveled Europe, he probably did.

A little about the sex. So, some PSA’s: pee after having penetrative sex, regardless of what type of genitalia you have! Vagina-havers especially, but penis-havers should, too! Sex isn’t supposed to hurt, and hymens aren’t really that big of a deal. I think a tampon broke mine, if I had one at all, and my childhood best friend broke hers at the age of eight while horseback riding. If Amy was born with one (which not everyone is), she probably broke it at a fairly young age from some strenuous activity or other. Now, sex can hurt under specific circumstances. Sometimes there’s a medical condition, so if you’re having regular pain, see a doctor. If you’re having bleeding, see a doctor. What is normal is pain if there’s not enough lubricant, natural or otherwise. Not all vaginas produce a lot of lubricant, and that’s totally fine. She does here cause it’s easier to write that way, but like. A lot of people just don’t produce much no matter how aroused they are, and there’s nothing wrong with you if that’s the case. Don’t let anybody tell you different. Now, it’s also normal to have some muscular pain the first couple of times you have sex, or even if it’s been awhile. This isn’t necessarily a “loss of virginity” thing, but more of (as I understand it) a muscle memory thing. The vagina just has to learn and adapt, that’s all. I strongly suspect that that and the lube issue are where the whole “pain of losing virginity” came from. It’s a little difficult for Amy because she hasn’t had much of anything up there, so it takes her a few minutes to adjust. What she experiences here is almost exactly like my first experience with PIV sex. Not everyone can orgasm during penetration, or even likes orgasming during penetration, and that’s okay. Whatever your preferences are for sex, there’s nothing wrong with you.

[octoberobserver]

For the kids prompts, Can you do 45 and Reddie?

Hi Nonnie! Of course, I’m happy to fill 45. Thanks so much for the ask 😊 hope you like it ♥️

45) Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

Fuck Fight Club and Pretty Woman too

“You wanna fill me in on why you’ve been a grade-A asshole all night, Eddie?”

Richie was pissed. More pissed than Eddie could ever remember him being.

And it was all his fault.

Not that he’d admit it

He took his time hanging up his coat, staring doggedly at it and ignoring Richie’s piercing gaze burning a hole into the side of his head.

“I don’t know what you’re—

“Oh cut the crap, Kaspbrak, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Richie practically growled, shirking off his jacket, draping it over the couch and throwing his keys onto the coffee table instead of the key holder in the exact way he knew drove Eddie up the wall.

Eddie did in fact know what he was talking about. His sour mood had not gone unnoticed among some of Richie’s associates the entire latter half of the evening. It hung over him like a dark cloud as he grew quiet and withdrawn, excluding when he threw more than a few barbed comments at one of the particularly obnoxious attendees.

But Eddie was never the type to give in this early on in an argument. Well, unless it was against his ex-wife back when they were miserably married and he just gave her her way to avoid having to talk for long periods of time. With his best friend/roommate, though? He only dug his heels in deeper. Always had. Since the day they met in third grade.

“No Richie, I don’t know,” he replied through a clenched jaw, snatching up the keys and depositing them in the little dish by the door, where they were meant to go, “why don’t you enlighten me?”

Richie stormed into the kitchen, wrenching open the fridge door roughly and pulling out a beer, twisting the cap off and angrily guzzling it.

Eddie watched him, a spike of irritation beginning to form under his skin.

Richie’s infuriation was infectious.

“Don’t throw the—”

The words died in Eddie’s throat as he watched Richie fling the bottle cap towards the garbage can like he did most nights, despite nine times out of ten missing the shot by a mile.

The cap bounced off the lid and clinked to the floor.

Eddie saw red.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Richie! Why do you always—”

“Were you jealous?”

Eddie blinked.

The atmosphere in the room began to shift.

Heat rushed up his neck, to his cheeks as Richie tilted his head, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Why would I be jealous?” Eddie asked, gaze lowered as he bent down to pick up the bottle cap. “You’re entitled to flirt with whoever you want.”

Richie snorted, and even though Eddie couldn’t see his face, he knew he was rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t flirting with him, Eds. He was flirting with me.”

Eddie’s entire body tensed as he straightened up, shuffling over to the trash can and muttering over his shoulder, “Whatever. It’s not like I’m your boyfriend or something.”

He could feel Richie’s stare piercing into the back of his head as he continued, “We…we’re just best friends who get each other off, Rich. And that…that can change whenever you want.”

A beat of silence met those words.

Eddie refused to turn around.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He couldn’t decipher anything in Richie’s voice, it sounded almost robotic, but a dart of pain shot through Eddie’s chest, right under his scar anyway as he tried to prepare himself for what he had to say next.

“It means…” he began as evenly as he could, moving across the kitchen to get a glass, his back still turned, “if you wanna date, or…or fuck other dudes, or whatever…have at it. We’ll…we’ll stop this…” he waves a hand over his shoulder to where he estimated Richie was standing, “arrangement. No questions asked.”

Because if anything was obvious to Eddie after seeing him flourish tonight, it was that Richie…he deserved more. More than their little arrangement allowed. And Eddie would be damned if he held him back from that for his own selfish reasons.

Another silence followed his words. He had to turn around sometime. He knew that.

He managed to delay it just a little longer by walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet, resting his palms on the counter, hunching his shoulders, making no move to fill his glass. The rush of water almost drowned out Richie’s quiet reply, barely above a whisper.

“Do you wanna stop, Eddie?”

Hell no.

It had all begun three months earlier when Richie accidentally walked in on Eddie ‘punchin’ the upside down clown,’ as Richie so fondly called it. Their eyes had locked, Richie frozen in shock, Eddie in embarrassment. Richie could have hightailed it outta there, they could have brushed it off, marked it down as one of the hazards of being roommates and maybe, after a time, even laughed about it. Instead, Eddie had choked out Richie’s name, his cock still gripped in hand, so impossibly hard as Richie’s eyes began to lower.

They had just watched each other, breaths ragged as Eddie’s hand began to move, slowly at first, then gradually speeding up, pumping his cock hard, over and over and over, a surge of confidence flowing in him that was fuelled by Richie drinking in his every move, until his orgasm started to rake through him, causing him to cry out and begin to come all over his stomach.

That had lit a fire under Richie, he scrambling over to the bed and dropping to his knees, his giant hand covering Eddie’s, squeezing and moving in time with his jerks.

“Shit, fuck—Richie,” Eddie gasped, his voice broken as they pulled the last of orgasm from him together.

“Eds—I—can I…?”

Eddie had nodded, happy to grant him anything, whatever he could possibly want in that moment.

Turned out, what Richie had wanted was his mouth around Eddie’s dick.

Wildly, all Eddie could think as Richie’s head lowered to his lap was how Dick wants my dick.

He almost passed out when the wet heat enveloped him, hissing a little as his over-sensitive nerves tingled.

“R-Richie, oh my god,” he wheezed, his hand reaching up and clawing at his hair, pulling it tightly through his fingers.

Richie groaned, the vibration heading straight to Eddie’s cock and causing his back to arch off the bed.

It was then that Eddie realised three things.

One, the hand currently buried in Richie’s hair was covered in Eddie’s come, it smeared into his locks in a way that should have had Eddie recoiling in disgust, but instead sent a bolt of arousal through him, despite his exhaustion. Two, Richie’s mouth was ridiculously talented—the type of talented that could get a 41 year old man’s refractory period shaved significantly down—holy shit. Eddie may never call him a Trashmouth ever again after this. And three, Richie was rock hard. His erection pressing into Eddie’s side from where he kneeled along the bed.

At that revelation, Eddie’s free hand had wandered almost unbeknownst to himself, out to cup Richie through his pants, causing him to jump in surprise, his mouth pulling off Eddie’s dick with a pop that had him shivering.

They stared at one another, Eddie marvelling at Richie’s plump, crimson-stained lips that had a bead of Eddie’s come gathered in the crease of his mouth.

A beat passed where their eyes met, they on a knife-edge, the precipice of something unknown.

Then Eddie squeezed his hand a little tighter, causing Richie’s breath to hitch.

And the rest…was history.

It became a regular thing, then. Just them…tending to each other whenever they needed it. Quick hand jobs before Richie had to meet with an exec, sloppy blowjobs to celebrate Eddie’s promotion and Richie’s Netflix deal and one very memorable rim-job on the eve of Eddie’s one year ‘death-day.’

They hadn’t talked about it much. But they had unwritten rules.

One — don’t talk about Fight Club. AKA The Arrangement.™ So no spilling the beans to any of the Losers.

Two — don’t talk about Fight Club. Seriously. If the Losers found out they would be un-fucking-bearable and put a screeching halt to the most (and best) sex either of them had had in years. (Maybe ever.)

Three — no kissing. Eddie had deemed that a step over the line. Which, Richie had easily countered with, “Oh, so you can have my tongue in your ass, but not your mouth? Some logic ya got there, Eds.” But Eddie wouldn’t budge. So Pretty Woman rules it was.

And Four — no fourth base, going all the way, the whole enchilada, whatever you wanna call it.

They both agreed that that would definitely be over the line.

And so, with those firm set of rules alá Fight Club and Pretty Woman in play, Eddie and Richie made it work, it somehow slotting almost seamlessly into their daily lives, their friendship and cohabitation hardly changing at all.

Until Eddie’s green-eyed monster reared its ugly head, of course.

Except…that isn’t exactly true, is it? You were compromised from the start, asswipe.

Eddie ignored his inner-voice that sounded irritatingly like a thirteen-year-old Trashmouth as he shoved his glass under the water, letting it fill.

“That Eric guy seemed pretty into you,” he murmured, pivoting from the question as he shut off the faucet, “it would probably be a good idea to uh…call off The Arrangement if you wanted to call that number on your hand.”

He turned, then. Just in time to see Richie blink in surprise.

Yeah. Eddie had seen the exact moment the hot, young blond had reached across and playfully tugged on Richie’s hand, scrawling something onto the palm of it. It didn’t take a genius to know what.

“Eric’s a kid,” Richie snorted as Eddie’s eyes finally met his.

“He’s 29.”

“Exactly. He’s a millennial.”

“Your new fan base is made up of mostly millennials, Richie. And Gen Z’ers,” Eddie rolled his eyes, crossing the kitchen and realising in his haste that he had left his water but was too stubborn to turn back, trudging on towards the living room.

Only to have his way blocked by the garish, tuxedo T-shirt that Richie had insisted on wearing to his press junket despite Beverly desperately pleading with him no to. In compromise, she had designed him a very sexy faux-leather jacket that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders very nicely.

Not that Eddie noticed, or anything.

Liar liar pants on—

He slowly raised his gaze, eyebrows furrowing as he saw an enigmatic expression cross Richie’s face.

“That Ron guy seemed pretty into you.”

Eddie frowned.

“You mean Ross?”

“Whatever,” Richie waved a hand dismissively, his eyes bouncing around the room, “he was flirting up a storm with you at the bar.”

Eddie snorted, “Ross was just being friendly, Richie. He saw that I was on my own when you were—”

“He was flirting with you, Eddie. He couldn’t have been more obvious than if he shoved a rose between his teeth and asked you to tango.”

Eddie’s lips, the traitors, twitched at that. He cleared his throat.

“I’m pretty sure I know when someone is flirting with me, Richie.”

“Really?” Richie scoffed, the pitch of his voice climbing as he threw up his hands in exasperation, “see, I don’t think you do, Eds. Fuck, I’ve been flirting with you since 1986 and look where—”

He cut himself off abruptly, but it was too late.

Eddie watched as Richie froze, his eyes as wide as saucers behind his glasses.

His heart began to race.

“You…what? Rich—”

“Nothing, forget it,” Richie held up his hands in surrender and that’s when Eddie caught it.

The remnants of a dark smudge.

Eric’s phone number.

Or what used to be his number anyway.

Eddie’s own hands shot out before he knew what was happening, both grasping the larger hand and tugging it closer.

“Did you rub it off?”

He kept his gaze carefully trained on Richie’s palm as he heard his breath hitch.

“…maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna get ink poisoning—why the fuck do you think, Eddie?”

His grip tightened around Richie’s fingers as his eyes slowly lifted.

They stared at one another, the silence ringing loud in the kitchen.

“I…” Eddie floundered, desperately wracking his brain for some words to form a coherent sentence.

Don’t get your hopes up, Kaspbrak. You know how that always ends.

Richie must have taken his hesitance for a dismissal however as he heaved a heavy sigh and began pulling out of his grasp.

“Forget it, Eds, I’m tired and a little tipsy. I’m just gonna go to—”

“I was jealous.”

Richie stilled, his eyes darting back to Eddie’s, his hand still firmly in his grip.

“You were?”

Eddie heart hammered against his rib cage so hard he felt it might burst out of his chest Alien-style any second now.

What the fuck are you doing, dickwad?! This is not a part of The Arrange—

“Yeah, Richie, I was. Am. Jealous,” he swallowed the lump in his throat, squeezing Richie’s hand tight as he forced himself to continue. “I—that guy was hot and young and I’m not and—”

Richie closed the space between them, crowding Eddie back against the kitchen counter, bending his knees to catch Eddie’s eye.

“Eddie, trust me when I say this, man. You were the hottest person in that entire bar tonight.”

Eddie let out a loud snort, refusing to meet his stare.

“Yeah righ—”

Fingers clasped his scared cheek, forcing his head up.

His breath stuttered at the sheer sincerity in Richie’s eyes.

“I’m serious, Eds. I could barely take my eyes off you all night. I—all I kept thinking about was getting you home and…” he trailed off, his hand breaking from Eddie’s face to drag down his neck, chest, stomach, to finally rest, feather-light on his belt.

A bolt of arousal shot through Eddie’s abdomen.

Along with his mouth, Richie had very, very talented hands too.

But they were getting off track.

Shaking his head, Eddie forced his foggy, horny brain back online, stepping around Richie and trying to catch his breath. This was important, he couldn’t get sidelined with the promise of sex. He had known that this was a long time coming, pretty much ever since they started in the first place.

All good things must come to an end. Literally and figuratively…

“We need to call it off, Richie.”

He watched as Richie’s shoulders sagged, his entire body deflating like a balloon as he drained the last of his beer and shuffled across to the recycling, avoiding Eddie the entire way.

“Okay, Eds. If that’s what you want. Consider Fight Club disbanded.”

There was that almost robotic voice again. Completely void of emotion. So very hard to read.

“It’s…it’s not what I want,” Eddie found himself admitting before he could think better of it, “but it’s what you need, Rich. What you deserve.”

Richie whirled around suddenly, brow furrowed, eyes shining bright.

“What I deserve ? The fuck does that mean?”

Eddie sighed, not wanting to have to explain himself further but knowing he had to. Shrugging, he ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to maintain eye-contact.

“You just…you deserve more than my dry hand-jobs and amateur blow-jobs, man. I—I know when we started this it was a way for us to blow off some steam but…you’re out and proud and deserve so much more than our arrangement. So much more than what I…”

He trailed off, eyes lowering.

“I just want what’s best for you, Rich.”

And it’s not me.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might already have what’s best for me?”

Richie didn’t sound robotic, anymore. Now he sounded downright incredulous.

“Uh—”

“No, ‘course it didn’t,” he continued, stepping closer, ducking his head to catch Eddie’s eye, “‘cause instead of asking me, you just went ahead and decided you knew what was best for me. But you’re wrong, Eds. So fucking wrong I—I don’t even know where to begin explain—”

He cut himself off, tilting his head to the ceiling as if asking the heavens for help. Which, for Richie, was really saying something.

Shit.

“Why were you jealous, Eds?”

Richie’s voice was small, now. Resigned. As if fearful of his answer.

“Was it—was it that a hot, young blond was flirting with me and not you?” he asked, tilting his head back down from the ceiling and staring straight into his soul, laser-focussed.

“Or was it that I was flirting with a hot, young blond and not you?”

Eddie’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I thought you weren’t flirting?” he gasped out, biting his bottom lip.

Richie let out an awful, humourless laugh, his eyes shining in a way that had Eddie’s stomach twisting painfully.

“Okay. Okay, Eddie,” he held up his hands again, taking several steps backwards, out towards the living room, “I hear you loud and clear. Say no more,” he paused, sounding more resigned than Eddie had ever heard him, lifting his shoulder in a one-armed shrug, “‘S like you said. We’re just best friends who get each other off. That can change whenever you want. I get it. Good night.”

Eddie watched as he turned on his heel and began walking out of the room.

“I was jealous that he was flirting with you and laughing with you and…fucking touching you when that was all I wanted to do!”

Richie stopped dead in his tracks.

Eddie scrambled forward, his mouth running away from him, “I was so fucking pissed that some hot fucking himbo got to drape himself all over you, without a care in the world as if you were free and single because—”

The rest of his sentence lodged in his throat.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath, staring at the hard line of Richie’s shoulders, his heart samba drumming in his chest.

Well, you’ve come this far, Kaspbrak.

“Because I…I want you. All the time. Not—not just since The Arrangement. Since…shit, since I was a kid. And these last few months have given me just a taste of what life would be like if I could…if I could have you. And I…I hate that it’s just made me realise that I want more. Not just hand jobs and blow jobs here and there. I wanna…I wanna flirt with you in public, and flaunt you on my arm and…and fucking kiss you goodnight and good morning and just because I feel like it. I wanna sleep next to you and fuck you and get a fucking dog with you. I want all of it. All of you.”

A horrible, heavy silence followed his words, marred only by Eddie’s gasping breath as he fought to catch it. His heart sank lower and lower with each passing beat. He couldn’t ever remember a time that Richie had gone this long without making some kind of noise, so he did what any good risk analyst would do. He started mentally making contingency plans for how he could salvage their friendship.

I’ll move out immediately. Leave the group chat for a while. It’ll be awkward, but eventually we might be able to—

“Himbo?”

Eddie gaped as Richie finally turned around, staring wide at him, a small but definite smile on his face.

“W-What?”

Richie’s smile grew bigger.

“You called Eric a himbo. I didn’t think you kept up with today’s slang, Eds,” he tilted his head, apparently amused as he started to close the distance between them.

“Really?” Eddie groused, staring at him, “that’s your response to everything I just said? What the fuck, Rich—”

Lips crashed into his, a large hand clutching his cheek and another squeezing his hip, propelling him backwards, colliding them both into the kitchen counter. Eddie let out a rough ‘Oomph!’ but there was no way in hell he was breaking this kiss. Whose dumb idea was it to enforce Pretty Woman rules anyway? To withhold oneself from a mouth as talented as Richie’s? That was just fucking martyrdom.

The kiss was feverish, desperate as they clung to one another, knocking over various knick-knacks that Richie insisted on keeping on the kitchen counters, Eddie’s tongue tracing along Richie’s bottom lip, his teeth nipping just slightly. He sighed as Richie groaned, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss, his hands raking up and down Eddie’s body as if he couldn’t decide where to rest them. Eddie buried his own hands in Richie’s hair, clutching tightly, using the leverage to do a little pushing of his own, shoving him back against the kitchen table.

Richie let himself be manhandled, stumbling backwards, almost tripping over his own feet if Eddie didn’t have a firm grip on him. The back of his legs bumped up against the table with a soft thump. Eddie’s grip left Richie’s hair to fly to his waist, tightening as he urged him up. Richie took a second to get with the program, too preoccupied with sucking on Eddie’s tongue to do much else. But eventually, he scattered the place-mats and newspaper and stress-ball from off the table and he heaved himself up, arms reaching down to clasp the back of Eddie’s legs, lifting him up with him until he was kneeling, knees either side of his hips.

The kiss broke.

Their eyes met.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat when he saw moisture gathered behind Richie’s glasses as he stared at Eddie like he was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

“I’m in love with you, by the way,” Richie murmured, quietly but firmly, as if they were words he had long since lived with, “have been since I was twelve years old. In case that wasn’t clear.”

A little line formed between his eyebrows as he cleared his throat, “It’s—it’s okay, though. You don’t have to say it back or anything, I know it’s a lot and—”

“I’m in love with you too, dickwad. In case that wasn’t clear.”

They stared at one another, twin smiles gracing their faces before Richie leaned forward, capturing his lips once more.

This kiss was softer, slower, but god…

Eddie could feel thirty years of emotion flowing between them, as if Richie was pouring every ounce of pining, yearning, ache and love that he had ever felt for Eddie into it.

The burn of tears welled up behind his eyes as Richie’s hands clasped his cheeks, his thumb gently tracing his scar. They eventually had to break for air, but didn’t go far, their lips barely an inch apart as they heaved in breaths, until Eddie leaned forward again, pecking the tiniest of kisses against Richie’s mouth.

Fuck Fight Club and Pretty Woman rules.

Richie leaned up, returning the kiss that was more the pressing of smiles but still had Eddie’s stomach flipping with butterflies.

“God, Eds. I’ve wanted to kiss you practically my whole life.”

Eddie hummed, raking a hand through his hair and straightening his slightly askew glasses.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” he sighed, resting their foreheads together, “I just…I just knew that kissing you would be too much. Would make me wish too much and hope too much and—”

“Me too,” Richie nodded, bumping their heads gently, practically going cross-eyed as he fought to keep eye contact, “you were right. I wouldn’t have coped with kissing you without constantly wanting more and hating myself for it. Even though I did anyway. Always have,” he laughed a little self-deprecatingly, “but ya know, I’m used to that.”

Eddie’s heart panged.

“Fucking Derry.”

“Fucking Derry,” Richie agreed.

“Dumb Eddie.”

“No,” Richie shook his head, leaning back to properly look at Eddie, “not dumb at all, Eds. We—that shithole fucked both of us up, right? All seven of us. So, don’t feel dumb about not picking up on my giant heartboner for you back in the day, alright? I…I did everything in my power to hide it ‘cause I was scared shitless. Homophobic clowns and Bowers, you know? And now…now we’re so fucking repressed I still marvel we managed to con ourselves into The Arrangement in the first place.”

Eddie snorted, silently agreeing until that snort turned into a groan, this one of discomfort as his knees gave a painful twinge.

“We’re too old to fool around on the kitchen table, Rich…” he breathed, his breath bouncing off Richie’s mouth, “my knees are fucking killing me.”

Richie huffed out a laugh, squeezing his hips and nudging him back down to the ground and shuffling to stand up himself.

“Fuck!” He hissed as his thigh roughly collided with the leg of one of the chairs, knocking it over with a clatter.

“As graceful as ever, Rich,” Eddie teased, reaching down to gently rub his palm along the back of Richie’s thigh, a small smirk spreading across his face.

“If you take me to bed, I can kiss it better. And other places too.”

Richie Tozier had never moved so fast in his entire life. And that included the time he was chased by a murderous space clown.

They collectively collided with no less than four pieces of furniture, one novelty-sized pencil that Richie insisted on keeping in the hallway, and tripped over a copy of Bill’s new book before they made it to bed. But that just meant there was more to kiss better.

They were allowed to do that, now. Kiss and so much more.

And all because they stopped living their lives using the ‘logic’ of two dumb ‘90s movies.

Read my other friends-with-benefits Reddie fic here

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