#one day i will own a bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere and it will complete me

[dear-ao3]

part of me was not looking forward to moving out but then i think about the fact that one month ago i was living at my parents house living off of peanut butter and apples today i accidentally made the most baller mushroom sauce because i wanted to fuck around and find out

[krysalla]

hide me from the cleaver, i'll hang with you forever! - i

thomas hewitt x fat f!reader

word count: 5.4k

read on ao3

warnings: 18+ MDNI, blood, violence, gore, murder, kidnapping, drugging, body horror

Tommy has been lonely for so long. He's ready to settle down.

You startle awake and you can’t move. Your limbs are locked up, unwilling to comply with any thought or demand that they move, they stay glued to your sides while you try to fight yourself into full consciousness. All you can do is look ahead, up into the vast darkness of this room, and will yourself not to cry. You don’t know what’s going on. You don’t remember checking into a motel, the last thing you remember was the bright sun filtering the the van’s windows, lulling you into an uneasy sleep while your friends chatted amongst themselves toward the front of the van, the feeling of sweat pooling in the creases of your body and soaking your shirt and hair.

This bed is unfamiliar and not a motel bed. The sheets don’t have the starchy smell and stiffness that they would if you were in a motel. It’s a private home. If you were in a hospital, there would be more noise and light. You’d rather be in a hospital.

Whoever put you here, they tucked you into bed like a child with the sheets snug under the outline of your body and a soft pillow under your head. Maybe a good samaritan? Maybe it was a car accident and being out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest hospital must be at least an hour’s drive away. No, that still doesn’t make sense. You try not to cry, but as you keep coming up with ideas about why you’re here nothing clicks in your memory. You whine out in frustration. The how isn’t important, not when you can’t move.

You take a deep breath through your nose and exhale through your mouth, trying to relax so you can jump start your limbs into working again. Your mouth is dry and the taste of your last meal is hot on your breath–a pre-packaged pastry and gas station coffee. Your stomach grumbles. Whatever happened, it happened before you and your friends stopped off for lunch. The room is pitch black so it must be well past nine at night. If you can still taste your breakfast, it must be the same day or at least the early hours of the next day. Pinpointing a timeline makes you feel a little better about your situation.

Your hand flexes and finally you’re able to push yourself up. You rip the blanket off of you and your arms and chest scream out at you. You’re not wearing your clothes. You were wearing a loose shirt and a pair of cut offs. Someone stuffed you into a dress that is at least two sizes too small for you. You feel across your chest, the neckline is low, maybe not for the person it was intended for, but on you it is, you are spilling out everywhere. The sleeves cut into your upper arms and constrain the breadth of your shoulders, the fabric stretches tight over your wide hips and soft stomach, the buttons holding the front of the dress closed are straining against all of you, creating gaps between the edges of the fabric. Whoever dressed you removed your undergarments too, probably to make it easier to squeeze you into this horrendous dress. Your first instincts are your friends, this wouldn’t be the first time they’ve pulled a trick on you, but this feels needlessly cruel, even for them, to strip you down while you’re sleeping.

Your friends–where are they?

There’s no one else in this room, you can’t hear any breathing but your own. You get off the bed and on shaky legs wander blindly in the dark until you see the small strip of light coming from under a door and stagger toward it like a moth to a flame, this will lead you out of here, get you the answers you need. You pull the door open and hiss at the bright, sickly yellow that floods the room. You blink, waiting for the spots dancing across your vision to fade away. The hallway is dilapidated and filthy. The walls are yellow too, it’s not from paint but years worth of smoke build up. You tiptoe through the hallway, trying your best to keep quiet, but the old floorboards creak under your weight.

You get a better look at what you're wearing. The dress is old and well loved but you are ruining it. Your stomach and hips bulge against the fabric and the skirt was supposed to be loose but it’s swallowed up by your thighs and ass. You can barely make a full step.

You pass by three more doors, two of them to your left and one to your right, before you find the staircase.

A woman wails from somewhere downstairs.

You follow the voices even though your gut is telling you not to. The stairs don’t creak under your weight, deceptive given the looks of them. No, you move silently through the house, every sound drowned out by the woman crying frantically. Nothing can be heard over her, not the shifts of the wood floors or the stretching and ripping of the dress you’re wearing. One of the buttons pops and hits the wall. 

The front door looks so inviting, it’s the best idea. You don’t know where you are, you’re wearing a stranger's clothes, you have no idea how you came here and there’s a woman howling. This is not a safe place, you need to leave but you can’t. No matter how hard you will yourself to grab the doorknob and slip out unnoticed, you can’t. That could be one of your friends–either Anna or Lucy–and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you left them here. You close your eyes and head towards the chaos you know is waiting for you.

As you get closer, you can distinguish the voices clearly. It’s Anna. Her usual soft tone becomes shriller and more agitated with each passing second, with each step you take. She’s cursing and threatening. A man is yelling now, a woman too. Both sound older. A dog barks.

You peek your head around the corner. 

Anna is tied to a chair with thick ropes. Her red hair, her pride and joy, is a mess, tangled like someone had run their hands through it and tried to yank it out by the roots. She fights and tugs at the ropes, rocking the chair with her, a wild look in her eye, the kind you see in a wild animal that’s been cornered and has no other option than to bare its teeth and fight. Around her is a family, you think. An older man stands at the head of the table, holding onto the back of the chair. He looks bored. Another man is in a wheelchair with a small, mangy dog in his lap. A woman sits next to the man in the wheelchair. The table is covered by a lacy tablecloth and set up for a big dinner. The evening meal sits, ready to be served. There are five place settings. You only count four people.

The bored man shouts, “Tommy, get in here and shut ‘er up already.”

There’s number five.

A man lumbers out from the other entrance to the dining room and your mouth dries. He’s huge. You’ve never seen a man that size before. His presence captures your attention, stealing you away from your concern for your friend who is clearly in big fucking trouble. Something isn’t right about his face. It looks off, loose around his eyes and mouth, like there’s too much skin and it can’t hold itself up anymore. He looks so familiar.

“You stay the fuck away from me, you fucking freak!” Anna yells before breaking back down hysterical tears. You hear an electric humming. Then comes the roar. The man–Tommy–has a chainsaw and he wields it without a problem, like the beast of a machine weighs nothing at all to him. You finally take a step into the doorway.

Red everywhere. There’s no hiding from the blood and carnage. Anna is convulsing to the rhythm of the chainsaw ripping through her chest. Tommy rears the chainsaw back and forth out of her body. Blood splatters everywhere, the rubbery bits of her flesh sticking to every surface and splashing into the pot on the table. Her bones crunch and crack in a sickening symphony. You can’t connect this brutality with the domestic setting around you. A family dinner all served up on the table with a frilly tablecloth to protect the wooden table. 

You clamp your hands over your mouth. You don’t want to watch this carnage but you can’t move. You’re stuck and you see Anna’s head loll around on her neck until she looks up at you, and you can hardly believe that she is still alive. Her eyes light up, it’s dim but you can see her register you, and she attempts to speak. Her words are garbled and wet, tongue too coated with blood to get her words out properly. The chainsaw pushes all the way through her chest again. Her jaw goes slack and her eyes wide in agony. The chainsaw pulls back. A death rattle, her final breath. Her head drops.

The man, the one who was yelling, cackles and smiles something awful while he reaches out and grabs onto her red hair and pulls her head up to face him. He spits on her face. It’s brown from chewing tobacco. “Ain’t so pretty now, you stupid bitch, huh?”

“Hoyt, watch your language!” the older woman admonishes. 

“Now, Mama,” the man lets go of Anna’s hair and straightens up. “Worse things been done at this table than a lil’ bit a swearin’.”

The mangy mutt on the still nameless man’s lap growls at you. Everyone looks up at you.

The man–Hoyt–settles a hand on his hip and looks at the behemoth that carved up Anna. He snorts, “Seems your sleeping beauty woke up, boy.”

Tommy looks up at you and you realize why he looks so familiar. That’s not his face. That’s David, Lucy’s boyfriend. He cut off his face and is wearing it like a mask. You notice the blood around his eyes and on his neck. It’s fresh. David and Anna are dead. Lucy and Bobby’s fates unknown, but you know what yours will be.

You scream.

The man stomps toward you but you dodge him, running toward the door and blessedly, it’s unlocked. You throw it open and bound down the front steps. The moon is full tonight, casting enough light to help you find your way, but that means he can see you too. You can hear him behind you, his hulking weight racing after you and his heavy breaths pounding like a drum in your ear. He’s so close, all he has to do is reach out a hand and grab you by the back of the neck. You duck and weave between the laundry hung up on the line, hoping he will get confused and lose you in the chaos.

You veer left and head towards the thicket of trees. A dirt road runs perpendicular to it. You can lose him through there and follow the dirt road to a paved one. Maybe a semi truck will roll through or a farmer with a truck or anyone. Anyone would be better than this bloodthirsty family you’ve encountered.

You run as fast and as long as you can, but you are not built for it. Your knees and ankles ache, the bottom two buttons on the dress have popped and given you more room to move but only expose you more. You burn in humiliation and anger. 

Tommy seems to have disappeared. You thought it would be a relief, but it’s not, he could be anywhere, he has the home field advantage. He knows the roads better than you, probably knows the woods too. Each sound, no matter how soft it is, has your head swiveling around on your neck, looking for the ever present threat of him, the glint of the blade glowing in the night. Blood rushes to your ears. You have to get out of here. You need to get to the police and tell them what kind of freaks are living out here. Are you the first to encounter them? The ease with which they orchestrated and witnessed the carnage of Anna’s death tells you no. That beast’s mask–David’s face–the work around the eyes and mouth and nose, all those delicate features, it was carved clean. That is not the first face he’s worn.

What do you know? You are in Texas. Somewhere between Austin and Odessa. David and Anna are dead, Lucy and Bobby are missing and most likely dead. It’s the dead of night. Which way is west? You have no landmarks to point you in the right direction, at least back home you have the mountains, and you have no idea how to find the north star. 

There–the road lies just ahead of you.

You miss the shards of glass on the shoulder of the road. It digs into the flesh of your foot and you wail in pain as it hits bone. You crumple to the ground and hold onto your foot.

He makes his appearance. He breaks through the treeline, shoulder heaving with his heavy breaths, eyes shining in the dark as he stalks closer to you. This is it. You get on your knees and hold yourself up with your hands, trying to push up, but the second you dare put any weight on your foot, your leg gives out. You yell, deep from your chest and swing your head up to look at him. He walks slowly and it makes you angry. He’s playing with his food and you just want this over with. You’re done, there’s nothing left for you to do.

“C’mon, hurry up! I don’t have all day,” you spit out at him.

He dangles the chainsaw in your face when he stops in front of you. You gag at the stench of iron and sight of chunks of Anna still stuck in the chain. He tilts the weapon and presses your chin up with the flat side, smearing her blood over your face as he examines you. You can hear the low hum of the engine. He stares at you from behind his mask. His eyes are dark and wide. He adjusts his grip on the chainsaw and shifts his weight. You don’t lose eye contact with him. You will not be the one to break or bend. If he wants you dead, he will look you in the eye while he plunges that monster through your chest. You are going to meet your fate and he will have to watch you die, you won’t let him take the cowardly way out like he did with Anna.

It’s hard for someone to make you feel small. Even if they were taller than you, odds are you were wider, but beneath him, you feel minuscule. He’s barrel chested, shoulders wide and arms bulging with muscles. Everything about him radiates strength and power. You clench your jaw and swallow.

You reach out and grab the saw, bringing the tip right to the center of your chest. You’re aware of the image and if you had been watching this interaction from the sidelines, you’d laugh at the implications of this. You, with your large chest spilling out from the fabric of your dress, on your knees while he towers over you with a weapon that is no doubt phallic pointed right at you. How pornographic. You grab the saw again, fingers slipping against the wet metal to press it harder against you.

“C’mon! Kill me already!” you shout. This show of bravery is a farce. You are terrified. If you thought begging or pleading would save you, you would. But no, you see that no amount of messy pleading and placations will save you. It didn’t save Anna. No human could take a life in that manner and be weakened by bargaining. 

His eyes flash up to you. The skin of his mask distorted and warped from the heat and his own sweat. The nose collapses in on itself. You offer yourself up to him on a silver platter and he won’t make a move. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…” You grit your teeth and push yourself into the saw. His hand wavers.

The deafening roar never comes. The engine cuts off and the buzzing stops. He drops the chainsaw and instead reaches out to touch you. He cups your face and whines. You drop your jaw at the utterly pathetic noise you just heard come out of the behemoth. He takes that as an invitation and shoves his thick fingers into your mouth. You gag at the intrusion and taste of him—blood and grime and sweat. His other hand presses your top lip up. Under his scrutiny, you feel like a show pig being judged. Maybe you’ll win a prize. Whatever he sees, he nods and pulls his fingers from your mouth, a strand of your spit connecting him to you until it breaks. He wipes his fingers on his dirty cargo pants.

He hauls you up onto your feet, not paying any mind the blows you land on his chest. He ducks and wraps an arm around your thick waist and without much hassle lifts you over his shoulder, he bounces once to get himself comfortable with the weight of you and then picks up the chainsaw and walks you back to the dirt road, back to the house of horrors. You can’t even fight him, too stunned at the display of strength. You haven’t been picked up since you were a little girl.

You go quietly with him. You have no energy left to expend now that the adrenaline has left your system.

It’s only a few minutes before the house comes back into view. The woman and Hoyt wait for your arrival on the front porch, backlit by the patio lights. They follow him in the door, the woman clucking over you, her hands skating over your face as Tommy takes you deeper into the house.

“Now, Tommy, you couldn’t find anything better to fit her? She looks like a hussy in that thing.”

He grunts in reply. Another fact to add to what you know: he is the one who dressed you and presumably the one who tucked you into that bed upstairs. But why? Why would he do that when he slaughtered the others? Why treat you with the kindness of tucking you into bed while Anna was tied up with rope and David’s face skinned from his head. The fifth setting at the dinner table. You didn’t understand why they would set it for someone destined to die. It wasn’t for Anna, the place at the table was for you. He intends to keep you.

He grabs your injured foot and spins around to show it to the woman who clicks her tongue at the sight.

“Set her on the couch, I’ll make some tea.”

He deposits you on the couch and stands behind you. Hoyt settles himself across from you with a sly smile and his arms crossed over his chest. He licks his lips as he devours the disheveled sight of you. You close your legs tight and hold your hands on your lap, hoping to block his view.

“Mhm, Tommy, think I get why you chose this broad outta all of them. Looks sweet as pie, wonder if she tastes as sweet as she looks.”

Tommy grabs your shoulder in what you assume is a protective manner. You can’t see what he does behind you, but whatever it is, it’s enough to get that man to stop looking at you like that.

“Hoyt, ain’t you got your own girl to entertain?” the woman asks as she reappears from the kitchen with a tray in her hand that holds a tea cup and some first aid supplies. Lucy. That must be Lucy that they are talking about.

“She don’t seem as fun as this one.”

“Leave Tommy’s girl alone. My boy deserves something nice and you ain’t gonna get in the way of that.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes, arms falling back to his side as he levels the woman with a glare. “Fine.”

Hoyt leaves and the grip on your shoulder relaxes.

“Tommy, go get a blanket for her.” She sets her supplies out on the coffee table and sits across from you on it. She smiles at you, not unkindly but you can see that sharpness in her eyes, she doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re an intrusion. The skin on her hands is thin, veins dark blue and protruding, and covered with spots. Her fingers are knobbly. She grabs your right ankle and pulls your injured foot into her lap. She looks back up behind you. “Tommy,” she says sternly. 

You hear him walk away. 

“He’s a good boy. Just wants to make sure you’re alright.” She examines your foot and picks up a pair of tweezers. “You got yourself good here. I’ll be quick about it.”

The glass slides out with a little maneuvering and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The woman’s eyes crinkle behind her glasses. She pulls out another piece of glass slowly, watching your reaction to it. She likes this. 

A quilt is thrown over your lap and you rush to cover your body with it. 

“She’ll be fine, quit your hovering. I’m tryna work here.”

Tommy makes a disquieted noise. 

The last piece of glass comes out, the one that reached bone and you can’t stop yourself. You whine and bury your face in the blanket. Tommy has his hands on your shoulders again, thumbs rubbing circles into you. 

“There we go. Just gotta get you cleaned up.” She goes to work on cleaning out the wound and wrapping it up. 

You whimper and push yourself further into the corner of the couch. Tommy leans over you, gazing down at you with a soft look. He has brown eyes. Dried blood cracks around the corners of his eyes, you can’t see his lips through the mask but you know he’s smiling.

“Oh hush now, it’s all done now.” She pats your ankle. “Have some tea—It’ll help settle your nerves.”

“I don’t want tea.”

She narrows her eyes at you and reaches across the empty space between you and grabs your chin, fingers digging into the fat of your cheeks. “I won’t take no lip from you, missy. Drink the tea. Ain’t a request, understand?” She shoves your head to the side when she lets go. 

“Okay.”

She harrumphs and passes the tea cup to you. You don’t want to think about what she may have put in here. You chug it down. You hand the teacup back. It was a mistake to down it all in one go. You can’t think straight and your body feels heavy. Maybe it’s arsenic. That would be a cleaner way to go.

“Good girl,” she croons. She looks up past you. “Take her to bed.”

You’re in the air again, swinging in his grip as he takes you back upstairs and back into the bed you woke up in. He tucks you in beneath blankets and fluffs your pillow for you. If this was anyone else, you’d think the action was sweet, loving but it’s not, it’s him, the man who murdered your friend. When he’s content that you are comfortable enough, he sits on the edge of the bed, springs creaking under his weight, and he cups your cheek. You blink tears from your eyes and he wipes them away. 

“What are you going to do to me?” you ask. 

He peers at you through David’s face and leans down to kiss your forehead. You feel his lips part the hole he made of David’s mouth. He kisses you chastely like a parent does a child when they have a nightmare. 

You can’t fight the wave of exhaustion and the sedative weighing you down. It would be easier for him and better for you if he killed you in your sleep. It’s a reassuring thought that this ordeal will be over when you close your eyes. You let your dreams take you. 

-

The heat’s much worse in the backseat of the van. You feel more like cargo than a human back here, sitting amongst all the suitcases that didn’t fit in the trunk. You’re by yourself back here, all your friends sit in the front of the van, leaning over each other and chattering away with one another while you sit forgotten with their luggage. It’s all so on the nose that if you weren’t in this situation, you’d be laughing. Physical proof of where you stand in relation to everyone else.

You started to notice it more and more, how separated you are from the other five. It never bothered you much as a kid, just happy to be included by anyone, no matter if it was just the scraps of a friendship. Better to be the doormat than alone. But you’re older now and it’s starting to take its toll. It’s always been there, lurking, the doubt of their love for you, that is nowhere near the same level you gave to them. Time and age have given you a little perspective and you’re just so tired of carrying it all around.

One last trip.

You pluck at the fabric of your shirt, hoping for a little relief from the heat and your own sweat. The air conditioning doesn’t reach back here. Anna and her boyfriend, David, in the front seat don’t even bother to open the windows. They are perfectly comfortable with the steady stream of cool air hitting them directly. You shift in your seat and feel the back of your legs peel away from the leather and can feel the sweat gathering beneath your thighs,on the back of your knees, in the crease of your inner elbow from how you have your arms folded close to your torso.

Lucy and Bobby play a card game and flirt good naturedly, nothing will come from it, they’ve been playing this game since they were fifteen.

David curses and hits the steering wheel. “Almost out of gas.”

-

You’re alone again when you wake. You’re devastated that you woke up. You curl onto your side and cry until you have nothing left to give. Your eyes are swollen and lips irritated from your dry heaving, but when the tears run out you wipe your eyes and nose and fix yourself straight. There’s no use in crying. Crying won’t find you a way out. Lucy and Bobby are still out there. You have to find them.

The room is bathed in sunlight and you get your first real look around. There’s sparse furniture: the bed, a side table and a set of tall drawers. The wallpaper, a peach floral pattern, is water damaged and peeling. It’s a small room, maybe what was a guest room. On the dresser is a stack of folded clothing. 

You rush out of bed, limping on your bad foot, desperate to change out of the dress. The clothes are yours. They were in your suitcase. They have your things. You hurry out of the dress, the rest of the buttons popping off in your urgency. There’s indents all over your body from the tight fabric and you try your best to soothe them before you dress. It’s the most modest outfit that you packed—a pair of jeans and a long sleeve blouse along with your undergarments.

You stand by the door, listening for any signs of life on the other side. Nothing. The house is deathly silent. You pull the door open with care not to let the hinges squeak.

There’s only four other rooms upstairs that she could be in. The one at the end of the hall, the one you didn’t notice the night before, is a bathroom. You peek through the next two doors, both empty save for some furnishing. This last one must be her. You hear the light shuffling of sheets through the door and a weary moan.

Lucy is bound and gagged on a four poster bed with gauzy curtains hanging around her, her arms pulled apart in a spreader bar and her feet tied to the bedpost with the same thick rope they used on Anna. Her clothes are ripped to shreds and bloodied. She’s covered in cuts and bruises and her lips are cracked and there’s a chunk of hair missing close to her hairline. You can’t help but feel lucky. Her and Anna have gotten the worst treatment of the three of you, you’ve barely come out with a scratch, the only real injury you have was one of your own making. It strikes you then that Hoyt may be more dangerous than Tommy with his lecherous stares and bloodthirsty smile.

You lean over her and cup her cheeks. “Lucy! Wake up. Gonna get you outta here.”

She stirs.

“Dumpling? Thought they got you for sure. First one that got hauled away…” she slurs and drops out of consciousness.

“No, no.” You pat her face and she still doesn’t respond. You hope she’ll be able to forgive you. You slap her across her cheek, leaving a stinging, red mark in the shape of your hand. She jolts awake, laughing and crying at the same time. “Lucy, stop. They’re gonna come up here.”

She takes no heed, only attempts to kick her legs out and wrestle her way out of the spreader bar. She manages to shift the bed across the floor by an eighth of an inch in her efforts. You can’t hear over her laughter, they could be coming up the stairs right now and you’d never know and you’d lose the opportunity to escape. Tommy had too much faith in you not to try running again or the old woman didn’t add enough sleeping pills to her tea, probably used to dosing up women who are half your size. You cover her mouth with your hand and use your other to pull the cuff loose.

The door bursts open as she bites down on the flesh of your hand and you cry out in pain. She uses such force that she breaks skin. Heavy steps make their way to you. Tommy is by your side, picking your hand up to examine, whining when he sees the damage done to you. He isn’t wearing the full mask, just a half one that covers the lower half of his face in dark brown leather. You can see scarring peek over the edges of his mask and across his forehead. His dark hair hangs limply around his shoulders. Tommy looks down at the floor, cheeks gone ruddy under your examination. 

You notice the cleaver at the same time she does. It glints, casting spots of light along the walls of the room from how his hand shakes around it.

“Look what you did! You stupid, fat cow!” Lucy’s voice pitches up in fear as she spews venom at you, blaming you for her own actions. You could have saved her but she wouldn’t listen to you. 

His head whips to the side, looking down at Lucy with narrowed eyes, shoulders stiff as he tests the weight of the cleaver in his right hand. He reeks of blood and body odor.

She doesn’t stop her insults, the same things you’ve heard for years and you walk backward away from her, cradling your hand to your chest, trying to stop the bleeding. His free hand holds onto your shoulder, squeezing twice before gently nudging you to the side.

You hear scurrying steps and out from behind him comes Hoyt. “Aw, now look what your bitch did!” 

“What? You’re gonna stand here with these inbred fucks!” she yowls and arches her body off the bed. “Of course the only man that would even touch you would be a freak.”

Tommy takes four quick steps to the bed and raises the cleaver above his head and with one smooth swing and a terrible wail, plants the blade into her skull. He pulls it out with a sickening crunch, but Lucy still hasn’t given up on life, she hangs on by a thread. Her eye is popped and deflated, liquid oozing out of the socket, her insults turning into unfettered rambling. You vomit. He huffs in satisfaction, letting her writhe around on the bed a little more while Hoyt curses and shouts. The blade comes down once more and ends Lucy’s slurred speech. 

[onismdaydream]

can't get the thought out of my head of leon having baby fever with you. he already loves and adores you so much but one day, it hits him out of nowhere - he could start a family with you. he could have a family. and it just keeps snowballing from there.

he tries to be subtle at first, to be calm about it, but he just can't. he needs to get you pregnant asap or else he swears he's gonna explode.

(mdni. 18+. soft dom leon. fem reader. breeding kink. unprotected sex. pet names. oral (f receiving). slight size kink.)

so after a few weeks of trying to hint about it and not getting a solid answer from you, he wakes up to an empty bed (which is pretty rare, he's usually the one awake first) and he slowly makes his way out of the bedroom to find you in the kitchen, making some simple breakfast. the morning light bathing you in this golden glow and an old t-shirt of his hanging off your smaller frame, it sends him over the edge.

he immediately walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your stomach and nuzzling his face in your neck, his slight stubble making you giggle as you tell him good morning. instead of responding, leon starts kissing along your neck and jaw, featherlight at first before they begin to become more needy and incessant.

"leon," you gasp out, not expecting his teeth to graze along your skin - a promise for more. he groans and presses his body closer to yours, grinding against you in slow rolls of his hips as he continues to pepper you in wet kisses and faint marks.

"love you s'much, darling," his breath would ghost across your ear, the smallest shiver running through your body. "can't wait to make you a momma. my perfect little mommy." you call out his name again, his words making your cunt ache with need and your legs weak. his arms loosen around you, but only so his hands can rub at your stomach. "you'd look so pretty."

one of his hands dips down to slip under your panties, finding your arousal already coating the delicate fabric. he starts teasing your clit, his expertise in your body making you a whining mess in a matter or moments.

"c'mon, baby... what d'ya say?" one of your hands goes up to grab onto his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his middle finger catches on your dripping hole. "let me put a baby in you."

the word 'yes' barely leaves your mouth before he picks you up and brings you back to bed. he's gentle as he strips off what little clothing you have on, leaving soft kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. he might be desperate for this moment, but you are his entire world and he'll be damned if he doesn't shower you in love every chance he gets.

he takes his time taking you apart, his lips and tongue working on your clit as two fingers slide in and out of you. leon can't help but watch your expressions in awe as you come undone. even though it's a sight he's seen countless times, he never gets used to it - the way your brows furrow and mouth parts, the light flush that coats your cheeks and chest, the way your body shakes as you let go - it's beautiful every time.

sliding his sweats down, he strokes his weeping cock while he gives you some time to come down from your climax. he leans over you, holding himself up with one hand, and kisses your jaw, whispering praises and compliments.

"always so pretty, my gorgeous baby. 'm so lucky." you grab the sides of his face, forcing him to look back up at you and capturing his mouth with your own.

once you both part for air, he rolls his hips against yours, his dick sliding across your wet folds. "please, baby. lemme fill you up." another desperate grind, the tip bumping your clit and making you buck against him. "can i? can i fill you up? please, want to s'bad."

nodding, leon slowly begins thrusting his cock inside you, giving you time to adjust as each inch sinks deeper. he feels your walls flutter around him, making him groan, his face buried in your neck yet again. "thank you, thank you, thank you."

his pace eventually gains speed and his dick brushes against your g-spot repeatedly, making both of you moan. you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles to drive him deeper inside you. the combination of your sensitivity from your earlier orgasm and his desperation lead to both of you approaching your climax quickly.

"'m so close, leon." you whine out, your hips grinding against his own as you try to push yourself over the edge. he carefully lowers himself to be held up by one arm and snakes a hand between your bodies, his thumb rubbing against your slippery clit.

"me too, angel." he grunts roughly, his breath becoming more erratic as his thrusts get sloppier. the dual stimulation makes the tight coil in your stomach snap and you feel your pussy spasm around his shaft. leon groans softly, his eyes shutting tight as he follows you after a handful of shallow thrusts. his dick twitches inside you, warm and sticky cum filling you up, and a whisper of an 'i love you' leaving his mouth.

leon stays inside you for a moment longer, the both of you catching your breath, before he pulls out, a bit of his jizz now beginning to seep out. he presses a sweet kiss to the side of your face and grabs some tissues from the night stand, gently cleaning you before wiping himself off. after discarding them, he carefully maneuvers you on your side so he can cuddle you, his hands rubbing random patterns on your skin as he holds you close.

"you're gonna be such a good mom," leon mumbles into your hair as sleep overtakes you.

[avocado-writing]

hi!! ive.. gone and read so much of ur work in one sitting. its all so much to take in, IN A GOOD WAY, and i absolutely adore every single word

would u be so kind.. to bless my angst durge needs..

Durge Resist tav, was strong for all until the brain was finally defeated but now, with what she believed her only purpose/chance at redemption (brain), they can't help but feel utterly empty and,, unredeemed. They mourn all those they have robbed from this world, nameless, and countless numbers of people they robbed of the life that they were now being given the chance at living. Surely they don't deserve it(Is what they think..)

They are pathetically in love, and if they deserve anything, its to tell their special one just how much they are adored before casting themselves out of society (or taking their own life, if ur comfortable writing such things-)

Rolan, Dammon, Zevlor, maybe even Rugan if u write for that loser LMAO. just.. whoever u write for, its the tieflings i adore most ahegege

if this didnt make sense IM SORRY i havent slept in so long and sleep is not choosing me. i just crave angst, perhaps with a happy ending if u would indulge me so..!! thank u if u read this, so much!!

hi, I don't write fics about suicide, but here's the tiefling bachelors with a durge who's planning to disappear after the absolute is gone and giving them one final confession:

Dammon

senses something is wrong when you take him aside for a heart-to-heart.

it isn't that you avoid these sorts of moments per se, he just knows you only affirm your affections when something big is going to happen (you did it before you went off to fight the elder brain)

he holds your hand tightly, gets you to look him in the eye.

"I love you, no matter what, and I never want to be without you. tell me you'll be there when I wake up tomorrow. in our bed. swear it to me."

you can see the utter adoration he looks at you with, and you think: maybe you aren't so bad if a man like this can truly love you.

the next morning Dammon wakes up. you're not in bed next to him. he panics, getting to his feet - only to find you in the kitchen making breakfast.

he's never been so relieved. walks up behind you and wraps you in his arms. he loves you so dearly, and will keep on loving you until you believe yourself worthy of it.

Rolan

Rolan doesn't quite understand why you're having this great outburst, but chalks it down to emotions running high after the final battle.

says goodnight, kisses you, and heads off to his tower - he has a lot of admin to do after all.

the next morning he comes to meet you at the elfsong, only to be met with the realisation that you aren't there. he curses himself for not understanding why you were so melancholic last night.

he tracks you down. uses all of his resources to scry on you, grease palms with the money the tower has. he's up all night for weeks. Cal and Lia worry about him but he is determined.

and find you he does. manages to locate where you're hiding out, a little hamlet in the middle of nowhere. you burst into tears when you see him, and he just pulls you into his arms.

"come home with me."

you do, moving into his tower. and you never leave him again.

Zevlor

immediately knows something is wrong. takes you to a quiet place where the two of you can be alone and talk things out.

discusses how he feels like being a failure for breaking his oath -- but you always saw past that. saw the goodness in his soul. he wishes you would treat yourself with that kindness.

you begin to cry, softly at first, and then with sobs which wrack your whole body. he holds you ever so tightly.

"I love you. you are not who you were. you have strived to be better every day, fought against your own family, and always chosen a righteous path. you deserve to be happy. I'd want to make you happy, if you'd let me."

eventually your tears run dry and you look up into his face. his eyes are so sincere. he means every word.

when you kiss him, it's a promise: that you're with him for good. that whatever comes next, it will be faced together.

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Nesta & Cassian Domestic Life Headcanons

Nesta had to put a ban on Cassian touching her books after he put them back on the shelf upside down and out of order. He also dog eared pages of books she had loaned him and one book in particular had crinkled pages almost like someone brought it into the bath with him.

Cassian can't understand the idea of a throw pillow and thinks that all pillows should and can be used to sleep with. Nesta has tried over and over again to explain to him the idea of decorative pillows but it goes nowhere.

Cassian learned how to cook Nesta's favorite childhood food by having Elain teach him. During an evening when Nesta had a particularly rough day, Cassian whipped out his cooking skills and made her an Acheron family meal.

Nesta always hangs Cassian's weapons up for him because he seems to be incapable of putting them away when he gets back and insists on just dropping them in the doorway.

Cassian loses things constantly, from weapons to mail to his own shoes and it drives Nesta insane. Oftentimes, Cassian will be looking for something and ask Nesta if she has seen it. When he can hear her walking down the hall to come find it for him he starts panicking and searching frantically, knowing she will find it immediately and give him "the look".

Nesta braids Cassian's hair before he goes to training and insists he make an actual hair care routine. He doesn't fully understand why conditioner is important but he knows it makes Nesta's hair smell like flowers so he isn't too bothered.

Whenever Cassian goes somewhere for a few days he leaves notes around the House of Wind for Nesta to find. They say cute little things like "Thinking about you", "Love you lots", "I bet your butt looks great". She keeps them in a box on her bookshelf and reads them when she needs a pick me up.

Cassian and Nesta still practice and train together, but they take Sunday morning off to go have breakfast in Velaris, just the two of them. Cassian orders the biggest breakfast with the most amount of protein he can get and Nesta settles for something lighter but always wants strawberry crepes for dessert.

Cassian sleeps hot while Nesta sleeps cold. The House of Wind helps chill and heat the bed right down the middle so both of them sleep well.

Nesta started a formal book club with Gwyn, Emerie & The House and Cassian has to leave and go "find something else to do" so he doesn't keep coming into the room to distract them.

Cassian buys Nesta a new weapon for every holiday and occasion and calls it a "we" gift.

[emepe]

— Pairing: Eren x Reader, friends to lovers

— General info: series, 18+, modern AU, serial killer AU, smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

— Summary: Fate is a tricky thing. Certain situations can’t be avoided as much as certain people’s lives can’t be kept from intertwining. With a serial killer on the loose, and unexpected relationships blooming, how will the universe intervene?

— Chapter summary: The past is revealed to Eren, who can only do his best to prove that it doesn’t change his feelings.

— Content warnings: past child abuse/neglect, drug use, unstable family life, grooming, SA, slightly nsfw, mention of unprotected sex.

— Notes: Sorry for the cliffhanger last week lol but you should be used to it haha. Chapter 10 is now here! <3 There’s a lot going on in this chapter so please pay attention to the content warnings before reading. Don’t be shy to stop by my ask box <3 If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list, lmk. Happy reading!

Links: Read on AO3 | Chapter guide | Masterlist

then and now

It wasn’t always so bad.

My earliest memory is that of my mom giving me a warm cup of tea and honey when I fell incredibly ill at three years old. I'd eaten something unclean and I was stuck in my parent's bed for a week, feverish, with little appetite and even less strength. If I concentrate enough, I can still hear echoes of my parents sitting at the kitchen table, crunching the numbers from their pooled savings so they could afford a doctor's visit. My mom remained by my side the entire time to make sure the IV drip didn't spontaneously clog, or that I didn't move the hand that was connected to it and started bleeding out into the tube. The doctor said a little bleeding was normal, but she was scared of it happening at all. 

I developed a hatred for cabbage, which is what the doctor recommended to help regain strength without hurting my stomach. My father went out to buy it and my mom fed it to me in soup. She'd make a game out of it, and she promised to take me to the park to play as soon as I got better. I remember my childhood fondly if I focus on that first memory. So, I'm pretty sure anything before that was just as good. 

I didn't know until I was way older that my mother did drugs before she had me. She struggled with addiction at sixteen, which was well into her relationship with my father. The only difference was, he remained clean after my mom told him she was pregnant during their senior year of high school. 

I couldn't understand that I was witnessing her relapse after I started kindergarten. Apparently, being four and a half years old is the cutoff for being worthy of staying sober for. 

That's when everything started spiraling. My mom failed to pick me up from school several times, leaving me to spend hours tucked away in the library, keeping Mrs. Zacharias company while she pretended to rearrange already organized books. My father worked long hours at a factory, some of which had to be punctured like swiss cheese so he could take me home because my mom was nowhere to be found.

By the time she stumbled through the door, she was being brought in by strange men. I never met them, I just knew they were there because the noise would wake me up in the middle of the night and I'd hear my father arguing with my intoxicated mom after thanking them for bringing her home. 

My mom looked sick. As her number one fan, I was worried. She was getting skinnier, she barely ate and she seemed tired all the time yet never got enough sleep to heal the dark circles under her sunken eyes.

The first time I attempted to cook something, I was six. I could easily get by during school days. I had breakfast and lunch there, and sometimes Mrs. Zacharias would give me pretzel sticks if I read a book out loud to her while we waited for my father to come get me. But on weekends, I was on my own. My father was working even on weekends to make ends meet and even when my mom happened to be home, she wasn't truly there.

So, while she was locked inside the bathroom for hours, I went into the kitchen and tried to boil an egg. I couldn't find the small pot we always used, but my pink plastic bowl was on the drying rack from last night after my father fed me dinner. 

I didn't know you weren't supposed to put plates onto a hot stove. The plate cracked and stuck to the burner. I tried to pry it off but I burned my hand. It would take years for the scar to fade. 

When my mom saw what I'd done, she slapped me straight across the face. I was dragged by my hair and locked in the minuscule storage closet as punishment. That was just the first of many times. 

My father would always be the one to let me out when he got back from work late at night, and I'd quietly call him from the inside, scared because I'd urinated myself and he'd probably be just as mad as my mom. But he wasn't. He'd clean me up, scrape the plastic from my now useless pink bowl from the burner, and feed me.

My father grew tired of it. All the money that was meant for food and supplies went directly to dealers, meaning he had to spread himself even thinner. When he found out my mom had ransacked the secret place he kept his savings for the sixth time, he snapped. 

I was twelve by then, so I understood everything that was going on.

They had a huge fight and he stormed into the bedroom to pack his clothes into a bag. But my mom was ballistic. She took a pair of scissors and started cutting anything she could get her hands on into pieces.

I heard a series of slapping and punching before my father passed me by in the living room — no money or clothes on him — and slammed the door shut behind him.

Things got even worse.

My mom would constantly yell that if it hadn't been for me, my father never would've left. She'd tell me I ruined her life and that I was a burden. Had she not gotten pregnant at eighteen, her life would be a whole lot simpler.

But now we didn't have any money, I didn't have a father, and my mom's addiction pushed her into getting a job. Even back then, at twelve years old, I felt guilty because she had to work because of me. 

She started off at a laundromat. Mrs. Zacharias visited our apartment because I hadn't gone to school for a few days and she wanted to check in. Despite my mom's foul language toward the kind librarian, she helped her get the job. 

My mom was very happy to work at the laundromat, though it had less to do with having a purpose than it did with the crumpled bills she'd find in people's clothes that would later serve as pocket change for her dealer. 

After a year, she was fired after being caught stealing from the register. It was surprising she even lasted that long in that place. 

But now she was even more desperate. 

And that's when the men started coming.

I spent my elementary and middle school years hearing my mom having sex with strangers inside the room she used to share with my father while I did homework on the kitchen table. 

Some of them were nice. Some of them weren't. 

Sometimes my mom's dealer would be the one to come around. 

One day, when I was thirteen, I'd just gotten back from the school library from working on a group project and I was making myself a sandwich when he came out of the bedroom, still buckling his pants.

“Hey there, princess,” he said.

“Hi, Steve.”

I didn't think it was strange to be on a first name basis with the guy. He was around a lot and that in itself meant it was okay to be close with him, in my mind.

Besides, he wasn't that much older than me. I think about eighteen or nineteen. It just made sense to be friends.

“How's school?” he asked as he leaned back into one of the chairs at the table.

I knew he didn't really care — that's why he dropped out, he'd say — but I still answered him honestly.

“Math's getting a bit hard but I'm doing okay.”

“That's ‘cause you're smart,” he praised as he lit up a cigarette and took the first drag. “You're gonna make it outta here real quick with that brain of yours.”

He held my gaze as he blew out the smoke away from my face. It didn't matter because it drifted back to me anyway. 

“You're pretty, too,” he murmured before taking another long drag.

I shook my head, an unamused scoff leaving my lips.

“I'm serious,” he laughed.

I turned back to look at him again, suddenly feeling shy. 

He had very nice eyes. Sometimes bloodshot but always very blue. 

I always liked how blue his eyes were.

I also liked that he complimented me. Outside of school I was barely praised for anything. 

“You think I'm pretty?”

His smile slowly faded as he squashed his cigarette butt on the floor and leaned closer to me.

“Yeah, you're fuckin’ pretty, darlin’,” he murmured, his eyes flitting to my lips. “Wish I could taste you.”

I could feel my face grow hot at his words. At the time I thought he meant he wanted to kiss me, and perhaps that was all there was to what he said, but I found myself leaning closer to him, too.

I had my first kiss with a nineteen year old drug dealer. I didn't know what I was doing, of course, so I just tried to mimic his movements. He tasted awful but I felt my stomach fluttering at the thought that someone thought of me as pretty and not a disgusting nuisance.

The kiss was cut short when my mom caught sight of the scene and angrily kicked him out.

She was fuming when she got back to me, and I could feel my stomach trying to climb up my throat in anxiety.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yelled.

I tried to explain that he asked to kiss me first, that he made the first move. But she overpowered me.

“You think I don't notice the way you look at all my men?” she sneered. “It wouldn't kill you to stop wearing that skimpy little skirt around, you filthy slut.”

I was next to be thrown out of the house. 

Living on the first floor of our apartment building included some perks, one of them being we didn’t have to climb the metal stairs attached to the side of the building to get to our apartment. There were no stairs connecting the apartment floors on the inside, either, which meant there was plenty of privacy. 

But it also meant I had no way of getting back inside that night.

It was December. It was snowing. And I slept outside.  

From then on, I was nothing but a whore, a vicious slut who was interfering with my mom's business. I had to leave the house each time she had someone over, or be locked in the closet until they finished. My mom said that as long as I was in view, men would be more interested in me, the pretty young thing, instead of her. And that wasn't fair.

Over the next couple of years, we coexisted with each other. I stayed out of her way as much as I could, a habit that ultimately translated to other aspects of my life. And she spared me just enough attention when I needed to be punished for taking money for school supplies and food. 

It got to a point when I started hanging around my high school more than I should. I'd get there extremely early and leave as late as I could without getting in anyone's way. 

And I actually really liked school. Steve wasn't lying when he said I was smart. I really did have a knack for picking up on things easily, and good grades came to me like a birthright. 

I was top of the list for everything.

Minus social skills.

I kept to myself. I was smart but I barely raised my hand in class so as to not rob anyone else of the opportunity to participate. I ate lunch alone in front of my locker to not take up any space at a table in the cafeteria. But I was fine with it.

Everything was fine.

Zeke Fritz was the youngest teacher at my school. He was well-mannered and charming, and he was very popular among all his students — but especially the girls.

He just had a dignified presence that drew everyone in. A lot of the female teachers would shamelessly flirt with him but he always remained very composed.

As the only male born to politicians with connections just about everywhere, Zeke Fritz could've lived a cushy life with a breezy job that would keep him comfortable for life.

But he wanted to be a high school teacher. So, fresh out of a masters program in math, he quickly snagged the open position at the high school I enrolled in years later. Not that an open position was a sign of good luck. For Zeke Fritz, spaces were manufactured for him wherever he chose to go.

He was well qualified for the job, though. He'd also taken a liking to me during my first and only semester of my first year. I was the first to pick up on every formula he taught and he found that endearing. 

“I think I want to be a teacher someday,” I confessed one late afternoon when he asked me to help grade my classmates’ recent pop quiz. 

I'd accepted out of a sense of duty, and because if I had rejected him, it surely would've caused him trouble of some sort.

Right?

“You'd make a fantastic teacher,” he smiled.

So, there we were. Looking back, that must've been the day I dug my own grave because Mr. Fritz seemed awfully delighted that I didn't reply to his request for help with an excuse, and that I basically confessed to looking up to him. My compliant attitude must've looked a lot different for him than it did for me.

He drove me home an hour later and watched me open the door to the apartment before leaving, like a perfect gentleman. I waved him goodbye and he smiled at me from inside his car, waving back as he sped off.

That was one of the last few times I saw him. Because just two weeks later, I dropped out of school. 

Little by little, my mom had built up a large debt with Steve, and seeing that she'd taken loans from different people, whatever she earned from selling sex just didn't cut it. Our water, gas, and electricity bills were more than we could pay for, so I had no choice.

I started mowing lawns, raking leaves, cleaning pools and houses, and walking dogs for extra cash. I wasn't rich by any means, but I'd split most of the money to appease debt collectors and whatever was left to save for a rainy day. 

When my mom noticed I was bearing most of the weight, she began slipping away from her own, leaving it for me to pick up. She continued abusing, and even developed more expensive tastes. There wasn't much I could do at that point. I could beg her to stop and flush her pills down the toilet but we'd just go in circles for hours and I'd end up huddled in the corner with tears, hugging myself in an attempt to feel some warmth. 

I landed a waitressing job at a diner. I'd go three days a week and on my off-days I'd keep working odd jobs to stay afloat. 

On one occasion, Mr. Fritz walked in.

He pronounced my name with surprise. I was even more surprised he remembered me. An entire year had gone by since I'd seen him, and I was sure he had plenty of fresh faces to occupy himself with to remember his student of roughly four months.

I politely nodded at him in greeting and showed him to a table. That night, after he insisted on driving me home, I finally caved at his fourth try. 

However, as we neared my neighborhood, I burst into tears. He pulled into a dead-end street and turned off the car. I cried for the longest time, explaining through sobs that I was tired and that I missed school but I felt forced to leave.

He held me in his arms, his hand brushing down my back in comforting strokes until I calmed down.

He began frequenting the diner after that. Every Friday, he'd invite me to sit with him during my break and he'd fill me in on what he was teaching that week. 

One night when he came in, I had a nasty bruise on my face. In one of my countless fights with my mom, she'd thrown a broken glass at my face and cut my jaw. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to leave a mark for a couple of months. 

I didn't go back home that night. I felt awful for intruding on Mr. Fritz’s space, but he was adamant I stay with him until I figured what to do. 

He provided me with food that night and clothes the following morning. I didn't want to burden him, but he'd already bought them, so I accepted the clothes with a polite nod. I remember my face warming up when I noticed his generosity went as far as new underwear and a plain white bra that fit me a bit awkwardly, but he seemed unfazed.

His place was closer to the diner I worked at, and odd jobs could be found just as well in his neighborhood. So, as long as I stayed there, I kept my routine and even helped tidy his apartment as a thank you. 

At sixteen and a half, I started studying for my GED. Mr. Fritz helped me cram for the math portion and did as much as he could for other subjects. I was incredibly grateful. 

The afternoon the results were posted on the testing portal, I was a nervous wreck. Mr. Fritz stood behind me, his hands resting comfortably on my shoulders as he assured me I'd done just fine. I scrolled down the web page in search of a passing score. When I saw it, I jumped out of my chair and screamed excitedly. Mr. Fritz picked me up and spun me around as he rejoiced in my success. 

Even when he put me down, he kept his arms around my waist as he smiled down at me.

“Congratulations,” he murmured.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss took me by surprise. His hold was strong so I merely stumbled as I tried to draw a distance.

“Mr. Fritz—” 

“What's wrong?” he gently asked me. “Don't you like me?” 

My face warmed at the question, and I barely stuttered out a response. 

“I do, but–”

I wanted to explain that my fondness was out of admiration, but he cut me off before I could.

“Then why can't we kiss? I like you, too. I always have. It's only natural. I'm a man and you're a woman. We live together; it was bound to happen.”

Confused, but trusting that his logic was a compelling argument, I nodded.

“I guess that's true.” 

“And besides, I've been helping you this entire time. I did it because I care. I'd be hurt if you didn't think I was worthy after all I've done for you. Think of it as a token of your appreciation.” 

“I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful,” I murmured. 

My voice was barely above a whisper, but my meek demeanor made him smile.

Lifting my chin, he leaned down to kiss me again. I didn't stop him that time, and he just kept going.

Before I knew it, I was routinely bent over his dinner table or pushed down to my knees so I could repay his kindness. 

This went on for months.

I felt a bit guilty. Because even though I could feel it in my gut that his logic had its flaws, I still let him have his way with me. But a few weeks in, I was convinced I was in love with him. 

It was only natural, as he once said.

People who love each other do everything together. People who love each other kiss in the shadows all the time. They sleep next to each other in the same bed and they wake up at three in the morning to have sex, which ends with the guy telling the girl he loves her because the girl asked what she means to him. People who love each other would rather stay home than go out on dates where people can see them because love is best kept private.

That's what Zeke told me.

And I trusted Zeke. I loved him.

After the diner I worked at closed down, I started making deliveries for a nearby restaurant owned by a family of the name Grice. They could only offer me weekend hours, which meant I had to move my other jobs around but I accepted their offer. Since I couldn't drive a car or a motorcycle, I had to bike everywhere. Thankfully, the Grice's eldest son, Colt, gave me his old bike to use.

Colt Grice was nice. He was only a year younger than me but we'd never met until I started working for his parents. He went to private school, so it made sense we'd never crossed paths. 

Colt Grice also had a thing for me. He asked me out a couple of times but I always politely declined. I couldn't tell him a name, but I let him know I was seeing someone. So he remained a distant admirer. 

One Saturday afternoon, as I was cycling to and from the restaurant to make deliveries, I got lost looking for the last address on my list. 

I took a wrong turn and ended up in a neighborhood I couldn't recognize. Frustrated, I hopped off Colt's bike and started walking, hopeful to find someone to ask for directions.

I passed by a dead-end and there I saw it. Zeke's car.

Confused as to what he was doing there, but relieved nonetheless, I started walking toward the car to surprise him. But I never made it.

Because as soon as I stepped forward, I caught a second figure inside the car. A girl around my age, or maybe even one or two years younger was sitting on his lap in the back seat, fervently kissing him — and he wasn't doing anything to stop her.

Stunned, I rushed out of there as fast as my feet allowed me. 

By the time I came through the door of the Grice restaurant, I'd succeeded in my last delivery but I was a mess. Colt's parents rushed to me, asking if I was okay but all I could do was apologize for the delay. 

Seeing as it was already dark out, Colt offered to walk me home. He remained quiet the entire way to Zeke's apartment building, which was perfect because I didn't have it in me to talk. As I stepped one foot in front of the other in a zombie-like daze, I thought about how crummy my life had been so far. I kept seeing flashes of Zeke and that girl in the backseat. I also thought about whether I should actually be with someone like Colt Grice.

If I was honest, had Zeke never entered my life, I would've said yes to Colt Grice ages ago. He was kind and tall, and he was nice to look at. Not to mention he was closer to my age than Zeke was. 

So when we reached the front steps of Zeke's apartment building and Colt bid me goodbye with a smile, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him.

He was taken aback, of course. But he kissed me back as soon as the shock subsided. 

Blushing, he asked if I'd like to get a smoothie with him after work tomorrow. 

I decided right then and there, on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, that I would cut ties with Mr. Fritz.

“I'd love to.”

Colt nervously laughed, amazed that I finally accepted his offer.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then,” he smiled, my name sweet on his tongue.

I didn't know Zeke had been watching us the entire time from his living room window.

My resolve to leave him was literally beaten out of me as soon as I walked through the door of his apartment.

I never brought up the girl from the dead-end street. 

I never showed up for work the next day, I never showed up for my date with Colt, and I never saw the Grice family again even after I left Zeke for good six months later.

I went back to living with my mom. As expected, she was still a mess but by then all the crap in her system had worn her out so much that I had to do everything for her. 

She couldn't fight with me like she used to just a year and a half ago, but it was still hell. She'd throw plates at me and scream horrible things at the top of her lungs until I'd break down crying each time. And that just wound her up even more. 

I couldn't just leave her. She was all I had and I was all she had.

But even the most patient hearts are worn out, and so even though I held out as much as I could for six years — and I was probably just waiting to keep her company on her deathbed — I left. She was too out of it to realize who she was talking to, but angry enough to throw a picture frame at the door when I walked out.

I moved to a new city and got a job. I used my savings to furnish the small apartment I found for myself, filling it with soft pastel colors that made the place my safe haven. 

I started wearing neutral colors, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and eventually found comfort in treating myself to the nice things I never had. 

I only went back to my hometown to fill out paperwork when I got a call that my mom had died. That same week I spent there, I heard through the grapevine that Zeke got arrested after he failed to manipulate the young daughter of one of his family's friends, bringing shame to the Fritz name. I never saw him, or Mrs. Zacharias, or Colt Grice ever again.

You don’t seem to notice that your hands have been shaking for a while now, but Eren does. He's been holding them the entire time as they prune in the cold water. 

Tears are pricking at his eyes but he refuses to let himself cry no matter how heavy his heart feels. It just doesn't feel appropriate when he's not the one trembling at the retelling of their life's story. 

Words don't come easy to him, either. An apology seems out of place, and any string of comfort just doesn't seem to cut it. He wanted to know everything and now he does. Now he's just lost on what to say that could prove to you that you made the right call to trust him.

“I'm sorry,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his, pulling his hand out of the water, and kissing his knuckles. 

The gesture makes him ache.

“I know it's a lot.”

Eren could never lie to you. Everything you just told him definitely took a toll on him, but he’s also grateful that you shared it with him. And you shouldn't be the one to comfort him. It's given him an entire new perspective on who he wants to be for you. 

It rips him apart from the inside to think that you grew up believing you weren't worthy of healthy parents or a proper home. To think that the only time you experienced love it wasn't even real, and that distorted your understanding of the word forever. To think you were present to help anybody you could without someone to do the same for you without any ulterior motives. To think you made yourself small when you deserved just as much as anybody to take up space in the world. 

What can he say to a person who refuses to believe she could be genuinely loved but whom he loves like it's breathing?

If he had met you sooner, he would've done everything to protect you. It kills him that he couldn't keep you from being manipulated and used. 

“Do you still like me?”

Your timid voice wavers in the air. 

It dawns on Eren that he has yet to speak a word, and that you have no clue of where his head has been for the past few minutes since you caught him up to your present life. 

You don't turn around to look at him, nor do you make any other move. You just remain with your back to him, looking down at your naked legs through the soapy water.

When Eren peers at you over your shoulder, lifting your chin with a wet pruned finger, you struggle to meet his gaze. 

“Why wouldn't I?” 

You crumble in his arms. 

Eren cradles you as you cry into his chest like an affection-starved baby. He presses your naked body against his chest, rhythmically shushing you as his hand soothes your bare back and he presses his lips to your temple. 

You cry out twenty-four years worth of pain with Eren as your anchor. Your eyes swell and your features contort in anguish as you sob so violently, the movement reflects on your shoulders and your cries are mute. You cry until there are no more tears to shed and all that's left are a few hiccups as your body comes down from its panic. 

Eren turns on the shower and scrubs your body down. His fingers massage your scalp as warm water pours down your fragile frame. He sweeps the suds from your face with a gentle hand, as he looks down at you, teary-eyed but smiling as warmly as ever when you blink up at him. 

A soft, fluffy towel is ruffled over your hair as he draws out the excess moisture before he wraps a second around your body and lifts you in his arms in one swift motion. You cling to him while he carries you to bed, where he carefully sets you down and he hugs you to his chest, coaxing you to sleep while the world outside your window slows down and darkens.

It's around three in the morning when Eren stirs awake. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he finds you looking at him.

“How long have you been awake?” he whispers.

You smile.

“A while,” you admit. “I didn't know watching someone sleep could be so fascinating.” 

“Well, now I'm embarrassed,” he laughs, his voice still groggy.

“Now you know how I feel,” you smirk, reminding him of when he's done the same. 

His hand comes up to cup your face.

“How are you feeling?” he tenderly asks, his bright emerald eyes shining in the dark.

“Better,” you murmur. Then you meekly add, “I didn't think I would cry so much. I'm a little embarrassed about that.”

Eren leans forward to plant a brief kiss on your lips. 

“Thank you,” he says, to which your eyebrows upturn in confusion.

“For trusting me,” he explains. “I know it couldn't have been easy to relive everything.”

He clears his throat as he strokes the apple of your cheek with his thumb.

“I didn't know what to say at the moment. If that freaked you out, I'm sorry. But I promise none of that changes the way I feel about you. Not that, not anything. I swear. I won't fail you.” 

You thought you were dried out, but Eren's words draw another series of tears to well in your eyes and cling to your lashes.

“So you still want me?”

He smiles.

“I told you. I'm in it for the long haul.”

As you melt in each other’s embrace, you realize this is what genuine love is. People who love each other want to know each other. They hold hands and play on swings in childlike glee. They wake up at three in the morning to watch the other person sleep, careful not to disturb them because the image of them dreaming is just too precious. And whether it be in light or shadows, people who love each other kiss slowly as words of praise and worship are poured into each other's mouths and warm hands caress each other’s scars.

The last two days leading to the New Year's Eve party at the Jaeger house are spent making last minute arrangements and check-ins with the catering service, florists, pyrotechnicians, and others. 

You and Carla spend the last day shopping. You brought one of your fancier dresses in your suitcase, but after witnessing all the crates of champagne being delivered and hauled into the house in preparation for the party, as well as a preview of the flower arrangements, you felt the need to seek something livelier than the original sleek black silk dress.

It takes several stores and countless fittings until Carla finds you the perfect dress. It's simple but pretty and you and Carla are over the moon with the way it fits you when you step out of the changing room.

The following night, the music from the main house's terrace can be heard all the way inside the pool house. You haven't met anyone yet, but the sound of car doors and alarms have been faintly echoing in the background for a while.

Eren’s fixing his bow tie in front of the bedroom mirror when you slowly wander into the bedroom, in your pretty pastel dress and strappy heels, fixing your earrings as you go. 

Eren's mouth falls open when he turns around and takes in the sight. 

“What do you think?” you shyly ask.

You're in a flowy midi knife-pleated dress, washed in pastel colors that blend seamlessly between lavender, pastel pink, blue and green, like a watercolor painting. The bustier-style bodice is connected to dainty straps in the same soft colors. 

His lips part and close as he struggles to find the right words. When you giggle, he finally grins and pulls you in by the waist.

“Are you even real?” he murmurs.

You laugh as he pushes you back against the wall, smiling and cradling your face with one hand as the other keeps you pressed against him by the small of your back.

Your hands drape around his neck as he catches a glimpse of the angel necklace resting below your collarbone.

“I think we should bail on the party and just celebrate here,” he grins as his nose brushes against yours. “You know, in some cultures, New Year's is more of a private holiday.”

You throw your head back in laughter as he peppers your neck with short, eager kisses.

“Seriously,” he says, leaning back just enough to admire your smiling face. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” you shyly reply. “You look really good, too.”

“Well, I remembered you liked me in a suit,” he smirks, eliciting a pleasant shiver to run down your spine. “So… what do you say?”

Giggling, you shake your head.

“I think your mom will notice if her only son doesn't show up to the party.”

Eren pouts.

“You're right. Then at least I'll get to brag about having the prettiest woman in the world with me.”

He enthusiastically pulls you into a kiss, drawing out an amused giggle from your lips as you melt into his touch. 

When he pulls back, you're both smiling, connecting in one enamored look.

“Eren, I love you.”

Your eyes twinkle as they blink up at him.

“I know I haven't said it in a while but… you know I do… right?”

Eren's heart frantically pounds against his ribs as he caresses your cheek with tender strokes of his thumb.

“Of course,” he murmurs. 

Your shoulders visibly relax, like you've been holding back on repeating those three words and this moment has finally granted you with relief.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you nod. 

“Okay,” you sigh happily. You peck the corner of his mouth. “Come on, Carla's probably wondering what's taking so long.”

Eren doesn't move, keeping you in place against the wall.

“Wait,” he says, his voice quivering slightly at the end.

He brings your hand to his chest, giving you a second to feel the fervent beats.

You look at him curiously as your name rolls off his tongue.

“I love you.”

His features soften before you as the words leave his lips, like pronouncing them has lightened an unknown weight on his shoulders.

“I didn't say it back then,” he adds. “But it wasn't because I didn't feel it. I was just surprised you said it first. But you know I've loved you this entire time… right?”

His shy confession lines your eyes with tears. 

“Of course,” you murmur. 

He sighs heavily in relief as he kisses you once more.

“I love you,” he repeats, the words falling from his lips like it's what he was put on this earth to pronounce. 

“I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.”

You cling to him, your fingers carding through his hair as he ruins your lipstick with his fervent kiss.

“I love you, Eren,” you repeat, as you fall back onto the bed, where his hand snakes up your thighs and his fingers tug your underwear to the side. 

“I love you,” you sigh as he buries himself inside you, the contact raw without a single thing to keep you apart. 

“I love you,” you whimper as your legs wrap around his middle and he finishes inside. 

You both rest on the bed, hands laced together as you regain control of your breathing. 

“I love you,” Eren smiles, your full name bouncing off his tongue and making you giggle.

“I love you, Eren Jaeger.”

The music from the string quartet on the terrace begins to play, reminding you of the night's agenda. 

“Let's go,” Eren says, helping you up with one hand.

“I'm gonna need a minute,” you tell him as you fetch a fresh pair of underwear from the dresser. “I'll be quick.”

He nods, a cocky grin taking over his lips when he notices the streak of your lipstick smeared on your chin. 

“I'll wait for you outside,” he smiles. “I gotta make a call.”

You nod and slip into the bathroom.

As you take in your reflection, an excited flutter stirs in your stomach. 

Being with Eren doesn't compare to anything else in your life. He's the warmth you've craved your entire life. He's deep in every cavity of your being, patching you up from the inside with his strength and affection.

You decide at this moment that you've never loved anyone until him.

As you trade your ruined lipstick for a tinted lip gloss and you clean the remnants from your spontaneous lovemaking, three little words shaped by Eren's warm voice echoes in your ears.

I love you. 

With one last look in the mirror, you walk out to meet him. 

As you shut the pool house door behind you, you pick up the last of Eren's call.

“I gotta go… Yeah… Good luck, buddy.”

Eren ends the call with a quick tap to his screen before turning to you.

He holds out his hand for you to take.

“Ready?”

The party is in full swing on the terrace. Champagne bottles have been popped and music and lively voices fill the air.

You feast on shrimp and cream puffs, bacon-wrapped asparagus and antipasto skewers. You clink your champagne flute with Carla and the ladies from her book club as you suggest titles for their next read and you look over at the pyrotechnicians as they finish setting up for the fireworks show with ten minutes to spare.

Eren never leaves your side. 

He laces your fingers with his as he tugs you away from the railing to dance. His hands fix your arms around his neck before settling on your waist.

He's not much of a dancer, but you follow his lead in swaying to the music. Your limbs tingle with the light buzz of brut.

“Are you happy?” he asks as he presses his forehead to yours.

You smile.

“I'm never not happy when I'm with you.”

He laughs.

“I guess I'm stuck with you, then.”

“You are,” you murmur as you draw closer to his lips.

He pulls back teasingly, chuckling when you inevitably pout at his evasion.

“Easy, you'll get your kiss in a couple of minutes.”

Resting your head on his chest, you continue to sway. It's not long before someone calls out that it's a minute to midnight. 

As fresh champagne flutes are handed out to every guest, you turn around in Eren arms so you can face the fireworks show. As everyone around you excitedly counts down the last ten seconds of the year, Eren hovers over your shoulder and lifts your chin between two fingers.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” you murmur back.

The two of you kiss as golden lights burst in the sky.

Later that night, buzzed from champagne and with a new bottle tucked under Eren's jacket, you stumble into the pool house, giggling like teenagers who just stole from their parent's liquor cabinet. As you clumsily undress each other and exhale sweet words in the air while reconnecting your bodies one more time, you think to yourself that Eren has managed the impossible — to heal every wound and make you happy. 

The following morning, you'll find a new series of text messages where Mikasa and Jean let their friends know they're engaged, and you'll be even happier.

Two days into the new year, you part from Paradis Island. 

At the airport, as you, Eren, and Carla have a quick lunch before you leave, Eren pulls out his phone and asks you and his mom to pose for a picture together, before asking a security guard to snap a photo of the three of you.

Carla hugs you tightly as she makes you promise you'll be back soon even for just a few days. You hold onto her just as tightly, thanking her for everything, even for the things she didn't know she gifted you, and you swear this isn't the last she'll see of you.

Roughly thirty minutes later, as you look out the window, waiting for the plane to take off, Eren's hand gently envelops yours. 

You turn to smile at him and he dips forward to kiss your temple. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

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[wisteriaiswriting]

𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕄𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕙

A simple solo mission had gone wrong but Percy is always waiting for you.

Words: 753

Percy knew you could handle yourself, been given tougher quests and returning without a scratch. He tended to worry a lot, much more when it came to you. Especially after everything that has happened to the camp.

It wasn't common for you to be missing at breakfast, but it was quite easy to tell. Normally meaning you were sent on a quest, one that was hopefully, not to long. But something about today, just... felt off.

The feeling wasn't for him though, his day going on without a hitch. As the sun set, a few campers had retired to their cabins already, the rest hanging around.

And soon enough a week has passed, then a month.

A whole month that you've been gone, and never communicating with him once! Though he's not mad, just panicking since no one else has talked to you. But even if he wanted to, which he did, he couldn't speak to you. Never made aware of where you were going.

Quickly everyone else picked up on how down Percy has been, as they've also known that you've been gone for a month. But no one could help, and Mr D was content to let you continue.

As the second month rolled around Percy couldn't sleep, staring at anything that caught his attention. And the almost blinding light in the middle of the cabin did, eyes adjusting to the familiar rainbow colour.

"PERCY!" "Y/N?" Now he saw you, still unable to tell where you were. But that wasn't his main concern, you looked terrible. Majority of your skin was covered in some type of injury, sticks and anything small enough stuck themselves in your hair.

Under your eyes were clear eye bags, but a small smile sat on your lips. "I DID IT!" Percy winced from your volume, yelling in the middle of nowhere at midnight, why?

Quickly as you appeared you disappeared, not the message though. You just dropped, "Tree..." With the message still open his mind was racing, slowing slightly when he caught sight of the golden fleece.

Lightly glowing against the sky, but the fleece was at the hill. The hill! His mind and heart racing quicker than ever, if he saw it, high chance you were outside the barrier, on the ground.

Without ending the message he grabbed Riptide before sprinting outside, ignoring any lingering campers or creatures around. Running past everything to reach the hill, reaching the top quicker than he expected.

Even in the dark your form, laid on the ground, stood out. And be was right, you were a good few feet out of the barrier, but luckily no monsters were around. Slowly putting Riptide into a pocket before stepping over to you.

Easily hauling you into his arms, holding you tight as he made his way to his cabin. While he should find someone who can help properly, he knew enough to be able to help you. Promising to find someone tomorrow.

After placing you on his bed he pulled off any thing you were carrying, one being a surprisingly heavy bag. A quick look over told him most of your injuries were on your face, your huge injury was taken care of, barely.

On one of your arms was a clearly rushed stitch, although they held so far, they should be good until morning. Percy stood up to find his medical supplies, during the rush he missing the figure sitting up behind him.

"Percy?" Spinning so quickly he fell over, also dropping everything. The cabin was light enough to see your features and injuries, so you easily made eye contact.

It was well known Percy wasn't good at hiding his emotions most of the time, and this time, he wasn't good either. You swear all you can see in his eyes is worry.

"Y/N!" Seemingly forgetting that your hurt he launched at you, both of you falling backwards. "Ow..." Seemingly not hearing you Percy had you stuck in bed. Tangling his legs with your own, arms thrown over your shoulder.

From Percy you heard him say, though very muffled by your neck. "Thank the gods you're back." "Yeah..." You could just hear both of your godly parents, watching you both reunite after all this time.

But soon enough their voices would be pushed out of your brain, as Percy made it clear he was asleep. Drool was quick to reach your shirt, grabbing a nearby blanket and pulling it up and over you both, joining Percy asleep in the night.

[steddieasitgoes]

@steddiemas Day 12 Prompt: Hallmark Movie Tropes

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Dual POV, Getting Trapped In A Small Town, Stobin Owns A B&B, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Inspired By Hallmark Christmas Movies, Meet Cute,

wc: 3188 | Rating: G

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

Eddie doesn’t know how luck works, but he’s pretty sure he’s used up his lifetime allotment.

It’s the only way he can explain the last 72 hours without launching himself into a multi-day meltdown. Honestly, who the fuck did he piss off? How did he go from landing in New York after the biggest and most successful Corroded Coffin world tour yet, only to be thrust into the nearest recording studio because somehow the entire third album they recorded on the road is, ironically, corroded and unable to be played?

Eddie and the rest of the guys holed up in that dimly lit studio for 48 hours recreating only half the magic they’d manage to create on the road. If he’s straight with himself, he’s not even sure the songs they churned out are even close to the original. It would be easy to go back and check if he had his trusty laptop and notebook full of lyrics and chords and the like. Unfortunately, they’re a victim of his bad luck too — having been left and lost on the bus ride from the airport to the secluded studio in upstate New York. after their private car no-showed.

Naively, Eddie had thought nothing could get any worse when they finally saw daylight and handed over the second draft of their third album. But then disaster struck again in the form of a blown engine and a fucking snowstorm to end all snowstorms that has him stranded, alone, and cold in middle of nowhere New York.

All he wants is to get home to Wayne and drink his sorrows away with the famous Munson spiked hot chocolate, but no. Life has other plans for him, apparently.

Fresh off the Australian leg of the tour where the sun was shining, Eddie’s not dressed or prepared for this winter weather. Already shivering in the dead van, he bundles himself up in his leather jacket and ratty blanket he hasn’t washed in god-knows how many years and gets to walking.

On one hand, the fact that the snow is still falling is a massive pain in the ass. Eddie’s boots are quickly filling up with liquid and he’s pretty sure his face is going to be frozen if he has to stay out here for more than five minutes. On the other hand, the bright white shines in the evening light, making it so that he’s not tricking through bumfuck New York in the pitch black.

Unfortunately, there’s no pay phone in sight (his cell went dead hours ago) and most of the small shops Eddie passes on his trudge through town have their lights shut off and doors locked. He’s about to cut his losses and accept the fact he’s going to be sleeping (and dying) in his van when he spots a sign for a Bed and Breakfast up ahead.

Eddie’s senses are flooded the minute he pushes the heavy, Victorian-style door open. The air wafts over him like a warm blanket, heating up his frozen fingers and nose in a way that would make him cry if he could even produce tears right now. There’s a cacophony of noise coming from a nearby room — a piano and singing, plus tons of laughter. And don’t even get him started on the smell. Pine and apple cinnamon, hints of vanilla, maybe even fresh gingerbread. His stomach growls on cue.

There’s a small desk stationed in the center of the foyer, a golden bell sits beside a foot-tall Christmas tree decorated to the nines. A small welcome plaque sits in front of it. Brushing off his soaking shoes on the festive welcome rug, Eddie makes his way to the desk and rings the bell.

A second or two later, a similarly aged man appears. A Santa hat sits askew on his head, cheeks flushed from the warmth inside, and a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could be used as a homing beacon. He’s beautiful.

“Hi there,” the man greets, mossing his way over to the desk. “Welcome to Buckington B&B. How can I help you?”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

“Robs,” Steve whisper shouts, pushing his way past the swinging doors that separate the dining room from their private kitchen. He tries again, a little louder this time but still nothing. He can hear the piano in the other room, the hoard of guests singing along to whatever Christmas song is being plucked out by the five-year-old piano genius on vacation with her parents.

“Robin!” he shouts louder this time, pocking his head out into the backyard that’s currently two feet deep in powder, fresh snow. “Dammit, Robin. Where are you?”

“What’s all the yelling for?” she asks, appearing behind him.

“There’s a guy out front looking for a place to stay. Says his car broke down like a block or two away.”

“Okay, well, that sucks for him, majorly. But we’re already at capacity. You’re going to have to tell him to try Elaine’s or something.”

Steve knows Robin is right. They’re already at max capacity. Max-max capacity if he wants to get technical considering he gave up his room yesterday to the newlyweds who got stranded trying to get to the airport. It’s just well… Well, Steve’s always had a thing for unlucky people, especially when they’ve got a pretty face and a warm smile.

“See, the thing is,” he pauses, scratching nervously at his chin while trying to avoid Robin’s steadfast gaze. “I sort of already told him he could stay.”

“Steve!” Robin scolds, rolling her eyes. “We have no room!”

“I mean, yeah, you’re right. We don’t technically have any visitor rooms left. But, we still have your room.”

“Absolutely not,” she growls, crossing her arms. “No. Not gonna happen. I can’t believe you’re even asking me to give up my personal bed to a stranger! Nope.”

“Oh, come on, Robs!” Steve groans, throwing his hands on her shoulders to stop her vicious shaking. “Remember two summers ago when you made me give up my room for those best friends who fought the entire trip? You know the one you ended up hooking up with? I didn’t complain once!”

“That was different.”

Steve snorts, shaking his head. Definitely not different, but he’s not going to get what he wants if he argues with Robin. It’s not how their friendship turned business partnership works. “You owe me. I never cashed it on it, but now I am.”

Robin huffs and Steve knows she’s mentally stomping her foot like a child. If they weren’t overflowing with paying guests, he knows he’d be getting a long-winded lecture right now.

“Fine.”

He doesn’t wait to hear the list of conditions he knows Robin is going to have. She can’t even call him rude when he rushes out. After all, a freezing cold guest is waiting to be taken care of in the lobby.

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

It’s been a long time since Eddie’s been in a quirky room like the one he’s ushered into by Steve’s warm touch. Gone are the days of sleeping in motels on the side of the road on good nights, and shoved into the back of the van between equipment on bad days. Corroded’s management loves to book them the swankiest of hotels. Always looking for ways to send the label a massive bill — one that always ends up coming out of their own paychecks.

If it was up to Eddie, they’d be staying in places like this instead of the godawful monochromatic luxury prisons they get shoved into night after night. As an artist, he doesn’t get a say though. At least, that’s what he’s been told.

Glancing around, he takes in the bright-colored wallpaper. The dresser is cluttered with frames and other tchotchkes. A burnt orange rug takes up most of the floor and there’s an overflowing box of records perched in the corner by a small record player.

Eddie knows this isn’t a normal guest room — Steve had told him as much while guiding him up the stairs — and yet, he feels more at home in this quirky room than he has in months. Probably since the last time he visited Wayne.

Shit. He needs to call Wayne.

That unlucky string rears its head again as Eddie is met with dead silence when he picks up the pale blue landline. Of fucking course the phone lines would be down. The snow is dropping in sheets now. The telephone poles didn’t stand a chance.

At least he was lucky enough to land a place to sleep tonight, now all he needs is a —

“Hi, sorry to bother,” Steve says, pocking his head in. “I noticed you didn’t have any luggage with you when you checked in. It’s probably best to get out of those wet clothes. Hopefully, these will do.”

Eddie watches as Steve enters the room with a stack of clothes in hand. A pair of jeans and sweatpants sits at the bottom. Various shirts and sweaters stacked neatly on top. He’s pretty sure he spots a fluffy pair of socks at the top of the pile too. He might cry at the generous hospitality. After all, it’s a bed and breakfast not a fucking clothing store which means the clothes folded neatly must belong to Steve.

“You can leave the wet clothes outside the door when you’re done and me or Robin will come get them and throw them in the wash for you,” Steve says, setting the stack of clothes down. Then he’s moving again, hand reaching behind him before pulling out a laminated piece of paper from his back pocket. “I also brought you our itinerary for the evening. There are a few activities and tonight’s dinner menu. No pressure to join us. We also deliver food to rooms.”

“Damn,” Eddie whistles, glancing at the itinerary. “You guys really know how to take care of people around here, don’t you?”

“We try our best,” Steve smiles. “If you need anything else, just give us a shout.”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

Steve doesn’t expect to see Eddie for the rest of the night. Especially not after a freakout from one of the teenagers vacationing tips him off on just who he’s agreed to let stay in Robin’s bedroom. He knew Eddie looked familiar. Wait until he tells Dustin about this — the shithead is going to be so mad he passed up a Christmas at Buckington B&B with Eddie Munson for some cruise.

Color him pleasantly surprised when he walks into the main room a few hours later to find Eddie behind the keys of the baby grand piano. The excited teenager from earlier sits to his left, a few of the ladies circle the edge of the piano as they wait for their cue to start singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”

He’s caught in a trance, watching Eddie in the soft maroon sweater he’s borrowed from Steve professionally stroke the keys of the piano. It only gets worse when he starts singing himself. Rich baritone cutting through the breathy singing of the ladies, carrying the tune in a way Steve’s never heard before.

Usually, Steve hates Christmas carols, but maybe he’s just never heard them sung right before.

He’s the first to break into applause when the song ends. Hands coming together before he even registers he’s the one responsible for the thundering noise. Thankfully, he’s quickly joined by the rest of the guests of the B&B. It makes the embarrassment wane inside for a moment until his eyes scan the room and discover that Eddie’s only looking at him.

“Well, then,” Robin says, sauntering over to him from the kitchen. “Now I see why you couldn’t turn him away.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says and deliberately looks anywhere but in the direction of Eddie and the grand baby piano. Not that it really matters. He can feel Eddie’s warm gaze on him without even looking.

Robin hums, shaking her head. “Sure you don’t.”

“I don’t!”

“Just remember that he’s staying in my bed and payback is one of the only dishes I know how to serve,” she says, winking before she’s whisked away by one of the young children looking for a game to play.

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

The quiet of the early morning should be a welcome reprieve from the cacophony of sound from last night. He had started as a gentle observer in the celebration, but when the young child holding court at the piano was sent to bed, well, Eddie stepped up as the piano player of the evening. It wasn’t long before he had everyone putting a rock and roll twist on those stuffy Christmas carols.

Maybe Corroded Coffin’s fourth album should be a holiday one.

Drinks were poured and ready before he even had to ask and his stomach was treated to a delicious spread of meats and cheese. The gooiest brownies he’s ever experienced and a perfect Gingerbread recipe that would have put his Nana to shame.

It was nice. Existing with others. Reminding himself that life doesn’t always have to be moving at 100 miles an hour like it does when he’s on tour. Sure, he still wished he was home with Wayne, but a call to his uncle when the phone lines came back washed away any of the guilt he felt.

Now, though, alone in his room as the sun begins to rise over the mountains of snow outside. Well, now, he feels that same sense of restlessness he always feels when he’s in one place for too long.

Sliding into a pair of slippers Steve dropped off last night, Eddie carefully pulls open the door and sticks his head out into the hallway. It’s quiet aside from a few muffled snores coming from down the hall. With the coast clear, Eddie tip-toes his way down the hall and to the stairs.

He didn’t get a formal tour when he arrived, but he’s pretty sure Steve mentioned something about a stocked coffee bar on the first floor that was available to them whenever they needed. The first two doors he opens reveal a closet and a bathroom and a wrong turn has him standing amongst cluttered laundry. Not ready to give up, Eddie pushes his way through a swinging door and finds himself face-to-face with Steve himself.

“Oh, hi,” Steve says, voice thick with sleep though his appearance makes it look like he’s been up for hours.

He’s in a yellow sweater and jeans. Hair tousled in a way that definitely doesn’t look like he just rolled out of bed like that. His eyes are bright and shining, just like they were last night. Eddie really has to squint to notice the subtle bags under Steve’s eyes.

“Shit, sorry. M’not supposed to be here, am I?” Eddie asks as he looks around the room. It’s a standard kitchen, except for the two pale yellow fridges that take up an entire wall. A window hangs over the sink just like it does at his uncle’s place and he’s pretty sure they have the same green stove too.

“You’re not,” Steve smiles. “But it’s okay. Robin’s not up yet and I don’t mind the company. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Orange juice? Hot chocolate?”

“Are you sure you’re not running a coffee bar here instead of a bed and breakfast?” Eddie teases, leaning against the kitchen island. “Hot chocolate sounds delightful, thanks.”

“We strive too please,” Steve says before fumbling through the cabinets for a mug. “So, what has you awake at this hour? Was the room not to your standard?”

“The room is great! I’m honestly just not used to the quiet,” Eddie says, eyes trained on Steve as he flits around the kitchen preparing their drinks. It’s weird to find someone so attractive when they’re doing nothing out of the ordinary. But he can’t help it. Steve is beautiful in a way Eddie can’t really comprehend. “What about you? Are you always an early riser?”

“Robin and I usually take turns on the morning shit. Technically it’s her turn, but I told her I’d handle it,” he pauses, shaking his head as he looks out the kitchen window to the snow-covered backyard. “Definitely regretting it now. There’s no way m’shoveling all that snow today.”

Pushing up from the island, Eddie crosses the small distance and joins Steve at the window. Steve isn’t exaggerating in the slightest. The entire yard is covered in at least three feet of snow. Some parts even deeper judging by the absence of a fence he knows should be there.

“Guess m’staying another night.”

Steve hums, sidestepping away from Eddie to finish making the hot chocolate. When he turns back around, his cheeks are the slightest bit pink and Eddie can’t help but wonder if it was the steam of the hot chocolates doing or his own words.

“One cup of hot chocolate,” Steve says, handing him a pipping hot mug.

It’s decent. Not legendary like last night's brownies, but then again hot chocolate never is. Nothing ever stands up to the famous Munson spiked hot chocolate. There’s too much chocolate and not enough milk. And it’s severely lacking in the alcohol department. Though, he supposes, five am is a bit too early for liquor.

It would be easy to ask Steve for a shot of whisky to add, he knows they’ve got a stocked bar around here somewhere judging by last night's festivities. But he’s not about to impose more. Nor does he want to risk giving away his and Wayne’s hot chocolate secrets. At least, not to a guy he’s known for less than 24 hours. No matter how cute he is.

“So, Eddie, where were you headed before you got trapped here?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it trapped,” Eddie says, hiding his smile behind the mug. “I actually think this is the nicest place I’ve stayed in a long time.”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

Steve’s never been one to believe in luck.

He got dealt a shitty card right out of the gate, born to parents who could provide for him financially but never emotionally. Throw in falling into the wrong crowd and struggling through school, and well, Steve’s the poster child for privileged unluckiness.

Some might say luck found him in the form of Robin, but he thinks that a copout. Luck had nothing to do with bringing them together, nor did it have anything to do with the success they’ve found. That was all them. Blood, sweat, and tears.

Wishing on stars and believing in luck only happened in fairytales.

At least, that’s what he’s always told himself.

But now, standing in the kitchen listening to Eddie ramble on and on and on about how great the bed and breakfast is without ever breaking eye contact with him.

Well, maybe luck has finally found its way to him in the form of one stranded rockstar.

[nobodylikety]

Cat hybrid! Liz 🐈

Yeah I knooow it's been a while, I was kinda busy and had a bloody writers block,,, BUT HERE I AM, back with my blurbs and thoughts about hybrid! IVE, this time with Liz and her orange cat bevahior

tags: cat hybrid! liz x fem! reader, hybrid AU, fluff.

Cat hybrid! Liz is an absolute homebody! This house cat will hardly want to leave her home and go places, because inside her home are you, the rest of hybrid! IVE, her bed and all the food she can ask for.

Cat hybrid! Liz's swimming skills are as good as a sinking brick <3 she's not a very good swimmer, because cats themselves are not very fond of water. And as for bathing? no way. If it occurs to you that it's bath time, chances are Liz will demand some good cuddles afterwards.

Cat hybrid! Liz has orange cat energy, she's absolutely chaotic and goofy! Not only is she constantly fighting with Puppy!Yujin over silly things, but they are also accomplices and sometimes get into trouble together, because together they are twice as love bugs and the sweetest little cat and puppy, although not very bright! <3

+ like all orange cats, she's the most cuddly and goofy fuzzball. And when she's near you? she runs towards you, with her tail wagging all happy and for sure she tripped at least 3 times and ran into 2 walls, in the process of TRYING to get on your lap. She's such a good girl, kinda silly, but good girl 🩷

Cat hybrid! Liz lacks feline grace and agility…because her orange cat vibe is stronger. She can't jump, she can't climb…she always falls. BUT if she hears you open a bag of chips anywhere, she won't hesitate to ask for her portion (or steal it  ^_^ ♡)

Cat hybrid! Liz has a habit of flopping up on the sofa and looking at you intently, with big eyes, wagging her tail in anticipation, all serious and predatory attitude,,, before giving you the silliest, most affectionate headbutt out of nowhere <3

🐱 ، ﾟฅ ｡ [ Kitty shenanigans ]

Liz always finds unique ways to get into trouble, but she never fails to be the most adorable and affectionate kitty you'll ever meet.

Not a day goes by that Liz doesn't get into trouble. Like that time when Liz and you were playing together in the garden, and Liz started chasing the butterfly she'd found with such enthusiasm that she ended up tripping over a flower pot and falling face first into the middle of some flowers. And what did Liz do? she got up, shook the dirt off her fluffy ears and looked at you with an innocent expression, as if nothing had happened.

With that silly little smile, the same one she always does.

Or that other time, when Liz was trying to catch a fly buzzing near the window, but she jumped so hard that she ended up hitting the glass, leaving a little nose smudge on the glass.

Or like now, with the most frequent mischief that takes place almost every morning, and always in the kitchen.

You're preparing toast for breakfast, when Liz decides it's an excellent idea to hop across the table to inspect your culinary work. So with an air of elegance she tries to land gracefully, but instead of it, she trips over her own tail and falls face first into the tray of eggs, scattering them all over the kitchen. And of course, not before knocking over the pile of frying pans and pots, creating a chaotic clatter.

"Don't worry, Liz," you say with a chuckle as you help her up. "I think we'll have scrambled eggs this morning."

"Meow," she replies, looking up at you with innocent eyes, as if it's your fault.

Because It's never her fault, it's always yours.

And that sometimes makes you want to wrap Liz in cotton, to stop her from endangering her own life in her own stupid way. Liz really is a bit of a rebel, even when she's not actively trying to get into trouble.

But... you have to accept her for who she is, and if you're honest with yourself, there's something incredibly endearing about this goofy, sensitive, lovable little cat (who attempts to break herself more than once a day) that's part of your life.

Because even after a day full of stumbles and falls, when you sit on the sofa and enjoy the peace and quiet of home, with Liz purring softly as you stroke her head, her sweet gaze and carefree, goofy attitude reminds you of how wonderfully special she is.

So despite all the misadventures, you wouldn't for a moment change your life filled with Liz's antics.

Cat hybrid! Liz 's love language is giving you the goofiest headbutts and being dumb with you! (she has a weird sense of humor) so Liz is always tripping, falling, flopping clumsily on you, just for the sake of showing you her love for you!

+ This. Kitten. ALWAYS (LITERALLY ALWAYS). FALLS OR TRIPS OR GETS INTO DUMB STUFF.

Wants your attention? climbs the ledge closest to you, and before falling gracefully next to you, trips and falls on your head.

She's going to climb on your lap? miscalculates and ends up with her head stuck in the sofa.

She's going to purr you to lull you to sleep? she chokes on a hairball before she even opens her mouth.

And the list goes on, because Cat hybrid! Liz is an adorable bundle of leggy nonsense, and she loves you with all her heart. ♡

[ficreadergirl]

Dangerous Inquiries (2.ch.9)

"How did we forget about her?" you groaned, still feeling a little guilty as you tried to climb out of bed but you couldn't quite manage it yet. Jason gently nudged you over, making you roll onto your back as he nestled behind you, his arms wrapped around your middle.

"I guess you need to rest a little longer." he murmured kissing your shoulder. "She'll understand."

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Yes, she's pretty understanding." you agreed, running your hands up his chest and around his shoulders. He let out a shuddering breath and pressed his lips to your neck. "When will we go to the motel?" you asked between his kisses. He stopped for a moment and pulled back to look at you.

"Tomorrow morning." he replied. "I think we're too tired to do anything else today."

"You're right." you agreed yawning. "We should probably get some sleep."

You woke up to next day feeling refreshed. The sun was shining brightly through the window, birds were chirping outside and you could smell breakfast being made in the kitchen. You climbed out of bed, stretching luxuriously and making your way to the bathroom. After a quick shower, you got dressed and made your way downstairs. The smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air and you found Jason and Kory sitting at the kitchen table, already eating.

"Morning sleepyhead." Kory greeted with a smile. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, I did." you replied sitting down at the table and helping yourself to some food. You wanted to ask her where was she last night but decided not to bring it up.

"So..." Jason said clearing his throat. "We're going to the motel today to sort things out."

"Right." Kory nodded. "I hope we can solve this without any more incidents."

The three of you finished breakfast in a comfortable silence. After cleaning up the kitchen, you all got into Kory's car and headed to the motel. The drive was mostly silent, with each of you lost in your own thoughts. When you finally arrived, you could see a police car already parked outside the motel.

"What did happen here?" you asked Kory as you got out of the car, your heart beginning to race.

"I don't know." she replied looking worried. "Let's find out."

When you walked into the motel lobby you were greeted by the sight of several police officers questioning various guests. The receptionist was nowhere to be seen. You and Kory exchanged worried glances before making your way over to one of the officers.

"Excuse me officer?" you asked trying to sound calm. "What's going on here?"

The officer turned to look at you with a frown on his face. "We're investigating a murder that took place here last night." he said bluntly. "Do you have any information that might help us?"

"No unfortunately. We were running an investigation actually and before his death, our victim was hiding here." you explained. "We're trying to find out who killed him."

The officer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He glanced at Kory and then Jason before looking back at you. "If your victim was spending time in this motel then he might have been involved in some shady business." he said carefully. "We'll need your cooperation in this matter."

"Of course." you replied. "We'll do whatever we can to help."

The officer nodded and then motioned for you to follow him to the station. Cautiously, you, Kory and Jason followed the officer to the police station. Once there, you were escorted to an interrogation room and left alone for several hours while the officer questioned you about your investigation and your connection to the victim. You told them everything you knew, including about the incident happened in the courthouse and your connection with the thief. Finally, the officer stepped back into the room.

"Thank you for your cooperation." he said solemnly. "We'll let you know if we need anything else from you. And if we find out anything that might be of interest to you, we'll make sure to let you know."

You nodded and stood up. "Thank you. Let's hope we can find whoever did this."

You and Kory and Jason left the police station feeling a sense of unease. "So... you didn't kill the motel manager right Jay?" Kory asked as you walked back to the car.

Jason looked at her with a surprised expression. "Of course not! I wasn't even there last night."

His last words made you bite your lip remembering what had actually happened.

"You were together all night?" Kory asked wiggling her eyebrows. "No funny business?"

You felt your cheeks flush. "No! Nothing like that. We just... sleep. Separate of course!" you said quickly a little too loudly.

"That's why you were moaning so loud honey?" she whispered teasingly after Jason was already in the car. "You'll tell me everything when we're home love." she winked before climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine.

Read more

[jinkoh]

the monster in your bed

sunwoo x gn!reader

wc: 0.7k, tags: angst, (implied) zombie apocalypse, relationship struggles, tw: mentions of blood/violence (nothing graphic)

masterlist

“Breakfast is ready,” Sunwoo whispered in your ear, rousing you from your slumber. And there, for a brief moment everything was okay. The sun was streaming in through the windows tickling your nose while Sunwoo’s breath was tickling your neck. You giggled when his nose nuzzled against your skin, leaning into the soft touch. Your shared apartment smelled like coffee and if you listened closely you could hear the sound of it slowly dripping through the filter. But there was another sound, a low steady buzzing. The generator, you remembered and suddenly everything came back to you: You weren’t in your cozy downtown apartment on a normal Sunday. No, you were in a shabby little house in the middle of nowhere that you’d found shelter in after your city got completely overrun. The buzzing of  the generator providing you with basic electricity ever since the systems were down was a steady companion, almost like a tinnitus you couldn’t get rid of. The sun was coming in through cracks in the wooden boards barricading the window, because glass wasn’t sturdy enough to keep out what could be lurking outside these walls. Sometimes you wondered what was lurking inside. 

“Baby?” Sunwoo asked with a peck to your cheek, but the magic had worn off, the reality of it all had you back along with the sick feeling that had found a home in your guts ever since the day they had breached into your apartment and you’d seen your sweet soft lover kill them with his bare hands. It seemed hard to believe right now, when Sunwoo was looking at you so lovingly, but you could still see the cold seeping through, an uncomfortable darkness hidden beneath those warm eyes. Maybe it was just the memory of him splattered with blood that you couldn’t seem to shake. And that small grin on his face, when they’d fallen to the ground, dead, lifeless, unmoving.

“I’m coming,” you mumbled, averting your gaze and pushing him off you.

Sunwoo was laying next to you peacefully, breathing calm and even. His features were softly illuminated by the moonlight streaming in. Your hand reached out almost automatically, brushing the hair out of his forehead the way you’d done a zillion times before, when things were still okay. You missed him. You wondered what face he’d make if he knew the way you dreamed about him. Would he be upset? Would he try and convince you that your dreams were irrational, that it was just the extreme of the situation overwhelming your brain? Maybe he’d have a point there, but wasn’t it strange that in the midst of all of this, the monsters in your nightmares weren’t the ones outside but the one in your bed?

You startled when his eyes blinked open, immediately retracting your hand, but he caught it in his. It felt rough and calloused like your own. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Nightmares again?”

You just shrugged, fixing your eyes on the small cracks in the window.

“You’re not looking at me anymore.”

“What are you saying?” you huffed a laugh, but he was right. Even now you were avoiding his gaze.

“Why? Why aren’t you?”

You pressed your lips together, every cell in your body urging you not to say it, but you knew you couldn’t hide it forever, not when he’d already noticed. “You scare me,” you whispered so timidly your voice was almost drowned out by the buzzing of the generator. But even without looking at him you were sure he heard. He kept quiet for an uncomfortably long time and just when you wondered if he would say anything at all, he spoke up.

“I love you.”

It was heart-shattering. He sounded so broken and small, as if those were the only words he had left, desperately choking them out even when he knew they weren’t the right ones, even when he knew they couldn’t make anything undone. “I love you,” he whispered again, “I love you so much.”

masterlist ♡ pls consider reblogging if you enjoyed this ♡

[lulutaylorsimaginarium]

The Chain

Summary: When the guys get stuck in a situation and hunted down by a drug lord. Frankie makes a call he really doesn’t want to make to the only person that can help them

Words:1441

Warnings: “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the right age to handle mature themes. We handle our own triggers with kindness and grace

AN: Mind any grammar mistakes even though the story has been checked. The author is dyslexic and it is the wonders of her brain.

THE CHAIN MASTERLIST

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

She knew that the house was basically going to be empty today. Benny left the night before for the first trip over the border. Will and Santiago were leaving this morning to buy a van for the next trip. So, that left Gabby and Frankie. She was hoping that Frankie would be too busy in the garage. As much as she didn’t want things to be weird between them.   She didn’t know how to fix it either and she didn’t want to face it.

 

Not knowing what to do, wasn’t really in her nature

 

Gabby heard footsteps and movement in the house. She couldn’t bring herself to get up. She wanted to disappear, and she couldn’t quite understand why.

 

The bedroom door opened, and she rolled over as Santiago walked in quietly and placed a cup of coffee on the bedside table.

“I know you’re not sleeping”

“No, you don’t”

“Always so argumentative” he teased as she rolled back over on to her back laughing “Will and I are leaving in an hour”

“Did you put me to bed last night?”

“No, we left you on the sofa”

“I don’t remember coming up”

“Well, you didn’t take any meds last night. Maybe you were sleepwalking again”

“At least I’m tucking myself” she joked

“You going to be okay?”

“Babe, Its Frankie not Hannibal”

“It’s not just that”

“Santi, you’re sweet but it’s only for a few days. We’ve got it locked down. Just take care of you and watch Will’s back” she chuckled “If anything happens to Will. I’ll kick your butt”

“Yes ma’am”

He kissed her one more time and looked back before he walked out the door.

Gabby had already fallen back asleep.

 

#

 

 

The house was quiet and still when she finally made her way downstairs. She didn’t think he was inside by the feel of it. She couldn’t normally feel if someone was in the house. She’d wake up from a deep sleep even if someone opened the bedroom door. It was a side effect of living in tents and the middle of nowhere. Maybe that’s why she craved peace so much.

Gabby washed the coffee mug that Santago had given her. That coffee, although amazing, just wasn’t enough. She felt it. It was going to be a four or five coffee day. She wasn’t quite recovered from whatever had decided to kick her butt the day before. 

She looked around the living room, no sign of life.

Gabby made her way to the front door, opened it and found him on the porch.

“It’s freezing out here” she said quietly

“I thought you were going to sleep in”

“If I sleep anymore I’m going to get a headache”

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to take it easy though”

“I used to be stronger then this”

“Yeah, well” he smirked cheekily up at her “You’re getting old”

“You’re older than me. You turd”

“Yeah, I’m getting old too. We’re not kids anymore”

“No. We are not”

He got up at of his chair and stood closer. She had forgotten how much taller he was then her. Which only showed how distant they had been.

“You wanna go out from breakfast?” he asked before she looked over at the storm shelter, worried “We won’t be gone long”

Wasn’t that the same offer that she made him a few days ago. Perhaps this was an olive branch. An apology, even.

Gabby nodded her head before he opened the front door for her and they walked back inside 

 

 

 

They sat by the window, in a booth in an old-style diner with waitresses dressed in short colourful dresses and white aprons. There was still a vibe between them. The tension had eased slightly but they still weren’t themselves, but they went through the motions. Said all the right things, it just didn’t feel right.

She sipped her second cup of coffee and played with the fires on her plate. Dipping it in the yolk of her egg,

“Do you think they will be okay?”

“They have been in worse situations”.

“That’s not what I asked” she chuckled sweetly.

“They’ll come back; I promise”.

There was silence across the table as they behaved like two teenagers on an awkward date. Suddenly but softly something snapped within her. Whether that be out of annoyance, confusion or loss something out of nowhere snapped quietly.

“What’s going on, Frank?”

“Not quite sure to explain it”

“Try”

He looked out the window for a few seconds and she let him have the space, Gabby kept quiet and waited patiently

“Things aren’t good at home”

“That’s just distance. It will all work out once you get home”

“No, it was like that before I left. Maybe I’m not cut out for the white picket fence. I don’t even know what I am doing when I am there. All I can think about is what I shouldn’t be doing”

“There are a few good groups into town. Maybe you just need a meeting. Bounce some ideas off other people who have been there” he nodded his head “What about us?”

He was quiet again and she let him take his time again. They sipped their coffee and people watched for a minute or two.

“I guess I don’t like sharing you”

“I’m not a tonka truck, Frankie”

“I don’t mean like that” he sighed “I mean you were a name everyone knew. People heard stories about you and you had meet Pope and Benny but you were in this world. You weren’t in this side of my life”

“The dangerous side?”

“That’s another thing. I didn’t want you to get involved in the first place. Pope, made me call you”

“Because you needed help”

“Not from you”

“Why not?”

“Because look what’s happened. No job and you’re slipping back into old habits”

“Frank, this. What’s happening to me is, are things that I had pushed down and never figure out. I never fixed the cause of them. My problems were always going to be there”

“Sebastian”

“Seb knew what he was signing up for and to be truthful so did I. Do you really think I came into this blind? I knew if you were calling. If I was flying out of Europe to help you. I knew it wasn’t going to be a walk down the yellow brick road. Especially if Santi was leading whatever mission you were on”

“Since when do you call him Santi. That’s another thing”

“Frank, he’s been sticking it to me. I’d just be weird if still called him Pope. Don’t you think?”

“Ugh” he said screwing up his face

“I’m not a babe in the woods anymore”

“You’ll always be a babe”

She smiled at him. Playfully screwed up her napkin and throw it out him.

“You know what I mean”

“I know what you mean”

“Can we just?” she asked

“Yeah” he sighed “Yeah”

“It doesn’t have to be prefect. It just has to be okay”

He reached over and stole a fry off her plate as she smiled and shook her head.

 

#

Gabby let him drive back to the house. She hadn’t let him take care of her in the past few weeks and she knew that he wanted too. She relinquished a tiny piece of her pride and sat in the passenger side with no arguing.

Not out loud, at least.

He parked in front of the garage as they both hopped out Frankie noticed the strange look on Gabby’s face

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something feels off”.

“I’m sure it’s nothing”.

“Yeah” she chuckled as he walked up the front steps “I’m just going to check around the back”

“Gabs” he laughed

“Humour me, would cha?”

She disappeared around the side before he heard Gabby yell his name.

He bolted around the side of the house to see a big unkept man run along the house near the storm shelter. Frankie yelled out as the guy run around the back of the house. Gabby came out from under the house with a plank of wood in her hands.

She hit him over the back as he grunted before grabbing her by the arms. They both hit the ground and rolled down the embankment.

Frankie couldn’t understand why they seemed so far away still. He ran faster.

The guy was one top of Gabby as they both struggled for something.

He slammed her body into the ground so hard that Frankie could heard the air escape her lungs.

Then suddenly he heard it.

A gun shot rang out over the water and into the woods.

[sercezgazety]

At some point, Dan decides to teach Herbert how to drive.

There are many quite rational reasons to do that. It’s an investment, you see. A little bit of effort now, and soon, Herbert will be able to run errands all by himself. No more waking Dan up at three in the morning, and no urgent calls from telephone booths in the middle of nowhere (how does Herbert get there in the first place, remains a mystery). Most importantly, no need for Dan to participate in obtaining the bodies. It doesn’t make that much difference, not really — if somebody finds the car suspicious, if anyone notices how often it’s parked in the vicinity of the morgue, it’s going to be very easy to trace it back to their house. There isn’t that many people parking around here, and that’s mostly because they have actively chosen a house in a desolate area. Dan tries his best to doctor the plates with a marker and acrylic paint, or, in one particular instance, with nail polish. He changes some F’s into E’s, C’s into zeroes, and then hurries to get rid of the evidence the moment they’re back. He has an entire system in place, never picking the same morgue twice in a row, rotating between different towns and counties, carefully studying the map to avoid any patterns. More than once, he’s proposed going across the state lines. Herbert didn’t agree, of course, deeming any drive longer than one hour absolutely unacceptable. They have to be fresh. Need I remind you, Dan, what happens when they’re not?

Dan doesn’t need to be reminded, actually. It’s not something one can ever forget, though Herbert at times acts as if he’s managed to do so anyway.

But they compromise, at least sometimes, opting for ossuaries that are farther away and have been confirmed to have terrible security. Dan’s system’s been working so far, yes, but let’s face it, it’s mostly been pure luck. When they run out of it — and that’s a question of when, not if —  they’re both going to be in the same kind of trouble. Dan’s way past plausible deniability at this point, even though it’s Herbert who keeps recklessly stealing organs right from their own goddamn workplace.

Still, it would be nice to avoid at least some of these midnight drives, especially when Dan’s shift starts early in the morning. He’s been dead on his feet for months now, though he’s smart enough to never phrase it like that when complaining to his roommate. A prospect of Herbert being able to attend his morbid business alone is something that Dan can’t help but consider alluring, sue him.

And so, he brings it up one day during a breakfast that was supposed to follow a full night sleep but ends up being eaten over a sink while Dan’s desperately trying to get rid of the blood on his last good sweater before the stains become permanent. His shift starts in forty minutes, and he’s had two hours of sleep before Herbert dragged him out of bed to play his chauffeur.

Here’s the thing: Herbert always gets in the back of the car. It shouldn’t be that annoying, it gives Dan some space to breathe. There are even rare times when West isn’t backseat driving, but it doesn’t change the fact that he treats Dan as his servant, and he’s probably never noticed he’s doing that.

God knows Herbert’s trying, and that’s the saddest part. Dan would have to be blind not to notice that, the way he’s suddenly started to agree to at least some activities Dan proposes. They have movie nights from time to time, and while Herbert sits there on the couch, both rigid and restless, radiating discontent when things blow up onscreen and our hero gets the girl, he doesn’t say anything. It’s the kind of self-restraint Dan never suspected him to possess.

Once, just once, Herbert makes dinner, and it’s surprisingly edible. It’s just chemistry, he says, and that’s true, but it never stopped his sandwiches from tasting and looking like shit before. The apron he wears is the same one he puts on in the basement, and he fails to see the problem. He starts making Dan coffee in the morning when he remembers to, and presses Dan’s shirts on one occasion. Every now and then, he decides to wash the dishes, even if he hasn’t used any of them. All of these activities, perfectly ordinary, have this air of grand gestures. To Herbert, they probably are. Dan sometimes worries what else the guy might come up with, and dreads the day when he gets a bunch of organs wrapped in a bow. Herbert knows he’s halfway out the door at this point, perhaps he even thinks he’s already made up his mind. He hasn’t, but there’s no need for Herbert to know that.

Herbert’s miserable solution is to play house. And it’s not that he’s bad at it — which he is, by the way, absolutely terrible, not because he’s performing the tasks wrong, but because he’s putting so much effort into things that shouldn’t require any; and because it’s him. As simple as that. It’s eerie, to watch him try to deal with domesticity, and all of it would be endearing in a girl who’s only learning how to become a housewife. But to watch Herbert scrub the plates clean when reeking of dead things, to observe him trying to sit on a couch without staining it with blood that still hasn’t dried on his shirt, it’s terrifying. He’s pretending to be something he’s not, and the ugly truth keeps peeking out from underneath his every little gesture. Dan wants to shake him and scream until he stops, gives up on acting like a normal person, like someone with whom Dan might be willing to spend his life. As if this arrangement, whatever it is, wasn’t temporary, and as if Dan bringing girls over was something that offended Herbert on a personal level.

The disdained grimace he makes when he sees any of Dan’s guests is presumptuous and just plain rude, so much so that sometimes Dan can’t stop thinking about it for hours, even when there are legs wrapped around his waist. Dan, the girls say, breathless as he’s finishing, but all he can hear at those times is really, Dan? in Herbert’s monotone. As his toes curl, so do imaginary Herbert’s lips in a snarl, and yes, in that exact order.

“Are the two of you—” one girl asks after Herbert’s been particularly Herbert upon walking on them in the kitchen. She doesn’t finish the sentence, frowning and trying to figure out the least offensive way to say what she means.

There’s dread lurking behind the smile plastered on her face. Is Dan sick? They’ve already slept together a couple times; is she going to get sick as well?

“God, no,” Dan says. “Me and Herbert? No.” Then he bursts out with laughter that ends up being a bit too long and a tad too loud.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell anybody,” she reassures him, but she’s clearly lying, because after that, he hits the longest dry spell in his life.

Dan can’t blame her. No one’s above suspicion, and some tensions are bound to appear, it’s only natural. People are angry and scared. Everyone has the right to make their own choices, and that’s fine by him. Live and let live, Dan’s grandma used to say, and it’s a good rule he tries to uphold to this day, but it’s getting more difficult to do so as some of the guys recklessly spread the disease among straight people. It gets even more terrifying when you work at a hospital and get to see the ravages.

Some of the bisexuals, despite what they are, are probably decent people. Not all of them brought it upon themselves, and Dan really wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when watching the late night talk shows.

Dan is sick, but not in the way she wanted to inquire about. He’s just suffering from prolonged exposure, and it does things to his head. There are times when the infernal little man doesn’t do anything wrong, and Dan still wants to throw a punch just to hear him whimper. He wonders if Herbert would make a sound similar to the one he makes when the reagent hits. Other times, he wants to bang Herbert’s head against the wall until he wails. He doesn’t; he’d never. That’s not who Dan is, but he also realizes if he stays here long enough, that’s who he might become. Those are still the least disturbing things he’d like to do that his brain spits out at him; at least in those scenarios both of them are fully dressed. Dan’s been losing arguments for a while now, unable to focus on anything but the images that appear in his head uninvited. There’s something seriously wrong with West if he makes people around him feel this way. He’s the disease, a cancer that just keeps on spreading.

Which is funny, because they do have a fight, one of the relatively big ones, over a stage four patient with a pair of surprisingly good lungs that Herbert can’t wait to get his creepy hands on.

“You’re aware there’s a difference between a person and a corpse, right?” Dan hisses after having dragged him into a storage room.

“That’s an idiot question.” Herbert straightens to his full unimpressive height. Maybe he really thought it was a question. Maybe he just wants to rile Dan up even more, gets some sick satisfaction out of it. “Of course there’s a difference. For now.”

That opens the floodgates. Dan spends the next ten minutes detailing all the ways in which, so far, West has succeeded at producing corpses out of living people, and the very moment he brings up Meg, he gets primly asked whether he’s done wasting their time, given that they’re on the clock. Then, Herbert leaves Dan seething to attend another patient. Worst part is, he actually helps that one, while Dan’s so angry and late, he almost botches up a surgery. By the time their shift is over, Herbert doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even ask whether Dan’s going to drive him, he just gets in the backseat and waits.

And Dan, the spineless creature that he apparently is, drives him home. They eat in silence, Meg’s absence hanging between them, though Dan’s pretty sure he’s the only one who’s noticed.

Herbert might be trying to be less insufferable, he might be acting as if Dan didn’t need a woman in his life and as if he were able to fill that role, as if he were a—  a person, a proper person capable of feeling. He might be doing all that, fine, but only when he remembers to. It’s very easy for him to slip, or just never realize that this specific thing he does is typical of him and him alone, something that inadvertently reveals the rot that runs through his veins. Taking the backseat and expecting Dan to drive him around is one of those things, and Dan should be glad there are still some reminders of who he’s dealing with, but. But it’s degrading nonetheless, and that’s not something Dan’s ever been into.

When he brings up the driving lessons for the first time, Herbert acts like a petulant child. Declines with a scoff, and it’s clear that the thing he finds most offensive is not the fact that Dan is trying to weasel out of grave-robbing, which, fair is fair, he is. Rather, Herbert can’t stomach the idea that he himself might not possess some ability. Before he admits that might be the case, almost a month passes.

Dan might have had something to do with that realization, purposefully arriving late at the appointed place (not nearly as many times as he’d like; just enough so that it doesn’t become suspicious), forgetting to pick Herbert up after his hospital shift, failing to bring some of the supplies and slowing down the work. Going to the pub for hours, leaving Herbert to his own devices with a car but no driver.

Herbert knows what he’s been doing, there’s no question about it. Can’t prove it, but knows, and the knowledge makes it probably even worse; now he’s fully aware to what an extent he’s dependent on Dan and his good mood. It must be humiliating. Wouldn’t be to any other person, probably, but it’s Herbert we’re talking about.

“At some point, I won’t be around,” Dan says on Thursday.  “Who’s going to drive you then, hm?”

It’s an offhanded remark, something that just spills out of his mouth while rehashing the same argument for the millionth time, and it wasn’t supposed to sound like that. It wasn’t even supposed to be said out loud, not for weeks, months to come. There’s a finality to that statement that Dan didn’t intend. Herbert picks up on it immediately, judging by how his entire frame stiffens.

He works his jaw silently for a moment, and Dan wants to apologize, go back and rephrase it, but maybe ripping the band aid off wasn’t the worst idea. Yeah. Maybe it’s for the better.

“I have work to do,” Herbert finally declares, looking somewhere else. He flees to the dead things in the basement, and he might be walking there with slow, measured steps, he might not run, but it’s still very obviously an escape. The half-eaten dinner and the dishes he offered to clean just a five minutes ago are all but forgotten, and he doesn’t come back upstairs that night.

On Friday evening, though, he takes the front seat and watches Dan the entire drive home with an odd look of determination. This might be the first time Herbert’s ever shut up, and instead of cherishing it, Dan tries to fill the silence with some chit-chat. It gets ignored.

The second time Herbert does this, it’s so disquieting, Dan turns on the music. Herbert’s hand flies to the dashboard, and he turns off the radio immediately, but that’s a good sign; it means he knows how to do that. He’s been paying attention, and with that, they can work.

The third time, he clears his throat the moment they leave the parking lot.

“Fine,” he spits, and doesn’t elaborate.

continue reading the chapter here as Herbert runs over one animal after another

[myriadof-fandoms]

harringrove week - day 2 - this boy's too young to be singing the blues

prompt: How Many Candles on the Birthday Cake: 18 years old

ao3

Billy Hargrove is 18 years old. 

He has been, for just about 24 hours now. No one’s mentioned it. 

He’s watching how the minutes go by, like he did last night too. Seven minutes to midnight, seven minutes until he’ll really be entirely forgotten.  

It’s quiet around him, in the middle of fucking nowhere. No one is out at this time since everyone in Hawkins is in bed by 10 and even if they aren’t they surely aren’t sitting at the fucking Quarry. 

Billy likes it only because of the water. And maybe a little bit because it reminds him that he could always just jump. 

He’s not actively suicidal, he knows he’s gonna go back home and climb into his room through the window and hope that his dad doesn’t hear. Billy’s gonna go to bed and sleep the same fitful sleep he always has. Everything is gonna stay exactly how it is.

But for a moment the possibility is comforting. 

The edge of the descent down to the water is an adrenaline high. The same high that he gets here only by pushing his car to the highest speed right before a curve. 

Billy misses the way his lungs used to feel like they were about to burst when he stayed underwater too long. That was the best of them all, better than any drug or danger, that moment when he pushed himself until everything in him was screaming to dive back up, to get some oxygen. 

Nothing in Hawkins compares to the ocean. At least the Quarry is a body of water too though.

His mom used to take him surfing for his birthday. She used to get him cake too. At first there were presents as well, he remembers a small party even. 

His dad always said birthdays aren’t important though. Certainly not important enough to remember at all. 

At least last year Billy got a black eye. Today Neil didn’t acknowledge him even once and somehow that’s worse.

He spent the day like any other, breakfast in tense silence only interrupted by Susan trying to lift the tension, driving to school and watching Max disappear to her weird little friends, one useless class that’s teaching shit he already had in San Diego after the other, ignoring whatever shit Tommy and the other assholes said during break, beating everyone at basketball, not looking at Harrington in the shower, picking up Max, going home, working out until his body aches and tense dinner. Absolutely nothing of consequence happened. 

Billy curses when he feels his eyes tear up at the thought. 

Distracted by his own failings and the sound of his voice he doesn’t hear the car at first. The headlights he notices first, cutting through the trees and illuminating the Camaro. 

With bated breath Billy waits until he can make out the car. Of course it’s the fucking BMW.

He turns back around and waits.

“What are you doing?” Harrington asks when he’s still walking up to Billy at the edge. He doesn’t come up next to him entirely, choosing to stay two steps away from the cliff.

“Celebrating.” Billy’s a fucking idiot. 

Harrington remains a mystery to him.

They’ve settled into no man’s land since Billy beat him up last fall. After Max had him fucking apologise to Harrington he became- almost friendly. 

Billy doesn’t do “friends”. Which is most likely why there’s no one to remember his fucking birthday. 

Harrington is nice to him is the thing. Occasionally they talk, like when they both drop off the brats at the Arcade or when Harrington finds him in the middle of the night at the Quarry. 

And then sometimes Harrington stares at Billy way too long in the locker room. 

“What are you celebrating at the edge of certain death?” 

There’s a little edge to his voice, and a part of Billy is entirely too pleased to know enough of Steve’s tells to realise it. 

“I’m sure I could survive this.” 

There’s a scoff he receives in response, “Yeah, sure you could, big guy, now get away from there, alright?”

Billy takes another look at the black water below and turns around to look at Harrington. 

His hair is messy, like he already went to bed and got up again when he couldn’t sleep. His attire supports that theory, sweats and a T-shirt that’s all rumpled. 

He wastes a thought to consider if Steve sleeps without a shirt and only grabbed this one on his way out. 

“My birthday.”

Harrington is too busy looking relieved that Billy’s next to him now and away from the edge to pay attention, “What?”

“I’m celebrating my birthday, Harrington.”

“You- today?”

Now Billy gets to scoff. Then he checks his watch, “For another minute, King Steve, yes.”

“Shit, man, happy birthday,” He looks like a kicked puppy. Harrington looks actually upset at not having known. Somehow he also looks a little calculating. 

“Did you get anything nice?”

It’s such a stupidly Harrington thing to ask. Billy doesn’t feel like lying and laughs a little, “No, not really.”

For a second Billy thinks he’s about to get beaten up when Harrington moves closer. But instead of a fist connecting with his cheek there are hands cradling his face. And another heartbeat later there are lips on his own.

Steve all but crashes into him, moving against Billy with vigor and like he’s starving for it. Billy responds without thinking - because maybe he did jump after all? Maybe he’s dead and the cosmos is playing a gigantic joke because this feels awfully close to heaven and there’s no way Billy’s ever going to get there.

As quickly as he’d been there Steve steps back, “Fuck, sorry, I-”

This time Billy is the one to hold Steve’s face. Not for long though, as soon as he’s got his mouth back on Steve’s his hands are moving to his hair. That fucking hair he’s had to hear so much about. 

It feels even better between his fingers than he thought it would.

Steve sighs against his lips and Billy is filthy and rotten and he’s waited to long for this, he’s overthought everytime he caught Steve looking at his lips too much, to not use the chance and lick into Steve’s mouth.

This time he moans. 

It must be true then, Billy’s dead and in heaven. 

When Steve starts pushing him backwards, towards the Camaro, and then against its hood, Billy doesn’t think a lot. There is the passing thought though that his birthday had turned out surprisingly well after all. 

[ofaresandnemesis]

Happy Birthday

Rio one shot about how he got to camp!!! Tw for child abuse.

Reusing my usual tag list: @cabin-12-resident-daddy-issues @dawn-lovelace @dionysus-god-of-all-things-wine @childofthewargod

April 21st, 2019

Rio woke up when the captain america alarm clock on his nightstand started buzzing at 7 am, just like it did every morning

But this time the date on the screen read '4/21', his birthday

His tenth birthday, specifically

Rio was never particularly excited to wake up on a school day, but he couldn't help but grin just a little this time

He got up and got dressed before running off to the kitchen to drop a couple pieces of bread in the toaster

He could hear the sounds of a blow dryer from his mom's bathroom and the occasional curse in ancient greek when she dropped something

He hopped up and sat on the counter when he ate his toast. He wasn't allowed to sit on the counter, but it was his birthday! He could allow himself a little bit of mischief before school

He quickly got down when he heard his mother come out of the bathroom, brushing the crumbs off his shirt

"Go get your bag" His mother said just as coldly as always as she grabbed a frying pan that she'd used to make her own breakfast and put it in the sink

"Yes ma'am"

He grabbed his bag and they were on their way, the radio in his mother's car sat to the 90s station as always

He waited for her to say something about what day it was. Just one happy birthday would satisfy him, that was all he wanted.

His birthdays were never a big deal, considering they were an anniversary of what his mother had told him was the worst day of her life, but this was a big birthday, after all

She didn't say anything, though. Neither did he. Not even when he realized she was going the wrong way. Not when he realized that they'd been in the car far longer than the ride to school.

Not until he saw a 'Welcome To New York' sign

"Mama?"

"What?" She hissed

"..this isn't the way to school"

"You're not going to school today, Riot"

He would've been happy, if she hadn't said like he should've known. Like he was stupid.

"..why not?"

"Why do you ask so many questions? Because I fucking said so, consider it a birthday present"

He fell silent after that. He knew when to shut up, when to stop talking before he ended up with another beating instead of just some harsh words.

He fidgeted with a loose string on his jeans until he dozed off, sleeping until the car stopped in what looked like the middle of nowhere.

At least it did until Rio looked closer, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he read a huge sign that read 'Camp Half-Blood'

"Mama..?"

"Get your backpack and get out."

"But– you said I wasn't gonna come here until I was 13? And you said I'd come here in the summer–"

"I said get out, Riot, go."

"But I'll get lost! I don't know where to go!"

She huffed and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her before opening his door and dragging him out by the wrist

She dragged him into the camp, past the border and over the hill

"I'm not supposed to be coming here yet– it's not even summer yet!"

"Some kids stay here year round, remember?"

"But those kids don't have homes! I have a home!"

She laughed. A cruel, sickening laugh that hurt his ears.

"I'd pick a damn comfy bed if I were you"

And with that she dragged him onto the porch of the big house and left him there. He just stood there in shock as she walked away like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn't just her kid alone and confused on his birthday with nothing but his school backpack.

He didn't even here Mr D's 'oh great, another one' because his eyes were fixed on his mother until she was out of sight, and Chiron was trying to coax his name out of him

"Riot" He said. He'd never liked his name, but his mother had insisted that he go by it. But she wasn't here now, was she? "No, Rio, actually"

Chiron smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder

"Welcome, Rio, to Camp Half-Blood"

[waltwhitmansbeard]

May I ask for a second breakfast drabble, please?

'' get some sleep. '' with shadowgast?

tw: blood

It's a dance, this thing with Essek, a waltz in three-quarter time. He steps forward, Caleb steps back, and they twirl, onto the next measure. Usually, the Sending comes as a question, casual, demur—Are you free this weekend, Caleb Widogast? Will I be imposing? Would my company be welcome?—and the response is equally as coy—If you would like, I could have the spare bedroom made up, should you find the time to stop by.

(Not once has Essek used the spare bedroom. Caleb's not even sure he knows what it looks like.)

Tonight, however, the Sending doesn't come. There is no warning before Essek appears, panting and wild-eyed, in the middle of Caleb's cottage. The Alarm spell diverts Caleb's attention away from his lecture notes just half a beat before Essek's body collapses to the floor with a thud.

"Meine Götter." Caleb rushes from his little writing desk, crashes to his knees beside his drow friend. "Essek!" He takes his face between his palms.

Essek's face, usually a lovely, delicate shade of lavender, is mottled and dark, and Caleb struggles to identify where a bruise ends and the blood begins. One eye is half-swollen shut, the other barely focused on Caleb's face. "Sorry...to drop in..."

Caleb could kick himself for not preparing any healing spells this morning. "You are very injured—what happened?"

One of Essek's trembling hands comes up to grip Caleb's forearm. "The war...may be over...but the old hate lingers..." He coughs, and blood coats his lips, glistening and dark. "Careless. Foolish."

The rage flares up so hot and bright, it's a wonder the cottage doesn't ignite. Caleb shifts so Essek's head is cradled in his lap. "Can you heal yourself any?"

Essek's good eye drifts shut. "Tapped out. Long day."

Caleb swears under his breath, then says, "Come. Let me get you to bed." He begins to carefully lift Essek up by the armpits.

"No." Much to Caleb's surprise, Essek tries to stagger away on his own. "Should...go. Don't want to...lead anyone...here..."

"Scheisse." Caleb pulls Essek in closer before he topples over again. "You are in no condition to go anywhere, and if you think I care for a risk when you are this injured, then you do not know me, Herr Thelyss." There is no more fight as Caleb ushers Essek into his bedroom, throws back the covers, and helps him into bed. He diligently removes Essek's boots and places them neatly next to the nightstand. "I will return in just a moment, liebling."

And he does, leaving Essek just long enough to retrieve a basin of warm water and a cloth. He perches on the edge of the bed and begins to gently dab the blood from Essek's face. "In the morning," he whispers, "I will prepare the spells to heal you good as new, ja?" The water in the basin is now rosy pink. "And then I will do what I do best."

The good eye, which had been closed, creaks open warily. "You will not."

The blood on his forehead is gone now. "And how do you propose to stop me?"

"I am far more skilled in dunamancy than you, Caleb Widogast."

"Then perhaps I exact my revenge before I heal you."

"So you would let me suffer while you go off to play a hero?"

"Ah." Caleb leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses on his forehead. "You are already arguing with me again. You'll be fine."

The eye flutters shut once more. "You are maddening."

Caleb swallows down a lump in his throat. "Get some sleep, liebling. I will be here when you wake." He finishes cleaning Essek's face to the best of his abilities before carefully sliding into the other side of the bed.

Just as he magically snuffs out the last light, a soft murmur in his ear: "Nowhere else I thought to go."

It is a dance, but these steps are new, stuttering. "You will always be safe here. This is your home, too." He's not sure if Essek even heard him, but the words are true all the same.