#not to say that it's all harmful or useless that's too broad

[thedragonsfate]

since I'm thinking abt it, I feel like it's always a good time for the reminder that your kidneys main function is to filter your blood to balance your body's fluids and remove waste to be released out of your body in your urine

if your kidneys are functioning properly then they are already doing any "cleansing of toxins" your system may need automatically all of the time, just like they're doing in the bodies of countless other species

The human body is very successful at surviving and has evolved to do so!! it's a very cool thing the way your body works to support your everyday life in ways that can pretty much eliminate the need to manually enact basic survival functions like the beating of your heart or the filtering of waste harmful to your body!

I guess I just wanna say like. unless you truly have kidney disease or other organ failures/disfunctions - in which case definitely do seek medical intervention - you can trust your body to take care of that for you

don't let anybody shame you into thinking you should be out here doing cleanses and paying significant money to try to hack into what your body is already doing for you naturally,

and try not to let human intelligence and ego undermine the success of a body plan that has been successful for vertebrates for at LEAST tens of millions of years

[i-did-not-mean-to]

ℍ𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕟

The people have spoken in this poll.

Here is the Bonus chapter to my TSF (S)wiped out.

True to the spirit of the story, the title is a song title. (Honest Man by Ben Platt)

Words: 4.8 k (I've tried to make it worth your while)

Characters: Thorin x Bilbo

Warnings: Some internalised homophobia, some insecurity, a kiss

Bilbo looked up in surprise when Thorin ambled into the bar on a Thursday night, dressed to the nines, and holding a pitiful bouquet of daisies in his broad hands.

“Did one of the ladies convince you after all?” he asked and almost set the glass he was drying down beside the counter in his puzzlement; there was a sick, unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t want to investigate.

It was but surprise, he tried to tell himself. He had been at the garden party, and he had seen the women completely forget about Thorin within half an hour of their arrival.

At least the first date was having a good time, drinking Dwalin under the table, while the sopping wet cat of a lady had been utterly engrossed in telling her whole life story to a very sympathetic looking Ori who had awkwardly patted her hand at regular intervals.

“She’ll get him to marry him before the day is over,” Bilbo had whispered.

Visibly surprised, Thorin had narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Better him than me, I’d say.”

“It’s not the crystal-peddling one, is it?” Bilbo now asked and shuddered at the thought of the woman who had been kicked out from the festivities after conning Kíli into buying a whole stock of utterly useless stones and oils.

“What?” Thorin blushed; he had not listened to a word Bilbo had said because he was so relieved to see a friendly face. “What about her? I’m sure she’s in jail or in an institution by now—ask me if I care.”

“Do you care?” Bilbo complied with a crooked grin.

“No, maybe the dragon lady can get her off lightly—why are we talking about my failed dates again? It’s done, it’s over—Dís had a funeral for my potential and we’ve all wept.” Thorin gave a short bark of laughter and gingerly put the flowers down on the counter in front of Bilbo.

“Either way, Bofur has invited the last one to an exposition on doilies,” he then explained slowly. “He was so thankful for the introduction that he…his cousin has a restaurant, did you know?”

Sniggering, Bilbo shook his head. He had been delighted to meet Thorin’s friends and family, but he was far from remembering everyone who had attended the garden party, let alone recall what they did for a living.

“So, I’ve got a reservation—very sought after, I’ll have you know—courtesy of Bofur…and I wanted to invite you.”

Picking up the same glass again and polishing exactly one hand width of the rim, Bilbo stared at Thorin in confusion. “Me?” he finally squeaked. “Why?”

“You’re the only good thing that has come out of this ordeal,” Thorin admitted sheepishly. “You had my back through the whole thing, and I wanted to show my…gratitude.” It was but half a lie, a euphemism really, he told himself encouragingly as he saw Bilbo’s face cycle through a multitude of contradicting feelings within a few seconds.

“Would it be too sad to invite your sister for dinner?” Bilbo quipped, but his voice was a little unsteady on the delivery of the snarky undertone.

“Oh, if I have to sit through another evening with a demanding, dissatisfied, disapproving female anytime soon, I’ll run mad,” Thorin groaned, “be she my sister or the currently reigning Miss Universe.”

“All right then,” Bilbo agreed, forcing his cheery nonchalance to the surface with all his might. “I reckon it cannot do me any harm to eat in another establishment for once. When is your reservation? I’ll see if I am free.”

“Whenever you are free,” Thorin replied just a little too fast and too fervently. “I’ve not settled a date yet—I wanted to check with you when you’d be available.”

Bilbo blushed furiously. It hit him like a ton of bricks that Thorin had not invited him because he had not found anybody else to go with him on a particular night—he had wanted Bilbo specifically to spend the evening with him in a fancy restaurant and had taken precautions in his planning of the outing to make it so.

Having watched Thorin jump through every imaginable flaming hoop in the name of being a good date, Bilbo of course knew how dedicated the other man was to these things, but he had never considered the possibility of ever being on the receiving end of such generosity and kindness himself.

“Tomorrow? I can find someone to man the fort for me—I’ve not taken time off in years, I think I deserve that,” Bilbo mused out loud.

“Tomorrow it is,” Thorin said, confident that he’d get a table for the next day. Bilbo could appreciate and even envy that kind of self-assurance and faith.

“Do I meet you there or…”

“I can pick you up here or…”

Lifting a slightly trembling hand to his burning cheeks, Bilbo scribbled his home address on a cocktail napkin and handed it over jerkily—it was surprisingly hard to pry his fingers off the cheap paper though.

“Shall we say 7 o’clock?” Thorin asked, his eyes gleaming with triumph and boundless joy.

Bilbo nodded, feeling increasingly like a wooden doll that had been turned into a real boy unexpectedly.

“Good, I am looking forward to it. Wear something nice!” Thorin chirped and turned to the door without having ordered a drink; usually, this went against the house rules and would have merited a stern scolding by Bilbo but, on this one occasion, the flustered barkeeper decided to make an exception.

“Thorin!” he called faintly. “You do know that I am gay, right?”

There, it was out. Bilbo thought that it had been implied and referenced often enough for Thorin to get the hint, but he wanted to make absolutely sure that neither one of them was misconstruing what would happen the next day.

“Hmmm,” Thorin hummed over his shoulder, winking at Bilbo with a flash of charisma he had not lavished liberally on his female dates. “That’s why I brought you flowers. There are more where those came from, you know?”

“I love flowers,” Bilbo exclaimed passionately before he could remember his good manners and remind himself not to look overeager or spoiled.

“Then you shall have them,” Thorin grinned. “See you tomorrow!”

Bilbo snarled like a feral creature at this wardrobe; the old, weathered wood did not think his frustration worthy of a reply though and merely kept gaping at the fool its owner was making of himself out of its open drawers and doors.

“Wear something nice,” he muttered under his breath as he discarded the cream-coloured shirt he had been wearing for the last 5 minutes—he had given that one a longer chance than the five that had been tried and rejected before.

Picking up the third shirt again, he eyed it suspiciously. He liked the rich green colour and the fabric felt nice under his fingertips, but the cut was rather unfortunate as it would allow Thorin to see the smidgen of pudge he had not been able to get rid of. Pilates and conscious eating be damned!

Thorin was not a monster, he tried to remind himself; he had sat through dates with five women who had looked very different from one another, and he had not cancelled or aborted any of his meetings on account of their appearance.

Surely, he would not hold the negligible lack of perfect fitness against a man he had mainly seen only partially as Bilbo tended to hide behind the bar whenever he got flustered.

Nevertheless, Bilbo wanted to look his best, lest Thorin suspect that he was taking this date less than seriously. Maybe, he thought uncertainly, that would actually be for the better—just in case the brooding beauty had merely joked about the flowers.

Better not get his foolish hopes up! And he should hurry. And he had forgotten to comb his curls after the shower and now they had dried in a tangled mess. And it was almost time. And he had not even started on the trousers…

Just as he was about to have a panic attack on account of all the things he had clearly not considered well enough beforehand, Bilbo was interrupted in his downward spiral by the sound of his doorbell being rung.

Necessity and urgency made him jump into a nice pair of light brown trousers and pull the tight, green shirt over his unkempt head while shuffling towards the front door.

“Oh hey,” he huffed as he pulled it open, feeling like a proper romance novel hero.

Instead of the expected face—chiselled, bearded, and gleaming with mischief—he looked into a luscious bouquet of multi-coloured flowers.

“Good evening. Am I early?”

Checking his wristwatch and suppressing another groan, Bilbo assured Thorin that he was right on time. “I had a hard time choosing what to wear. Is this nice enough?”

The flowers were lowered instantly, and the electrifying glow of those startlingly blue eyes washed over a woefully agitated Bilbo appreciatively. “Absolutely perfect,” Thorin praise and extended his elbow to Bilbo. “Shall we?”

“2 minutes,” Bilbo promised, took the flowers, and dashed into the kitchen to put them into a vase. As he heard Thorin rummaging in the foyer, he allowed himself to bury his face in their fragrant beauty for a short moment before running back out and valiantly trying to slip into both his shoes at the same time.

“Don’t let my eagerness put any pressure on you,” Thorin said kindly. “We have time. I just thought we’d go there early so you can order the most complicated cocktail on the menu and watch someone else make it.”

“I am hardly that pitiless,” Bilbo snorted and shot back up as if pulled by a string. “I am all ready. Let’s go!”

In the end, Thorin did convince Bilbo to order a fancy cocktail while ordering a beer for himself.

“Bottle of that one,” Bilbo tapped the fancy card laid out in front of him, “I’ve seen what you’ve got on tap, and I think this one will be much better appreciated!”

The barkeeper stared at him for a moment before shrugging and complying.

“Ah, to have one’s own barkeeper,” Thorin sighed contentedly. “This is already a better date than any of the others!”

“Glad to be of service,” Bilbo laughed and moved the basket with peanuts resolutely out of Thorin’s reach. “You’re snacking me out of a home,” he explained with a wink, “and we’re here to have dinner, so I won’t let you ruin your appetite by gorging yourself on nuts! They only put those out because they make you thirsty.”

Staring longingly at the snack, Thorin nodded nonetheless and turned his hungry, intense gaze fully on Bilbo.

While waiting for their table to be ready, they talked about their families, their friends, and their plans in life.

“I’ve always wanted to work with people, you know? I love the bar, but it’s not as if that was all I’ve ever dreamed of…” Bilbo said dreamily, berating himself only vaguely for having downed that cocktail much too fast on an empty stomach—he rarely indulged in alcohol himself as it made him emotional and much too honest.

“I know a guy who works in construction,” Thorin replied candidly. “If you ever want to expand the business, I can give you his card.”

“Sure thing,” Bilbo giggled and leaned back, only to realise—a moment too late—that the barstool did not have a backrest. A broad, strong hand kept him from toppling from his chair though and then, Thorin’s warm breath ghosted along the shell of his ear as he pushed a discreet card over.

“That is your card,” Bilbo snorted after a single glance. “Couldn’t you simply have given me your number?”

“After all the time you’ve spend fiddling with my phone, I think you could have simply saved yours in it!” Thorin shot back, a bit miffed.

“How do you know that I didn’t?”

“I’ve checked.”

There was not much Bilbo could say to that. “All right,” he grinned and pocketed the card. “I’ll call you. About the expansion. And other things. Depending on how this evening goes…No, actually, I think I’ll call you anyway, if only to yell at you!”

“Deal,” Thorin quipped and nodded at someone across the room. “The table is ready.”

Surprise and amazement surged within Bilbo as soon as he saw it—there were slim, white candles and pale pink roses. This truly was a table laid for an intimate date rather than a friendly dinner, and he couldn’t keep his cheeks from warming visibly.

For a single heartbeat, the world seemed to stop in its tracks and every truth he had ever accepted placidly slid out of place—Bilbo suddenly longed for more. He wanted to be brave enough to turn around and simply kiss Thorin, in front of a full restaurant and his extended family, he wanted to expand his business into serving real food and maybe even offering a few rooms for rent, he wanted more than the comfortable life of a well-liked bachelor. He wanted this—this table, this atmosphere, this man—forever.

And then, that uniquely fragile and heart-wrenching moment passed, and they went back to discussing everything and nothing.

When the first course was served, Thorin realised that there had not been a single uncomfortable silence in their conversation and that he felt relaxed and happy instead of tense and miserable in a potentially romantic setting which was the first time in long years.

“So, no news from your ladies?” Bilbo circled back to the subject that haunted him.

“Hmmm? Oh yes, some keep me posted about their life. I am a great listener and a cool friend to have,” Thorin replied easily, snatching a piece of bread out of the basket Bilbo had tried to move out of his direct line of sight.

“I know,” Bilbo commented dryly and gave the breadbasket back with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s all the same,” Thorin explained slowly between bites, “friendship and love, I mean. Most of the time, it just doesn’t click and then you’re better off as friends, wouldn’t you agree? No need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

Bilbo nodded cautiously. “Do you think the opposite can happen as well? Falling in love with a friend?”

Instantly, Thorin’s eyes lit up like a chemical fire. “Isn’t that the dream? Falling in love with a friend and being loved back? That’s what dreams are made of!”

For someone who had just dragged himself through his dates as if bearing a calvary, Bilbo thought. Thorin seemed very convinced of his theory and enthusiastic about the prospect that such a thing could happen to anyone.

“So, there’s still a chance for some of them?” Bilbo couldn’t believe his own words—why couldn’t he just let it go?

“No way,” Thorin immediately assured him. “Romantic, then platonic, then romantic again? I’m afraid that goes a bit too far. No, I just want to find someone I am comfortable with.”

He should not have agreed to the delicious bottle of wine Thorin had ordered and from which a discreet waiter kept filling up their glasses, Bilbo realised at the very moment his treacherous tongue went off like a shot. “Indeed,” he heard himself say, “I am convinced that you deserve so much better than these women. None of them has even tried to get to know you or has cared even one bit about whether you wanted a refill or were hungry, or bored, or uncomfortable.”

His voice kept growing louder and more animated and yet, Thorin merely grinned at him as if his clumsy rant was pure poetry. He looked so handsome in his white button-down and dark trousers that Bilbo somehow couldn’t stop himself from complaining about how he thought none of the women deserved a second chance as they had failed to express the appropriate level of appreciation for the kind, handsome, and charming man with whom they had had the honour of spending the evening.

“My glass was always full,” Thorin reminded Bilbo gently, “thanks to you. Moreover, you’ve healed my heart by pouring all the compliments you apparently thought I missed out on upon my undeserving head right now.” His sturdy hand came to rest on Bilbo’s pacifyingly. “They are no longer important; let’s talk about something pleasant instead. Did you like your flowers?”

“Of course,” Bilbo replied and nodded his head so vehemently that his curls fanned out like a golden halo. “That was a very nice gesture. What would you like to discuss then?”

Pressing his lips together to prevent any stupid, premature outburst to ruin his chances, Thorin collected his thoughts for a moment; he was astonished and delighted to notice that he had indeed learned something during the martyrdom of his recent dating history.

He also found that he didn’t really care at all—his tense shoulders relaxed, and his smile softened gradually as the stress of the last weeks just melted away. “Anything is fine by me, anything but them. What do you have planned for this weekend?”

“Work,” Bilbo snorted. “As any other day. I’ve thought about maybe trying to get a Sunday brunch thing going.” He tapped a finger against his plush, inviting lips pensively.

Thorin’s eyebrows travelled up his forehead as a new idea took hold in his head. “If I come by to look around the premises and tell you what is possible in terms of expansion, I’d take a test-brunch as my payment.”

“Is that so?” Bilbo cocked his head. “It would only be you and me though.”

“It’s only you and me now,” Thorin commented astutely. “Just the way I like things, as it turns out!”

“Well, then, by all means, be my guest. I’ll prepare a spread for you that you won’t forget!”

Somehow, Thorin did not doubt that for a single second. Bilbo was a man who truly enjoyed food; he had become the mesmerised witness of the profound and otherworldly pleasure his guest could take in a well-prepared meal, and he yearned to see that blissed-out expression on Bilbo’s soft, mobile features more often.

There were many things he longed for, now that he came to think of it: the amused little side-glance Bilbo gave him when he got extraordinarily huffy about something utterly irrelevant, the beaming smile a slightly buzzed Bilbo cracked whenever Thorin said something even remotely funny, and—more than anything else—the quiet gaze of solidarity and affection he had caught from the corner of his eye at times. Somehow, Bilbo seemed to intrinsically feel or know just what was needed to save Thorin from a disagreeable situation or an extended session of senseless brooding.

“Any allergies?” Bilbo asked, interrupting Thorin’s realisation that he could not remember ever having enjoyed a date half as much as this dinner.

“Hmm? No…sorry, I was miles away in my thoughts.”

“I could tell. Are you tired, do you want to skip dessert?” Bilbo asked gently, patting Thorin’s hand to make him understand that he was neither angry nor disappointed. “I feel like I’ve eaten my own weight already anyway.”

“Maybe,” Thorin replied with a wink, “next time? I have been told that Bombur’s chocolate soufflé is to die for.”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up at the word “soufflé” and, true to his nature, he didn’t need any more convincing or coaxing after that.

“By the way, I am not tired, no,” Thorin said when he saw a thickly laden spoon full of gooey deliciousness be ensconced firmly between Bilbo’s lips. “I was just thinking how much I like being here with you.”

“You don’t think I am a gluttonous pig?” Bilbo mouthed around his spoon, his eyes twinkling with good cheer and sugar-fuelled ecstasy.

“I don’t,” Thorin assured him; he had never given the gender of his potential partners much thought before. He had always surmised that he was just the kind of man who was only attractive to a select group of people that kept dwindling fast as the years went by—that set had been comprised of mainly women by chance or accident thus far, and Thorin had had no say in the matter or reason to contest that.

If that was about to change now, he thought placidly, he wouldn’t object to changing his habits and adapt his expectations to the reality of his prospects and desires.

Never in a thousand years would he have presumed to find such a comfortable and yet exciting potential lover in a surprisingly prim barkeeper with a wicked sense of humour and a deep love for flavourful food. Bilbo evidently loved life and—seeing him celebrate others’ successes without reticence or envy—reminded Thorin of how much he had sacrificed throughout his own existence.

“You make me feel alive,” he confessed, “the way you eat, the way you talk, the way you smile at me. It’s as if you could turn back the time and make me believe that it’s not too late for me to be happy. Is that cheesy?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded, licking his spoon, “but I love cheese. Actually, the olives they served with the bread. Do you know where they get them from?”

“They pickle or brine or marinate them themselves,” Thorin replied sheepishly. “I do not know. I am a mediocre cook.” That was a bold lie; his cooking was positively awful, but he didn’t want Bilbo to know. After this charming evening, Thorin would crawl to his sister and implore her to impart her valuable wisdom to redress that flaw as soon as he could.

“Hmmm, I wonder if they’d share the recipe,” Bilbo mused aloud. For a moment, Thorin was taken in by his casual musings, but then he realised that Bilbo’s eyes were just a smidgen too feverish now even though his initial inebriation had worn off long since.

“What is the matter?”

“Are you playing me, Thorin?” Bilbo asked in a quiet, shivering voice. “I am not like those women; I don’t put my heart on the line recklessly.”

“I am not. Why do you say that?”

“I’ve watched you go on dates with 5 women in about as many weeks,” Bilbo exclaimed, clapping his hand over his trembling lips when a few other stragglers turned to him in startled surprise or outright annoyance. “I…Do you even…”

“I don’t care,” Thorin said firmly, the conviction that he was on the right track constantly growing within his heart. “I just know that you make me feel good about the world, life, and myself. When you’re around, everything seems a little brighter and less fatal than I’ve always thought it’d be, and I want that in my life.”

“A friend,” Bilbo muttered. “I can be your friend—you’re an amazing person to be around and you’re, as always, too hard on yourself. You’re actually not so bad yourself and you’ve been the only source of entertainment these last few weeks—I really have to get something new going to spruce the old dig up.”

Me, Thorin thought desperately. In his mind, he could see it—a crystal clear vision of perfect bliss. He’d come to the bar after work and sit by the counter, telling Bilbo about his day.

His friends could come, and maybe his disastrous dates could become regulars as well, who knew? He certainly wouldn’t mind keeping them in his life as casual acquaintances.

Saturday sessions on the job site, Sunday brunches. Everything—his plans of letting his nephews slowly take over more important clients and bear more responsibility in the firm as well as Bilbo’s designs for his own place—suddenly made sense.

Despite the late hour, Thorin felt invigorated and refreshed as after a long and restful night.

“Bilbo,” he interrupted the frantic babbling about avocado toast and different swatches of pastel colours gently but firmly. “I am not asking you to be my friend.”

Thorin took out his wallet and left a generous tip, knowing that Bombur would send the actual bill to his office for discretion purposes. “Let’s go; it’s a fine night and I think we could both do with a little digestive walk, don’t you think?”

Nodding dumbly, Bilbo allowed himself to insert his hand into the crook of Thorin’s elbow and be led out of the fancy, by now almost entirely empty, restaurant as if he was indeed the guest of honour of the night. A soppy smile struggled to take hold of his mouth and distort it into an unforgivably silly expression of emotion, but he managed to bite it back just in time as Thorin’s luminous gaze fell upon his face.

“Oh, you were made to be seen under the stars,” Bilbo whispered as all the blues, blacks, and silvers of Thorin’s complexion melted into the background of a starry night sky to create an ephemeral work of art that was painted by the hands of fate just for his own momentary enjoyment. “If only I had known—I’d opened the outdoor seating for your dates.”

“Humbug,” Thorin chuckled. “They’d have fallen ill and I’d have had to foot the bill for their medical expenses. Thank you, but no, thank you.”

Steering Bilbo confidently, he took him to an outlook platform over a small river and they felt the cool night air make their hair dance in the fragrant breeze. The whole scene felt absolutely magical and otherworldly to Bilbo who sighed longingly under his breath.

“As much as I love your bar,” Thorin said in a low, vibrating voice, “there are many places I’d want to take a date outside of it. This is but one of those.”

Bilbo hummed patiently, turning up his face to bask in the beauty of his companion—he had only ever seen Thorin in the pub and, now that he had spent a whole evening with him, he had to agree. Indeed, he himself desired to see Thorin in other contexts: illuminated by flickering candlelight and bathed in the pale gleam of the moon, sitting in the blazing afternoon sun…and waking up to the first, shy rays of the nascent morning.

“I think,” Thorin went on, lifting his hand to grip Bilbo’s chin tenderly between his thumb and crooked index, “that I want to take you to those places. Are you game? You don’t have to…I mean…There’s no need to spare my feelings now out of pity only to break my heart later.”

Instantly, Bilbo’s own heart started throbbing in empathy and affection; Thorin had experienced so much rejection and disappointment lately that he came to simply expect that things would end badly for him.

Nonetheless, he had been brave enough to try something completely different and ask out someone who was not at all in the usual pool of potential partners for him—and he had done marvellously. Bilbo could not remember having ever gone on such a beautiful and utterly bewitching date before, and every fibre of his being dreaded the end of this night.

What if it had all been a dream?

“I’d love that,” he replied breathlessly, resolving to match Thorin’s reckless courage and giving in to foolish hope against all odds.

“Good,” Thorin grinned winningly.

A moment later, his lips—warm and sensual—brushed against Bilbo’s in a tentative kiss that felt like a caress and tasted sweet and refreshing like a splash of spring water.

Damn it, Bilbo thought hazily, and threw his arms around Thorin’s neck, giving his massive frame a vigorous tug until they collided in the stillness of the picturesque night scene like two meteors burning across the endless black backdrop.

Their kiss turned feverish, thrumming with words unspoken and questions unasked, while their hands roamed forcefully and desperately across each other’s backs and sides as if in search of something to hold on to as the world spun out of focus.

“I’ll come by on Sunday,” Thorin promised as he finally pulled back; his face radiated with joy in the ambient obscurity and his thumbs brushed caressingly against Bilbo’s shivering ribs. “And I’ve changed my mind about the price of my consultation. A brunch, yes, but also about two thousand more of these kisses. Generous as I am, I shall let you pay them off by regular instalments."

"Sounds like a deal,” Bilbo agreed, dizzy with relief and anticipation. “How about you come by Saturday night and allow me to make a down payment after closing time?”

“Ah, you’ve got a sound mind for business,” Thorin cackled, pulling Bilbo into a tight, warm embrace and leaning his bearded cheek against the top of the curly head of the shorter man tenderly. “I can see that we’ll get along just fine.”

@lordoftherazzles, @mysandwichranaway thank you for your encouragement and your support.

Lots of love from me!

And all my gratitude to the Bagginshielders for having voted so fervently for their OTP; I hope I could bring this story to a satisfactory close for y'all.

[doublejade-enthusiast]

Dazai and the ADA in my Souheki Roleswap! AU:

(ft. badly edited designs because I can’t draw, so you’re stuck with this—)

⚠️TW: suicide attempt, murder, past self harm⚠️

Roleswap! Dazai:

Dazai Osamu was a young child, standing on the edge of a bridge, ready to jump off, any second now: the only problem was, he had decided to act out his suicide attempt in broad daylight, he knew no one was going to help him anyway, people were too selfish to aid a soul who’d lost all meaning; all except one man, just as Dazai stepped even closer to the edge, an older man in a yukata, yanked him by his shirt’s collar and prevented his drowning. The man, started yelling about how his life was precious and toying with it like that was unjust, Osamu, though a little shaken, remarked he had nothing in this life: the older guy, probably in his 40’s, introduced himself as Fukuzawa Yukichi, he later explained how he also despised existence for a while, because of his past doings, and it seemed the child could fully understand what he meant, Fukuzawa cautiously approached the kid as brown eyes followed his movements; it took a few seconds for Dazai to realize Yukichi was now standing in front of him, feeling chills down his spine as silver eyes examined him with a serious expression.

“What’s your name, child?”

“…Dazai, Dazai Osamu, why?”

“how long have you been doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Wasting your life away.”

Dazai felt somewhat personally attached by the last sentence, his body tensing up in anticipation, though nothing happened, Yukichi just stood there, patiently waiting for an answer to his words: Dazai’s bandaged hand scratched the back of his head as if to say he had no actual answer than “life is boring”, Fukuzawa, slowly placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as to not frighten him, though he froze:

“You want to belong somewhere, right?”

“..yeah.”

“Then… please, stay alive.” “..”

“Regardless of what this life is to you, please.. stay alive.”

Now that sent Dazai into “silent-reboot mode”, the hand resting on his shoulder was relaxed and wasn’t intending any harm towards him, Yukichi had simply asked him to not end his life, it had no hidden intentions or meanings, yet he felt threatened, threatened by the fact an adult was not slamming his fist in his face for just existing: Yukichi seemed to sense this, and was slowly removing his hand from the kid’s shoulder, as a reaction, Dazai moved closer; in disbelief of what Fukuzawa said, maybe he was even moved.

“..but, why?? I’m useless, just like my ability..”

“Are you? Or do you just believe who says so?”

Osamu was finally rendered speechless, having no valid counter argument to the truth, he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that, he was not the useless existence his mother always shunned, or the reason his father ran off with another woman when he was five, or why his mother was sick: he couldn’t even formulate comprehensible words, his eyes had begun filling with tears, and he hugged Fukuzawa without a second thought, which slightly surprised him, he patted the little boy’s head.

“I’m scared…!”

“You’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY FOUNDER, DETECTIVE DAZAI OSAMU:

Dazai Osamu is a skilled Detective of the Armed Detective Agency, forming it along with Fukuzawa, rescuing the “Angel Of Death” Yosano Akiko, and Kunikida Doppo’s daily pain in the ass: along with Fukuzawa, he founded the Agency, despite no longer wearing bandages, his suicidal tendencies are still present, though their impact significantly lessened thanks to Yukichi: he's seen to have a sibling-like relationship with Yosano and fatherly protectiveness over their newest co-worker, Atsushi Nakajima, his underling; Dazai still, almost entirely relies on guns and his ability, which is why his combat stile hardly changes at all, though he is more merciful to enemies. Yosano frequently bickers with him, although he does not listen, she only stops when Kunikida gets involved in the mess: having absolutely no ties to do the mafia in this timeline, his violent ways also highly decrease, fortunately never meeting Mori or Akutagawa, though his flirty attitude wasn't affected (poor waitress), he quickly took a liking to Natsume-Sensei and, like his mentor, he often carries cat snacks in his sleeves, should he encounter any stray cats.

[sethshead]

If “genocide” means any horrible action by one group against another, then it loses its specific moral and legal meaning. It becomes just another word that partisans use against one another. I’m pro-Palestine, therefore I call this a genocide; you’re pro-Israel, therefore you deny it. That represents a terrible loss for the rule of law, and the persecuted minorities that are the targets of actual genocide. No one who cares about minority rights, indigenous rights, or human rights should be cavalier in the use of this term. Finally, it does not aid the cause of Palestinians to level this charge. The genocide charge enflames hatred against Israel, and in turn exacerbates Israelis’ sense of being alone and isolated in a world of antisemites who will say anything against them. All that supports the extremists on Israel’s right wing. This is not to suggest that solidarity with Palestine means supporting the Israeli action — that would be ridiculous. It is simply to say that all of us — left, right, and center; sympathetic to one side or the other or both — need to be careful with language and contribute to some eventual resolution, or at least mitigation, of this conflict. Painting the enemy in terms of good and evil does a disservice not merely to the “other side” but to the very prospect of coexistence between two peoples with complex and interwoven histories.

War is not genocide. Even the war crime of intentionally targeting civilians is not genocide. Genocide is a crime against humanity that encompasses the intentional extermination of an entire people. It is a major charge, a capital one. It is rare, too: in the 20th Century we see the Herero, Armenian, Holocaust, Rwandan, and possibly Bosnian genocides. The crimes of Stalin's regime against the Kalmyks, the ethnic cleansing of Jews from the Muslim world, the violence of India's partition, and more recently the ethnocide against the Uighur and Russian plans to eradicate Ukrainian distinctive identity, don't reach this high plateau. If your definition of "genocide" is so broad that it can be applied to the experience of German under allied bombs in World War II, then your definition is functionally useless save as an emotionally weighted, manipulative cudgel.

Which is exactly what the misuse of "genocide" is intended to do. Just as Mahmoud Abbas's doctoral dissertation minimized the Holocaust and placed blame for it on Zionists, pro-Palestinians use the charge in order to trivialize Jewish trauma and reduce it to and unfortunate and exaggerated consequence of any conflict. They want to eliminate one of the central reasons Israel exists: as a safe haven for a globally persecuted minority. After all, they deny that life was at all difficult for Jews as dhimam under the burdens and limitations of Muslim world. They need to portray Jews as historically privileged, not as victims, in order to make the case for Israel's elimination, an act that few can seriously deny would be accompanied by another genocide, given the acts and words of the most powerful and popular (not to mention well funded) Palestinian political party and military force.

So you see, those who misuse "genocide" don't want coexistence between two peoples with complex and interwoven histories. They want Jews put back in our place. They believe all the conspiracy theories about our power and influence, our plans for world domination and conquest from the Nile to the Euphrates, and want to strip us of our pride, our confidence, our self-determination, our autonomy, and our freedom. There is no compromise or accommodation with the people who use this language. They are lost causes to be ignored. We must defend ourselves and our interests, deaf to their distortions of language and history. They do not wish us well, and we are under no obligation to negate ourselves for their sake.

[sugar-petals]

♡ physical affection; levi

↳ NOTE. characterizing boyfriend levi, my passion project lmao! with some sexy moments included 👀

WORDS. ⇢ 7k

tags / warnings. ⚠️ smut, fluff, soft sub!levi x female reader, hurt/comfort hc, angst, shower sex, blowjobs + handjobs + boobjobs (yep. spoiling the captain), face-sitting, protected sex, soap kink, season 3-4 setting, no manga spoilers

Ready for a surprise? It’s not really about what kind of skinship he’s extremely selective about and what not. This is only something people would perceive about him at first glance. Instead, it comes down to how emotionally sheltered he feels. Because of his experiences, that predicates everything else. Which is why Levi’s sexuality is as complex as it is.

But also, in its sudden perfect expression once a person gives him a different perspective: That’s the time when he is touchier. The more in private, the better. The lights down low, with only a candle or two shining from another room. Broad daylight brings the harsh truths and the shaking ground. Nighttime is when Levi feels more intimate and open to caress, down his back and arms, the shoulders, the side of his neck. Done with extreme gentleness, and all of your deep respect.

If you offer him an environment of trust, Levi is open to almost anything and would even magically doze off in your arms for a little while. Breathing softly, resting for the first time in weeks, the brows becoming less tense the deeper he sleeps. You asking if you can stroke his hair (carefully, not messing it up or anything) is something he can’t say no to. The closet romantic in him will fulfill you any reasonable wish as soon as you’d ask anyway.

We know how receptive the captain is to a request, and how much there can be a soft spot for somebody in his heart. If you’re forward enough to just ask, Levi sets himself that goal and opens up. He is diligent with it just as you’d expect. That especially includes the things he says are „absolute horseshit nonsense“ and „disgusting, useless activities“ when reacting to newly formed couples kissing in the survey corps at the other end of the room. Is he a hypocrite and a hater? Actually— not at all.

Levi is a raised rather than born skeptic. Between courage and care, he is always gonna be torn. Both didn’t work in his favor at some point. But at the end of the day, he fears recklessness more than being cautious. Looking at these couples, he knows that they could lose each other the very next day. Or hell, the next hour. Not everybody has 200 titan kills. 

Not everybody is a physically indestructible Ackerman destined and designed to escape death and outlive others whether they want it or not. And showing themselves this vulnerable out in the open is even more dangerous considering all the political intrigues, chaos, attacks, and espionage going on.

When he’s scoffing at skinship in the survey corps, it’s not his intent to ruin the couples and their little happiness in the present moment (nothing he sees as more tragically precious), or say only he can have a relationship because he’s strong enough to make it survive. If anything, Levi is the prime example of how all his connections were doomed exactly because of his status pulling in all the danger. He very well and painfully knows.

What I mean is: He sees the brutality of consequences that can create more misery than if two people would just go about their business. Levi already dreads that the same might happen to him. But after all, the behavior of others is easier to rectify than his own undeniable feelings for you. Which he cannot control in any way, which is why he reacts to others instead. Looking at other people holding hands, he’s also afraid how dabbling in love is a distraction from threats that can even backfire on uninvolved others if someone is suddenly in harm’s way.

Levi does associate physical touch with something that takes an otherwise observing mind off when it shouldn’t be. To him, it creates something so valuable that can become an unintended burden through all kinds of circumstances, he’s seen it all, it’s terrible he had to. And the reason why he has such a torn relationship with it. You really have to know your stuff to build a resilient little bubble where Levi is not constantly hypervigilant and either past- or future-focused.

Which is pretty damn hardwired into him. It’s almost impossible to bring on that kind of atmosphere spontaneously. It has to be ritualized. His intelligence comes with the downside of overthinking and having problems with spontaneous romance, it’s good to direct his thought into something that’s always done in a specific, structured way. You sit down with tea, put the candles on, Levi finishes cleaning his weapons, makes everything combat-ready and usable in seconds, and you carefully lay down on his impeccably made bed together.

Which he never uses, Levi sleeps in chairs. Or on the ground, so he can feel any titan steps in the distance with his whole body, using the cleanest possible mat or towel as a mattress and nothing else. The bed he basically just makes to have it neat, and for you, and to have a spot to lay together. 

But yeah. He will never remove his harness. Not even when you’re sleeping with each other. He’s not once gonna risk having to put it on in a hurry. The only time you will be skin to skin with him is for not even five minutes under the shower. It’s when his cleanliness beats his anxiety around being always ready, which is why that’s a time to fully cherish.

And then, he really has no qualms about you wrapping your hands around his soap-covered torso in the shower anyway. It’s the only time his inner default germaphobe is not vehemently screaming inside his already heavy heart. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, this is about his demons only, confronted with the immense relief you give him. If the latter wins over his mind’s struggle, Levi might draw out the shower time sometimes.

The other voice that tells him ‚don’t make it end so soon’ is now finally convincing him. He will dial down the water stream so he can hear what’s going on outside better to compensate, to know if there’s any ruckus or approaching hazards. Levi has instructed a fast runner among the cadets to bang on the front door under any critical circumstances immediately in the first place.

Levi says he wants to save water, too. He won’t admit it, but he also turns the showerhead to a medium pressure to hear your calm, almost-quiet moans — the barracks have terribly thin walls — better when you’re sucking him off. Slowly, smoothly, not too much spit. Folded towel under your knees because Levi insists, and he is right. The showers in the survey corps have uncomfortable floor tiles. 

He makes sure you won’t get soap in your mouth as well, I don’t have to tell you that he is very circumspect. Levi isn’t usually feeling overly heated in moments like this, but he gets hard and releases fast. You swear his cum tastes like afternoon tea with milk but you won’t tell him that. And who doesn’t like tea and Levi’s homemade milk, no complaints alright.

What’s still a shame is that Levi, always being in such a constant hurry and alertness, puts too much stress on his body for him to become horny all the way. In fact, he often forgets it. He feels numb, and can’t fully take in the sensations. Levi has not been able to feel a lot of genuine pleasure in his life. 

A racing mind is an absolute sex killer, and his adrenaline spikes are so high in combat that most normal things don’t do anything for him. Which is why he brews his tea extra strong. But seriously: It’s a concerning thing. And it tells you to take your time. With his whole body, doing the things he loves the most. And what else could that be? It’s straightforward: Keepin’ it clean.

You make sure that Levi feels extra comfortable by thoroughly massaging his loins and thighs with a sponge during foreplay. Yes, you’re gently working him up. All in circles and light brushing motions. Lots of soap. Suave and bubbly, like silk on his skin. It’s handmade, with oat milk, lavender, and honey. For your honey. You regularly gift a new one to him to try out scents and have supply. You can guess how much Levi appreciates it, to the moon and back in fact. The present box is neatly stored on his office table where he can always see it.

Sending out its balmy fragrance throughout the day, making the room smell amazingly aromatic to him. His nose will never grow tired or accustomed to it. Levi puts the soapbox in a drawer within literal split seconds when someone who isn’t you enters the room. „Tsk, announce yourself when you knock…“ That could even be the newest recruit who doesn’t know anything at all about the place and people. But this is just a you and him thing.

Levi doesn’t want nosy questions from the squad even though nobody would probably even notice the soap laying there in its case, much less ask him about it or the fresh scent in the air because duh, it’s Levi’s office. But it feels absolutely personal for him — so he reacts sensitively about it. This man would probably protect your lavender soap with his blades if he had to. 

The captain is very secretive about your relationship in general. Who on earth would go as far as buy him a new scented bar of joy bi-weekly? At this point, he would crawl on hot coals, needles, lava, ice shards, desert sand, and a mile-long straight of legos (laid out by a maniacally laughing Zeke personally) for you.

Although you wouldn’t allow any of it. Nothing should ever hurt those kitty paws, I mean captain hands and captain feet. You’d put Zeke on blast on your own, luring him with a banana to confuse his senses and then, whack, homerun the monkey into the ocean with Levi’s bristle broom. Problem solved. Anyway.

 Levi wouldn’t hurt himself willingly that way either, the ice shards don’t stand a chance. He has sworn to protect his own life out of self-respect, to honor those passed by living on bravely toward the goal they worked for and being the one always coming home to you. You can rely on him.

So enough about gleaming hot coals and Zeke’s evil legos, back to the point — you already get what I mean. Levi might seem totally grumpy on the outside, but for sure is a devoted man, a caliber as always. He takes all of your presents to heart and is unbelieving as to why he’d be deserving of so much. You prove a point using the gifts as regularly as possible on his body. Where he can feel every bit of your fondness of him. And remember it with muscle memory. Oh shit, this soap does smell so good. As anything on him, who are we kidding.

Dousing Levi with all your attention is the best thing ever. He feels great relaxing with you, and his face softens up. He’s looking at you with a tiny smile in response to you whispering sweet things to him, all while you’re using the sponge on his legs, the chest, and ever-tense back that can definitely use some alleviation. „Thank you for cleaning me“ has got to be the best thing ever to hear from Levi Ackerman. It means the entire world to him. Captain, your mommy kink is showing. His arousal increasing is a natural side effect in no time.

Recently, you’ve been slipping his cock between your breasts as well, and it’s been slowing him down a lot after an eventful mission. While at the same time making him more in the moment, he really enjoys you gradually lathering him up like that. The feeling of skin on skin is amazing. It might be something that… often crosses his mind when he trains during the day, but he can blend it out for the important things. Until you do it all over again, and he ruminates about how much you turn him on until the sun rises.

You also never do a blowjob hands-free. Why would you, anyway? His body is amazingly buff and compact, you want to hold onto those gorgeous lil’ hips and his own hands that need a fair share of holding after carrying the world. You feel him twitching on your tongue when you run either hand over his ass and abs, making sure to trace across all his most erogenous spots there. What’s more: Levi feels really protected and soothed when he feels your palms on him under the streaming water, he can’t explain it.

That's why you like doing shower handjobs just as much. I don’t have to tell you that Levi really delights in them as well and his poker face regularly cracks a bit. His eyes fixate on you, you can tell the connection and involvement. He thinks your fingertips are heavenly, a welcome change to his rugged days. 

He loves how softly they tease and stimulate him with the smallest movements and subtle presses. Yes, Levi doesn’t like rough action, those are vulnerable moments. He has enough brutality elsewhere, violently jerking him off and insulting him would be entirely inappropriate and even scare him.

He’d probably brush your wrists off right away, it’d be so uncomfortable in the silence of the evening. A tender chain of kisses on the nose tip, chin, collar bone, and especially forehead gets him going a lot more. The more chaste and doting the kiss, the more he melts on the inside. 

His anxiety baseline goes down, and he feels like he can let you in. However you guide him and however you choose to indulge him with your lips, Levi is on board, quietly enjoying. Since it’s something that he’s still feeling so new to, leaving you the active role comes naturally.

Stroking him with a deep pace, carefully brushing your lips against his to give him goosebumps — Levi definitely grows into that. In those moments, he really feels taken care of, in safe hands, hands that will stay with him. He’s gonna be surprised just how good something like this feels many times. And be overwhelmed by pleasure to the point where it almost frightens him, he didn’t have that a lot until now.

The satisfaction of a spotless table simply does not compare. Just so you know: He will either be dead silent or mumble under his breath nonstop. That he is okay with you touching him below the belt and even take him in your mouth tells you how much Levi trusts you, how much he knows you love him, and how meticulously he’s already scrubbed and shaved himself beforehand. Yes, the sheer preparation. He puts a lot of work into his body. He couldn’t stand you becoming dirty.

That’s also why the shower is the place oral goes down. And even there, he uses like ten cleaning products to double rinse the stall and himself before and after. Mind you. He sees you eating healthy, brushing your teeth well. Your lips are very beautiful and a masterpiece of nature to him. So it’s not you who he thinks is dirty. Levi is pretty damn paranoid about his own skin and hygiene. If only he would think about himself the way he thinks of your body.

He feels like he has to earn it, be acceptable, and prepare himself endlessly to enjoy touch. Even then, he thinks he must be ugly and revolting. You have to respect him fussing about it rather than forcing him to cut down on his routines. You don’t criticize his perfectionism and see the motivation behind it. So instead, you reassure Levi your own way.

The more he sees you having fun and enjoying his body, the more accepted, confident, and clean he feels. Most people would like to see their partner play up the enthusiasm obviously (unless you have a ‚hiding his amazement’ emo boy kink, which is exactly why you like Levi don’t cha), but it’s particularly meaningful to Levi. Guess why he looks up to Armin’s mentality, and Hange is one of the few people who truly vibe with Levi.

She’s easily amused, dedicated, swooning, excited, and constantly eager. Levi does appreciate a bit of zeal in someone. If you’re a little ardent about touching him, it’ll give his esteem a boost he’s long needed, oh god. Nobody has the guts to praise this guy like that, even if he’s so extremely good-looking. Don’t let him off the hook there. Give him feedback, you’ll be surprised how much it resonates.

It’s already apparent to yourself how keen you are being touchy with him, hell, you’re so in love. Still, it’s a good idea to give him an idea how stoked you are. He doesn’t like it fast and brutally raw without a second thought, but passionate is a whole other debate. A simple „Levi, stay like this, let me do it“ or „Levi, you smell so good“ works wonders. Say what you think and his ease will set in. And I don’t have to tell you that you won’t look like sex is a chore anyway. With Levi, that’s an honor and a pleasure.

That he puts his faith in you and gives you his time is already a massive deal and goes against everything we know of him, what he’s used to, and how his avoidant personality works, being so ridden with losses. And it’s all because of how much you desire and approach him. That’s what it comes down to. 

Even if he’d suffer decades from yearning, he’d not go out of his way to kickstart something, never ever. He’d feel like he’d cause you so much trouble. You wanting him so badly and treating his body like a treasure on the other hand changes his mind.

It proves him wrong all the way. There is still time to enjoy love, the chance is now. Anything else would plague Levi with solitude and self-pity all over again. And the feeling of missing you around in his rooms. Two teacups on the table until he grows old and grey are his ideal of a good life, after all. He will open himself to your emotional and physical presence, realizing how touch-starved he is, and how much it improves his life to have someone to kiss and lay down next to at night.

The even breath at the back of his neck gives him a sense of finally someone sticking around with him side by side, even if he’s gone during the day. It feels good and right to be wanted by you, and nuzzling his face into your cotton dress. Your commitment gives him the little smiles and the silver lining he’s been searching for. He can’t label that feeling, but it’s joy of life and humankind, more than just a willingness for it. He would stay forever pained and bitter if he wouldn’t invite it in now, and you won’t waste that chance with being silent.

You’re attracted to everything about him, tell him, make him aware. The voice, the hair, the mannerisms, his height, his abilities, his mind, his care for others, the posture, how soft his cheeks are, the list is endless. Levi won’t miss how much he’s your type at some point. Which gives him a lot of ease, comfort. You show him that his inferiority complex was an entire smokescreen in his mind. 

He fucking deserves to be called handsome. And by the way — you can lust over him as much as you want when he’s made that time window for your couple stuff. It’s good if you make it as obvious as possible for him. Which is hard to hide anyway. You’ve been masturbating over Levi just sitting there sternly writing something. And he’s like why, and you’re like, it’s you! Look at you!

Levi does want you to touch his skin all over but it’s always sore. And he remains insecure on many days. So he only has particular comfortable spots in the first place. Since hardly anybody dares to touch him, and even if he pats someone’s shoulder nobody would ever be courageous enough to reciprocate, you would feel a bit like a lab scientist. Silently theorizing over him at first even if you really don’t have to. Other people say they’d rather run towards a titan than expose themselves to Levi’s moods, swords, and barking tone after trying to caress him in any way.

News flash, Levi has had such terrible moods since forever because there’s no affection coming to him from anywhere just because people decided he might not need it. And no, he won’t yell at you for touching. He finds it very sweet of you instead. Touching Levi always creates an occasion that will float around in his head for the entire day, that’s guaranteed. He sees how someone goes out of their way and cares for his well-being. He might not like it like standing in the middle of the whole corps, but anywhere else is fair game, at home anyway.

The pressure of dealing with threats he can manage to a degree, and he has lord how many coping strategies. The lack of love he cannot. Big difference that everybody seems to confuse. On top of how he has to be unrelenting in his position because battlefield and the Yeagers being a pain. Most people — except maybe Armin — see that as a closedness to touching altogether. 

The whole world seemingly can't intuit Levi’s craving of gentleness behind the arguably pretty convincing armor, but still. It seems like only a few souls ever think about the Levi that sits down on his bed in the evening completely depleted. You have to make it clear to yourself and him that it’s obviously a one-dimensional way of looking at Levi Ackerman and not good for him.

Which has covertly shaped how he interacts with others in return like a vicious spiral, which is why he blames solely himself for his depravation. And, how severe and untouchable the circumstances made his character. Yes, Levi despises himself for being inaccessible and unable to change it on top, added to how it happened to him over the years. 

Which he had pretty much zero influence on being basically at the gunpoint of life. It’s what you hate seeing the most and comfort him about with brewing tea. It definitely comes back tenfold, Levi won’t take it for granted when you brush out his hair and speak soothingly to him in the evening. „I don’t care, those are all reasons why you’re the apple of my eye“ seems to be what makes Levi’s heart a little mushy in particular.

He is very preoccupied with blame at the start of your relationship. Levi is torn apart by daily guilt and a constantly looming perception of failure to show an opening to his heart. He also crumbles under how the majority of people don’t take him seriously, overreact, or fear he snaps back into soldier mode — he doesn’t — when he does show affection. 

That you gaze behind his reputation and touch him without prejudice is the most important thing to him. You can ignore his mad and gloomy expression, Paradis has carved it into his face for half an eternity (the other half is for you and him when this is over). It doesn’t mean he’s angry on the inside about you. The causes for his madness are way elsewhere, knowing his early story it goes without saying. What made Levi callous and broken-hearted are things very opposite to you.

Those who only see and enjoy his fighting personality probably want him as their poster boy, people who are reflected enough to bother with the idea of a private, cuddling Levi are the only truly caring ones. Because private Levi needs that physical and emotional connection the most. Patting his cadets on their heads is only a little, albeit meaningful moment. The teacup is still half-empty regardless if you wanna think of it in those terms.

Because he can only do so much in terms of initiative — which already shocks people to the point of paralysis, which ruins the moment since he assumes it’s not appreciated then — and it’s only one-sided. Giving isn’t fully making him happy even if it’s his only option given how most people perceive him. 

The teacup only fills to the brim if Levi can let go for like half an hour getting some good ole kitty on your lap treatment. He silently lays there and enjoys your hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks genuinely peaceful that way. His hand palms gently at your thigh and knee, and rests there all tranquil while he ruminates about his day and how lucky he is to have you.

The whole ‚theorzing rather than going for it‘ thing stems from you listening to those people a bit too much at the beginning. Instead of asking Levi directly about touch, and to be fair: Not a single human being has done that yet, you try to figure him out at a distance. Which is also a good thing though. 

You learn about many Levi habits others would overlook, misinterpret, or don’t think have any meaning. The more you learn about him, the more understanding you become, the more protective you will be, the less he will avoid intimacy. Because Levi really doesn’t want to shy away, but often his body has too much memory in it to be instantly receptive. So it rather starts with the mind, then.

The irony is. Levi rejecting bonds with others as not to have them weigh heavy on his mind when fighting will only make it worse. You make a statement to him that if he fully immerses himself in what you have, he can fight better and actually be without those godforsaken regrets he’s always talking about. That’s why when you’re having sex, you make him look in your eyes and kiss their lids, and wrap your legs around him very firmly because Levi has to know he’s deeply yours. 

Hugs, the same thing. You squeeze the last curse out of him every time and tell him to hold you tight as well. You do have to tell him twice. Just because Levi is the strongest man in history, doesn’t mean he embraces very roughly. In fact, Levi is not used to this at all. Even more irony. Paradis’ ever-swearing, most badass titan killer with the physical excellence of a hundred acrobats can’t execute the simple act of putting his arms around you in a normal, casual way.

The why is the harder thing to talk about. Last time he got proper, truly loving hugs was way over 20 years ago. From Kuchel, during a time where he was too young to remember these things long-term. Let that sink in. It confuses him when he does it and even more so when others do. Kissing Historia’s hand even as a light official gesture was already completely unusual for him and a first time. 

Levi doesn’t go beyond what he sees others doing in that regard. No extra miles, just imitating. Now think of him with something as big a deal as embracing his lover for minutes. He lets his arms just hang there and you gotta make him learn how to intertwine fingers or how to press his palms on your back. You’re the one holding him tight there, while Levi’s mind and stare go blank, he’s even more speechless and perplexed after confronting his uncle back then.

I’m not kidding. You have to ask Levi to be forthcoming with those things as well, it simply does not occur to him, and he’s unsure about everything there is to it. What a loveless world this guy is in. If it already frustrates you to see him struggle, imagine how deprived he must be. One of his inner blocks is, Levi has major jealousy of guys who are what he thinks a better hugging height. It’s obviously the other way around to anybody who’d be in love with Levi. 

Of course he has the best hugging height by far. What’s not to like? He’s ideal. But in his perspective, imagine all these people above him wrapping around each other in moments of enthusiasm, shoulder-level on shoulder-level, or only with slight differences. And when it comes to him, it feels awkward because they feel strange bending down only for him and Armin.

And that’s probably the issue. Because it’s much better not to bend and try and intertwine, but just have Levi bury his face into your winter coat without a hassle. You don’t have to be perfectly chest to chest to make it work. Besides… romantic hugs are always a bit different. And, you invite Levi to do exactly that with you. Since Levi’s pet peeve is politeness, you’ll also have to show him the difference between mere courtesy and love, he hasn’t fully learned it either. 

But just so you know. Levi is not a naive baby or raging bull in a china shop once he has given his love to someone. He observes well, adapts well. When it’s heartfelt, when it’s the right moment, it comes out almost by surprise, he’s feeling it and he will respond to you. With serenity and intent.

If there’s someone who can be unpretentious with physicality, that’s him. He just has to transfer that to romantic gestures and Levi will be the perfect lover after some time. He’ll end up like, „Eh, so what. We do this hugging thing!“ — Hilarious. Levi, knowing his battle tactics, does have a sort of innate courage to approach bodies: This time, it’s about someone he wants to give pleasure and gratitude to, though. Which will feel very different. 

And you’re a lady he’s all whipped for, that changes everything. He might sort of try to lean at the wall next to you, to murmur about you kissing him after eating cake so he’s full of crumbs „and now I have to dust it all off again, hmph“, but he is not prepared for another kiss and you tickling him pinned against the wall (he’s not ticklish, but you still love it, and Levi has a thing for you being all over him despite his stoic face).

So yeah, Levi will be super grumpy and do the „Oi oi!“ thing, but also turn around so you won’t see the blush. Man, is he embarrassed. He will try to waddle away awkwardly to do paperwork, but no chance if you tug him back by the sleeve, dust off his shirt from crumbs, and squeeze his cheeks into a perfect Levi snoot. I’m telling you, he has a nice pouty face. 

He might assume that you’re out of your mind because nobody has done that with him yet, but once you tell him that you just wanna look at him because every day might be the last, he sees the point of your antics. Merely saying you kiss him just because won’t make sense to the captain, it’s gotta have a purpose for the future.  

So, you will tell him to always remember what your soothing lips do on him before he draws the blade tomorrow, and that he has plenty of filthy crumbs to come home to. „I think that’s right by what we’ve seen today“ is what he’ll admit, and carries you off to the bed to get grinding because all that stuff made him kinda turned on. Or rather, you grind, Levi on the other hand gets flustered. He complains about you being a tease at length since he’s having a huge she-pinned-me-to-the-wall boner. 

You sit on his face to take it even further and as his favorite treat, end of discussion, your goddess is here mister. Geez, you’ll make him a hot mess. That dick won’t go soft anytime soon. You’ll talk to him about when his face is already ruined with cake crumbs, he has nothing to lose, gotta clean up anyway. The grumbling noise from below tells you that the argument is a good one. For good measure, you palm at his trousers to see his legs react and his voice suddenly hitch. Ah, it’s a wonderful day.

Levi knows a thing or two about holding his breath correctly, but what he likes the most is that he feels perfectly sandwiched between thigh Rose and thigh Maria. Yeah, he does consider them his personal comfort walls and hopes they’ll always be there. Congruently, Levi wraps his arms around them, in fact it’s locking rather than wrapping, and you’re like I see wow he’s serious. 

On goes his tongue lapping away between your labia pretty much incessantly. The arousal is so intense, you have to breathe in yourself. Oh shit, Levi is gonna try to finish you off, shots fired. Not fast, but insisting. He does not bother with you panting pretty damn hard whatsoever. He’s calling people like that, but Levi might be the real brat all along.

Fair enough, he currently doesn’t hear anything, which he also loves the idea of. All day, people everywhere are talking nonsense, and now he gets to enjoy perfect silence. His ears are small, they’re easy to cover with thighs. He just goes on and on and gets you past lord how many brinks with a heated buildup. 

There are a lot of evil things Mister Zeke has said and committed, but by far the most offending thing he has yet insinuated is that Levi is not popular with the ladies. Blasphemy, treason, outrage, éclat, trickery, criminal offense, international slander, the most grueling case of fake news since the horse left the building, and no, Jean is not meant. With those oral skills, any lady interested in him would get a permanently bleeding nose and something else permanently wet as you can personally attest to.

If Paradis would even remotely know what he can do in bed (and they would if Connie told them, he lives next door), even more people would run down his house than they already do to get a piece of him. Jesus Christ, the Ackerstamina. But I mean. People are probably suspecting it. 

How can you not move like a god in bed if you can bend yourself into any Pythagorean shape mid-air. Him being a fighter also gives him experience with managing energy when you have sex, I’m not kidding. Levi can even handle you thrusting right back on his tongue, and even your jokes about how he’s getting the cream to his tea now.

Levi is already kind of dripping in juice. His fingers are sweaty, this time it’s something on his face and hands he prefers though. He won’t wipe it off just yet. So you take on the task to put a condom on him — kind of expensive, mysteriously imported, gotta make every one count my friend — and have Levi take you from behind to soil the bedsheets completely at this point. 

Levi lets all the leaking happen, of course he notices, and yet he’s too focused on you gripping his cock hard all the way. So much for walls. Levi has to surrender to the thought of you squeezing him in any way you fancy at this point. That doesn’t just include the face, that much he learned. His cock is gonna fall off, you tighten up so much and make him squirm, Levi’s all blissed out.

He can’t handle your ass either. He just stares like the Founding Titan invented a brand new method to hypnotize the Ackermans or something. Although. Why’d you need to come up with something, though? People they love completely enthrall them already. 

If we know something by now, it's that every Ackerman gets completely fucked in the head out of the blue and sent to another dimension when they’re with the love of their life, no hypnotizing device needed. Levi is clasping his teeth for his dear life back there. People asking him if he’s gone mad he’d answer ‚maybe‘, but if you asked him if this made him lose it he would admit it.

Since he doesn’t know what to do with his hands again, you ask him to place them at your waist. „Properly, now slide in, Levi.“ — He takes his time for the first few thrusts, grunts, but gets the hang of it, in fact he’s a pro in the making. All that vertical maneuvering can turn into horizontal maneuvering very quickly. Levi feels so strange and so good at the same time, it’s overwhelming. How can something he thought would be so dirty be this amazing? 

And since this position allows him to penetrate you even deeper, Levi gets the full experience of being inside of you times two. The wet noise already turns him on, his body feels so warmed up, and he feels really shocked he’s doing this. Although his face won’t show, it’ll be concentrated as before. On the inside, Levi is losing it.

He can’t get enough of your body and how you tell him what to do, Levi will be driving it home in no time. You’re gonna have your jaw dropped by how lusty he can get yourself, but also love how he’s really breaking a sweat just because of your hard grip. Who would have thought. 14-meter class titans got nothing on you. Levi’s entire neck and chest is glazed over. You call him out on it, all you’re gonna get is a little ‚tch, that’s your fault, woman‘. I mean of course it is. He’s literally at your mercy. I told you he’s hilarious.

Little did you know that Levi will straight-up ignore his sweatiness and just continue, one heartbeat at a time, to really fill you out and make you feel good. Can you imagine. Levi dedicating like 20 minutes to make sweet love to you doggystyle. 

He has a good feeling for keeping you just on the verge of cumming. He even reaches around to press two fingers into your clit after five minutes of figuring out his angles. You didn’t expect this at all. It’s as if Levi can read your mind going „but his hands are gonna get really messy, why?“ — he just goes on rubbing and says, deadpan: „Miss, do I look like I care.“

Some dirty things in the world are just there to annoy him. They’re not existing to make his life easier. And toilet humor-related things: We know Levi’s stance on that. Wet pussy on the other hand: Surprise. He thinks of it very differently. Levi is pretty caught off guard by the fact that you loving and adoring him is the reason you’re leaking so much. 

It sinks in (um, literally) that you’re all drippy because you really want him inside. Not to mention that he constantly realizes just how attracted to him you are. Your desire for him, that’s Ackerman kryptonite. Levi doesn’t miss your eyes, nope. That motherfucker is a damn good face reader.

And— How warmed up your body feels in his hands, how you’re breathing. How you’re telling him exactly how to tilt to hit the good spots. How you’re sucking in air when he does just that. How you sound, grip the pillow, the sheets. Your goosebumps all over your legs. How your lips part. How you wait for every thrust. The way you tell him how good it is. Your pulse. Your own sweaty back, letting his hands on your waist slip and slide a little with the rhythm. 

How he’s struggling not to moan his soul out and chokes back. How you’re softly moving to glide off, he’s gonna lose his mind. How much you’re enjoying him and how cute you tell him he is. Whatever you’d ask of him, he’s so ready to fulfill it. You having the absolute hots for Levi is probably gonna preoccupy him for the whole night while you’re sleeping and he sits in the chair.

He’s been shooting grumpy cat level eye daggers with extra Ackerpoison at the corps couples for walking around showing any signs of this. Making all those lovey-dovey faces or going to the back of the barn together. Levi has chased them with his favored broom to whoop-diddly-doop those horndog soldiers back on track, swirling his weapon of choice around to send a sweeping cloud of dust after them.

Whereas now… he has to deal with the fact that he really loves all that horny stuff. Cognitive dissonance 101 is striking him out of nowhere. I mean he’d not fuck in the barn, that one is truly disgustingly shittily bastardly filthy or however he’d word it, but you get the gist. He caught feelings and caught pleasure — and that’s such a good thing.

His problem is, Levi wouldn’t know how to fawn right back at you. Except saying „good job“ like he’d praise a cadet, but he decides that’s not something to say during sex. He’s very right about that indeed. So instead: He will always reply to you accordingly and with Levi-typical honesty. 

If you say you love how he kisses your neck from behind, he will tell you he’s enjoying it as well because damn he loves that spot indeed (titans can tell you a story about it… Levi has such a neck fixation, that fucker). And: Letting actions speak the loudest with him. He’s a practical guy. Levi’s hands can to the most complicated reverse grips and all that crazy human Beyblade shit. Getting you off at his fingertips is gonna be his easiest exercise ever once he gets into it.

He doesn’t even do it to show off at this point. Levi is just that kind of a sex machine and eager to please, not to mention god, is he obedient and a giver in disguise. If Levi were offered the most luxurious, expensive tea available versus your breasts to suck on for a week given he’s free of titan duty… that cup is gonna turn cold. He loves the skinship and he loves giving you a fuckton of orgasms, as many as you like and as many he has time for.

Self-explanatory, this is something he will not feel one bit of regret about. Hours touching you is the farthest from wasting time to Levi. The less he holds back with his love, the more secure things become. He doesn’t feel the misery he thought he’d run into, nor does it feel like a reckless act that’s only something feeble. 

The new soap every other week on his table alone reminds him you’re here to stay and like his every quirk, and make this a private thing rather than something to parade around. You never lied saying „Levi, you’re mine.“ He does wrap his head around the fact that all of this is happening with time.

Levi finds your relationship meaningful because it gives him feelings and exactly that emotional harbor he never had before, and he gifts you the reverence of your lifetime since Levi doesn’t half-ass anything. You reassured and guided him so much, he looks up to that, it breaks down his prejudice against loving more and more. That’s how you’ll feel intimate in all kinds of ways for very intense hours he can spare to make the most out of it. 

From the light touch at his arm to making out until the candles burn down. And if you tell Levi to sell the deal and dedicate his heart, how can he not take that as a serious order. He has to be guarded to put his guard down, and that’s what you can offer him, and he will create something lasting out of it. Promise is promise to him, we all know.

RELATED:  sub!levi hc (tea shop au) | life after war (levi’s happy end)

multifandom mlist | levi writings on ao3

© 2017-2021 submissive-bangtan. all rights reserved. no reposts and translations allowed.

[rocorambles]

Let's Give It A Try

Pairing: Bokuto x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Mafia AU, Sex Toys, Overstimulation, Use of Sir, Dirty Talk, Degradation

Summary: Dating a man like Bokuto Koutarou goes against every moral code you’ve learned growing up, but love has a funny way of going against the grain.

Bokuto exhales, sighing as he leans broad shoulders against the rough exterior of the building behind him, cigarette smoke floating in tendrils in front of him. He prides himself on the strength and health of his body, but when he gets in one of his moods after a particularly strenuous week, he can’t help but rely on the way the nicotine mellows out the stress of his job. Closing his eyes, he lets the muffled beat of the music inside the club reverberate through his chest, letting himself let go just a tiny bit. Foolish maybe, considering just how many people want him dead, but he allows himself a moment of lax judgement while on his turf, literally on the ground he owns, surrounded by his men both in and out of the club, under the watchful blue eyes of his right hand man.

Everything will be just fine.

And suddenly everything’s a little bit more than just fine as his curiosity peeks, sharp owl-like eyes scanning you as you come stumbling out of the club, taking deep ragged breaths, completely unaware of your surroundings as you greedily inhale the fresh night air.

He has to bite back the sharp grin that threatens to stretch across his face at your adorable jump and squeak when you finally straighten up and take inventory of who’s around you, quivering like a little mouse when you meet his intense golden gaze. There’s something different about you and he can tell with just a quick glance at you that this isn’t your usual joint, taking in your considerably conservative and casual outfit for the area’s most popular nightclub, the nervous ticks and almost bashful way you curl in on yourself, unused to the hungry look he continues to direct at you.

It takes some coaxing and he almost feels bad at how he swears he can hear your frightened and unsure heartbeat pounding your chest as he approaches you. But his talons are out, wide eyes too curious and intrigued by the prey that’s caught his attention to just let you go off on your merry way. He croons at how you stutter, tripping over your words in your nervousness, licking his own lips for a different reason when he sees your pink muscle dart out to wet your dry ones.

But he can feel his wings furl out to their full span, can feel himself prepare to lunge at you when he finds out that his sweet little mouse came all by herself, trying to get over your recent breakup by having some fun, maybe even finding someone to…

This time he does laugh when you embarrassedly trail off, ending your anxious ramblings, before pinning you down with a wild grin that makes your chest tighten.

“I can be that someone.”

There’s something about the man that leaves you on edge. You can’t deny the fact that he’s handsome, in a wild rugged way that reminds you of a predator. But there’s something...intense about him, something in his eyes, something in his presence, something in his aura that makes you shiver, keeping your suddenly heavy feet rooted to their spot. Not that you’d get very far if he was intent on doing you harm you ascertain as you stare at the muscular and toned figure in front of you.

Yet despite all that, you can’t help but believe that he really does mean you no harm. Maybe it’s what you want to believe. A last hope and faith that not all men are scum like your ex is. Desperate to believe that there are decent men out there, that you can find happiness and maybe even love one day. So going against every ounce of self-defense and common sense that’s been instilled in you all your life, you take this stranger’s hand and let him guide you away, finding comfort in his warm, calloused grip.

Even if you do end up dead after all this, you can’t help but think you’ve made the right decision, your problem more than solved as any thoughts of your ex (and anything else really) fly out your head as soon as you’re dragged into an alarmingly luxurious apartment. He really is more animal than man and you cry out as teeth harshly dig into your neck, possessively and hungrily marking every inch of you, lips greedily wrapping around perky nipples and sucking with a force that makes your eyes roll and your nails dig into his thick biceps. But that only seems to egg him on more and you vaguely wonder if you’re going to cum before he can even get to the main course, body already overwhelmed with arousal and desire as he touches you everywhere except where you need him most.

You’re positively dripping by the time he does make it between your legs, too high strung to even be embarrassed, letting out a high pitched whine instead when he teasingly blows on your sopping wet entrance, pressing your thighs apart, leaving you on full display. And you swear you black out purely from relief when a hot wet tongue finally licks a long line up your slit. So on edge already, it only takes a few flicks and lapping of your aroused clit to have you careening off that pleasurable cliff and you sob, body thrashing and convulsing as you ride out your orgasm while lips and tongue continue to work you over.

You blearily blink as you finally regain control of your body, expecting the man between your legs to take the hint as you try to sit up on your elbows. But you scream, instantly collapsing on the bed, hands fisting in the sheets besides you as two thick fingers suddenly slip inside of you, beginning a relentless pace right from the start, hot tongue still lapping and licking at your sensitive clit. It’s too much, too soon and you writhe, body trying to pry yourself away from the torturous pleasure, but also aching for another release as the coil in you is wound tight. Not that Bokuto leaves you much choice as he easily keeps you pinned down, your legs no match for the strength of his arms and upper body as he continues to feast on you, your pretty cries and screams music to his ears, your delicious juices intoxicating. And before you even realize it, you’re forced to your second peak, creaming and clamping down on the digits still stuffed inside of you, back arching, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Surely it’s over and you tell yourself that you’ll just close your eyes for a brief moment, a few seconds at most before paying him back with a blowjob, handjob, whatever he wants in return. Except your companion has very different plans on exactly how you’ll return the favor and your eyes shoot open, pathetic pleading noises spilling past your lips as you feel something hard and thick press against your entrance. But then he’s shoving inside of you, cock splitting your spent hole in two, and your mind blanks, unable to resist, unable to enjoy, only able to take and feel as it drags against your walls, going deeper and deeper.

And that’s how you pass out, one of the last clear memories you have before your mind fades to darkness, exhaustion and bliss rendering you useless as you’re ruthlessly fucked into and used by the man above you as he chases his own end, head empty except for mindless thoughts of cock, cock, cock.

There’s a few more one night flings after that and you try and convince yourself that it’s just that, nothing more, ignoring the pang in your heart when Bokuto sends you a sad face via text when he wakes up to an empty bed, ignoring the guilt resting heavy on your shoulders when you accidentally sleep in longer than you meant to and have to pry yourself from a pouting face and gentle grip on your wrist as gold eyes plead for you to stay.

But Bokuto Koutarou always gets what he wants and you find it harder to wriggle out from his strong arms as the sun’s rays filter through the windows, you find it harder to not sit down at his dining table and stay for a piping hot cup of coffee, you find it harder not to wake up and nuzzle closer to his body, cuddling and sweetly talking with him more than a casual relationship warrants.

And you find it impossible to not say yes when he asks you to officially go out with him one lazy morning as he cradles you in his arms.

Dating Bokuto is an adventure unlike any you’ve been on before and it’s so easy to be swept along in his enthusiasm and energy, giggling like children in one moment before you’re being pounced on in the next, gold eyes darkening in raw hunger and lust. Bokuto is an enigma that you wonder if you’ll ever truly understand, so easily shifting from a cheerful goofball to a dangerous predator and back again. But you don’t mind, finding the multi-faceted personality one of his strong suits...until it isn’t anymore.

You’d always had a feeling that Bokuto was hiding something from you, some things not quite adding up, the outgoing man strangely reticent about certain topics, especially regarding his work life and where his money comes from. But you had chalked it up to your sweet boyfriend being humble, not wanting to delve too much into his enormous wealth, because he must have enormous wealth from the penthouse apartment he lives in, the extravagant vacations he whisks you away on, the luxury gifts he bestows upon you without blinking an eye. And you’re correct, just not in the way you had imagined and you tearily and accusationally glare at him when you accidentally come across the hidden switch in the back of his closet, door opening and revealing crates and crates of a white powdery substance.

You want him to laugh it off like he always does, tell you some bullshit about it being for some prank he’s going to pull on Akaashi or Konoha, that it’s not what you think it is. But he doesn’t and the two of you just silently stare at each other, the pieces connecting all too clearly even without a word being said. And you leave, betrayal and hurt digging their claws into you as you leave behind a man who you thought you had known, who you had loved, but who you realize maybe you don’t really know at all.

It feels eerily familiar, a sense of deja vu flooding you when you take hesitant steps into another nightclub in the area, desperate for another distraction, another fling to fuck you free from thoughts of gold eyes and a muscular body. You tell yourself that there’s nothing similar about the solid build of the stranger you’re grinding up against, that the similarity in appearance is just coincidence as the two of you stumble to his apartment. But then lips and hands are all over you, too gentle, too soft, treating you like glass, words too cautious. Everything’s wrong, wrong, wrong and when he begins a slow careful pace, fucking you like he’s making love, so different from the way a certain man would have broken you down to pieces only to build you back up, you shove him off, uncaring of how rude you’re being.

That night when you return to your own bed, you sob in frustration, toys, dildos, vibrators scattered around you as you seek any relief you can get, looking for even the slightest mimicry of Bokuto’s touch, trying to remember what he sounds like, what he feels like. But memory and imagination can only get you so far, can never live up to the real thing, and you scream into your pillow as an unsatisfying orgasm ripples through you, the realization that Bokuto has ruined your body for anyone else, even yourself, sinking into you.

It’s absolute stupidity to be with someone just for great sex. Absolutely ridiculous. What decent human would go crawling back to their drug-dealing ex just for his good dick game? God knows what other shady underground shit Bokuto’s up to and you know it runs much deeper than a single room full of cocaine.

But maybe you’re not a decent human. Maybe that’s why you still can’t stop thinking of him despite how you try and hold out, despite the multiple flings, nights, and even entire weekends you spend with yourself in bed, spending far too much on sex toys, pussy and clit throbbing, fingers and hands aching from constantly bending to be inside yourself. Yet for all that, you’re never satisfied, every weak orgasm, every disappointing touch from another man only making your need for Bokuto even more pronounced, until you finally break. And a month later you call Bokuto, a scrambled frantic call over the phone with a dildo shoved deep inside you, a vibrator buzzing on your clit, tears streaming down your face when they do nothing to take away the yearning inside of you, begging and pleading for him to come and help you.

It’s humiliating how even just the sight of him skyrockets your arousal to levels you haven’t felt since the two of you dated and you whimper as he casually leans in your doorway, thick arms crossed across his chest, gold eyes raking over your sweating nude figure that’s writhing on top of rumpled bed sheets.

“This is a good look for a desperate slut like you. Couldn’t cum without me? No one, not even your little toys could make you feel good? Maybe I should just leave, just like how you left me. Leave you high and dry. Well I guess maybe not that dry.”

You pant, wide blown out eyes watching as he slowly approaches you, face heating when he bends down to peer at your dripping cunt, mockingly whistling at how you pretty hole is no different than a leaking faucet, inner thighs drenched in your arousal.

“Koutarou, please-”

You scream as fingers harshly twist at your nipples, eyes rolling to the back of your head as just that brutal touch is enough to bring you over the edge you had been hovering around for so long, body convulsing, a dopey grin making its way onto your lips when you finally feel the pleasure you’d been craving for so long.

“Fuck, you came from just that? Who the fuck said you could cum? Who the fuck said you could use my name? Sluts like you don’t deserve to say my name. You know what to address me as.”

You wail, pain melding with the pleasure as he shoves your vibrator away, alternating between pinching and slapping your already overstimulated clit as he enunciates every word he snarls at you, a feral grin stretching across his face at your barely coherent babbles of “sir” and “sorry”.

The constriction in his own pants is painful and he’s quick to strip waist down, slowly palming his aching erection. It takes everything in him to hold back, to not just shove balls deep inside of you in one strong thrust, your absence affecting him just as badly. But that’s not what this is about. This is about making a point, reminding you just how wrong you were for leaving him without a single word, rebuilding what the two of you once had. And as ravenous as he is, he takes his time, willing himself to slow down and rediscover every inch of you, painstakingly exploring your body once again, re-memorizing every sensitive part of you that elicits a little gasp, a tiny mewl.

And he doesn’t stop, pulling the dildo inside of you completely out, using his teeth, tongue, and finger to bring you to the edge over and over again, always backing away just when you’re about to fall off that pleasurable cliff once more, diving back in like a man starved just when you think you have a shaky grasp on your senses. Only when you’re full out sobbing broken cries of his title, a litany of “please, please, please” escaping you does he move on and he groans at how perfectly your legs wrap around his back, urging him inside you as his cock finally makes contact with your gushing cunt, your hands weakly pawing at him in a silent plea for more.

But again he stops, bringing a thumb to wipe away your tears as you begin to wail anew, frustration and denial tearing you to shreds, instinctively leaning into his touch as he gently strokes your cheekbone.

“Tell me who’s the only one who can make you feel good. Who’s the only one who can pleasure you?”

And as you scream his name, he finally slams inside of you, relentlessly pounding in and out of you, gold eyes hungrily taking in how wrecked you look, how broken you look, all because of him, only for him.

It doesn’t take long for both of you to tumble together over that edge, not when both of you are beyond pent up, absence making your hearts grow fonder and your bodies desperate for each other. And you can’t help the content warm surge inside of you when you feel hot thick liquid fill your insides, your body lax and useless in post-coital bliss, heart and mind eager for Bokuto to collapse beside you and pull you into his toned chest like he always does.

Except there is no familiar weight beside you and your head shakes side to side, drool trickling down your face when Bokuto’s softening cock is suddenly replaced by four fingers brutally thrusting in and out of you, curling just right along your still quivering walls.

“We still have a long way to go, little mouse. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t know how many times you’re forced over the edge after that, consciousness fading in and out as he assaults your cunt with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. You even vaguely remember waking up once to a dildo in your ass, Bokuto pounding into your cum-filled pussy, your body more stretched than it’s been in a long time. They all blur together, only tied together by the delirious pleasure that numbs everything else until you’re succumbing to darkness one last time as yet another body shaking orgasm rips through you.

It’s the scent of fresh coffee and bacon that awakens you and you blearily open your eyes, only to immediately wince as soon as you try to move, your body feeling like it had been rammed into by a truck (although you suppose that imagery isn’t too far off from what actually transpired). Sinking back into the plush pillow and mattress, you close your eyes, wondering what’s your next move. Force your aching body out of bed and confront the inevitable, already somewhat dreading having to face Bokuto now that your mind isn’t clouded with lust? Go back to sleep and pray that he’s gone when you wake up again, like a coward?

But Bokuto doesn’t leave you a choice and you shyly cover yourself with the blanket when he comes bounding into the room, a heaping plate of food and a cup of the delicious caffeinated beverage in his hands, heart fluttering when you see the warm and affectionate grin on his face as he approaches you, carefully placing everything on the nightstand before tenderly pecking your forehead and murmuring good morning.

You try to say something, anything, words getting stuck in your throat, but you’re shushed as the coffee mug is carefully placed in your hands, Bokuto’s soothing voice urging you to eat and recover first. And you gladly take the excuse, hunger and thirst from last night’s endurance marathon finally making itself known as you devour everything. But there’s only so long you can avoid the inevitable and with belly full and feeling more yourself, you listen as he gently grabs your hand, letting him entwine his fingers with yours as he tells you everything.

Who he is. What he does. Exactly how he’s affiliated with the Fukurodani Syndicate.

None of it is surprising, a lot of it what you had surmised and guessed yourself. But it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow knowing just how much he had kept from you, how much he had been planning on keeping from you for who knows how long. At least it’s all out in the open now though, no secrets left between the two of you, and there’s a pause as he continues to rub his thumb on the back of your hand.

“I won’t sugar coat who I am and what my life is. I don’t expect you to come running back with open arms. But if you’re willing to give it a try, I swear that there’ll never be any more secrets, that I’ll protect you, that I’ll love you. I’ll be the damn best boyfriend there ever is.”

You almost giggle at how childish the last sentence is, hope churning in your stomach when you see how genuine and passionate he is, fondness flowing through you when you recognize the man you had fallen in love with beyond the dirt on his hands. And you know it’s arguably foolish, goes against every moral code you’ve grown up with, but love never does seem to follow set equations and rules and you bring that hand to your lips, affectionately kissing your clasped fingers as you meet gold eyes.

“Let’s give it a try.”

[jay-and-dean]

Stolen Crown  Chapter 1 : Under the hood

By @roonyxx​ and @jay-and-dean​

Pairings : Dean x reader ? Kight!Dean x reader ?

Summary :  What happens when she is sent in a world that isn’t hers, but with very familiar faces ?

This, as much as it looks like it, is not ‘technically’ an AU, because your Dean, our Dean, exists too...

Serie Warnings : Smut (please be 18+), Fluff, Angst, Swearing. Mention of physical pain. Each Chapter will have detailled warnings.

Chapter warnings : Swearing for now.

Chapter Wordcound : 3230

Note : This is a collaboration beetween both of us. We can’t both edit the same post, so we decided we would post 1 chapter/2 each, like for Firefly.

We both worked as much on this story and it’s the result of both our brains but also both our hearts.

Please, if you want to show love for this story, don’t forget we were together in this.

Text divider by the awesome @talesmaniac89​

Want to read more:

Jay’s Masterlist

Roonyxx Masterlist

Whistling. 

Only a shrill whistling in her ears, and her heart pounding hard in her temples…

She holds her head and tries to get up, but the ground seems unsure of where it is supposed to be.

“Dean ?” she tries with a weak voice but, even with the high-pitched sound fading quickly, she can’t hear any answer. “Dean !”

She opens her eyes and they widen right away.

The seedy warehouse is gone, the smell of gasoline and the night are too… But above all, he is gone. Dean is nowhere to be seen. 

Instead : A sunny beautiful forest. Shiny rays of lights come through the radiant, high trees and birds are signing. So many birds.

“Shit” she grunts, looking around. “DEAN ! SAMMY !”

But her voice echoes and dies in the woods, only making a few rodents run through the bushes, themselves moving some butterflies and bees. Nothing else. 

Where was she sent ? Is it witchcraft or some stupid God ? She had told them that this case seemed more complicated than what they said ! And here she is, probably miles from home.

“Please, tell me I’m still in the United states” she whimpers, taking her phone from her jeans shorts pocket. “No come on ! No signal now ?”

After pacing around to try and find any sign of signal, she gives up and puts the useless phone back in her pocket, regretting her morning choice to wear only a t-shirt and shorts, because if she has to walk miles to find a road, the night might be here before she finds her friends again, and nights are colder out there.

“DEAN ! DEAN !” she tries again.

But he is obviously not with her.

What if he had been sent far too ? What if he was in an indian market now ? Or in a boat on the australian seas ? 

“Sammy you have to find us” she mutters, looking around to gather clues.

This forest is not tropical or northern, it’s a temperate one, and it’s obviously still early summer…

Suddenly, hooves disturb the forest’s calm in the distance, rapidly approaching her. The metal clattering with every step the big animal -probably a horse- takes, says it’s not alone…

She quickly moves in the bushes and stills behind a large tree to hide herself from whoever is coming. 

“Your highness ?” a deep, oddly familiar, voice calls.

Her back flat against the tree, she turns her head a little to be able to see beyond the thick bark, holding her breath and reaching for the knife in her boot. 

A beautiful, massive shiny black horse is nervously stepping on the ground while the owner of the mare pats it on the neck.

“Easy girl” the man says. 

She frowns, keeping the dagger in her hand, ‘that voice… I know it.’ When she dares to look between the leaves, her eyes widen.

“Dean?” she says with a confused smile, putting the knife back in her boot, as she steps from out of the bushes.

“My Queen !” he throws his leg over the majestic black horse and steps off, right away going down on one knee in front of her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I have been looking for you, my Queen” he says towards the ground, not looking up to her once.

“Queen ?” she huffs, still a little dizzy. “Where the Hell are we, Dean ? And what the fuck are you wearing, is that... a freaking armor?” she asks, pointing at his weird clothes.

Dean finally tilts his head upwards. And when he sees her, his eyes nearly fall out of his head, his mouth is open but no words leave his lips. The more he stares at her like she was naked, the more she starts to feel a little self conscious.

His eyes slowly travel up her bare legs, a confused expression on his face, when she bends a little to make eye contact with him he quickly adverts his gaze.

“Your Majesty, what happened to your robes ? Are you harmed ?” he asks, obviously worried. 

“Cut the crap, Dean, what’s happening ? Where are we ?” she asks, annoyed.

“We are in the…” he looks around a little, apparently wondering what to answer. “In the woods… Not far from the Castle, my Queen” he says.

She stares at him, mouth agape, a deep feeling of confusion replacing the annoyance totally. Her tone changes to something colder, more distant.

“Why do you keep calling me ‘queen’ ?” she asks. “And what’s up with the stupid clothes ?”

He dares looking up at her again, a sorry frown on his face. 

“My apologies, your Highness. I do not understand… Is there something wrong with my apparel ?” he stands up, his eyes searching her face. “Did you hit your head or have you fallen maybe ? You disappeared, my Queen. I have been so worried” he turns to his horse to retrieve a big grey fur cloak. “What happened to your gown, did someone attack you ?” 

His head low, he comes closer to carefully drape the very heavy cape around her shoulders.

“I obviously failed at my duty” his eyes are dark and she clearly recognizes that crushing guilt on his features

She touches the floor length fur coat he put around her with a frown. It’s pleasantly warm outside, there is no need for this... 

Everything he does is weird, and why does he look so different ? Was he hit by a spell of some weird stuff like that time he was losing his memory ? 

Unless… 

She takes in his appearance. He looks exactly like him but he has more scruff, and his hair is a little longer, his clothes are very strange too. 

The closer she looks, through the fading cloud in her mind, the more this costume he is wearing really doesn’t look like one. All the layers of leather and metal make him look like he was ready for war, and his shoulders are even more broad under the armor he is wearing. 

Everything about him seems heavy and powerful : Between the metal on his chest, the big belt holding several weapons, including the scabbard of that seems to hold a very authentic sword, the real huge grey fur around his shoulder, like he had killed a wolf…

She shivers at how impressive he looks, at how she realizes she doesn’t know anything about him..

“Shit…” she mutters realizing this is not her Dean at all. 

This is not the United states of America, and this is probably not even her world… But if the Dean from around here is willing to protect her, that might be her best chance of survival.

She clears her throat, nodding to encourage herself to play along.

“No... I’m…” she suddenly has no idea how to use her voice. “I’m okay and I am your queen, because you are my…?” she leaves the sentence open, hoping he’ll answer it.

“Your knight” he says, uncertain.

Knight, right… She nods and looks around once more.

If this is some kind of fucked up middle age alternate universe, there is a big chance that the forest is going for miles and miles, and an even bigger chance that she starves to death before Sammy finds a way to bring her back to the Instagram century. And dressed like that, she might have to fear more than wolves…

She stares at him for a minute and he seems to be just waiting for orders, his green eyes on the floor.

“Kneel” she says with a corner smile and he just does, with no question, comment or delay.

Dean Winchester obeying her to the letter… If that is not a good side of this whole crap !

“You can get up” she chuckles, letting him stand on his feet again.

But her amusement quickly fades. 

Royalty is not really the easiest undercover, and the discretion will be impossible. She wants to ask for help but, even if her whole body and soul tell her she can trust Dean -for it is still Dean-, her eyes travel the thick leather covering his forearms and she remembers she doesn’t know him.

So maybe she better stay silent for now, and follow his lead until she decides if he is an ally.

“Your Majesty” he speaks, with a deference she never heard from him. “If the news of your disparition comes to the Council, there undoubtedly will be trouble. We should head back now. Please.”

“Y-yes” she nods, a lump growing in her throat.

Council ? Trouble ? Castle ? How is she supposed to deal with all that ? People close to the queen will know she isn’t her in a minute…

The knight offers his hand, and she follows, frowning when he joins his wrists to help her get on the horse. 

“This is not the best comfort for travel, your Majesty, for that I am sorry” he apologizes again.

“It’s okay Dean” at her words, he frowns again, but she puts her feet on his wrists and jumps on the tall horse, quickly understanding, by the look on his face, that she is not supposed to ride “like a man”.

Her eyes can’t decide where to look, and her hands can’t decide where to hold him.

Gripping his belt tight in this uncomfortable position, she takes in the unbelievable landscapes before her : Untouched forests and large lakes, small villages down in the valley, with all those wood houses that remember her of Braveheart. 

All she can think of is when she is going to tell the boys about everything she saw… If she ever goes back to them.

“Put on your hood, my Queen” the knight asks, so she does. 

Her unsure hands grasp the heavy hood of the animal fur around her and she hides her face in the huge hood. He probably needs her to not be recognized.

“What animal is it ?” she asks, touching the hair with a mix of curiosity and disgust.

“Animal, your Majesty ?”

“The hood ?” she asks, quickly grasping his belt again when the horse half jumps above a root.

“My coat is made of a bear” he answers. 

“Poor animal…”

He lets a silence and clears his throat slightly. 

“I had never thought of it that way, my Queen. Your empathy for the creatures of this world is godly.”

But she stopped listening.

Her breath stuck in her lungs, she discovers the huge, beautiful castle coming in her sight. 

A gigantic wall surrounds a little city, itself surrounding a huge, elegant castle. The light stone walls seem to be touching the clouds from here, and a vibrant living noise comes from it.

“Wow” she murmurs, looking up the thin sharp towers surrounded by birds.

“My breath gets cut short each time I see your home in sight too, your Highness” he says with a soft voice. 

Inside the walls of the city, everything is different. 

People are busy, all dressed like they came from a movie, carrying vegetables and raw pieces of meat, sheeps and baskets of fabric… Each and everyone turning their head at the sound of the huge horse’s steps on the stone pavements. 

“Sir Winchester !” a kid exclaims.

She keeps her hood low, suddenly very aware of the trouble that could come from the crowd recognizing their queen. 

The knight version of Dean stays unfazed, guiding them to the stables where several horsemen are waiting for him. 

He gets off of the horse, helping her and closing his coat neatly on her.

“Keep your head down” he murmurs next to the hood and she just nods, determined to let him guide her. “You” he says louder to one of the men here. “Go tell the guards that the wolf hunt is done. My men can gather again peacefully, nothing is to fear.”

She can’t help but very quickly look up at the man giving orders next to her, his remarkable charisma making her feel so small. 

She always looked up at Dean with an infinite admiration, but at least, she knows him… This stranger is different. 

“Allow me to touch you” he says under his breath and she just nods again while he wraps his strong arm around her.

Under the hood, she can’t see everything precisely, but the little she can distinguish of the inside of the castle he is guiding her in is enough to amaze her. 

Huge corridors and busy servants, carpets that seem to come from a museum, gold and flowers decoration the thick stone walls.

“Sir” a guard comes in their way, bending before Dean in respect. “Your men have been called back. The news never spread outside of the Queen’s guard.”

“Thank you” the knight answers.

“Glory be to the Queen” the guard bows again. 

“To the Queen” Dean answers.

The knight guides her further into the castle and up an infinite number of stairs, a serious look on his face. With every step up, the coat on her shoulders feels heavier and heavier, and her apprehension does too.

Once they reach the top, he walks to the left, his heavy boots echoing in the spacious corridor. Still holding her, his grip both reassuring and oppressing, he stops in front of a big wooden door that she may be supposed to recognize. 

She looks up at the door a little, still not completely daring to stop hiding under the big hood. He opens the door and stands with his back against the wall, his eyes straight ahead.

She hesitates, waiting for him, but when he doesn’t move, she carefully steps inside, not sure what she will meet on the other side of the massive oak door. 

Before her, a large room with thick wooden furniture and rich fabric. In the middle, a queen size bed with wooden bed posts that are near the stone ceiling with wolves carved in each of them. Hanging from the posts, a dark red velvet-like canopy that matches the heavy curtains. A big antique closet stands to the left side of the room.

Taking a cautious step, she looks right. Behind a great arch is another room that holds a big wooden tub covered in a sand-white sheet.

Despite the cold stone everywhere, the many carpets with many different colorful illustrations, the curtains, and candles everywhere makes the room somehow warm. 

She stands in the middle of what she guesses is the queen’s room, unsure of what to do now. Looking back to the door, she sees Dean’s elbow from where he is still standing against the wall, straight and still.

“Dean, come inside please” she states, using the most authoritative voice she has.

A queen has to be, right ?

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The knight steps inside immediately, his hands behind his back, his gaze fixated in front of him.

“What are... my plans for today ?” she asks him, trying to figure out what to do, to convince them, a whole Castle and Kingdom, that she is the damn queen.

“The Council requested a parlay with you when the sun is at its highest, and after you have your usual walk in the garden before you talk to the People. I think, Majesty.” 

“Right, the Council” she says unsure, wondering what the council can be. “Take me to them.” 

She holds her chin high, trying desperately to look like the Hollywood idea she has of how royals act.

His gaze finally finds hers, a small frown is on his face, an expression of confusion growing on his hard but still so beautiful features.

“Do you not wish to be dressed first, my Queen?”

“Oh… yes, I-I do wish that” she nods. 

She walks towards the closet and opens it, checking his face in the corner of her eye to try and find clues of what she is supposed to do, but all she can see there is worry for her, well hidden on his bodyguard face. 

Inside the huge closet, put in color order, are dresses, all of them big and complicated… And on some shelves, smaller white dresses, that may be for inside or summer. She takes them out.

“This will work” she states to herself as she turns around but stops when she hears Dean gasp. 

When she looks up he’s stepping towards the door quickly.

“No wait !” she calls out for him and he stops right in his tracks. “Dean...” 

He turns towards her, his gaze on the floor, jaw clenched.

She doesn’t want him to leave. She is, in fact; terrified of being without him. Although he is a stranger, his face is the only thing she knows in this weird place she knows nothing about.

What will they do once they find out their queen disappeared ? Is there a king she has to sleep with ? Do they torture people ? Kill ? 

She just needs him close.

“I don’t know what to wear” she admits.

Or even how to wear it, she thinks to herself.

“Any gown makes you look divine, my Queen” he says in a husky voice, still watching the floor intensely.

If the circumstances were different her knees would wobble at what he just said… But he is not Dean, and maybe he just says that to not get his throat slit.

“Okay, I will put on this gown” she says as she lifts the small white dress that she is holding, a questioning look on her face.

The knight swallows hard and seems agitated. For a second, she wonders why he is acting so weird.

“What is it ?” she asks him. “Tell me.”

“Pardon me, your Highness, but that is not a gown” he clears his throat and stands up straighter. “That is your undergarment.”

“Undergarment ?” she looks at the little dress, holding it in front of her by the straps. 

Her lips open in an ‘o’ when she understands this is her underwear. She has been flashing him her royal underwear this whole time, of course he was acting weird !

In a quick motion, she hides it behind her back and mutters an apology.

“Yes, my undergarment, of course. I-I will get dressed now” she walks towards her closet to retrieve a big gown in a hum of hesitation.

“Let me just call the maids, your Majesty” he says low. 

“Yes ! Oh and Dean ?” she starts, waiting for his gaze to meet hers before she speaks again. “Thank you” she kindly smiles.

The knight nods, turns slowly and steps towards the bedroom door with a determined gait, closing and locking it by sliding the metal rod in the slot.

She frowns, seeing him lock himself with her. His back still on her, he clears his throat before he talks.

“My Queen...” he starts. 

With that hunter speed her Dean also has, he suddenly unsheaths his sword from his scabbard and holds its sharp end under her chin without touching her 

“Would never have said something like that” he finishes his sentence. “Or call me Dean…”

She searches his face, slowly lifting her hands up in surrender.

“That is because I am not your queen.”

__________

Chapter 2 on @roonyxx​‘s blog 

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[blu-joons]

Anxious Hands ~ Lee Jinki

The volume of people that sat around the two of you was terrifying for you, your eyes often darted around at any sudden movement, feeling the pressures of being in the middle of the group build up around you. There was noise everywhere, and no escape from it at all, no matter how hard you tried to find the one way out that would give you some peace.

Beside you, Jinki was somewhat engaged with the conversation of the group, but also very alert to you next to him. The silence that came from you had captured his attention for quite some time, as he waited to see if things would change, he soon realised there was no glimmer of a change.

“Are you alright?” Jinki asked, turning his body inwards to face you to try and block out the surrounding noise.

“I’m fine,” you smiled, unable to keep your eyes on him as you continued to look around the room, feeling his hand intertwine in with his. “Tonight, just isn’t really going as I imagined.”

The feeling of your hand shaking in his caught Jinki’s attention, despite your best attempt to make him think that you were doing alright, your grip told him a very different story.

The hold of your hand always managed to tell Jinki a lot. He could feel even the smallest of tremors that came from your nerves, but he could also feel the happiness in your tight grip when you were wearing a smile. Words were useless as far as he was concerned, it was the feel of your hands instead that would tell him the story of your emotions. They could tell a truth that your words often failed to do.

“We can always head off if you don’t want to be here anymore, I’m sure they wouldn’t even notice that we’ve gone,” he suggested, offering you a warming smile.

“These are our friends, they’ll know if we go,” you responded, glancing past his shoulder as you watched Kibum stood up on the table drinking the line of shots that Minho had put out for him. “I think we might need to keep an eye on those guys too.”

His head spun around as you pointed to the chaos that his three bandmates were causing. Jinki’s eyes rolled as he looked back to you, it was obvious that the three of them didn’t need you, but it was more obvious just how much he was needed by you.

The grip he had against your hands tightened as you yet again tried to convince him that you were doing alright. His fingers parted as they began to draw light patterns against the back of your hand, trying to distract your mind.

“They’re grown men,” Jinki chuckled, hearing them erupting into laughter. “I’d much rather just be here with you right now and trying to make your night a little happier.”

Your eyes flickered down to the grip that Jinki had on your hand, watching as his index finger continued to trail aimlessly, without any given thought into the pattern you were creating. It was enough to bring a smile to your face as you tried to figure out what he could have been drawing.

“Let me write something and see if you understand what I’m trying to say.”

Your head nodded as you felt his finger brush down the back of your hand, pausing for a moment before he repeated the action, instead this time, flicking the line out at the end. You soon realised what he was trying to spell out, waiting until he’d finished before looking across at him.

“I love you too,” you chuckled, leaning across to press a kiss against his lips. “I had a feeling that you’d write something cheesy like that though, you’re always like this.”

He much preferred to consider himself as a creature of habit around you, he knew what you liked from him, and he always made sure that he delivered. Even now, when he could tell your nerves were soaring, he knew exactly how to bring them back down.

“I never like to disappoint,” he smiled back across at you, relieved to see the corners of your mouth turn up too. “And I know that it still means that you find me adorable.”

Your head nodded, “you’re very adorable Jinki, that’s probably why I’ve put up with all your chaos for so many years.”

“It’s something that you’re going to have to put up with for the rest of your life.”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” you hummed, resting your head carefully against his shoulder. “I don’t think I’d ever say no to the chance to be able to spend forever with you.”

His smile grew as his head rested down against the top of yours. Since the moment he met you, Jinki had felt the responsibility to protect you and keep you safe from everything in the world, even the smallest of things that would cause you harm.

“We’ll leave soon,” he whispered down to you as you began to relax, “I don’t think we’re really needed here any longer than we already have been.”

Your head nodded, looking around at the people around you, suddenly it didn’t feel so daunting anymore. You weren’t sure if it was the presence of Jinki beside you, or just the fact that you’d adjusted to it all, but regardless, you were relieved.

For the rest of your time there, Jinki made sure to stay right by your side, if he needed to go anywhere, he made sure you went with him with your hand intertwined with yours. If one of the boys wanted to wind you up, he’d step in instantly and tell them to go and get themselves a glass of water. If the noise became too much, then he’d use his broad back to block it out and make sure that you were comfortable and not too alert.

The fresh air that hit you as you walked out of your friend’s house was a huge relief for you both. Jinki looked across at you straight away and noticed how your shoulders dropped, and the grip that you had on his hand loosened.

“Better now that you’re out?” He questioned.

“Very much so,” you smiled back across at him, feeling his hand tug you closely into his side so he could keep you warm in the middle of the cold breeze. “I’m not too cold, you don’t have to hold onto me Jinki.”

His head shook, if anything, your words made him hold onto you a little bit tighter. He wanted his heart to warm you up, regardless of how hot or cold it was outside.

The walk back to your apartment was slow, and peaceful, just what you needed after a night of noise and chaos. Your conversation was minimal, but at times, that was all the two of you needed. The knowing that Jinki was right beside you was all that you ever wanted, his company was always enough for you.

“We should do this more often,” his voice suddenly spoke as you neared your apartment, “nights like this to ourselves are so much better than raucous parties.”

Your eyes glanced across at his expression, “why don’t we do things like this already, it’s just nice to take a moment and breathe?”

“Let’s change it, let’s do this more often. What do you say?”

“I say, let’s do it, absolutely.”

---

Masterlist

[serendipityjxmn]

Mr. President

Chapter 4

TW: None

Words Count: 3k

Link to Masterlist

Link to Chapter 5

There are several moments in our life that we may call life-changing. And from those life-changing moments, there are the ones that you’ve been waiting for your whole life that you imagine so much on how it’s going to happen. There are also the ones that come when you least expect it, you don’t even have time to react.

But there are also the events where you’ve been been waiting- dreaming for, and somehow it turns into something you least expect.

It’s funny how we think that if we imagine and plan one thing for a long time, when it finally happens, it would happen exactly the way you imagine it to be- spare the few millimetres of difference which you perhaps could look over. Take for instance, a wedding event. People- girls typically- imagine it beforehand and when it happens, it happens exactly the way they imagine it to be.

You might not have the luxury to conjure your dream wedding in your mind ever since you’re young, or plan it meticulously to every detail, or imagining the colour of your dress or how long it would be, but to the very least, you did imagine that you’d be marrying some knight in shining armour in modern version - which translates to a decent enough guy.

Someone who’s kind, can generally be communicated with, not involved in fights - a normal person.

How funny that the dreams can easily be shattered.

Here you are, alone in the large bedroom and contemplating about your life decision. You married Park Jimin three days ago. The wedding was private, only signings of papers involved though Jimin had to do a press conference shortly after which was only attended by him to inform his marriage. He told you it was better off for you to stay out of public so that they don’t follow you after your divorce. Of course, you thought, since the marriage is temporary.

Everything happened very fast that day. Too fast for you to process anything that somehow it still feels surreal that you’re married. You’ve exchanged very few words with your husband too but somehow they’re all etched in your mind.

During the signing of documents, which basically all there is to your wedding, he barely says anything to you at all except when the priest asks and he only stares at you deeply while uttering the word ‘I do.’ When his hands briefly brush with yours to put a ring on your finger, you suddenly felt an overwhelming feeling- you felt scared, anxious of this new life yet there’s also a twisted feeling of you being safe, perhaps because you now have a house though you can’t call it home just yet.

The house had been particularly empty ever since you moved in. Jimin wasn’t around, didn’t even bother mentioning where he would be and you’re left wondering on your own whether he has another house or he’s sleeping anywhere else but his house. If it’s the latter, you can’t help but feel guilty for ‘taking his home away’. He could’ve just stay here and you can sleep in the guest room or the couch at that.

With your newfound freedom and due to boredom that’s starting to take over as well as lack of people to communicate with, you start to roam around and explore the house. You learn that Mrs. Lee doesn’t live here as you originally thought but usually available every one or two days and mostly during daytime. She cooks and leaves the meal wrapped in foils for Jimin to reheat whenever he wants.

Mrs. Lee has also been nothing but pleasant enough to tell you most of the things she know about your husband. She told you that Jimin’s a very private person so she may not know much about his personal matter apart from the fact that Jimin will be inheriting Park Corporations from his father though Jimin himself did build himself together with his group of close friends, a tech company which went public about a year ago.

You find yourself getting more curious about your husband though he’s barely around. You learn about his favourite dishes too, one of them being kimchi jigae stew which Mrs. Lee very kindly taught you how to make. You admit that at first you think it is all useless to get to know about Jimin but then you also think that there’s no harm in learning about him even though the marriage’s temporary, nothing’s stated that you can’t have a civil relationship with him, perhaps as a friend.

This goes on for about a week, of you exploring and sitting down having conversations with Mrs. Lee though some day you’d rest on your bed, your body not entirely well enough to do a lot of activities everyday. Your ribs still shooting jarring pains every now and then and your lips are still torn. You silently thank Mrs. Lee for coming to your room, leaving medicines on the table on days when you feel extra tired.

You’re in your bedroom, standing right in front of your huge closet, eyeing the clothes though there’s none that was originally yours. When you moved in, it had been practically easy, you literally brought nothing with you since you don’t have much anyways. Mrs. Lee did inform clothes for you to wear had been bought prior to your wedding.

Though the thing is… almost every single one of them are dresses. They are pretty, you think. It’s just that you are not used to it. You sigh as you find yourself a pyjama set. They’re all mostly satin and silks too, another thing you have to get used to as well.

You sit on the edge of your bed, playing with your wedding ring, briefly wondering whether this is how your life is going to be from now on. It’s temporary, your brain reminds you. You frown. You’ve been wondering almost every single day without fail on why did Jimin decide to propose a marriage contract with you. There’s nothing you could give back, nothing that could benefit him any way no matter how you think about it. It is temporary, yes but you doubt he would do this if it doesn’t give him any benefit. He doesn’t strike you as someone kind enough to jeopardise his married life out of charity. You still shudder to this day thinking about how he handled your brother to half dead. You sigh, hands tightening on your pyjama as your thought goes to your brother.

A knock on the door startles you, making a gasp escape your mouth. Jimin enters, looking as gorgeous as when you first met him in his working attire without the blazer. He stops dead when he takes you in just your towel and you quickly place your hands on your chest in a meek attempt to cover your modest parts. He looks awkward, looking everywhere but you.

“Get dressed. My friends’ here.” He says simply before turning his back but then he stops and turns again, this time looking straight at your face. You feel a blush creeping at your cheeks immediately. “Put some makeup on or something. They might think I’m beating you.” At his words, you have no idea why your hands instantly went to your thigh, immediately conscious at the ugly slit on your thigh. He clears his throat before retreating and closing the door behind him.

You realise you didn’t breathe at all throughout the whole encounter. As you make your way back to your closet to find yourself a dress, you wonder if Jimin realises this is his first time seeing you in about a week after your wedding. Perhaps not.

Brushing your hair, you swallow a little as you watch your own reflection in the mirror. You still look sick and pale so you make an effort to cover the wound on your forehead with some powder and also put on some lipstick, Jimin’s words echoing in your head.

Bracing yourself, you can’t help but feel nervous as you make your way downstairs. You’re excited too since you haven’t been speaking to anyone but Mrs. Lee for almost a week. Before you could descend the last step of the stairs, you could hear them before you could see them. The sound of laughter fills the house making you wonder how many of them came.

You make your way to the living room and Jimin turns immediately, making you momentarily blinded with the way he’s smiling at you. The others notice you right away while Jimin saunters towards you. He leans down, close to you.

“They don’t really know about our contract except for Taehyung, so act your part.” With the way he’s smiling at you, you’d think he’s the sweetest husband in the world yet the threat lacing his words tells you otherwise. Suddenly, you feel very very afraid.

Still, you follow behind him silently, heart suddenly flutters when you see him wearing his wedding ring. He didn’t really have to.. does he? You only look up when he stops in his tracks. You’re met with six gorgeous guys in front of you.

“Wow, you actually exist!” A guy with very sharp nose and jawline grins widely at you. He seems like a very cheerful guy. “Nice to meet you Y/N, I’m Hoseok.” He waves at you, all white teeth flashing.

Unknowingly, you beam back at him, almost impossible not to with the bright energy he exudes. You reply back softly, not daring to say much since you’re unsure how to act, especially with Jimin around.

“Jimin’s been keeping you in his house so much, we thought we’d never see you.” The next one smiles kindly at you. You wish you could describe how beautiful he is. Tall, all broad shouldered and not to mention such blinding visuals. He speaks with such grace you immediately feel endeared by him. “My name is Jin.” You smile back at him.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Park. I’m Namjoon. I can see why he’s keeping you at home. You’re very pretty.” A tall guy with blonde hair smiles brightly at you. He even has dimples on each side of his cheeks and you can’t help but marvel at his gorgeous face. You can’t help the blush that creeps to your cheeks when he mentions your new last name as well as his compliment.

You peek slightly at Jimin but he only stares impassively ahead, not giving anything away. You quickly brush off the slight disappointment you feel.

“I’m Yoongi. Nice to meet you.” The guy in red-wine hair smiles at you. He’s slightly shorter than the rest of them but is still handsome. You nod at him as you smile kindly back at him.

“We’ve met before.” Taehyung smiles warmly at you and you nod back several times at him, happy to see someone you know.

The last but not least, is almost as tall as Namjoon and Jin but you can somehow tell he’s the youngest among them. “Hello Y/N. I’m Jungkook. We’re same age!” He says happily and you grin at him too, quickly falling for his bright smile with cute bunny teeth. You greet all of them back, introducing yourself again although they already know your name.

“Please have a seat. I’ll prepare drinks for you guys.” You say softly.

“Oh, no, it’s okay. We’re just here to drop Jimin off.” Jin quickly says.

“And hoping to see you too,” Hoseok winks at you. The rest of them gathers at the front door.

You frown slightly at Jin’s sentence. Then you turn towards Jimin, eyes finding him to ask him a question but unsure whether you’re allowed to. He must’ve sensed your stare, his eyes look down to meet yours.

“Y-you’re.. sleeping here..?” You ask slowly.

Before Jimin could answer, Namjoon cut him off. “Sorry we’ve been keeping him at the office too much. There’s an acquisition ongoing in the company so we’re quite busy at the moment.”

So he’s been sleeping at the office…

“But rest assured, we’ll make sure he’ll be home often now. The crucial part is done.” Hoseok says teasingly at you.

You smile, though slightly weirded how you feel pleasant with the fact that he’ll be home a lot now. Perhaps you’re just happy you won’t be alone now.. yes probably that.

They all say their goodbye and you happily wave them off.

As soon as they left, you’re suddenly hit with the realisation that you’re alone with Jimin in the house. As if on cue, you feel your hair rise when you feel a heavy presence behind you. You turn but immediately regrets the decision because Jimin is now inches from your face. Too close… you think. Nerves run down your spine as he seems to lean even closer to you. You swear your heart’s beating like crazy right now.

“So what did you do around the house the past week?” His question’s innocent but why do you feel like a rabbit trapped in a hole?

To your relief, he straightens. You feel like you could finally breathe, although your heart’s still beating at an abnormal pace. You swallow. “N-nothing much.” Is that the first thing he’s asking after a whole week of leaving you alone?

He stares at you while you make an effort to look anywhere but him. You’d give anything to know what’s on his mind. He then turns without saying anything. You take the time to stabilise your breathing, inhaling and exhaling deeply before slowly making your way back to the bedroom, noting how your heart rate is picking up its pace.

You open the door to your bedroom and let out a gasp when you find yourself walking on Jimin shirtless. You turn instantly, unable to think properly and let out another gasp when you knock your head on the door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice asks you harshly, making you jump.

You mutter an apology as you scrunch your face, thinking how this has gone completely wrong. You did not want to make such a bad first impression towards Jimin.

“H-have you eaten?” Your voice came out so meekly you almost want to hit your head against the door again.

“Do you think I have some kind of supernatural hearing to hear you from that far?” He snaps at you, making you flinch. You swallow and trepidation starts to fill you whole.

You turn slowly and approaches him, eyes shut tight to prevent yourself from seeing anything you shouldn’t and protecting the innocence of your own eyes but end up almost stumbling. You open your eyes, relieved that he’s now wearing a shirt. You briefly wonder how on earth he could look so handsome just by wearing a plain black shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He’s staring at you, obviously unimpressed at your antics.

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten? If you want to I can-“

“I already ate. With the boys.” He cut you off then takes his place on the bed, preparing to sleep.

Oh. Okay. You nod. You stand there awkwardly, contemplating whether you should ask the next question that has been on your mind since last week.

“Are you just gonna stand there creepily and stare while I’m trying to sleep?” He snaps back at you and you flinch. He’s sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, waist and leg completely covered by the blanket.

You fidget with the hem of your dress. “I- I want to ask you something.” He doesn’t answer you but only looks at his phone. “Why.. why did you offer me the marriage contract?”

He stops his act and is now staring at you sharply. “Having second thoughts now that you realise it’s not all hearts and flowers?” He smirks.

“N-no.. not like that.. I know.. I don’t deserve all that.. It’s just that- I was just curious.. You could’ve just hire me or.. just..” You trail off, unsure of how to put everything into words when your mind is a whole chaos. “It’s just that I don’t see how you’re benefitting from this arrangement.”

“Oh trust me, I do have my benefits in this.” He answers almost immediately and you stare at him, puzzled. He smirks before his face turns sinister. “You’re only here because you owe me a debt. That means I own your little life, mine to do whatever I want.” Psychotic, the word echoes in your mind. “And trust me little one, you’re better off not knowing the reason behind this marriage.”

What on earth have you gotten yourself into?

Your blood runs cold. Without uttering another word, you turn to grab your pyjama you took out before and disappears towards the bathroom. You take your time in the bathroom, trying to calm your nerves as you change. Tonight, you come into a conclusion. Park Jimin’s psychotic.. and a very dangerous man. You should never cross line with him.

Hands balling into a fist, you step out of the bathroom and finds the bedroom in darkness except for the table lamp on your side of the bed. Jimin appears already asleep. You approach silently and takes the time to stare at his face. He’s very beautiful, you would think, if you didn’t know better of it only being a mask.

You stand on the edge of the bed for several moments, contemplating whether you’re allowed to sleep on the bed with him. The King size bed is large enough without the two of you having the possibility of coming in contact with each other yet you’re still having second thoughts about it. You don’t want to wake up being strangled by him just because you decided to sleep on the same bed with him. So you make your way to the couch on the side of the bedroom and curls yourself on it. Using your hands as your own pillow, you fall asleep quickly.

Link to Chapter 5

Posted on 210402 9:00PM

[evil-slytherin-queen]

His Touch

WARNING: mentions of blood, panic/anxiety attack, mentions of murder/death, mentions of physical/psychological torture, mentions of violence, mentions of not eating enough/lowkey Draco having an ED, self-hatred, mentions of self-harm

a/n I really don’t think this is super graphic or anything but you never know what can trigger you, so pretty please be careful and safe while reading.

Sometimes Draco wonders why he lets him touch him. How he can stand the sight of him. How it doesn't make him want to throw every Unforgivable he could think of at Draco. 

He wonders. 

But he never asks. 

He's too afraid of the answer. 

Too afraid of what it could mean. 

Too afraid it might make him realize his mistake and make him leave. Make him hate Draco. He doesn't believe he would survive that. Doesn't believe he would want to. 

That night he scrubs Draco's hands clean twice. Golden-bronze hands, rough and strong, and impossibly gentle moving Draco's pale shaking ones under the faucet. His look so small in comparison. Weak. Useless. He washes in between Draco's fingers, under his nails, out to his wrists. Let's the water wash away the pain and misery and death from his palms. Till the water runs clear again. Till it is all gone. Except it isn't. 

And Draco can still see the blood. 

Can see it when he shuts his eyes or if he blinks too quickly. Can feel it under his nails, and between his fingers like it has sunken into his pores. Like it has become a part of him. Draco offhandedly thinks he'd like to rip it out, tear into himself to make it leave his body. It's an absent thought and it would probably horrify him in any other circumstance. 

But he won't. 

He knows that would only upset him further, would make him cry, and hold Draco close apologizing like it was his fault, even though it wasn't. He always was such a martyr. And even though Draco doesn't care right now he will later. He'll care too much and he'll regret it. So he doesn't. 

He's been staring from behind those stupid and awfully crooked spectacles. His eyes too green, too full of concern and trust and-and something Draco won't admit to himself. He's not ready to yet. It's too dangerous to let himself have that right now. If he does he won't be able to do what he has to, what he needs to. 

He expects Draco to drop his occlumency shields. But he doesn't. He can't. If Draco lets himself feel this it will kill him. He knows it will. 

Draco knows if he lets the barriers between his emotions and what he's just done down he will fall apart. Knows he won't be able to do anything other than shake and sob into solid warm arms and tell the truth. Tell him that he's disgusting and dirty and vile. That he is ruined. 

And he can't. He just can't. 

Except he has to. They both know he does. And it's dreadful. 

"Come on, my darling. My sweet love, my Draco. I need you to come back to me." He whispers it like if he says it any louder it will break him. And maybe it would. Draco knows when he goes blank like this it hurts him. He remembers how his pain hurts Draco in return. He doesn't want to feel that. Can't even bring himself to think his name, that might bring all of his walls crumbling down without his permission.

That would be damaging and if he isn't careful it could rip a hole into his mind and leave him in a not all there sort of limbo. Although there has to be some sort of freedom in delusion and insanity, at least then he wouldn't remember. But then he recalls Longbottom's parents and the way they can't even feed themselves and he decides maybe that isn't the way to go. 

Draco shakes his head, face carefully vacant, eyes glazed over as he stares past him. It's too hard to look him in the eye and keep everything perfectly in place. 

"No. It will hurt." Draco says it simply, his voice sounds foreign to himself. Draco knows it will sound lifeless and wrong to him. Right now he doesn't care. He watches how the flames flicker in the fireplace behind him, how the Room of Requirement chose an oddly cosey rendition of the Gryffindor common room. If he could feel right now, it might make him laugh. He thinks it might be funny, ironic in some way he can't process currently. 

Warm hands touch his neck. They feel hot, like the sun. Draco knows they're not his own. He's perpetually cold now thanks to Aunt Bella's Cruciatus Curse training. And even if he can't look at his hands right now without losing his manufactured calm he knows they're still hanging by his sides, trembling. The hands burn a trail up his neck, brushing calloused thumbs under his jaw, trailing them up and over his cheekbones till they're cupping his face softly. 

He can physically feel wetness hitting his cheeks, it makes his mouth twitch down, eyebrows scrunch a little. That shouldn't be happening. 

"You're crying." He says the warm hands brush the tears away gingerly. And he can feel the way his eyes watch him, waiting. He expects it to happen soon. Expects Draco to break under the heavy weight of despair. 

"I shouldn't be." 

"But you are." 

Draco shouldn't be able to cry. His shields are slipping and he knows it. He hates it. He doesn't reach a hand up to wipe them away. He lets himself be kissed on the forehead. Let's himself be pulled over towards the fire and cradled into a warm embrace. Draco's tucked against a scorching body on the sofa and a blazing fire just beside them. He should be burning alive but he still feels ice cold. 

Deft fingers run through his hair. It doesn't look how it used to, it's taken on a grey pallor and waxy feeling ever since the summer before sixth year. It's the stress, the bad eating habits. It's not his fault he can't keep food down. It's the nightmares, the way Aunt Bella thought it fun to poison his food every so often for giggles. Draco misses how it used to look. All white blonde and shiny. He misses how soft and feathery it used to feel ever since he'd quit slicking it back with those charms his father had insisted he use. He supposes that's what happens when you become a child soldier, a spy. Things don't get to stay nice or pretty or good. 

Salazar. 

He shouldn't be able to miss that right now.

He's scared. So, so scared. He isn't ready. He'll never be ready. Not for this. Draco tells him so. 

"I can't do this." 

Draco can feel his gaze on him filled with its usual encouragement and tenderness. He presses a kiss to Draco's hair. 

"You can." 

"I'll die." 

"You won't. I've got you, my darling, my Draco. I'm here, just let go. I'll keep you safe." He speaks it like a promise and the word safe is what does Draco in. It's all he wants. All he's wanted for a long time. Safety. 

He can already feel the occlumency shields cracking and he lets them slide away, a violent sob clawing its way out of his throat. It leaves his mouth and makes him feel raw and exposed. It's heart-wrenching and frightening how broken he sounds. And it hurts. 

Because now he can feel everything. 

Disgust. 

Regret. 

Self-loathing. 

Fear. 

Grief. 

Guilt. 

Shame 

Weak. 

But mostly he just feels useless and sorry so very sorry. 

And he feels like he's suffocating like he's dying. Like he'll never breathe again. Tears flood his vision and it's revolting and it makes him feel sick. And he feels like a monster. 

He tries to get away from him, scrambles off of his broad chest, and tries to pull far far away. Draco doesn't deserve to touch someone so good with his hands that have hurt and maimed and-and killed. 

But he won't let him, won't let him get more than a few centimetres away. Grabs his wrists to stop him from leaving, till he's stuck straddling him, wrists clutched into hot palms. 

"No. You don't run away. You don't run from me, never me. Tell me what happened." 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He doesn't recognize his own voice for a moment, it doesn't sound like him. It sounds hysterical and far away and Merlin, everything hurts. He shakes his head violently back and forth. He doesn't want to tell him. He tries to pull his hands out of his grip to rip at his own hair. He doesn't deserve this comfort not after what he just did. He shouldn't have taken down his nicely built walls that kept him perfectly in check. He should have just buried these feelings in with the others. Should've let someone Obliviate him instead of having to deal with it. This feels like dying. 

"Draco. Draco! Stop!" He says it forcefully, his hands tightening around his wrists and it breaks him out of his hysteria. Draco freezes, he knows that tone of voice too well. It startles him into silent tears instead of the loud sobbing he had been doing. He doesn't want to hurt him too. And if he hurts himself and carries on like this it will hurt him. 

"Harry," He chokes the name out painfully and looks at him through watery eyes, "I'm sorry." 

Harry frowns and pulls Draco's hands towards his lips. Draco feels the horror wash over him before Harry gets the chance to finish what he's doing. 

"STOP!" He yells the word frantically, Harry halts his movements. 

"Please," Draco begs weakly, "Please, they're dirty. I-I hurt, I k-killed a-a child. A help-helpless child. Please don't. Please." 

Harry looks at him firmly, fiercely, locks him in with a determined glint in his green eyes. He pulls each of Draco’s hands to his lips, one at a time, and kisses his palms, his fingertips, the back of his hands, his wrists. Each press of his lips makes Draco gasp and cry like he's in pain. Maybe he is, he can't tell anymore. Harry does it with delicate care like he hadn't just washed blood off of them, like they hadn't just done foul, nasty, unforgivable things. 

By the time he stops, Draco has his eyes twisted shut painfully. He can't watch as Harry worships hands that have torn people's, children's flesh and blood from their bodies. He can't bear it. 

"Look at me, my love." 

He doesn't. 

"Look at me, Draco." 

A plea. his voice bordering on begging. This time he does. Harry should never have to beg someone so monstrous for anything, it's wrong. 

Harry's eyes are so beautiful. Draco hasn't seen anything green and living in so long not since the Death Eaters had come to Hogwarts and scorched the surrounding lands. They remind him of the grass in the spring and the leaves on the big oak trees in the summer, of emeralds and pine. They remind him of something soft and comfortable and safe. They remind him of Harry and how much he shouldn't and can't love him right now. Not without having to kill little pieces of himself for hurting someone so good and beautiful and kind with his dirty and foul being. 

And there are tears in his eyes again. Draco can feel them as they fall down his cheeks. Bloody fucking hell. A piteous sound comes out of his mouth as he tries to catch his breath. He can't. 

Harry pulls his inconsequential and fragile-looking hands, a dangerous deception seeing as what they're capable of, down against his chest. The action makes Draco flinch. He puts his large and callous and warm ones over top of them keeping them pressed into his shirt till he can feel Harry's heartbeat. It unconsciously soothes him. And he hates himself a little for relaxing even the slightest after he did something so heinous. 

"You are not your actions. You are not what you were forced to do to survive, just as I am not my actions or my failures. You, Draco, are not to blame for the lives you could not save, just as I am not to blame for the death of those who fought to protect me. If I'm not allowed to blame myself for the casualties of a war I never asked for then neither are you. Are we clear, my love?" 

His words are calm and soft-spoken but the way his eyes are fixed on Draco makes them so much more intense and concrete. And he isn't wrong. Draco had had the same conversation with him before. But that time he had been the one to hold Harry as he cried over the death of Sirius Black, of Dumbledore, of Cedric Diggory, of Alastor Moody and blamed himself for them all. But it's different. Those were all good people who lost their lives to Death Eaters and Draco, Draco is a Death Eater doing what they do best. Hurt others. End lives. It is not the same. 

"It's-but that's different. They-you can't control-" 

"It's not. I can't control what others do for me just like you can't control what's done to you," Harry says letting one hand reach up and brush tears from Draco’s cheek, he doesn't flinch this time, "I know Bellatrix and the Carrows force you to watch these things. You wouldn't unless you had to. I know you would stop them if you could. But you can't. Not yet. And I know it hurts every time you have to move their bodies, every time you try to revive them but you can't. I know. And I'm sorry." 

And he's right. Draco would kill them and every other nasty Death Eater if he could. He would fight them with everything he had if he could. Throw every dark and dangerous curse that Aunt Bella taught him right back at her and revel in her suffering for what they did. Draco can feel the anger thrum under his skin but it simmers down into anguish again with the way Harry sighs. The way his pretty face smiles at him mournfully. 

"I wish you hadn't done this, Draco. I wish you didn't have to watch so many die by their hands. I wish you never had to get this," Harry traces his fingers along the inside of Draco’s left wrist. 

It's stained with the Dark Mark and scars from where he's tried to scratch off his own skin. It's shameful, and it makes Draco want to pull away again. He doesn't though. He's more here than he was before. More in his body and less in his mind. Harry's heartbeat always seems to bring him back faster than anything else. It's why they send him to get information and not someone else. And they promised never to run from each other. He isn't going to break that promise now. 

"I'm sorry," Draco whispers back, he's stopped crying now. He's ashamed. He always is after he's had an episode like this. He can't help it no matter how delicate and kind and sweetly Harry handles them. 

"Draco? My love? Are you all the way back with me?" Harry sounds hopeful, his eyebrows scrunch in question, and it makes Draco's heart clench. He's missed him. He hasn't seen Harry in three weeks. It's been too long. This war has been too long. He hasn't properly looked at him yet. And he is still beautiful, still so painfully open despite who Draco is. 

But he looks tired. The bags under his eyes are darker, deeper, and his skin is more sallow. He's paler than he once was, his brown skin no longer looks dusted in gold and sunlight but his hair is the same disaster of dark raven curls. It never changes even when the rest of him does. 

Draco carefully pulls his hands from Harry's grasp and slides them up along his body. He traces Harry's broad shoulders, brushes his fingers along his too-defined collar bones. He isn't eating enough either, none of them are. Draco skims them up to Harry's neck and cups his jaw with oddly still hands. He's almost always trembling now. But not with Harry around, never when he's around. 

He smoothes out the wrinkles in between Harry's brows with a swipe of his thumb. And places a kiss there too. He hates to see him so exhausted with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He should have noticed sooner. 

"Yes. I'm back, Harry, my darling. I'm sorry it took so long tonight." 

And in spite of the circumstances, Harry smiles at Draco. He smiles like Draco hung the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Draco can't help but think that Harry is the one who should be smiled at in that way. He's the one who will save them all as much as Draco hates the very idea of him having to. It should have never been his job in the first place. He was-is only a child. 

"S'alright, not your fault. Want to tell me what actually happened? I know you never hurt any of them, I know it's never you. Tell me what they made you watch." 

Draco sighs and leans forward till his head rests against Harry's, eyes closed. He strokes his thumbs over Harry's jaw. He needs to shave, Draco can feel the stubble growing in again. It makes him smile faintly, remembering the first time Harry had let Draco shave his face for him. It felt like a lifetime ago when in reality it was a little over a year ago. 

He feels Harry's hands trail down to his thighs straddling him and then up to hold his hips. Harry draws circles into his skin with calloused thumbs. It's soothing in a way that Draco still feels he doesn't deserve but he lets him anyway. He's too weak to resist any comfort given to him. 

"They said if he liked muggles so much they would show him how vile and primitive they were," His voice shakes as he speaks and he feels sick and dirty all over, "How-how d-dangerous. They-they cut him to pieces, Harry. I couldn't-I couldn't help him." 

Tears wet his face, trail down his cheeks in torrents. He opens his eyes to blink them away. It doesn't work. His hands tremble violently and he tries to draw away from Harry. He doesn't want to hurt him on accident, doesn't want to scare him. He knows Harry won't let him go far so he settles for putting his hands over Harry's heart again, leaving their heads bent together. At least this way he won't accidentally scratch his face with his shaking hands. 

Harry frowns at the action but doesn't stop him. Instead, he rests his hands over top Draco's again. He strokes the back of his hands. He says nothing as Draco shuts his eyes and learns to breathe again. And when he's finally caught his breath, Harry speaks. His voice is tender and sweet, his eyes no doubt the same. 

"Who, Draco?" 

"His name is Leonidas Baros. The name's Greek. It means lion strength," Draco laughs wetly through the new wave of tears that cascade down his cheeks, "Not a bad name for a first-year Gryffindor is it?" 

"It's a good name," Harry murmurs. 

Draco laughs again but it comes out more of a wet sob than anything else. He keeps his eyes closed,  it makes talking easier. The feeling of Harry's skin against his own urges him to continue. 

"It is. Was." -Draco chokes a little at the thought- "It suited him so well too. Little muggle-born Leo with his loud mouth and his stupid bravery. He reminds-reminded me of you." 

Draco gets quiet after that. He gets caught in the memory of this little eleven-year-old boy with dark hair and fierce eyes storming up to him in the corridor in defence of his friends. He hadn't drawn his wand but held up his fists instead and called Draco a bully, an arsehole, a bloody racist bigot. Told him off for being a coward for having something so 'bloody brilliant’ and wasting it on following 'Magical Hitler' and being a 'Nazi'. Leo always was loud and reckless in his acts of defiance and his screaming had caught the attention of the Carrows. They told Draco either he could punish him or they would, so he had grabbed Leo by his robe front and dragged him into the nearest classroom shouting and struggling and cursing the whole way there. 

'Listen to me, brat!' Draco had hissed once the door had shut behind them and Leo continued to struggle, 'Listen! I am a bully and a bigot and all those other things, I'm probably even whatever those bloody muggle terms were but you need to listen! I have to make it look like I've punished you. So I'm going to glamour you with all sorts of cuts and bruises and you're going to go out there shivering and shaking and crying if you bloody well must and put on the best-damned show they've ever seen. Do you understand me?' 

'My name's Leonidas, not brat. And why should I?' He'd spat back, fury in his eyes, utter revulsion and hatred. It had sent a strange pang of shame and pride through Draco's body. He'd never had the boldness to do anything so blatantly defiant. Then he'd seen the boys tie. It was red and gold and an act of defiance in and of itself. A flash of Harry's face had crossed his mind and he knew he needed to protect the insufferable brat causing such trouble. 

'Because if you don't I'm sure they'll be more than happy to find someone less averse to tormenting children. Now, do we have an agreement or would you rather the Carrows play with you and your little friends?' 

'Fine. But I don't like you.' He'd growled arms folded over his chest but Draco could see the fear at the mention of the Carrows.   

'Oddly enough, I feel the same,' Draco said flatly, an irritated look on his face as he drew up his wand, 'Now, let's make this believable, Leonidas, was it? Scream.' 

"Hey, hey, my sweet love, come back to me. Where did you go? What happened?" Harry murmurs kissing the corners of his mouth. Bringing him back to his body and out of his memories. 

"Sorry," Draco whispers against his lips, brings his hands up, and strokes the sides of Harry's face to remind himself of where he is, "I'm wasting time. But, he didn't deserve this. None of them did. He deserved better, they all do." 

"Yes, they do. As do you. We all deserve better than this war. And you aren't wasting anything, we've got all night." 

Harry's hands latch back onto his hips. His fingers pet the soft skin on his midriff making him shiver. He's missed being touched without being hurt. No one else is allowed this close to him without a serious fight. Everyone else is a threat. He hopes when this is all over and it will end, one way or another, that he will be able to allow others near him again. 

He misses the closeness of it. That's why he and Harry are sharing the same air right now. It's why he can't bring himself to pull away from where their heads are bent together, lips grazing over each other, breath mingling. 

"Still, it's selfish. The others could be in here hiding from-" 

Harry cuts him off with a kiss. It's slow and soft and mournful. A lot of what they do now feels that way. It feels as though they're always grieving for the carefree love they never got to have. 

"They will be just as safe at Aberforth’s as they would be here. It's not selfish. You need this," -Draco pulls away to give him a look- "No don't look at me like that, Draco." 

"You just wanted to see me. Don't lie to me and say that isn't what this is. I miss you too but-" 

Harry interrupts him with another kiss. It should be a sin how easily that can make Draco fall quiet. It's an unfair tactic. 

"Yes," Harry says, bumping their noses together, "A part of me just wants to be with you for the sake of being with you, but I also know that if you're weighed down by all that you've seen you won't be able to feed us as much information. That is why this is not a waste and it is not selfish. Okay?" 

The soft earnestness in his pretty green eyes halts all sorts of arguments from leaving his mouth. Draco sighs and relents. 

"All right."

Harry smiles at him easily and Draco melts just a little at the sight. He pecks him on the lips once more before letting his body sink further into Harry's embrace. Till he's lying directly on top of him their legs intertwined and his head and hands resting on Harry's chest. 

Draco listens to Harry's steady breathing and the familiar sound of his heartbeat. He hasn't felt this calm in months. He can't wait for this war to be over.

They stay that way for a long while, Harry's hands rubbing soothing lines up and down his back. Until Harry's breathing evens out and Draco can't help but to shift up and gaze at his sleeping lover's face. 

He is beautiful in a devastating way. It makes Draco's heart lock up with all sorts of mushy feelings neither of them has time for. He smiles a small fond thing as he brushes an errant curl out of his face. 

"I love you, my Harry, my darling." 

Draco whispers it like a secret, kissing him on the forehead, and then settles himself back down against his broad chest. 

And a small part of Draco still wonders why Harry lets him --the monster, the Death Eater, the coward-- touch him, the sun, the Savior, the brave. 

But he never asks because he knows the answer. 

Knows that Harry will never leave him. 

Knows that they will never run from each other. 

Knows that if he ever asks, Harry will frown and get that painfully endearing confused look on his face and answer back with a question of his own. 

"Why wouldn't I? I love you, Draco."

[powerosewaterpuff]

YO ITS ME AGAIN , so um , some fear gas content in your au please , like fear gased dick and big bro jason comfort him

i genuinely have no excuse as to why this is so late, but oh my god school has been up my ass lately and i haven’t been able to get back into the groove of writing so I took this as an opportunity to build on that a bit. so tysm for the prompt! i rlly rly appreciate it hehe and again this had no excuse to be as late as it was ngl. but again this is my robin reversal au with jason being the oldest (i cant think of a good early hero name though ugh!) and dick being younger than him so enjoy! also so dick isn’t officially robin (he only does that when jason dies), but the persona still exists and he will join on major missions but bruce still has him in training so casual patrols are a no unless they have no other option for back up yk?

tw// there’s a slight mention of needles! it’s super short but i wanna be on the safe side as well as mild mention of cuts and scratches!

it took prodding. begging. and absolutely pleading to get bruce to agree to let jason and dick patrol together on their own. dick and or robin was not a constant on patrols with jason and bruce, as bruce wanted to ensure dick was fully equppied and trained before rushing into the field. it didn’t matter how much dick whined, or complained, or did as twice as many flipping kicks in training, the answer was always a solid no unless supervised or it was necessary. so it was a massive stretch to assume that bruce would agree to let them patrol together. they were practically in shock as bruce gave a nod after a few moments of silence. he even surprised himself. maybe it was the puppy eyed stare (mostly dick), or the reassurances that alfred would be on their comms the entire time, or even the full promise by jason that everything would be alright, but something made bruce say yes. more field training would be more than beneficial for dick anyways, (and that bright smile his youngest gave him and tight squeeze of a hug from his eldest didn’t hurt either).

the only promise jason was going to be able to fulfil was that scarecrow was going to rue the fucking day he decided to rear his ugly face out of arkham. it didn’t matter that bruce was beating the living shit out of him, holding no punches. jason was still brimming with rage. he hopped rooftop to rooftop, whipping his head around wildly as he searched for a fear gassed blur of neon colours. he wished he had been fucking a nanosecond faster, to reach out and pull dick from the blast of fear gas that swam through his nose and induced him in this fucking crazed frenzy. dick had just taken off his mask, right as jason was telling him to wait before bruce gave them the signal, and now jason was scouring the streets of gotham trying to find his brother. (he was going to fucking break scarecrow’s face, if bruce hadn’t already)

jason’s life was never one attributed with luck, it seemed like every possible slot in his pile was stacked firmly against him. except for when out of the corner of his vision he saw a stumbling mesh of a yellow cape climb onto a roof to his left. jason, took this as his initiative to attempt to stealthily sneak up next to dick, using his dark costume as an advantage.

he crept gently over to the building as he saw dick stumble onto his knees and he winced a bit as blood began to trickle down dick’s leg from the gashes beginning to form. dick was looking around wildly, almost in a desperate search for something. now, jason would’ve waited. he should’ve waited. bruce has drilled into his mind that dealing with victims of fear gas had to be done as meticulously and carefully as possible. dick shouldn’t have been any different, jason was able to hold to hold himself back. or he should’ve been able to.

it wasn’t until he saw dick scream out for his mother in a guttural rasp and leap towards the railings of the rooftop, did jason feel his legs take off as he stretched out, and managed to secure an arm around dick firmly. dick screeched even louder, wailing for his mother as he dug his nails into jason’s arms. jason gritted his teeth tightly but held on, because fuck that hurt. dick struggled and pushed, stamping his foot against jason’s leg and attempting to squirm out of his hold. but jason held on.

jason began attempting to reason with dick, he leaned his head down and gently placed it against dick’s. he murmured a bunch of fucking nothing as dick sobbed his throat raw. jason leaned closer to dick’s ear as dick began to shake in fear rather than anger and shut his eyes tight.

“dick? it’s jason, it’s just me. we’re on some fucking rooftop somewhere, and you are safe. okay? i’m holding you, and you’re safe, nothing is going to happen. bruce is gonna be here soon, and everything is going to be okay. i know you’re seeing god knows what, but i’m gonna get you out of this alright? i-i promise.”

jason couldn’t say he wasn’t dumbfounded when dick stopped angrily squirming around and began pressing his face into jason’s chest, with fat tears streaming down his face as he let out a wet sob. jason hesitantly wrapped his slightly bleeding arms around dick even tighter, curling up around him as he tried to push out the sound of dick’s sobs. he was never exactly good at dealing with dicks tears, he hated them so fucking much.

it didn’t take long for batman to arrive on the scene, but it was a scene he didn’t exactly like. his oldest son was cradling his youngest son as he heaved and sobbed. bruce silently stalked over, tapping jason on the shoulder as he waved his hands quietly, indicating that he could take dick off of his hands. jason was, not surprisingly, hesitant. (that untrustful hesitance was something, no matter how far jason did with his recovery, would always exist. that need to protect himself, or anyone he could care about no matter who it was against. that deeply rooted and innate need for self preservation, it marred jason’s soul with broad brush strokes. fading, but never leaving. )

jason almost shook himself into realization, realizing it was batman who was standing in front of him, and not someone of possible harm. he slowly unfurled his arms around dick, but was once again left dumbfounded when dick gripped onto the back of his uniform even tighter. the once muffled sobs got louder as dick desperately tried to hold onto jason. jason felt bruce’s stare, fucking digging into him, but he found himself not caring as he quickly curled back around dick. rocking back and forth, not bothering with the useless platitudes but keeping a firm lock on the back of dick’s neck and his waist. he peered up at batman and caught his gaze, and with a hushed agreement, they nodded at each other.

jason looped his arms around dick’s legs, his face twisting into a deeply set frown as dick’s sobs began morphing into hacking coughs, harsh and volatile. he managed to get himself standing upright as he pressed a kiss onto dick’s tear stained check, whilst still rubbing his back. the pain of others always had physically manifestions on jason. he fucking hated it. his mother would be splayed out on the couch, muttering incoherent fucking nonsense and jason would feel bile sting at the back of his throat, almost tempting him to kneel over and lurch as his body shook violently. and now, hearing dick’s fragmented breaths and shaky sobs, he felt like doing just that.

it had taken an effort, to get jason and dick safely off of the roof, and at the end bruce opted into scooping jason up who had dick clinging onto him like a koala, and simply carrying them both into the batmobile. alfred has already been long informed of the situation and had been able to promptly prepare an antidote that would be ready for their arrival. that did not mean, of course, that dick was compliant in taking the antidote. it took shushing and holding and soft whispers to get him to stop squirming enough for the needle to safely prick through his skin. alfred had opted to use little superman stickers afterwards, they were always dick’s favourite.

it had taken a while for dick to become conscious again, as alfred had added just a touch of sedatives to the antidote. just to help dick relax. when he did wake up, the world around him looking slightly fuzzy around the corners, he found himself encased in two sets of arms. was he in bruce’s bed? dick attempted to sit up but was met with a hand in his face pushing him back down, he turned his head to the side to be met with hazy lime green eyes and a lazy smile.

“dickie, sleep. now. you’ll wake up bruce— dont look at me like that he’s a light sleeper and you fucking know it. now go back to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

“I just woke up though, why am I going back to slee-.”

“sh. your voice is too loud this early in the morning.”

“you’re so annoyin—and get your hand off of me!”

“make me—slapping my hand isn’t doing anything, bud.”

“shut up. i didn’t ask.”

“you’re still not making me”

“i’ll kick you.”

“do it. c’mon. do it right now.”

“fine—stop pinching my cheeks, jay! ow, ow, ow.”

“stop kicking me, then i’ll stop pinching.”

“that’s not fair! who made you the king of rules, assh-.”

“boys.”

“sorry bruce.”

“i’m sorry, B.”

“i’ll whoop your ass tomorrow.”

“I’d like to see you try, you old sack of bones.”

and with a roll of the eyes, a feathery soft kiss was pressed into dick’s forehead. a soft smile curled at dicks lips afterwards, a warm fire nestling in his heart drove the lingering hazy darkness away. dick nuzzled closer into the bed sheets as the two sets of arms encasing him only held on tighter. all curled under the fluffy bedsheets as the morning sun began to rise on the horizon, seeping through the cracks of the dark curtains as a kaleidoscope of colours painted the early morning sky.

fin.

i rlly should’ve made this longer with a little more detail but i haven’t gotten back into the groove of creative writing yet so take this with a grain of salt lmao. but anywho tysm for reading and tysm for the prompt! again i rlly wanna get back into creative writing so hopefully i’ll written sm shit? hopefully? maybe? idk? but again tysm for reading and i am so so sorry for how long this took :]!!

[shapeshiftersandfire]

Just A Little Sunlight

for @amonthofwhump‘s 12 Days of Whumpmas Day 6: Six Geese A-Laying: Last Minute Relief

spiritual successor to this post

cw: muzzles, needle mention, implied staking, burning

The chain is long enough that she can reach the outer edge of the stone circle, but not enough that she can fully submerge herself in the shadows around the circle. Selene lays uncomfortably at the edge, the chain around her wrists digging into her skin. She rubs her face against her shoulder; the hunter’s iron muzzle has been irritating her skin. Small specks of rust flake off onto her uniform; more have flaked onto her face, coupled with spots of blood from where the muzzle has rubbed her raw.

She’s managed to shuffle to the outer edge of the circle she’d been lying on; quite the feat given her bound wrists and ankles. The drugs have since worn off; her head is clear and her body responds to her commands, but she’s still unable to break the chains around her wrists. And the muzzle—

Damn, damn it all, if it weren’t for the infernal itch she might be able to forget about the muzzle. Might be able to forget that she can’t get it off without her hands, how the hunter tightened it another notch when he felt it was too loose.

And the hunter…

He’s back at the desk, packing away the tools that have proved useless against her. The cross, laid against her forehead, had done nothing, hadn’t even gotten a flinch out of her. The garlic had done nothing but make her wrinkle her nose at the overwhelming scent—which she knows she’s going to carry back to the coven with her. He’d sprinkled her with holy water and gotten nothing but a drop of it in her eye she’s only just managed to blink away. The stake…

She doesn’t want to think about the stake.

The holes in her uniform speak for themselves.

That she’s still alive says more.

The hunter drops the syringe into a specially marked box behind the desk with a clink that makes Selene shudder. How many other vampires had been in her situation? How many others had he injected silver into the bloodstream of, just to see what happened?

It hasn’t killed her, it won’t, but she doesn’t know what, if anything, it’s going to do to her in the long term. Feeding may not be enough to stave off any ill effects.

The only method left, the only one the hunter hasn’t tried, is to open the porthole.

“The interesting thing about Dracula, my dear” he says, as he slips Carmilla back onto the shelf, “is that the Count was never affected by sunlight.” He flips to a marked page. “That was purely the idea of moviemakers. The Count, you see,” he says, tapping the page, “made no less than seven appearances in broad daylight. Carmilla, likewise, was never harmed by sunlight.”

But both of them had been harmed by the more conventional methods. Stakes. Holy water. Religious items. None of which have been fatal, much less harmful, to Selene.

“But you, my dear…” The hunter crosses the room to grip the muzzle and haul her up halfway; Selene notes how fond of that move he is. “I suspect you will be quite susceptible to sunlight, hm?”

Selene doesn’t answer, eyes brightening. She grunts as the hunter throws her to the side, but doesn’t answer.

She watches with growing horror, even fear, as he makes his way toward the wheel on the adjacent wall. “No—”

He turns to her. “Afraid of a little sunlight?” He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop. The wheel creaks and grinds and protests as it’s turned. The chain rattles. Further up, the doors of the porthole shriek as they’re pulled apart.

Selene backs as far away as she can as a streak of sunlight pours in through the narrow opening. The chain around her wrists goes taught. She’s reached the end of her chain, and she’s nowhere to go. The porthole only opens wider.

No, no—

She can’t die like this—

More sun filters into the small room, more heat builds. Selene shuffles backward, again and again, as though the chain will lengthen and give her enough leeway to back into the protection of the shadows. Heat brushes her face, stings her eyes, singes her hair, she swears her uniform is melting around her—

“Stop,” she breathes, unable to shield her eyes but unwilling to look away, then louder, “Stop!”

The wheel stops. The room goes quiet. All that can be heard is the faint sizzling of loose strands of Selene’s hair, the smoke rising from her skin. Selene stares into the sun, eyes on her predator, waiting, waiting for the moment it hits her full force, for the violet, burning death all vampires fear.

It doesn’t come.

The chain rattles again, the wheel groans, the porthole shrieks. Instead of growing, the ray of light shrinks, shrinks, until it’s gone, and the room is plunged into darkness.

Selene goes limp on the floor, shuddering with relief and fear. She’s come so close to death before, so many times, in her career as a Death Dealer, but this…this is different. This isn’t war. This is a prison.

“Sunlight,” the hunter murmurs to himself. He returns to his desk, this time to write something down in his journal. “Affected by sunlight. Yes…yes, I thought as much…”

Selene closes her eyes. She’s alive. Still alive. Still breathing. The minor burns have already healed. Her hair will grow back in time.

“Yes, I think that will do it.” Selene opens her eyes as the hunter’s footsteps grow closer to her. He squats down at her head and picks her up again, this time by her hair. Selene hisses. “Now,” the hunter says, with a faint smile, “How would you like to see the rest of Europe?”

[fangirlovestuff]

The Heart Wants What it Wants - Chris Evans x reader pt.3

a/n- Hey lovely people! hope you’re all doing great! I know i’ve said this is the last chapter, but I was thinking about making an epilouge of sorts from Chris’ perspective... anyone interested? if yes please tell me! italics are for thoughts/memories and bold italics is text messeges. Also you know the drill... summary is from pinterest. Hope you enjoy <3

part 2

Summary: You either say how you feel and fuck it up or say nothing and let it fuck you up instead.

Warnings: age gap, a little angst

It's been 10 months since the last time you saw him, at that bar. You tried to give up the habit of counting, but it was useless. You went on a couple dates, but it was a waste of time. You had almost resigned to your fate of being an old maid, married to your job.

Now, you were sitting in Scarlett's kitchen, munching on some chocolate chip cookies you'd just baked together. You never told Scarlett about Chris, about your… thing. How could you? You had no idea what would she say, how she would react. Would she tell you it's a good thing you weren't together? Would she tell you to move on? Or would she tell you something else, more positive? You didn’t know, and the thought was giving you a headache.

"Spill it," Scarlett said, sitting down next to you after she finished putting all the dishes in the sink. She picked up a cookie and took a bite, making an appreciative face. "You've been zoned out all day. What's going on?"

"Nothing," you finished your cookie and picked up another. You shrugged at Scarlett's inquisitive look.

"Alright, you leave me no choice." She got up, taking the plate of fresh cookies with her and backing away before you realized what she was doing. "No more cookies for you until you tell me what's wrong." She put the plate down on the counter and stood in front of it, her hands crossed on her chest.

"Noooo," you whined. You could just get up, but you were a little tired from hiding such a big portion of your thoughts from Scarlett. She was pretty much your mentor in everything else, what's the harm in telling her? It’s just one person who you trust and love.

"C'mon, keeping things in is never the answer," Scarlett urged you.

You had been distant all day. It was just one of these days you were deep in your head about love and life and whatnot. Scarlett deserved an explanation – it was one of the rare days you could spend together, given your often conflicting schedules. And honestly, you just wanted a hug, someone to comfort you and tell you it's all gonna be okay. You hoped Scarlett would do that and not something else, but you trusted her.

You sighed deeply. "I'm sorry for being distant," you started. "It's just… there's this guy. And well, he's wonderful really. I met him like two years ago." Scarlett was smart, so you needed to… compartmentalize, twist the facts a little. You wanted to share your own struggle with her, not Chris', especially because she knew him. "We hit it off, but it ended up not working out. And I just can't seem to leave him behind. I met him again some time ago, that's why I was distracted."

"Who was it? I don't remember you telling me about anyone special two years ago," Scarlett furrowed her brow.

"You don't know everything about me," you said in a mock-mysterious tone, smirking.

"So, what's stopping you from leaving him behind?"

"Well, I can't stop thinking about the what ifs. What if we would've been great together? What if he was the love of my life and I let him go?" you said, taking a sip of water.

"The love of your life are big words to describe someone. He must've had a pretty big-" she started smiling and you swatted her across the arm, nearly choking on your drink. If she knew who she was talking about, she DEFINITELY would've not said that.

"I was gonna say heart!" she sent you an innocent look and you gave her a "cut the bullshit" one. "Anyways," she continued, unbothered, "If you feel like that, why not just go back to him? Ask him for a second chance."

"It's not that easy," you smiled bitterly. "There was a pretty good reason why it didn't work."

She nodded her head at you, expecting you to elaborate. "Let's just say there were things we weren't willing to give up on for the sake of our relationship."

"Alright, go ahead, be mysterious," she smiled fondly. You knew that was her 'you're so young and innocent' smile, but you appreciated that she didn't voice the thought out loud and treated you overall seriously. "Look, maybe things changed. I still think you should ask him."

"Thanks," you got up and gave her a hug, reaching behind her for the plate of cookies and grabbing another one. She laughed when you released her to take a bite.

"What do you wanna watch?" she asked, bringing the plate with her as you both went to the living room, sitting down on the couch.

"Something really really sappy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another night in the public eye, you thought bitterly as you eyed the roomful of strangers with fancy dresses and suits. Some of them actors and actresses, directors, creatives, and some of them there for media coverage. Ever since that night at the bar a year ago, you couldn't help but look at the industry with bitter criticism for taking your happiness away from you, in a sense.

You turned back to the conversation with a forced smile on your face.

"Oh no, I really don't think I'm gonna get it," Scarlett laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear gently. She was up for a 'best actress in a drama movie' tonight, and everyone but her was convinced she was going to win. Your eyes roamed around the room again, unable to stay interested in the polite small-talk. You took in the elegant décor of the room that was filling with familiar faces by the minute. Everyone was all smiles and polite interest; "oh, I heard you did that movie with…", "That's a beautiful dress!", "Who are you here with?" and similar questions were spoken abundantly throughout the room.

Your eyes stopped on the back of a suit jacket. At first you were just staring into space, not really focused on what you were seeing but rather listening to different conversations around you. But then the man wearing the suit moved a little, still talking to someone, but that shook you from your blank stare. You registered the black suit jacket filled up nicely with broad shoulders, moving your gaze to his neck and the back of his head, soft brown hair looking appealing to touch. He turned around, his profile now within your sight, and you felt your breath get caught in your throat. How didn't you recognize him?

You couldn’t resist – your gaze traveling over his features; his long lashes, bright eyes, flushed cheeks, beautiful lips, broad shoulders covered in a black tailored suit-jacket.

Shit, what am I doing? You averted your gaze quickly before he would notice you staring. He was talking to someone and he had a beautiful girl on his arm. Knowing Chris' track record, she could've easily been just a friend, but rationality has never been known to be a worthy adversary to jealousy. You took a sharp breath. The feeling panged through you, making your muscles clench, your body tensing up. You forcefully pushed him out of your mind, willing yourself to relax and be sensible. He's not yours, he never will be, whispered a thousand voices in your head. Shut up, you thought back.

You and Scarlett took your seats in one of the first rows. Chris was sitting somewhere behind you, and you could've sworn you felt his gaze travel across your neck, shoulders, back, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, his presence felt awfully prominent to you.

The night went by in a blur, award after award being handed out to people, some genuinely grateful and excited, some looking too smug for the occasion in your opinion. You tried to pay attention, but simply couldn't. Maybe you were tired, maybe the ceremony was just boring, but you just didn't have the willpower to stop your thoughts from wandering all over the place. Is Chris looking at me? Should I try to look back at him? Are we gonna talk tonight? What good would that do? Ok, focus on the ceremony… But maybe we still stand a chance? If we talk tonight, should I tell him I've changed my mind? That we should go for this no matter what? Maybe things changed, you remembered yours and Scarlett's conversation from a couple of months ago. No, that's just the boring ceremony talking, this industry is your life, you're gonna regret this. Or maybe you're not, maybe loving him will be better than anything else… Oh you've loved him this long and nothing's changed! Ugh, I mean being in a relationship! Maybe this time-

"And now, presenting the award for best actress in a drama movie…"

The conversation you were having with yourself in your head got cut off by the announcement for Scarlett's category. You abandoned your thoughts immediately, grabbing Scarlett's hand and squeezing it in encouragement. She smiled back at you, shaking her head. You raised her eyebrows at her, nodding playfully. You both giggled and she turned her head as the camera showing the nominees focused on her, waving a little.

"And this year's best actress in a drama movie is… Scarlett Johansson!" The crowd applauded and the camera focused on Scarlett once more, her face drawn into a huge shocked smile. She covers her mouth with her hands excitedly before hurriedly getting up, her dress swaying around her in elegant drips of fabric as she makes her way to receive her well-deserved award.

"Thank you!" Scarlett smiles from her place up on the stage, the award clutched tightly in her hands as she speaks into the microphone. "I honestly never believed I would win tonight, I had some amazing competition," she gestures at the other nominees and the crowd applauds once more. "I'd like to say a huge thank you to everyone who worked on this movie with me, you've made it such an incredible experience, and thank you to my family and my friends," you blew a kiss at her from your seat as the camera moved to show you, "for loving me and inspiring me. Have a wonderful night everyone!" she grinned once more and went behind the curtain to the side of the stage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night you were once again in an after party, but this time you dragged Scarlett along - "You won an award! You've gotta celebrate somehow!"

You were sitting in a relatively secluded table with Scarlett, drinking as people came to congratulate her on her win. She kept smiling at every single one of them, thanking them like they were the only ones who said it, and you really didn't know from where she has this amount of energy. If this would have been you instead of Scarlett, you probably would have snapped at some of them already. Hell, you were close to doing it anyway. Your as-of-late bitter attitude towards the film industry plus the fact you couldn't have a conversation alone with your friend for more than one minute before getting interrupted made you grumpy. You sulked as you took another sip of your drink.

In the sea of people coming to congratulate Scarlett, there was one you actually didn't mind seeing that much. Your head snapped up when you recognized his deep voice, "You deserve it, you really do," you tuned into the conversation.

"Thanks Chris," Scarlett smiled fondly at her former costar and he returned it. "This is-" she started to introduce you before she realized, "Oh wait, you've met before, right? At that party like five or six years ago?"

You didn't know if it was the light playing tricks on you but it seemed like Chris' cheeks flushed a little. "Yeah, I remember," he smiled and extended his hand, "great to re-meet you," he said as you shook his hand. "Yeah, you too," you smiled at him, thanking god you were both good actors and sober enough for this.

"God, you two looked so engrossed in conversation that I left earlier that night," Scarlett reminisced, "You looked like you'd take a while and I didn’t wanna spoil your fun," she chuckled.

"Yeah, it was a great conversation," he smiled politely.

Chris laughing at something you said, stroking his beard as he listened to you, talking about his family, talking about sports passionately. Chris' hands on your hips, yours against his chest, his mouth on your body, your tongues battling for dominance as you push his shirt up over his head. The memories of that night hit you like a truck. It took all your willpower to push them aside and send him a tight smile back.

"See you around," he nodded at the both of you and turned away. He started walking and you and Scarlett used the few seconds to talk between you. From the corner of your eye, you saw Chris turn back to sneak a look at you. You gulped as you were listening to Scarlett talking about whatever it was. Your heart fluttered in your chest because he turned back. You remembered the night at the bar, how he didn't turn back, how he left you feeling the worst you've felt in a long time. You didn't know if it was for the better or not, but Scarlett was right; something did change.

After a few minutes you excused yourself from the table and headed to the balcony for some fresh air. The party was at a fancy penthouse, so you allowed yourself to enjoy the privilege of the cool night air as you processed your thoughts. You gripped the railing with your hands as you thought it all over - you and Chris, the advice Scarlett gave you, that night at the bar. You felt like you were drowning; engulfed by silence but certainly not peaceful, trying to see the clear picture, your next move.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps behind you. You didn't move, thinking it was just someone who came out here to smoke and won't bother you. But they were getting closer, sand a pair of strong, familiar arms leaned on the railing next to you.

"Gonna throw me down?" you chuckled bitterly while you raised your eyes to meet his cool blue ones.

"Now why would I do that?" he smiled.

Flashes of sentences you said that day entered your mind, taking on a new meaning from his perspective - "I can't give up on my dream job, I should have given up on us… I don't want you, go away…"

"I don’t know, I figured the way things ended when we last saw each other you wouldn't be the biggest fan of me."

"It's okay. Not a wonderful apology but I'll take it."

You huffed, "I wasn't apologizing, just saying facts." You raised your eyebrow. "But I am really sorry," you sighed, "for everything."

"As I said, it's okay," he smiled.

You both remained quite for a while, standing next to each other looking at the lights below and the stars above, each lost in your own thoughts. After a few minutes you shivered slightly, the cold getting to you and making the exposed skin on your arms fill with goosebumps. You let out a shaky breath, wrapping your hands around yourself. Chris' gaze turned to you, hurriedly taking of his suit jacket and wrapping it around you.

"No, Chris it’s fine, really, you'll get cold without it," you tried to resist, but he wouldn't have it. His hands kept the jacket tight around you, and you could feel the warmth of his palms even through the material. The jacket was warm and smelled like Chris, but you knew it was nothing but a pale imitation.

Chris' look was stern. "Fine," you surrendered, adjusting the jacket around your shoulders.

"So, how've you been?" you asked after a couple of seconds.  

"In general? Good I guess. In regards to you? Broody."

You let out a chuckle. "I appreciate the honesty. If it makes you feel any better, I haven't exactly been a ray of sunshine either."

"Damn. The universe really did a number on us didn't it?" Chris smiled sadly, looking up at the moon.

"You believe in the power of the universe? Like, the power it has over us?" You ignored half of his statement.

"Well, I think however you look at it the universe has some form of power over humanity. We're like a pebble in its shoe." He raised his eyebrows at you.

"That annoying, huh? I feel like you may be overestimating the human race here."

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah, maybe. But no matter if you're looking at it from a religious, superstitious or scientific standpoint, the universe is factually enormous, way bigger than us, therefore has more effect on, well, everything."

"Yeah, I get your point. I was asking more about the preordained and stuff," you remarked.

"I don't really know where I stand on in that matter," Chris answered. A small silence followed before you answered.

"Well, to offer my two cents on it – we get dealt certain cards, whether it be by chance, God, our star chart or the freaking, I don't know, Flying Spaghetti Monster," you both chuckled, "so there are things that are beyond our understanding and our control. But we have choices, plenty of them."

"Sometimes it doesn’t feel like that," Chris sighed.

"Not all the choices are good ones."

You both got lost in your thoughts once more, the silence settling between you. You thought about how you couldn't make him have that choice. What if it doesn't work out and you just lost a lot of support for nothing? What if he doesn’t want you anymore? Maybe that's what changed.

"I love that about us," Chris sarcastically broke the silence. You sent him a quizzical look and he continued. "How we can talk about the meaning of the universe before we'd talk about what's actually bothering us."  

"Well, it is a very interesting conversation," you smiled sadly.

He sighed, his eyes closing, making his eyelashes flutter across his cheeks. "I can't stop thinking about it. Us." He looked up at you, making your breath hitch. "I just… whatever this is, it's gonna hunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t explore it the furthest I can."

"Curiosity killed the cat," you replied.

"But satisfaction brought it back," Chris quipped back. "Don't you feel the same way I do? Because if you don't, I'll leave it. We can never talk again if that's what you want. But I don't think you do."

"You don't know what I want," you replied softly, feeling the cracks in your heart pry open again.

"You’re right, I don't. But I know what I want. I want to take you out to dinner. I want to kiss you again, without feeling like I'm hurting you. I want to know you, no hesitation or forced boundaries. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. For years I've convinced myself it's wrong, that we would never work out. But it doesn't work out with anyone else either. If you'll have me, I don’t care what happens. I'm willing to take that risk. I'm willing to regret you for the rest of my life." His eyes bore into yours and your breath caught at the intensity of the moment, the raw emotion in his voice sending shivers down your spine.

"Chris, I…" you swallowed and licked your lips. "I couldn't stop thinking about you, about us, for a really long time now. And I don't think I would ever forgive myself if I continued to push you away." You stepped into his space, face moving up to meet his gaze. "I want this. Maybe even more than anything I've ever wanted. So screw them," you gestured to the roomful of people behind the balcony door, "because I'm tired of holding back."

"Then don't," Chris whispered softly. Your hands went up to cup his face as you brought your lips together. At first it was tentative, a touch of warm lips in the cold night air. Then his tongue was entering your mouth, kissing you like your mouth was air and he was a man drowning, the desperation evident in the way he was devouring you. He pulled you against him, his warmth enveloping you as one hand went to the small of your back and the other to cup the back of your head. You wrapped your hands around his neck, kissing him with passion only he could awaken. Your heart fluttered in your chest, you felt free.

You pulled away to breath, looking into his eyes. And it finally clicked; the answer you were looking for right there in front of you. Being in Chris' arms again felt like coming home. Your heart finally felt healed. How could you have thought you were able to let this man go? The pure truth ringed in your brain – I love him. And you couldn't say it yet, because it would sound ridiculous. But something in you knew. Instead you opted for something more casual.

"Let's get outta here," you said and pecked his lips.

"Oh no, we're doing this right." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, which was still on you, and took out his phone. "Here, gimmie your number," he murmured against your cheek and pulled away, extending his phone to you. You typed in your number, an amused smile on your face, and returned the phone to him.

"So?" you asked.

"So, we get back in, which by the way, it's a miracle no one has seen us yet."

You giggled at that, "Guess the universe is on our side after all?"

"Maybe," Chris smiled. "Anyway, we get back inside, and tomorrow I'm gonna call you and then take you on an actual date. How does that sound?"

"Sounds perfect," you grinned and pecked his cheek. "Here, take your jacket back," you handed it to him. He took it back and put it on, taking your hand and squeezing it once before going back inside. You stayed outside for a couple of seconds, making sure you look respectable before following him back inside.

Later that night you were already home, drying off your hair from your shower when you heard your phone buzz with a text. It was an unknown number.

"See you tomorrow, goodnight

-CE"

You smiled and saved his number before texting him goodnight back.

That night you fell asleep with a smile on your face. No matter what happens next, you'll have him by your side, and that's more than enough.

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[nationofimaginations]

Safe and Sound // Scott McCall

Prompt: Hey could you make a one shot where Scott tells you not to do something, but you do it anyway and it almost gets you killed, and that’s when he tells you that he is in love with you? Thanks!

Thank you so much of the request! Sorry it took so long, but I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: mentions of death, a bit of blood, heavy feels, hospital stay

Those damn Hunters. Scott was leading the pack into yet another suicide mission. You were no supernatural creature, but in your gut, you could sense that someone was going to get hurt. It was not part of your nature to stand back while your dearest friends risked their lives. Scott’s brown eyes peered into yours with a glare of stern concern and something else you could not put your finger on. “I know you want to help, but this isn’t the place for you. It’s too dangerous for you. It would be better for everyone if you just stayed back this time.”

“I get it. I’m just a fragile human to you. It’s not like anyone else here is exactly invincible,” you seethe through your teeth. This was true. Supernatural did not always equal invincibility as all of you had seen almost on the daily. It was frustrating that Scott never could accept that you were more than capable of holding your own, even after you proving your strength and intelligence time and time again. Yet, he continued to treat you like a burden.

“This is my fight. I decide who fights with me. You will stay here. End of discussion.” Fighting him was useless. There are other methods of getting your way.

“Fine.” Scott’s tense broad shoulders relax upon your apparent surrender. His lips curve into an appreciative smile, a grateful glint sparkles in his eyes — or was that something else? Something that delves beyond being a protective friend.

“Thank you,” he says your name softly as if he didn’t want it to float out of his reach and into anyone else’s grasp. Against his better judgement, he wanted you to be his and his alone. Still, your safety was of the utmost importance to him and he was more than willing to sacrifice his selfish desires to keep you from getting yet another target on your back. “Go home. I will come back to check on you after this is all over. I promise.”

You give him one last look before you turn to retreat to your home. You felt pathetic and useless running away from the fight. It was not your fault that you could not shapeshift or predict the future or whatever. Determination ran through your blood. You were going to prove yourself no matter what it takes. Jumping in your car, you quietly recite the directions to the abandoned warehouse the pack was heading toward. It wasn’t a long journey before you got close enough to sneak the rest of the way on first.

Just beyond the trees, in a decent sized clearing a dinghy building stood. The overcast in the sky passed rapidly, making the moonlight dance against the rotting property. Shadows could be seen through the cracked glass of the windows on the bottom floor. It was the perfect place for an evil mastermind to operate. You crept up to the entrance, hearing familiar voices talking inside. The Hunters backs’ were facing you while the pack stood their ground on the opposite side of the large space. This was the perfect time for you to make your attack. Just run in and knock one of them out, giving Scott the perfect opportunity to join in to overpower them. Absolutely flawless plan of a sneak attack. Nothing could go wrong.

You lean against the wall and clutch your heart, trying to calm its incessant pounding against your chest. You had never done anything like this but it had to be done. Slowly, you rise bracing yourself to run at your victim. Sprinting at the fastest rate your legs could carry you, you jump on the nearest figures back, hitting his head with closed fists. Scott calls out your name, furrowing his eyebrows. Your punches land but do nothing to bring the figure to the ground. If anything, you were a pitiful koala clinging on his back. An extra weight, nothing more.

Another one of the hunters grabs you by your waist, pulling you back to your feet. Your back presses up against a heavy chest as your hands are restricted behind you and a hand squeezes your neck. “It’s so nice to see that your girlfriend decided to join us, Scott. I am truly looking forward to showing her what a real man looks like later tonight,” the lead Hunter smirks, resting the barrel of his gun against his shoulder. He runs a hand over your cheek, looking back over his shoulder at Scott. The minion’s hand tightens against your windpipe, nausea fills your stomach. A rumble emits from Scott’s chest, his face burning with raw rage. It was one thing to mess with the pack, but to hear that monster mention you made his skin boil.

There were only a few moments before you would blackout, this was your time to do something, anything to save yourself. Scott and the Hunter exchange a few more words while you brace yourself. You shift your body weight forward, gathering enough momentum to swing your head back and make contact with your captors nose. A sick crack echoes through the room. He releases you from his constrictive grip and you begin running to safety by Scott’s side. Adrenaline makes you feel powerful as you lunge to safety.

“Watch out!” a voice shouted. Your head whips to the origin of the sound. Shadows of countless arrows and bullets fly in your direction. Metal grazes your skin, knocking you to the ground. Your head bounces off the rocky ground and you can feel a warm liquid trickle down your side

A scream tries to leave your mouth but it comes out in a garbled cry. Face down. Paralyzed. Unable to make out any words. Bleeding out in a secluded warehouse with the worst pain you could imagine. This is it, you think.

“I told you not to follow us. How could you be so stupid? Why couldn’t you stop trying to be the hero for once in your life?” He flips you onto your back and cold regret crawls through his veins. His throat dries as he notices the life drained from your face. Your lips turning blue under the moonlight. Your eyes no longer possessing that special shine he would be more than willing to spend the rest of his life looking at.

“Stay with me,” he cries, holding your cold hand up to his cheek. “There’s so much we still have to do. Just you and me. Please give me another chance. I’ll do things right this time. Please don’t leave me like this. Not before I — ” He chokes on his words. He blames himself for all of this happening. Maybe if he had let you come along in the first place, he would have been able to better shield you from harm. Maybe he should have left someone behind to watch you. Maybe he should have never introduced you to his world in the first place. His thoughts come to a rapid halt as you gasp for air. Your eyes flutter shut, leaving black holes in their place. This is it, he thinks.

“This isn’t fair! Bring her back!” He whimpers your name, punching the bloody concrete next to your body. His knuckles burst with blood, adding to the gruesome mix. Derek roughly grabbed his arm, heaving Scott to his feet. But gravity reunited him back to your side, where he belonged.

“We have to get her to the hospital. Screaming at the sky isn’t helping anyone.” Derek’s voice of reason gives Scott a rush of hope over his body. He gingerly cradles your head in his arm while the others move under your thighs to lift you into the air. His heart sinks as he remembers fantasizing being in this position at a later date under much happier circumstances.

~

Everything feels heavy including the strong smell of antiseptic. A faint beeping from the machines to the side of the bed and the wires entangling your lifeless limbs let you know that you are in a medical facility of some sort. Breathing alone prompts a stabbing pain in your abdomen. You reflexively reach to hold the pain but a weight on your hand prevents you from doing so. Your eyes open, adjusting to the blinding light as you try to see what is touching you. A strong bruised hand engulfs yours, making it seem much smaller than usual. Small scratches litter the surface, highlighting the prominent veins ever so slightly. The thumb traces soft patterns into the back of your hand making you sigh in comfort. Your eyes travel up the mysterious figure’s muscular arms to a familiar face. Scott was hunched over in the small visiting chair that was most likely not intended to be a place for napping. His head fell to one side and you noticed a small glimmer of drool rolling down his cheek. The sight made you smile. How long has he been like that?

A soft voice makes you turn your attention to the otherside of the room. “You know, he hasn’t left the room since we first got here. Not even to take a leak, according to my professional opinion, a UTI is in the works.” Stiles stood near, leaning against the door. He spoke in a hushed and uncharacteristically serious tone. “He made me promise to watch you while he slept, I swear I’m not a creep.”

You tried to say something, anything, but your throat was so dry that nothing would come out. Stiles held up a reassuring hand, signaling that you can relax. “He really cares about you. He always has. He just has a hard time showing it. Don’t be too hard on him.”

A wave of shivers run over your body. Was that true?  Soft snores recapture your attention. Scott looks so peaceful and innocent as he sleeps. It is so unlike anything you had seen before. You wished to run your fingers through his silky hair but he was too far away.

“I’ll go let the doctor know you are awake.” Stiles turns to leave. The door clicks behind him and Scott jumps to his feet. Teeth bared, ready to kill anyone who dares to threaten his sleeping beauty.

“It’s okay Scott. Everything is fine. We are safe now,” you struggle to say. Your voice comes out hoarse but you try your best to sound comforting.

Scott’s face almost instantly brightens. He takes your hand in both of his hands, squeezing tightly as he drops to his knees at your bedside. His lips connect with the back of your hand, leaving several quick pecks. His eyes gloss over as he smiles so widely for you. He very suddenly leaned over to embrace you in his arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants over and over again with his lips pressed against your ear. Who he is talking to is unclear but you don’t mind. His smell is intoxicating. You wish you could live in it like a permanent comfy sweatshirt. Shortly, he pulls away looking back into your eyes.

“I was so worried, I could not live with myself if you would have died.”

“I know, I’m sorry Scott. I just wanted to be more than your useless wimpy friend for once.” Your eyes don’t meet his piercing gaze.

“You have never been useless or wimpy to me,” his hand gently pushes your chin to look back at him. “You are everything I have ever wanted and more. You are strong, smart, capable, independent. You never needed to prove yourself to me. I have been in love with you since the day I first laid eyes on you. I love you, (Y/N).”

The EKG on the other side of the bed picked up on your accelerated heart beat, increasing its steady beat rapidly though you could have sworn in that moment your heart exploded from pure joy. “I love you too, Scott.”

You both exchanged a smile before locking lips passionately. Your lips molded together and moved in a perfect pattern as if you had done this a million times before. This is where you are meant to be. Safe and sound in his arms.

(A/N)

Well, that was a trip. It is kind of rushed. I just wanted to get something out. I have been getting back into writing again lately, however, Teen Wolf has not been as inspiring to me as it once was. As you could probably tell this was a little bit all over the place. I think I might write a few Star Wars one shots (specifically Anakin or Kylo bc I love an emotional bad boy) to get back in the mood. So if you are into that, stay tuned and maybe send me some inspiration.

[anthropwashere]

Phic Phight: over and outside and under

Prompt from @ectopal: After the accident, Danny is stuck on the wrong side of the now broken portal. What does he do to try to get home?

@currentlylurking @phicphight

Word count: 5,498

=

Danny wakes up. 

Considering just how hard he got pitched out of consciousness before this, it’s kind of a relief. 

The first thing he's aware of is being sore, more sore than he can ever remember being in his life. Breathing hurts. The instinctive curling up in wordless protest to this whole 'being awake' thing hurts more. He doesn't know what he's laying on but at least it doesn't feel like the cold tile floor of the lab. He stills, takes shallow breaths, reluctantly cracks his eyes open. 

All he sees is broad, smeary strokes of greens, unnaturally bright on a gloaming backdrop deepening to blacks and violets. He blinks to clear his vision. His vision remains uselessly blurred. He swallows, grimacing at the dry click of his throat and the way his chapped lips stick when he opens his mouth. "Sam...? Tucker?" 

His voice comes out in a low croak; weird to his ears in a way he doesn't know what to think of, so he doesn't. He's more concerned about how there's no answer anyway. 

He tries to brace himself despite his soreness, to sit up and rub the bleariness out of his eyes, but he sort of—wobbles, instead. There's nothing under him to brace against.

There's... nothing under him...?

He squints around harder, trying to make sense of all this too-bright green and backlit black. Perspective is virtually non-existent. All he can tell for sure is that he's floating in empty space.

"Uh," he says intelligently.

"Uh," he repeats with more appropriate panic.

"What—augh—AAA—!" And other similarly useful comments sputter out of him while he flails around like a drowning man for a while, clawing around in a blind panic and catching purchase on a big heaping pile of zilch. Where is he, where is this, what is this, he's falling, is he falling, he can't tell if he's falling—

Something catches his eye, weird enough to slow his scrambling. His glove, to be exact. He's still wearing his embarrassingly tacky jumpsuit, but... its colors have inverted? Black gloves are now a white so bright to make his eyes hurt if he looks too closely; the white of his upper arm is now a black so dark it seems to suck the diffuse white light coming from—his gloves? Are his gloves glowing? 

He peers closer at the hem of his glove to the body of the suit, compares it to collar, belt, and boots, all of which are the same eye-wateringly bright white. Yup. That is a noticeable, low-level glow. Aura. Something. Why the fuck is he glowing?

He notices something beyond his immediate focus, something that wasn't there before. Or he got turned around while panicking about this whole 'is he falling or isn't he' insanity. Who cares. There's something a lot closer than all this freaky, acrylic paint-like smears of color all around him. There's the Portal. He's never been happier to see it in his life, and starts dog-paddling towards it even as he belatedly registers something's different about it. He can't make it out at this distance; he's maybe... 20 yards from it? 30? Perspective is still out the window even with something solid to focus on. It's farther away than it looks from the foot of the stairs down to the lab, anyway.

It takes roughly an eternity to paddle to it, though really it's probably only a couple minutes. Everything around him—and above, and below—remains terrifyingly empty and impossible the whole way over. It's so quiet. Dead of night quiet. He pushes that observation away to deal with later as his gloved hands make a satisfying smack against the Portal's riveted steel frame. He's—floating, ugh—near the top of it, giving him a bizarre top-down angle that makes it seem alien simply for having never seen it this way before. It's still the most normal thing around by a country mile. 

Maybe literally. 

Maybe he shouldn't think about that.

He hooks his fingers on the edge of the frame to keep from drifting beyond it, only noticing then that there's nothing past it. Empty swirling void continuing ad nauseum, sure, okay, that's still obviously, weirdly, a thing. But the Portal itself isn't just a big frame slapped up against the lab's wall, it's got a tunnel going back about 12 feet. It's what he was standing in when the whole world went electric-white and vanished on him.

And the tunnel’s not here now.

There's just the octagonal frame with the red alarm light flickering weakly a few feet from him, its black-and-yellow striped doors half shut on empty space. There's only the frame.

Carefully—and with no small amount of growing dread—he leverages himself down along the frame for a closer look. Confirmation that this really is all there is. A big, useless hunk of steel to cling to in an otherwise empty stretch of who-knows-what. He swallows, fighting panic. There's an on/off switch next to the Portal back  home—is this that Portal? A copy? Where's the rest of it?—but there's nothing next to this one. He pulls himself back up to tap his fingers on the alarm light; it flickers a little more urgently, but nothing else. Nothing useful.

"Okay," he whispers shakily. "Okay. This. Don't freak out. There's gotta be a way back—"

His voice fails him as he realizes the extent of what's happened to him. He's not in his parents' lab. He's not in his house, not in Amity Park, not on Earth. Nowhere real looks this—this weird. This impossible. This is impossible, but here he is all the same.

His parents were right. Their Portal worked. It tore a hole right in reality and dumped him out....

He has to focus very, very hard on keeping his breath even, his heart hammering in his chest in a way that feels—off in a way he wouldn't know how to explain if there were anyone else here to ask. He scans his surroundings with fresh eyes, taking in again the smearing, dripping neon colors splashed across a swallowing darkness as far as he can see in every direction. Far, far away, impossible to even hazard a guess how far, he can make out vague green lumps clustered together. In another direction he can see dots of purple in a sort of uneven stripe. In a third there's something blocky colored a bone-white; at this distance it seems to twinkle like a star.

This is the Ghost Zone. The Portal turned on somehow while he was standing inside it, and it shunted him into the Ghost Zone.

He's in a parallel dimension where ghosts are real.

"Okay," he chatters. "It's fine. I'm okay. There's nothing around me—literally! Ha ha, ha, hngh. Nobody around. There's no—no ghosts. No Sam or Tucker either. They must've been too far away to get—zapped, or whatever. So. Just me here! Alone!" He smacks the Portal again for reassurance. The gesture fails spectacularly. "Just me and this busted Portal. No way to get home—"

No way home.

He has no way to get home. No way to tell Sam and Tucker he's here. No way to tell his parents they were right after all, but can they save the celebration for after they've rescued him?

They're not even going to know he needs rescuing. How could they? From Sam and Tucker's view he just vanished. Blinked out of existence. Literally, ha ha ha.

...Right?

He lets go of the Portal to look at his too-bright white gloves again. Definitely glowing. Definitely not the same color configuration as when he put the stupid jumpsuit on. 

...is he dead?

Did he die?

He can't help the deflating balloon squeak that slips out him, immediately backtracking. No way. No no no no, ha ha, absolutely not. He's not dead, he can't be dead. He can't. There's got to be a more logical explanation for ending up in the world's biggest lava lamp. Right?

Okay, okay. 

So. 

He huddles in on himself, floating in a tense knot as he goes back over—whatever it was, exactly, that happened to land him here in the fucking Ghost Zone.

Sam wanted to sneak into his parents' lab while they were out to take a bunch of pictures, because her grandmother had somehow gotten her hooked on scrapbooking. Danny figured, whatever, they always took a million years grocery shopping, so what was the harm of going down to the lab for ten minutes? Then Tucker'd found the jumpsuit rack and made fun of Danny for having a custom ghost hunting jumpsuit, which was fair. For all that Danny'd never asked his parents to make him one, he still had one. Jazz did too, for that matter, but she wasn't home for Tucker to make fun of her too, and if she had been she would've blown a gasket at Danny for going in the lab without their parents. Then Sam got the bright idea to get Danny to put the stupid thing on and pose around the lab. Tucker salvaged his best friend cred by agreeing with Danny that that was stupid, but there's never been any talking Sam out of an idea once her eyes light up that eagerly. So, into the suit he got, zipping it up over his clothes and fidgeting when it bunched his jeans up uncomfortably—

He's not uncomfortable now. 

Well, aside from the whole-body soreness and near-overwhelming panic, that is. Point is, the jumpsuit feels fine now. He fumbles for the zipper at his throat and tugs it down enough to see if—

Yyyyup, he can unhappily confirm he's not wearing a shirt under this stupid jumpsuit anymore, which likely means the rest of his clothes are... gone. Apparently.

Where the fuck would his clothes go if he's still wearing the stupid jumpsuit?

He takes a shaky breath. Right. Getting off track. So. He put the jumpsuit on, posed around the lab feeling like an idiot and increasingly worried his parents would come back home in time to see him looking like he cared about whatever craziness they did down here. Then they ended up in front of the Portal, and they talked about it. His parents have been trying to make a functioning hole in reality since they were in college, something like 20 years ago now, with no luck. The  three of them talked about what it would be like if his parents did get this thing working one day, how cool it would be to have a portal to another world full of creatures straight out of horror movies. Sam had taken a shot of him alone outside the Portal, then goaded him into the tunnel itself. He'd reluctantly gone in and, mindful of all the thick cables tangled up on the ground, kept one hand on the tunnel wall for balance. 

But.

But he'd heard something click, felt something shift under his fingers, right before the world dissolved in white-hot blast of pain.

Well.

Okay.

That explains the soreness. And also the maybe-deadness.

Fuck.

"I really hope I'm not dead," he half-jokes to himself, intending to make a self-deprecating crack that he'd make a really boring ghost, but at that exact moment there's a harsh flash! of white light that leaves him blinking green afterimages at his suddenly bare hands.

Then he's falling.

Like, for sure this time.

He doesn't scream so much as make a tortured shriek like an abused dog toy as everything around him becomes a dizzying and flashing stream of bright and dark, bright and dark. Mostly shades of neon green and too-dark black, interspersed with purples and blues and one startlingly huge red thing that makes a sound like a jet engine as he plummets by it. He sees chunks of earth that look like they'd been scooped up from somewhere Earth-adjacent and dumped here to float in empty space, stained deep blues and maroons and almost-normal shades of green. He glimpses a few crumbling ruins, big wandering shapes of stone blocks and wood and polished metals. He chokes out a mangled cry for help once, twice, three times, and still he's falling. Still he's alone. 

He hits a chunk of earth about the size of his mattress and it falls apart to smoke, only slowing his momentum for the moment of painful impact. He can't tell if he broke anything, but it sure did knock the wind out of him. He spends a terrible eternity gasping for air, clawing at the green patches of mist and praying to grab something solid.

No such luck.

He falls.

He falls.

He falls.

It occurs to him, once he's gotten his breath back, that he wasn't falling before. In fact, he was doing a bang up job of floating just fine. So what changed?

Doing his best—admittedly an all-time low, but his current circumstances are, to put it frankly, pretty fucking sub-optimal—to ignore his horrible situation, he looks at his hands. Definitely not wearing gloves anymore, somehow, and also definitely not glowing for that matter. He looks down at the rest of himself nervously—then sighs with relief. Oh good, not naked. He's back in his jeans and T-shirt, and not a scrap of him is glowing.

So he needs to be glowing to float here? Maybe? Sure. Why not. Okay, so how does he start glowing again? Why did he stop glowing?

"I really hope I'm not dead," he repeats, though he's falling so fast his words are torn away before he can hear them. "Okay, sure, why not. I hope I am dead?"

Nope.

"Jumpsuit. Jumpsuit. I want my stupid jumpsuit!"

Nope.

"I'D LIKE TO STOP FALLING PLEASE!"

Nope.

"FLYING! FLOATING! I'M DEAD! GHOSTS FLY! STOP FALLING! CHANGE BACK! CHANGE CHANGE CHA—"

Another harsh flash! 

Now he's falling, but in a stupid glowing jumpsuit. 

For fuck's sake.

He scrunches his eyes closed and imagines as hard as he can that he's no longer falling, feeling like a complete idiot but well on his way of trying the Peter Pan route of scrounging up as many happy thoughts as he can if that's what it'll take to save his probably-dead idiot ass from double-dying on any of the chunks of land hurtling up at him at what feels like Mach 7.

Come on.

 Come on.

There's a hard, choking yank that whips him around like the farthest a bungee rope can strain before snapping. His limbs go flailing, his neck pops painfully, but the horrible whistle of wind in his ears stops abruptly. When he dares to open his eyes he's gratified to find himself looking at a patch of ground thick with overgrowth he'd barely managed to hit not ten feet below him. "Ha! Haha! Yes! I did it! I—whoa—!"

His recovered floating ability bails on him again, and he goes crashing face first into a very thorny bush. Hot lines ignite all over his exposed head and scalp. Even while yelping and trying to shake himself free he's grateful for the stupid jumpsuit. It's thick enough to keep the three-inch long brambles safely away from his skin, and dead or not he's apparently something enough to still feel pain.

Eventually he pulls free of the death-bush, falling on his ass with an undignified but thoroughly relieved, "Oof!"

He decides sitting there for a while is an excellent idea. At least until the world, or zone, or whatever, stops spinning so dramatically. It sure feels like his heart's going all out in his chest, which is an important tally in the Not Dead column. He drags one shaking hand across his face and ends up with neon green smeared all across his palm instead of blood from where the brambles scratched him, which is an unhappy tally in the Fuck I AM Dead column. Glowing and floating probably belongs in that column too. Things look grim.

It's at that moment the death-bush snarls.

He looks at it, already leaning away in case of—something, and yelps when a skeletal arm shoots out and grabs his ankle. 

"No," he tells it firmly. "Absolutely not. Off."

"Graaakhhhhugh," says the death-bush, or the ambulatory skeleton lurking inside, or maybe it's some sort of horrible plant-skeleton-ghost combination. Who cares, Danny wants nothing to do with it. 

"I—said—get—off!" He punctuates each word with a wild kick of his leg, then yelps again in disgust as the arm falls apart at its green-limned joints. Bits of bone float to the reddish earth too slowly, like they're underwater, or on the moon, or in a dimension where gravity's some kind of optional. That little middle finger to physics is maybe the most upsetting thing Danny's seen so far.

A pair of red lights flash deeper in the depths of the bush, which all in all seems like fair warning of things wanting to go from bad to worse. He's back in his jumpsuit so floating's an option again. No way he's staying on this hunk of rock with whatever's growling at him. He throws a mock-salute in farewell at the death-bush, firmly stomps all over the instinctual 'don't jump you absolute moron' his brain-stomach-heart all pitch at him, and jumps off the little island.

Naturally, he goes plummeting.

He's torn between screaming and sighing, and ends up making another prolonged deflating balloon squeak all the way down a few hundred feet before he figures out floating again. God, but he's lucky he's dead or dead-enough that whiplash isn't something he needs to worry about, apparently. He definitely would've broken his neck by now otherwise. 

Ha ha, look at him, trying to find a positive spin on 'death by lab accident.' And Jazz always says he's got a negative outlook on life. Joke's on her!

Ugh.

Splayed out like a cat being held by an idiot and just as certain he's going to fall to his impending death, he very carefully cranes his head to look back the way he came. He can't even see the Portal anymore. It's a lava lamp hellscape as far as the eye can see. Great.

Okay.

Okay.

Hovering, he's figuring out. Falling, he's already an old pro at. Maybe flying's on the table? Some semblance of control, some way of going any direction other than 'straight down.' He'd be happy with some good old-fashioned 'falling with style' at this rate. Buzz Lightyear, don't fail him now.

He moves at a snail's pace, eventually angling himself vertical again. Up, he thinks as an experiment.

Incredibly, it works.

Of course, he's so surprised by this unexpected achievement he stops thinking in a vaguely upward momentum and so of course goes hurtling downward another hundred or so feet—right into another earthen island. 

He lays there awhile, blinking stars out of his eyes. 

"Ow," he says eventually.

"HHHHHHHRRRRRRGRAAAAAAAAUGH," something very, very big says.

Danny would very much like to wake up from this bullshit nightmare now. Alas.

This island is a lot larger than the previous one, so it's something like thirty seconds before he finds an edge to throw himself off of. All the while the very, very big something knocks trees the size of redwoods aside like they're so many dominoes, the purple-ish ground shaking like an Etch-a-Sketch. It's all Danny can do to keep his feet under him. He manages one look over his shoulder and immediately wishes he hadn't; those were some teeth.

He jumps. He falls. He keeps falling until the horrible garbage disposal-esque roaring of whatever-that-was fades, then catches himself again. It's less painful this time, so maybe he's getting the hang of it? Sure, why not.

He takes a minute to catch his breath again and get a look at his new surroundings. Neon green on a black backdrop. Cool, cool, loving the variety. Details, details, anything unusual, anything that might try to eat him, apparently—

There's another stretch of island beneath him, maybe about fifty feet below. This one's big enough that its edges disappear into the distant green fog in a way that feels just a touch too Silent Hill for comfort. Not that he's had an abundance of comfort since he woke up here, but still. If anything remotely like the four-legged mannequin monster starts wriggling around down there he is out. 

He eases himself down at a far slower pace than he's failed to manage before this, pleased even as he tenses in case of whatever might charge out at him to defend its territory or whatever. 

When he touches down something crunches underfoot. He can't help the full-body flinch, bracing for a blow even as all his aching muscles protest. 

Nothing happens. 

No growling, no snarling, no earth-shaking stomping. Nothing.

Warily he looks out between his forearms, raised to protect his head. No sign of movement. This island's a lot darker than the others he landed on, as well as all the others he hurtled past. Unlike the others this island is entirely barren, just rolling hills of jutting dark green stones in every direction he looks as he lands in a narrow clearing.

A narrow clearing which happens to be full of bones.

He swallows, wincing when his other foot crunches on something despite his care as he steps down fully. Nothing reacts. It's just him in what is, essentially, some kind of ghost ossuary. So that's fun.

Oh. Oh that is definitely a human skull. Time to go.

He takes one step and hears a growl directly behind him. Before he can panic and bolt up the nearest rocky hillside, a woman's voice says, "Hold."

He stays put, shaking. He looks around, seeing nothing but green rocks, green rocks, green rocks, red—

A sphinx roughly the size of a school bus looms over the hillside he fully intended to flee toward, never mind that its—her?—voice sounded like it had come from behind him. It—she? yup, she is definitely a she because those are definitely breasts he definitely shouldn't be staring at. He hastily focuses on her face and instantly wishes he could look elsewhere, because everything about her face screams uncanny valley. Every inch of her is shades of neon red, garish to the point where it hurts his eyes to look at her directly. She has a human face stretched terribly across a lion's skull; her mouth far too wide, her almond-shaped eyes unblinking, her nose a flat arrowhead shape, her cheekbones and jaw jutting harshly. She's bald, or at least doesn't have any more hair—fur—on her head compared to the rest of her. Her shoulders have a distinctive human hunch to them, at war with her lion body and overlong neck. Her wings are the darkest shade of red on her, and even folded Danny can tell her wingspan is ludicrous. All of her is, really, but he's too busy reeling at the toothsome smile she's baring at him to think of the rest of her details.

"Little ghost," she says. He knows she's speaking, but her mouth doesn't move a centimeter. Her voice is low, slow, like the unhurried rumble of a thunderstorm in summer. "Little ghost, you are trespassing."

He breathes.

He breathes.

His heart—or something like it—hammers in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he stammers out. "I—I'm new—here. In  this place, I mean. I'm still trying to figure out—everything, really. I keep falling. I fell here. I wasn't trying to come here. I swear."

She considers him with eyes the size of dinner plates. Her irises are the same bright green as the not-blood drying on his palm. Her round pupils are the same shade of red as a human's in a badly timed photograph. "Even so," she says. "You have trespassed on my domain, and so you must answer my riddle."

Oh, great. Danny's never been any great shake with Classical mythology, but he does remember the gist of this one. If ghost sphinxes work anything like the mythological ones, then he's got three options: answer correctly and proceed (to where is a big ol' question mark, but whatever), answer incorrectly and be eaten alive (which explains all the bones), or walk away. Considering he's not trying to go anywhere on this island, and in fact has zero interest in exploring it further, he is A-OK taking the coward's route. 

But considering how easy it must be for ghosts—or, ghosts that know what the hell they're doing, unlike him—it must be incredibly easy to skip her riddle entirely and just fly off. And considering just how many bones there are here, he's missing something. He's missing something very, very important.

"I don't get to walk away without answering you, do I?" He asks quietly.

The sphinx makes an even deeper rumbling sound that settles in Danny's diaphragm. It takes him a moment to realize she's purring. "You are wiser than you look."

Considering the size of her fangs, he bites down the snarky retort on the tip of his tongue and shrugs sheepishly instead. "Any chance you'll give a new guy an easy riddle?"

The purring stops.

Fuck.

Her head cocks, birdlike, as she leans forward to appraise him. He tries not to shake, really, but she's enormous. She could swallow him whole if she were so inclined. Considered the cracked heap of bones he's standing ankle-deep in, she is. And he kind of doubts she’ll make quick work of him. She'll kill him slow.

Double-kill him. Whatever. Who cares. He really doesn't want to be eaten by a giant monster lady.

He exhales slowly, dropping his gaze to her huge paws. Though she has something roughly akin to thumbs, her nails are feline enough to retract wholly. He can only stand there and imagine what they look like, how they'd feel tearing him open. "Okay," he says.

Another bassy purr. Then she asks him, "What disappears as soon as you say its name?"

Well, shit. And here he was hoping she'd ask him the riddle from the myth. So much for blurting out, "Man!" then bailing as fast as humanly—ghostly?—possible. He rocks back on his heels—wincing when more bones crunch—racking his brain. Math is honestly his strong point.  English is something he gets, sure, but all the wacky linguistic tricks that can accompany it are just... not something that comes up in his day-to-day, so he can easily ignore it. Riddles and word problems are things he's always been able to wave off as not worth his time.

Well, today's just chalk full of firsts, isn't it? Make or break time. Or, more accurately, answer correctly or be eaten time.

Nngh.

"Is there a time limit to answering?" He asks nervously.

The sphinx shakes her great head, and takes his question as cue to sit. Her stretched face doesn't twitch an inch from its beatific grin, but her lion's tail does lash irritably. So that's technically a 'no,' sure, but definitely not one he should try to take advantage of.

So. Crunch time. 

Maybe don't think of that too literally.

Disappears as soon as you say its name....

Disappears if you speak it.

Disappears if you say it?

Disappears if you speak?

He swallows, looking back up at her large, large eyes. "Um. Is it silence?"

There are three terrible seconds where she only looks at him, as unreadable as a marble statue. Then her eyes wink shut, and she purrs, and Danny just about goes to jelly with relief. 

Scratch that. He does go to jelly, at least under the belt. His legs have fucking melted to a twitching black streak of semi-transparent smoke. He makes a very undignified shriek and flails around, only succeeding in losing whatever subconscious grasp on hovering he'd had and landing in a painful heap of well-chewed bones. 

The sphinx leans far, far over to peer at him curiously. The grin on her freaky face has shrunk to something that Danny's sure is amusement at his expense. "You are new."

His traitorous legs reappear with a small pop! He glowers at them rather than meet her eyes. She's still sitting on the edge of the bone clearing, and sure she's big, but not big enough to explain how she's stretched out so far that her face is only two scant feet from his. 

"What gave it away?" He grumbles, shaking his arm out of a rib cage that is, thankfully, not human-shaped. It's also a lovely shade of pale purple, or his eyes are playing tricks on him. 

"How long since your arrival?"

"Uh. Hard to say." He gets to feet, patting he doesn't-wanna-know off his stupid jumpsuit. "Twenty minutes? Half hour, tops."

Her stretched-out mouth gains an unmistakable pitying curl. Great. That's his cue to leave before she decides to put him out of his misery. With her enormous teeth. He clears his throat, drums up a happy thought—not being here, oh, if only—and manages a wobbly hover. "Right. Um. Thank you. For not eating me."

She sits back and this time Danny's looking to see that yup, she was stretched out like a length of taffy. She stretches again, this time more like a normal cat-shaped thing should. Her hooked claws drag deep white furrows in the rock; her yawning mouth—also neon green—is lined with at least twice as many teeth as any cat-shaped thing should have. 

Well. That was only mildly horrifying. 

She settles back into a stiff sitting position, lion's tail curling over her paws as she looks down her nose at him. "You would be wise to take greater care than this," she cautions. "I am not so terrible as what slumbers in the deep places." 

Danny shivers, more than a little dismayed to be fed a line straight out of a cheesy fantasy novel. By a sphinx, no less. But mostly he feels like he's in dire need of a magic sword or something to deal with whatever other horrible monster he comes across that might not be as chill as this one. Or Gandalf. If sphinxes are real here maybe he'll get lucky and come across a ghost wizard on the next island he crash-lands on. Hopefully it won't want to kill him too, though with how things are going so far his hopes are pretty low.

He musters up a weak smile. "Right. I'll try my best. Um, actually, now that you mention it? I'm kinda having a hard time going any direction but down. Any advice?"

As answer she unfolds her wings, confirming that her wingspan is, in fact, ludicrous. It's not especially helpful though.

"Uh, that's... they're very nice. Very pretty. But I don't have wings, so—"

The rest of his stammering is mercifully cut short when he's sent ass over tea kettle by the heavy downwash of her wings as she takes off, so much faster than something her size should be capable of. By the time Danny's figured out which way is up again—a feat in itself, considering how everything everywhere looks like technicolor vomit—she's a red blip in the distance.

Well, damn. If she expects him to follow her she better not hold her breath—

The heretofore now perfectly solid ground chooses at that moment to flicker out of existence. Once again, Danny falls. This time he has the delightful addition of several hundred bone bits falling along with him. 

"Grrrngh," one of the skulls complains, a single pale light bouncing around its crunched-in sockets.

Danny sighs and musters up the effort to halt himself again. After wincing through a small deluge of dubiously sentient people and animal bones, he's entirely alone again. There's another floating island not too far from, maybe fifty yards above him and a full football field's length off. It'd be a great test of figuring how this flying without wings work, if not for the waterfall of something that's definitely not water careening off one edge. It's a dark red, and thick, and Danny's not sure if he wants to get close enough to confirm whether or not that island is bleeding.

Well. Nowhere to go but up, right?

Well, no. There's still a lot of down under his feet—nope, back to a creepy ghost tail again. Cool. Great. Excellent. Whatever. He peers down into the dark below him, swallowing nervously. It gets a lot darker down than in any other direction. There are streaks and dots of light down there sure, but a lot fewer, and clustered together like they're nervous of what might be down there with them—

And a long, long gray tentacle is swimming up out of the mist. Coming straight for him, no less.

Flash!

Aaaand check it out, there goes his magic glowing jumpsuit and his ability to float with it. Great.

[houseofhurricane]

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (4/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter -- so many gowns and flowers! people who are doing what they love to do! Nesta! -- but also it's hard to keep putting Elain through the wringer. That said, I am very excited to show you more of What Is Going On With Elain. You can find all chapters here.

“I didn’t think that Tamlin’s gardens extended so far into the forest,” Mor says, leaning against a tree. She’s been delivering flowers from the continent over the past three days, and once the plants are handed over to the gardeners, she finds an excuse to hover over Elain while she gardens. Elain is sure that Mor has received instructions not to leave her alone, but she doesn’t mind chatting with Mor while she gardens, preparing all the special plots she’s not sure she could convey to the Night Court gardeners in words.

“I’m trying something new,” Elain says, patting the soil around a columbine, the blue and white flowers bobbing in the fragrant breeze. “These flowers are happier in the wild.”

“Any news from Tamlin?”

“You may be scaring him away.” She aims a smile at Mor to show she’s mostly joking. “I’ve seen him in the gardens a few times but we’ve only exchanged pleasantries about the renovations. Feyre warned me that he takes hardly anybody into his confidence.”

She feels the golden weight of Mor’s gaze, the frank and generous assessment that Elain has always loved and admired, even those first months after the Cauldron. Mor sparkles like champagne, effortless and loveable and impossible to forget.

“You have the makings of an excellent spy,” Mor says, apparently out of nowhere.

Elain snorts, and Mor laughs at the sound, the way she always has, the overwrought daintiness that, she’s told Elain a dozen times, she can’t quite believe is real. Elain has never told Mor about the hours she spent practicing the sound until it was pretty, the way she was always expected to be.

“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Mor continues when she’s collected herself, settling herself more firmly against her tree, so that her golden hair catches on the bark, “I mean it. A good spy is a person you’d never expect, a pleasure to talk to, someone who listens well.”

“Azriel never said--” Surely the spymaster of the Night Court would have recognized her potential if it had ever existed.

“Az can be a little blind when it comes to the people he cares about.” There’s a strain in Mor’s voice, which Elain thinks she’s being allowed to detect it, because she’s heard Mor’s effortless diplomacy in a hundred more trying situations. “He likely wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”

“And you do?” Elain asks, to keep the conversation going more than anything, while she works on the hole for the bleeding hearts, her favorite forest flowers, the pink and white blooms almost too good to be true. Give her enough time at the Spring Court and she’ll adorn the forest with them, all the way to the human lands, to their wretched cottage and straight on to that little village that never cared if the Archerons lived or died.

“Of course I don’t want you to be hurt,” Mor says, firm enough that Elain realizes she angled the question too harshly. “It’s only -- I think that maybe you are tired of beauty alone. Not that it isn’t enough. I’ve spoken with so many people who have found healing in the gardens you’ve helped them build.”

“But you think I could be useful in other ways.” Elain looks up at Mor from her crouch on the forest floor, and sees the other female’s worried expression. She wipes a scraggle of hair off her brow, feeling the dirt as it forms a smudge. “There’s something you aren’t telling me, Mor.”

“Do you ever get tired of being seen as easily broken?”

Elain finds that her hands are grasping air, the bleeding heart having fallen from her gloved hands and into the ground with hardly a thump.

“Only when I can’t --” she starts saying when she knows she won’t begin to cry, because what’s inside her is pathetic and dangerous enough, and therefore must be spoken as prettily as possible. “I think there is something truly wretched and useless inside me. I think that’s what you see when you tell me I could have this other life.”

Mor takes Elain’s shoulder in her palm and squeezes, then says, “I grew up in a place where I was a beautiful object to everyone but my own heart. I worry, Elain, that you have fooled yourself and believe that’s all you could be.”

The vision swims up through Elain’s mind, so vivid even on repeat that she almost gasps with the force of it, the sheer power of the Crown on her head, Tamlin looming over her, the life in him banked in the gloom, though he’s still broad and tall and handsome and breathtaking in spite of everything, though these are thoughts she would never admit, not even if the vision were pulled from her by force, even if a knife were held to her throat. Before, considering the vision, she thought they’d be in his ruined estate, but that’s changing thanks to Laella and her builders, fixing the rooms wrecked by Tamlin’s rage and the obliging elements, and adding all those sparkling windows and interior gardens, so apparently she will one day go and build her own house of horrors.

She does not know the first thing about being useful, has no idea how to prevent this fate, except for her certainty that her jealousy and wretchedness will lead her there. And perhaps she was born to be more than a sweet and pretty girl who men could easily fall in love with. Perhaps that is how she can unravel the vision, make a new future in which she can be approximately good. Or perhaps that is how she becomes the crowned monster on the throne. The visions never contain sufficient instruction for Elain to know that she’s avoided the future until the moment passes by, the danger suffocated by a new reality. She’s all too aware that, for example, there are other battlefields on which Cassian could be killed.

She does not tell Mor any of this, only: “Tell me how to be a spy.”

And calmly, in her sparkling voice, Mor begins the lesson.

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

On Elain’s last night at the Night Court, Nesta enters her room without knocking.

“You thought I’d let you leave without a goodbye?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, the ring Cassian gave her at their mating ceremony brilliant even in the candlelight.

“I knew I’d see you at dinner.”

“You left without a word to anybody.”

Gwyn and Emerie had been there, and everyone had laughed, and a small cross part of Elain had felt as though they would all be fine without her. Azriel, across the table from her, had been smiling and laughing, content as she’d never seen him, his hazel eyes golden when he so much as glanced at Gwyn. Elain had left as soon as she finished dessert, telling Feyre she had a headache, and her sister had squeezed her hand firmly enough that Elain knew she’d heard the lie in her words. In the morning, she would start her residence in a new court. For a little while at least, she’d be able to leave these feelings behind.

But of course Nesta had found her.

“Did you really ask Rhysand to send you to the Spring Court?” Occasionally Nesta will still believe the worst of him, despite all the witnesses to the contrary.

“It was my vision,” Elain tells her. “I’m the one who--”

“You know what Tamlin did to Feyre.”

“I’m not--” She stops, not sure what she’s going to say next. Without a plan, the next words will surely be too revealing. “You were the one who once said I could stand to be more useful in this world.”

“If he so much as lays a hand on you, I swear to you I will un-Make him.”

“I expected nothing else,” Elain says, and the smile is easy. All her life, she has been comforted by Nesta’s growling, known that she’s always been safest inside the circle of her sister’s wrath.

“And in spite of everything, I’m glad that you’ll finally see the Spring Court.” Nesta’s words are a grudging grumble, their impact lessened by her hand in Elain’s, the two of them in a long embrace that says everything they have a hard time saying, now that everything has changed. “I heard that Tamlin is unleashing you on his gardens.”

Elain knows that Nesta truly loves her because her sister listens to her plans and ideas and dreams for the garden for an hour, despite the fact that she has no more than a passing interest in even the most exquisite blooms. She even asks Elain about the arrangements of colors and fragrances, and Elain pulls out her parchments and perfumes so that Nesta can have the closest thing to a full garden experience it is possible to conjure indoors.

“Who knows, maybe one day you’ll bring one of your novels to the finished gardens.”

Nesta makes a sound between a snort and a growl, totally unique to her sister, that prickly glee, but then her face grows somber.

“I keep thinking that he’s finally got what he wanted, when he showed up at our cottage years ago.”

“Tamlin isn’t dragging me out into the snow,” Elain says, though she doesn’t remember the scene, a side effect of the glamor that turned Feyre’s disappearance into a joyous reversal of fortune.

Sometimes she wonders what memories her mind has hidden from itself, what secrets it’s been forced to keep silent.

Nesta’s hands are around hers, squeezing until Elain can feel their pulses beating, aligning as they look at one another.

“I never wanted to give you up,” Nesta says. “I would have let him shred me to pieces before I let him touch you.”

Elain knows she should tell Nesta she’s not as fragile as her sister thinks, but that would lead to a conversation which would be deep and cutting and maybe devastating. Instead she reaches for Nesta and holds her close, murmurs that she will be all right, until Feyre enters and hugs them both, and when the three of them wake up hours later in Elain’s bed, warm and sleepy, Elain wonders, half-asleep, why she ever thought of leaving.

But when her sisters have gone to their mates’ beds, and Elain is alone again, her sleep is not dark and dreamless as before. Instead she dreams of her father as she last knew him alive, the straight back and broad shoulders and thinning hair and the kind smile that made his lips disappear. When Elain was little and bold enough to ask about such expressions, he told her that his joy had swallowed up his lips, he was so glad to see her, and then he would whirl her around until she’d give unladylike whoops and get scolded. After what feels like an eternity of watching him, it occurs to Elain that she has never been to the place where they’re standing, a gray-blue blur that looks like the inside of a cloud or wall of seawater.

“Where are we?” Elain asks, with none of the certainty she experiences in dreams.

Her father’s face clouds, the smile winking out, and she begins to wonder how, exactly, this dream will turn nightmarish. She’s already seen his corpse.

“There is only one thing I can tell you, sweet one.” Her father’s eyes are glinting, his fingers balled into fists, the knuckles the same skimmed-milk color as the air around them. “The thing you seek is inside of you. It is inside of--”

He is reaching for her, as if to indicate the location of the thing, and then he vanishes, and Elain opens her eyes in bed, the light through her window still gray, her mind racing, the way she always feels after a vision.

A thousand questions immediately surface. How can her father appear to her in the future? Where is he, that she can find him and receive directions? And who has silenced him? Has he seen the monstrosity inside of her? And if he has, she does not understand how he can smile at her in that way, so lifelike and tender.

Elain breathes deep again and again, trying to will herself to sleep, hoping she will see him, hoping for even just another second of his smile. She’d always loved the way her father beheld her, that delight. For years she’d imagined a similar expression on her husband’s face. His features shifted depending on her circumstances and feelings, except for the light in his eyes, the smile with joy that would gladly pay whatever cost was required of it.

Morning arrives and she is still staring at the ceiling, trying to puzzle everything through.

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

Elain’s arrival at the Spring Court is more uneventful than even she anticipated. Tamlin greets her and Rhys and Mor in a smooth and practiced way that leaves his rage only an assumption, even when Rhys makes veiled threats during his goodbyes, promising to return whenever she’d like for a visit to the Night Court. When he’s gone and Tamlin has left her to the company of the newly hired servants, while Mor winnows to the continent for the last of the tulips, Elain makes her way to the newly renovated room that will house her at this estate.

The room is perfect, in shades of pink and white, the white warm and bright, and the pink-upholstered sitting area almost mauve. On every flat surface, there are flowers, their scents carefully considered so that the room is fragranced but not oversaturated, and the outside wall is nearly all window, with a view of the woods, the growing hedge of tulips which is even more gorgeous than the last time she’d seen it, two days ago. The curtains are gauzy pink, thin enough that she’ll always be able to wake up to this view, the blossoms and the gentle fluttering of leaves in the breeze.

She had explained her favorite colors to Laella, hoping the dryad wouldn’t think she sounded like a little girl, and instead she walked into the most beautiful space she’s ever been able to claim. Tamlin told her that a maid would arrange her things, but Elain hangs her dresses and stores her jewelry in the cunning little box that keeps each chain and thread from tangling, arranges her perfumes on the vanity until there’s a knock at her door and the maid enters, not looking Elain in the eyes as she walks over to the trunks and boxes. She’s half Elain’s height and her skin is pink and her hair is alabaster, so that for a second Elain wondered what lengths Laella took, to make this room so perfect.

“I am sorry to be late, Lady,” the maid says, her voice a buzzing hum, the sound of bees drowsy on nectar, an accent Elain adores immediately.

“Nonsense,” she says, reaching out to squeeze the maid’s hand, gentle and watching in case the faerie flinches away. She never forgets her training. “And please call me Elain.”

“The High Lord said--”

Elain waves her hand, trying for imperious, in command, the kind of person Tamlin would trust with his military stratagems and political intrigue. “Leave the High Lord to me. You can call me whatever you’d like in front of other people, but I’m just Elain.”

“There are whispers about you, Lady. The winds say that the Cauldron granted you great powers.”

Elain would say that unreliable bits of the future don’t seem like such a remarkable gift, but she’s not sure whether the deprecation would help or hurt her cause.

“What is your name?” she asks instead, shifting her tone so it’s gentle as the petal of a rose.

“I’m Melis, Lady.” The faerie’s hands have not strayed from Elain’s clothes, arranging them on the hangers so that the pleats and ruffles fall just so, and there’s a longing in her eyes that reminds Elain of the way she’d look at roses in those years when she was poor and they would not grow in her pitiful garden by the cottage.

“Would you like one of my dresses?” Elain asks, after Melis has hung the golden gown she never feels quite ready to wear but loves to admire among the other dresses, a ray of sunlight in her wardrobe.

“Lady, the offer is generous, but I do not know where I would wear such a fine gown.”

“There are no celebrations in the village?”

“Nothing that requires a gown so… elaborate. And the High Lord allowed me to design the servants’ liveries.”

For the first time, Elain looks at the maid’s dress, the green-gray muslin gown which is moulded perfectly to Melis’ shoulders and torso, the skirts light enough to allow an easy movement but sufficient to sweep aside for a dramatic moment. The color makes Melis even rosier, her sparkling white hair striking. Even the white fichu at the neckline is soft and light and lovely. She thinks of the elegance of the new footmen, the muted green of their tunics. No doubt Melis had designed their garments. Elain feels slow, not to have caught these details right away.

“You have quite an eye for clothing.”

“I learned from my mother. She was employed by the High Lord, for the ladies of his court, before Amarantha. I grew up learning the possibilities of fabrics.” Another darting look at Elain. She’s sure that Melis is thinking of Feyre.

“I don’t want to give you more work, but I’m sure that most of my gowns could use some adjustments.”

Melis smiles, her teeth flashing white and pointed. “I would love that, Lady, though I doubt your dresses will need much improving.”

Elain shrugs and smiles while she reaches for a simple muslin gown, a dusty pink from which Nuala and Cerridwen have removed a hundred garden stains. As Melis helps her with the buttons, Elain jams a broad-brimmed hat on her head, her pointed ears squashing against the braided straw.

“If anyone asks, I’m in the garden,” she says as she heads toward the door, Lucien’s gloves in her pocket. The thought of seeing him today is warm in her stomach, and she can’t tell if the feeling is anticipation or anxiety. She’s my mate, he’d said, and though she’d barely been able to understand in those moments of terror and confusion, the first of her new life, the words have clung to her, defining too many aspects of her existence. She knows she would feel differently if she’d wanted him, if she’d felt the curl of affection and desire that Azriel roused from her as she awakened into her new life, the first beacon she’d been able to glimpse. Even what she felt for Greysen was stronger. Even knowing what she knows now, how he would reject her new self.

Whenever she sees Lucien, there’s a great whirling inside Elain: all of her wants to want him, and that swarm of hoped-for desire swirls around itself, centered on nothing. She’s encountered this feeling before, as a young debutante, but she always knew that at the next ball, another gentleman might catch her eye, that her father or else Nesta would save her from anyone particularly daunting. Now her father is dead and mates are a certainty and tonight, Elain will be face-to-face with Lucien again, practically alone with him in Tamlin’s estate.

She’s halfway across the grounds before she launches herself against a broad chest. Her hat lands in a lilac bush with a bristly sigh, and Elain knows she’s too slow to realize the sheathed knife that’s pressed against her nose, the dagger that would cut her cheek except for the leather around it.

When she finally meets them, Tamlin’s eyes are not as annoyed as she anticipated.

“Someone told me these gardens would be so beautiful that my guests would be compelled to linger,” he says, his fingers ghosting her shoulders as she rights herself. “I had assumed this meant they would be preoccupied by the flowers, not their own thoughts.”

He stands there for a moment, hands dangling at his sides, as if he’s waiting for her to laugh, but Elain’s not sure if he’s made a joke, and anyway nothing he said is particularly funny. Why she would use the Crown to compel him, Elain has no idea. Still, guided by both her mother’s training and Mor’s rudimentary instructions on spycraft, she schools her lips into a gentle smile, and averts her eyes. Let him think she’s shy, awed by the presence of the High Lord of Spring.

“Is everything to your liking?” he asks, finally. His thumb strokes the jeweled hilt of the dagger strapped to his chest. “I know the builders are still filling the place with noise, but, for example, your room...”

“My room is lovely,” she says before he can fumble for another phrase. Their previous conversation, their first time alone together, had been almost too easy, too revealing, and she wonders if he’s remembering it now, is determined not to revisit that swarm of truths. She herself feels too exposed already, even if she’s checked to determine that her mental shields are still in place. “It makes me feel as if I’m in the center of a flower.”

His smile is barely a quirk of his lips and Elain remembers all the stories she’s heard about him, particularly rumors that he’s spent the past two years as a beast, and she wonders if all that time in his other form has made certain expressions difficult. If conversation is difficult, and now that Rhys isn’t present, Tamlin has allowed a bit of that discomfort to show.

A generous bumblebee examines the crown of her hat, which is still perched in the branches of the lilacs.

“There was a story I heard when I was a little girl,” she says, almost without thought, only wanting to put them both at ease, “about a girl who was only the size of a human thumb. She lived inside the flowers and her friends were butterflies and birds and squirrels. The pages fell out of the book right where the story was written, from all the times my governess read me the tale.”

“You have always wanted to be smaller?”

Elain blushes at the question and she’s not sure why. Maybe because of the truth nestled inside the words.

“Maybe,” she says, not wanting the awkwardness between them to expand further. She wants pleasant conversation, light and meaningless. He will never trust her if her emotions are ragged, if she demands too much from him all at once. “But I have always loved the feeling inside a garden, the idea of beauty and nature all in perfect harmony. There are so many dark and dreadful corners of the world. A garden is never one of them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree with your assessment. That beauty could banish evil seems a tall order.”

“Now you will speak to me of sacrifice and war.” She’s slipping into the tone she found so easily at their last meeting, a veneer of confidence that makes her sound unbreakable, which perhaps glosses over her more unsavory truths. “But will you tell me, what happens when the war is over, when the time for sacrifices has ended?”

“I have rarely known such a time.” He looks so grave and certain and miserable that Elain knows she should make her way to the tulip fields, and at the same time, that she will needle him a little longer, until the expression is gone from his face. Her one little act of well-intentioned mischief.

“Then what keeps you fighting when all hope and certainty of your own goodness has left you?”

“In those moments I don’t allow myself to think. And you are thinking that I am some tragic hero, Elain Archeron, but you have never been in battle. Thinking is dangerous. It is easiest to empty the mind and unleash your body on its enemies.”

She is wide-eyed for a moment too long.

“I have offended you,” he says, “but I am only telling the truth.”

“I am only thinking, how sad it is, to be forced to sacrifice so endlessly.”

“One begins to think of any spark of joy as an earned reward.” His face is grave. He is thinking, she knows, of Feyre, the words the barest suggestion of an apology.

“Thank the Mother, then, for your gardens,” she says, and plucks her hat from the lilac. “I will see you at dinner?”

“Lucien and Vassa will arrive shortly after sundown. I imagine you would like to greet them, and then we will all dine.”

She nods and allows her skirts to swirl as she makes her way further into the garden, letting the blooms fill her vision until she’s only thinking of the proper arrangements, the groupings of plants that would make any being happy, and calm, and nearly overtaken by gratefulness that such simple beauty, such sweet fragrance, could exist.

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Elain is sweetly tired when she makes her way into the great hall of the Spring Court. She’d spent the day amidst the tulips, supervising the arrangements of color that she wants to look disordered but still correct, no corner dominated by red or violet blooms but rather as if a meadow’s riot of color had been transfigured into a mass of tulips.

Tamlin waits at the foot of the staircase, and when she’s halfway down and he looks up at her, Elain is glad she wore the deep blue dress which makes her skin glow like a pearl and her bearing a little more regal than usual. She feels, just for a moment, like the rightful emissary of the Night Court, not the High Lady’s sister who lied her way into someplace she’d never been.

Right as she’s made it to the bottom of the staircase, the servants sweep open the large wooden doors, and Lucien and Vassa appear, both of them gleaming bronze despite the lack of sunlight. As the pair of them approach, Elain dips into a deep curtsey that befits Vassa’s rank, a gesture she’d learned as a girl and always assumed would be useless.

Out of the corner of her vision, she watches the queen’s cheeks go pink. For a moment, Elain thinks that this is strange, that the proper greeting would be so discomfiting, and then she wonders if all the time that Vassa has spent as a firebird has caused her to startle at human gestures. Then Vassa and Lucien walk nearer, and Elain knows the true reason.

She can smell Lucien on Vassa’s skin. And she can smell the scent of the queen, amber and lemon, and Lucien. She has been High Fae long enough to know how these scents are intermingled, how difficult it is to wash off the scent of another after a while, how Feyre and Nesta will always carry the scent of their mates.

She’s my mate, Lucien had said, and those three words had changed her life, circumscribed it. Her mind fills with images, not of him, but of Azriel, about to kiss her, of Rhys looming at the top of the stairs. Her love and longing now a matter of politics between courts.

Now her mate has fallen into bed with another woman.

Elain knows that silence is the proper way to bear this indignation. She can envision, already, the proper smile that should appear on her lips: sad and a little knowing, but mostly hopeful. She tries to find the expression, but when she looks at Lucien, she sees in the furrow between his eyebrow and the gleam in his eye, equal parts guilt and badly concealed happiness, that he knows exactly what she’s realized, and that perfect little smile of the good mate scorned dies on her lips. Inside her there is such a writhing confusion, a rage that she knows will explode from her the moment her lips part.

She turns away from the group and runs away as fast as her silk slippers will allow, not caring that she’s making a scene, that she looks like a scared little child. All she wants is the cool night air on her skin, the proximity of her flowers, the knowledge that nobody is looking at her. She pushes through door after door, stumbling over the tools the builders have left for tomorrow’s work and nearly tripping over loose tiles, but finally she is in the garden.

The moonlight silvers the leaves and the air is fragrant with lilacs. Instead of pushing her thoughts away, Elain feels the writhing inside her grow stronger, as if a monster has taken residence inside her body, turning all her thoughts into a whirl of angry colors, jagged reds and black shards shot through with bright exploding lights.

All those years she believed that beauty and sweetness and delicacy would save her, and maybe they would have if she’d stayed a human woman in the thick-walled manor which had so nearly been hers. Instead she has been discarded, over and over and over. She cannot stop imagining their eyes as they look at her, the pity and scorn and guilt and the joy of finding someone who is not Elain Archeron.

She cannot wield a sword or summon flame, so instead Elain’s hands are frantic, tugging first the petals of the lilac and then her own hair, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and then she’s sobbing so hard she’s nearly screaming, so that when there’s a hand on her back, she does scream, the sound shrill and rough in her throat, and when she turns toward the intruder, before she can determine who has touched her, she doesn’t mind the realization that she might die right here in the Spring Court gardens.

Instead she sees Lucien, and there is such regret on his face, etching lines around his eyes and mouth. Elain has been taught kindness until it’s second nature. Before he can say anything, apologize or explain, she reaches toward him.

Except that where her hands should be, there is only empty air.