#please someone turn me into mulch

[naffeclipse]

[youremyonepiece]

salty afflictions

sanji x gn!reader (no pronouns used), reader's pov

your powers come with unique dietary restrictions, but sanji's not one to back down from a challenge (especially not if it's you).

warnings: none, light fluff (please lmk if there are any i should add!)

word count: 1.9k

"okay," sanji says, tone verging on exasperation, "let me get this straight." he peers at you through his furrowed curly eyebrows, but there is no malice in his stare-- only disbelief. "you can't eat salt?"

you laugh uncomfortably at the question. the rest of the straw hats have their eyes fixed on you as well, waiting earnestly for your answer. most of their plates lie forgotten in front of them; only luffy is moving, shoveling food into his mouth with both hands, but he too is staring directly at you. sanji is standing in front of you, a matching plate balancing on one of his hands. your own grip tightens around your carrot as you shift and shrink under the weight of everyone's combined gazes before taking a small chomp to hopefully diffuse some of the tension.

it doesn't work.

it makes things worse.

the carrot feels like dry mulch as you chew and swallow it loudly. everyone else simply continues to stare, the moment dragging on as they wait for you to respond.

you let out another uncomfortable laugh once your mouth is empty before clearing your throat. "um, yeah," you finally manage to say. you resist the urge to slam your head into the dinner table at your eloquence and continue, "the salt content in my body would get too high. i'd be no different than a puddle of sea water. which would, um-- which would be bad."

you can't stop another laugh from defensively bubbling through your lips. sanji notices and moves away to put your plate in front of luffy (with him around, no food would ever go to waste). "well," he says, pointedly nonchalant as he takes his seat and leans back to take a drag from his cigarette. "i love a good challenge, and you certainly are a lovely one." a smirk forms around his cigarette and just like that, the tension in the room shatters. you throw a grateful look in his direction as the crew's attention turns away from you and back to their dinners.

"typical sanji," usopp says with a playful roll of his eyes before shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth. "still, that must suck."

"yeah," you say in response. "i mean, i'm used to it, but i definitely miss some foods. it saved my life, though," you say with a shrug, "so it is what it is." you take another bite of your carrot, larger than the last in hopes of deterring anyone from asking you any more questions.

you feel someone's eyes on you again and turn your head to see sanji staring at you. there's still a smile on his face and in his eyes-- you can't help but hold your breath as you meet his gaze. he's looking at you as though he’s just discovered a new type of fish, you think to yourself. like he can't wait to experiment and discover the best ways to filet, bake, fry you up.

unlike with the others, being under sanji’s gaze doesn’t make you squirm in your seat. instead, you find yourself feeling comfortably warm-- you’re always comfortable with sanji. he’s been nothing but considerate and thoughtful from the start, and you knew he would never do anything to hurt you.

well, he would never do anything to hurt any woman, not just you.

you ignore the turning of your stomach-- get real, he would never feel the same way about you-- and instead avert your eyes to take great interest in your carrot. wow, it sure is orange--

"you'll have to allow me to borrow some of your time later, sweetheart," sanji says, interrupting your riveting thoughts. "we'll figure out what i can cook for you. can't have you going hungry, now can we?" he winks at you and you feel the heat creep up your neck and into your cheeks.

“um-- sure,” you say, and you're sure your face is bright red. gosh, did you have to be so awkward?

to your relief, though, franky starts talking excitedly about his ideas for new upgrades on the sunny, and with that the flow of the conversation is thankfully diverted away from you and the side effects of your hydro-hydro logia devil fruit. you finish your carrot as quickly as you can before quietly excusing yourself from the group and scurrying out onto the deck.

and though you don’t dare look up to confirm it, you swear you feel sanji’s eyes on you the entire time until you’ve left the room. but no-- there’s no way. you’re imagining it, letting your fantasies get the better of you. he wouldn’t have watched you leave, not when nami and robin were still in the room with him.

(if you had looked up, though, you would have found you were right.)

you’re sitting on a bench by nami’s tangerine trees the next morning after breakfast, absentmindedly flipping through a novel you borrowed from robin. it’s an unusually calm, placid day, the weather perfect and the soft breeze refreshing. the kind of day you want to spend outside and doing nothing. it’s easy to zone out the various noises from your crewmates: luffy’s joyful yelling followed closely by chopper’s worried shouts, zoro’s rumbling snores, nami’s playful teasing at usopp’s desperate rambling, sanji’s... footsteps?

you look up from the book to find the blond man walking calmly towards you with his blazer slung over his shoulder, an easy smile gracing his lips. it grows as your eyes meet, but he doesn’t speak until he comes to a stop a few feet away from you. “hello, gorgeous. got a minute? i wanted to get your thoughts on a few dishes i whipped up earlier for you.”

be cool, you tell yourself. be calm, casual-- “yeah, of course! i’d love to!” great job.

but you can’t feel upset for too long, not when sanji’s face lights up at your response. not when he’s holding a hand out for you to take. your cheeks grow warm (surprise, surprise) as you pause, taking in the sight of the kind man in front of you and his breathtaking smile, before reaching out to take his hand.

you’re hyper-aware of his fingers against yours as he gently guides you to the kitchen and can’t help the wave of disappointment that washes over you when he pulls away to drape his jacket over a bar chair and roll up his shirt sleeves. he motions you over to the table before turning away to grab a couple plates from the kitchen counter.

“so,” he begins as he places various dishes in front of you, “i normally use salt in just about every dish i make. it’s a flavor enhancer-- without it, most foods would taste flat and bland.” he places the last dish in front of you before straightening and flashing one of his brilliant smiles at you. (if you were in a cartoon, your heart would have just doki-doki-ed out of your chest.) “but there’s other ways to bring flavor into food, and there’s beauty in simple foods, too.”

you take in the various foods in front of you; each plate contains no more than maybe five spoonfuls of food, but there are so many. salads and soups and stews and snacks-- so many foods you hadn’t eaten since getting your powers. sanji pushes one of the plates closer to you-- a colorful pile of leafy greens and veggies, topped with what looks like olive oil and a freshly squeezed lemon wedge-- and takes the seat across from you. “salads, of course, are an easy answer. the best salads use fresh vegetables and high quality oil, and as long as you balance the flavors well, you won’t even miss the saltier ingredients like cheese.”

intrigued, you bring a forkful to your mouth, and-- wow. you never had been a huge fan of salads, especially since they now consisted of the majority of your meals, but this is easily the best salad you’ve ever had. you clean the plate within a couple seconds, much to sanji’s apparent delight.

and so he continues, explaining his reasoning behind each dish and watching intently as you practically inhale the food. “sanji,” you say in between dishes after what must have been over half an hour of food tasting, “this is amazing. i don’t think i’ve had food that tastes this good ever-- not even before i ate my devil fruit. i can’t believe you did all this for me.”

it’s his turn to blush at your words, and for some reason his bashfulness makes you feel embarrassed as well. you shut your mouth and look back down at the plate in front of you: cauliflower chunks he had coated in a spiced batter before frying and coating in a sauce made from nami’s tangerines. it’s true, though-- every single dish you had tasted had been phenomenal, so clearly made with kindness. you had resigned yourself to eating raw veggies for the rest of your life, and the fact that sanji had come up with a whole slew of meals that you could eat despite your power-induced diet, that too within a day of learning about it... no one had ever done something so thoughtful for you before.

your thoughts are interrupted by an unexpectedly acrid scent-- is something... burning? you look up from the plate, frowning, and almost immediately spot the smoking pan on the stove. “sanji! the pan!”

sanji, who had been staring at you with a dazed look in his eyes, seems to come to his senses with a few blinks. he glances backwards towards the stove and does a double-take in shock before leaping to his feet and rushing over to the burning pan. “merde! so sorry, love-- i must have forgotten to turn it off-- i was so excited to see your reaction--” he hisses suddenly, pulling his hand back with a jerk.

“sanji! did you burn yourself?” you’re on your feet, too, reaching his side within a blink of an eye. you take his hand in yours without hesitation, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“darling, you should stay back, the fire--”

within seconds, you’ve doused the stove in water using your free hand. you then turn your eyes back to sanji’s burn, frowning in concentration as you coat the reddening skin with your cold water. “it doesn’t look too bad,” you murmur, eyes locked on his wound, “but you should still have chopper check it out.”

“will do,” he responds softly, and you freeze-- his voice is so close. you were so close.

you look up, throat dry as you meet his eyes. you feel your cheeks heat up yet again, but you can’t bring yourself to step away-- you can’t bring yourself to move. “you should--” you stop to clear your throat-- “you should be more careful.”

“i always am, but something about you makes me forget where i am.” he must see the question in your eyes, because he quickly adds, “in a good way, of course.”

“yeah, um-- same,” you say intelligently.

he laughs at your response, eyes full of affection as they remain on you. “c’mon,” he says, softly tapping your cheek with his uninjured hand before stepping slightly away from you, “we still have a few dishes to go.”

gosh, you think, stunned in place as you watch him move back towards the table. this man is truly going to be the death of you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 11

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger. These warnings are not exhaustive.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: I expect we're near the endgame now.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

Clark lands with an impact that makes your skull rattle. Your ears ring as the world around you smears. He lets you go and you stumble away. He keeps you off balance as he grabs you again, spinning you as you whimper helplessly.

He rips your hoodie down your arms, tugging it free only to use the sleeve to restrain your wrists. He keeps you facing away from him, forcing you to your knees as he shoves his knee into your back. He puts you on your stomach and bends your legs up, securing your feet with the other sleeve so you’re facedown in the dirt.

You heave as your tears spring out unchecked. He parts from you, his soles mulching the dirt as your sobs echo. You squirm until you fall onto your side, bound helpless as you let your horror mount to frantic screams.

“Help! Someone!”

He hushes you and bends to grip your jaw. You quiet, choking on your voice as you look past him. Canopies of leaves ripple above him, you smell water nearby, a freshness that lends a coolness to the air. He snarls and drags you across the ground, placing you against the brush along the jutting rock wall.

“Scream all you want. No one out here.”

“Please, Clark, please,” you plead through pathetic babbles, “I didn’t–why– why did you– Richard—”

“You promised you loved me. That you would never hurt me–”

“I was scared–”

“You lied to me,” he growls as he paces back and forth, “you betrayed me!”

“No, no, I was just afraid. I was afraid you’d hurt me, Clark, honey, I swear–”

“Hurt you?”

“You’re married,” you whimper, “I knew we could never be together–”

“I know.” He grits out as he stops to face you, his eyes glowing eerie crimson, “you know. Lois is dead. This was our chance and you ran–”

“Dead? Clark–”

“Stop lying,” he barks, “I can hear your fucking heart amp up every time you do. So stop.”

You sniffle and shudder in the dirt. Prickly vines poke at you as you give in to the futility. You’re not getting away this time. Your lashes are webbed with tears, adding a soft glare to your vision. You look up at Clark and pout.

“I can be better… please,” you beg. “What are you going to do to me?”

He raises his chin and stares up at the sun. You murmur and curl your fingers into your palm. You wait in the deafening silence of the moment. The chitter of birds and scramble of critters is dulled by your dread.

“Make you better,” he says as he spins to face the sprawl of trees.

He clutches his fists tight and a sudden rush of air blows over you as he zips up into the sky. It feels as if the earth lurches beneath the force of his departure. You fall back against the rock wall, leaning your elbow on it as you gape up after him.

“SOMEONE!” You screech, even as you know he’s right, that no one will hear, “SOMEONE PLEASEEEEEEEE!”

🖊

Your lungs burn and your throat turns raw. You have nothing left. Your fruitless screams die as you lay in the dirt, wriggling only a few inches this way or that. Twigs and pebbles jab through your clothing and the dewy patches of grass stain the fabric. 

This is it. This is the end. The sheen of disbelief slowly fades. That denial that it couldn’t be real. You are just an intern and he is just a journalist. A lonely man looking for company where he shouldn’t. No, he is a murderer. You witnessed it. You’ve seen the rage in him, you felt it, the insatiability that cannot be denied.

More than that, he is inhuman. He is something else. He is lauded as a superhero yet lurks like a villain behind the mask of Clark Kent.

You quiver and let out a deep heave. Breathless, exhausted, defeated. You let your head rest on the ground as the warmth of the sun pools over you through a gap in the branches above.

Sweat beads over your forehead and dampens your cheeks. It gathers beneath your clothing and trickles along your neck and back. You languish there in the beating of the summer heat and wait. For what comes next. For the inevitable.

As resignation sets in, your fate doesn’t seem so scary. Death is a finality. It is an end. It means that you will be free, even if that freedom is nothingness. There is relief in knowing that those weeks of torture have come to a head. You’ve met the climax and now you’re in the falling action, plummeting towards the finale.

A gust sweeps over you and the earth shakes. You let out a yipe at the flash of colour and the clatter left behind. In a second, he is gone again, whooshing up into the expanse as the din of the forest resumes. You look over at the large ax leaning against the cliffside, a hand saw beside it, and few other tools you can’t place. What?

He returns, surprising you again. The clunk of a heavy chest hits the dirt. You flinch and try to turn your body. The effort leaves you hollow as you manage to roll against the jutting rock wall. 

Several more hurtling trips and Clark finally stands still, curls mussed from the excess but otherwise unshaken by his efforts. He grabs the ax as you stare at the wrapped packages of insulation, the bucket of plaster, and litany of materials. It can’t be–

He approaches a tree and swings the ax. He cuts through the trunk with a single strike. He lifts the gargantuan tree with a single arm and tosses it behind him. It bounces and rolls to a stop on the soft ground. He does it again, and again, and again. He clears at least a dozen trees without a glance or word in your direction.

You linger in stupefied silence. He approaches the pile of trees and pulls one out. He is little more than a blur as he works at breaking them down into neat planks. This has to be a nightmare. The distortion, the unreality of the moment can’t be true.

You gulp and lower your head. It makes you dizzy to watch him. You listen to the furor of his labour. The zip of the saw, the crack of the ax, and the rhythm of a hammer. When you peek over again, vision hazy with the beaming heat of the sun, there is a foundation built.

You shudder and blow out through your dry lips. You try to wet your mouth but your tongue is arid. You will against the ground, crushing your shoulder as you clench and unclench your fists.

You’re stunned by a sudden grip on your jaw that brings your head up. You nearly choke as Clark puts a bottle to your lips and pours water into your mouth. Your body gulps it down greedily as your thoughts remain disjointed and distorted.

He backs up and pulls the stump of a log over to sit across from you. He drains the last of the water and brings forward a paper bag. He doesn’t say a word as he reaches inside and takes out a granola bar. He wraps it and leans forward to offer it to you.

You stare at him. He presses it to your lips. You turn your face away.

“Eat,” he demands.

You sniff and push your head back against the side of the cliff, “why are you doing this?”

He sighs and retracts his arm. He breaks off a chunk of the bar. He doesn’t answer you.

“Clark, what are you doing?” You croak.

He gets off the log and comes closer, nearly straddling you as he drops onto his knees. He grabs your skull, turning your head straight, and forces the granola into your mouth. You murmur as he holds your jaw in place and your stare up at him with wide eyes.

“Eat.”

You don’t resist. You chew and swallow. He takes another piece and jams it through your lips; he does it again and again until the wrapper is empty. He backs up and perches again on the log.

You watch him as he looks over at his work so far. A whole wall built. It's not hard to guess at the goal, but you don’t understand why. Why doesn’t he just kill you? Like Lois. Like Richard.

“I’m building us a home,” he says as he drops his head into his hands and scratches along his hairlines, “just you and me.”

He sits up and combs his hair back. He stands and dusts off his palms. He stretches and peels off his shirt, revealing his broad chest and thickly muscled stomach. The hair along his torso speckles with his sweat.

“It must be done by nightfall,” he declares as he marches away.

You turn your attention back to the endless forest. You stare into the daunting sprawl and deflate. It isn’t a home he’s building, it’s a prison.

🖊

The house is complete. Clark carries you through the front door and puts you against the wall, just beneath the window. The interior is barren. No furniture, only a gaping fireplace and a small hoop anchored in the floor.

He unties you and stands over you, watching you as you sit up. Your shoulders and knees throb from being locked the whole day. He bends and pulls your left leg straight, he closes a metal cuff around your ankle and pushes a bolt into place. You kick your foot in fright as he lets it go and a chain clanks loudly as he lets it unfurl.

He attaches the other end to the loop in the floor. You whine and get to your knees.

“Clark, please, what are you doing?”

“I can’t trust you,” he sneers, “it’s for your own good…” he stands and looks above you, to the window, “you would only get lost out there.”

“No, please, you can trust me–”

He raises his hand and you quiet. You sit back on your heels and clasp your hands together. He shakes his head and waves you off, striding away without another word. He goes through the open door as you focus on the chain, touching the links in dread.

He returns and unzips a sleeping bag, spreading it over the floor. He leaves again, coming back with pillows and another blanket. He backs up, hands on his hips and looks over the makeshift set up.

“Tomorrow I will find a bed. Other things,” he turns and approaches the fireplace, resting his hand on the mantle above, “I will start a fire for the night. It’ll be cold soon.”

You want to scream. You want to wail. You want to call him a monster, tell him that he’s insane. But you know that won’t make this any better. You let go of the chain and raise yourself on your knees. You crawl on the blankets and make yourself small as you sit against the pillows.

“Thank you, Clark,” you squeak as you pull off your shoes and place them to the side.

He keeps his back to you, bowing his head as he sighs. Slowly, he shifts and glances over his shoulder. His eyes meet yours and he drags his hand off the mantle. He faces you as you carefully recline.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says grimly, “but it has to be like this. Just for now.”

“I know,” you say as you wince and rub your shoulder.

He sniffs and reluctantly turns away. His steps are lighter as he goes back through the door, returning with an armful of split logs. He stacks them by the fireplace before he works at starting a fire. You listen to his efforts and close your eyes. Only to hide, not to sleep.

The scent of the fire fills the cabin and he pulls the door shut. He nears and his shadow looms over you. He tugs on the blanket as he climbs down next to you and swoops it over you as he wraps an arm over your middle. He draws you closer, his breath fanning across your hair.

“I know you’re scared but one day, you’ll see,” he rumbles as he bends his arm, fondling your chest. Your stomach knots as he presses his pelvis flush to you, “I saved you… like you saved me.” 

His hand trails down and you hold your breath. His fingertips touch the top of your jeans and he pauses. He brushes his arm back up and embraces you again.

“Not tonight,” he resigns glumly, “I don’t forgive you yet.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: reader summons a warrior (ghost) from beyond the grave to come to her father’s aid (circa 400-500 ad, northern europe or somewhere abouts).

-

It is an old enchantment that you use to drag him out of the grave. One buried in books and tucked away under floorboards in old larders, last used by old crones hundreds of years before your birth, before your grandmother’s birth. 

You didn’t have much of a choice though. Not when the earth rattled under the footsteps of an army a hundred thousand strong, just a handful of miles outside of the borders of your father’s land. Not when your father sat hunched in the tent, head buried in his hands when you peered in through the crack in the opening. Not when families fled in the middle of the night, more willing to take their chances with the wolves in the forest than face certain death with the coming of Marakov’s warriors.

So you find the book that your grandmother once told you about in a hushed voice by a dwindling fire. Back when you were only knee high and shouldn’t have remembered. You do though. You pried the planks of wood out one by one at dawn until your fingers trembled and your torn nails throbbed. Stole far off into the forest past where the guards could find you, until the mulch squelched beneath your feet and the trees broke to let in just enough light for you to whisper the words out into the cold air. 

He comes the day after you summon him, the day after praying to an old god that someone come to your aid. Hewn from stone or muscle; pelt-draped. Eyes like blue granite, charcoal rimmed, and he speaks to your father in a low rumble like he didn’t come unannounced from the wild. Still, your father listens and they disappear inside his tent. 

When you ask your father’s second, he isn’t much help. 

“Says his name’s Ghost,” Garrick grunts, whittling at his post by the riverside. “Dunno where from. Price trusts him. Says he’ll bring twice the men we have if we help him with Marakov.”

He does too, even though you conjured him out of thin air. In the days that follow, more and more men follow the river, arriving with horses and caravans and leathers, swords sheathed at their sides. 

Ghost approaches you after what feels like weeks, following behind when you bring the laundry to the river to wash. You find the name suits him. He’s silent as a ghost from where he stands yards behind you.

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” you say, staring at your own reflection in the water, cocksure in your voice but still too nervous to turn around and meet his eyes. You rub a coarse brush over the clothes piled on the smooth stone you use for washing. 

Something touches your hair. Your head snaps up to find him just beside you now, ankle-deep in the river with you. 

His voice is lower than the shifting of the earth when it trembles. “You are the little witch that called me up. Speak it.”

You drop the brush. It sinks, glug glug, into the waters below. Your throat swells up but you nod. “They—they think you’re real.”

“I was real,” Ghost murmurs, and the finger that plays with a lock of your hair becomes a hand clenched in the delicate strands, pulling you forward. Water sloshes around your legs when you stumble into him. “I was real once, a long time ago. Then I died. I must have slept a thousand years before a little girl woke me up to come fight her war in another time.”

There’s nothing you can say to that, so you nod again. He looks pleased with your honesty. It does not dissuade him from bending his head and breathing heavily into your ear. This close, it’s impossible to avoid the broadness of him, more mountain than man.

“I’ll fight your war, little witch,” Ghost murmurs into the shell of your ear. “But come the dawn of the last day, you will owe me for disturbing my rest. I exact payment in blood.” 

For the first time ever, it’s you that trembles instead of the earth. 

The women and children are ushered far away into the forest on the day that Marakov is seen on the horizon, the skinned head of a wolf draped over his head. A young boy clings to you as carry him and baskets of food and your belongings deep into the woods. You can already hear the screams in the fields behind you, the roar of men; smell it damp like soil, like the living thing that eats the dead. 

“It’s done,” he says to you on the seventh day when you and the young ones return, the battlefields still steaming. The air smells of rust. 

You don’t need to agree. It’s plain as day. You’ve already helped with the funeral arrangements for the men who didn’t come back; you’ve helped with eulogies and collecting kindling for the pyres. 

“You’ll leave now,” you say, with some certainty, no matter how begrudging. 

You can picture it so easily, Ghost rising from the bog like a Gallic warrior; his eyes are so charged with life that you flinch back. You cannot look. You cannot look away. He is a thousand years older than your oldest dreams. His nights in the earth are infinite now—maybe always were—his dreams being darker than night-falling rain. He cannot begrudge you touching him, but you taking him out of the earth is unforgivable. He had to return. 

You think this and then he smiles. “Not without my prize.”

Your eyes go wide when he takes you by the arm, mouth opening on a scream. It is a scream that never comes, that sinks back into the earth whence it came.

[passivenovember]

tapestry

--

“We could go out next Friday,” Billy says, expecting to be told no.

As if there’s any planet, any alternative timeline, any moment in Steve’s life where he would reject the chance to sunbathe in Billy’s light.

“We,” Steve tries, not really believing the mirage, “We could go–”

“You don’t have to make a big deal about it,” Billy snaps. 

And if Steve were new to this. To pleasure and pain and Billy, his favorite bad idea, it might turn him off. Away. 

But he’s wanted this forever. Billy, saying those words to him forever, so.

It gets Steve dreaming. Turns him into even more of a pathetic, sniveling mess of unrequited love. He leans a little into Billy’s touch, feeling the brand-like scrape of silver rings against his nipple. “Sorry,” Steve says, as breathless as he feels. Pennies, compared to the way Billy’s eyes turn balmy.

It’s a big deal. The biggest deal. 

It’s Earthmoving.

“It could be fun,” Billy mutters. Like, I forgive you, like, I’ll forgive you now and tomorrow and forever, for loving me in ways I could never love you. Billy nods once. Sharp and direct. “We could go to the diner. And. To the movies, or something. If you’re not too good for that.”

There’s buried meaning in his words. 

A rip-tide churning beneath the soft, open wonder on Billy’s face, clues Steve into what always tugs like phantom fingers in his hair. 

It’s a time bomb. A setup.

If you’re not too good for me.

Steve’s got thirty seconds to make Billy feel wanted. To prove this wasn’t a mistake, baring his heart and asking Steve to go out in public with him, and every seed of reassurance that’s planted between Steve’s yes and what did you have in mind will struggle through the lashing winds of Billy’s self-doubt.

Steve gotta play his cards right. So careful and calculated that when landmines pulse deep underground, rumbling through the spaces in their understanding, Billy won’t explode.

“Or something,” Steve tries, the words crumbling like garden mulch on his tongue.

It’s clunky and awkward and so unlike Billy that it almost startles a laugh out of him. Would, if Billy could do anything but react. He’d take it as a rejection. A slap to the face. 

It would snatch the love of Steve’s life from his hands.

“Would ya look at that, princess has got a brain in him after all,” Billy says. Pissy and irritable and it’s a great cover. He rolls his eyes, and says, “You wanna go out with me or not, Harrington?”

And it’s not the best invitation to a date Steve’s ever heard, but it doesn’t matter. 

Steve sees through it.

Billy’s mirth pales in comparison to the hand suddenly stripping Steve’s dick, feverish, as Billy wonders, “You’ll go with me?” so soft and sweet that Steve almost shakes apart. He twists his fingers around Steve’s cockhead, catching precum and expertly smoothing the path, “Say you’ll go with me, baby, please.”

It’s perfect.

It’s too good to be true and with one calloused, wonderful pinch of his fingers on Steve’s nipple, and the sting of Billy’s teeth on his throat–

“‘Kay,” Steve says. He comes undone.

Doesn’t even notice the lackluster response he gave to his darkest, most twisted fantasy coming true. It’s an answer fitting the proposal, especially when Billy rubs Steve’s own come into his hair and laughs the whole way home.

–

For someone who bares his teeth and digs his nails into all the fleshiest parts of Steve for something as simple as trying to love Billy as he deserves–

Billy’s fucked half the guys in town. 

Robin acts like that doesn’t mean anything. It’s not fair to judge what Billy was doing before he met Steve, and somehow, that makes it worse. 

Before Billy met you. 

Like Steve is the key that opens a world of possibilities. 

And, anyway, Steve’s fucked half the girls in town. More than half, probably. “How would you feel if he held that against you,” Robin asks, a broken record that screeches reality whenever Steve gets too drunk and has snot running down his chin because that’s easier than admitting how he feels.

The truth is that Billy does hold it against him. 

Disdain drips from his tongue like venom whenever a girl bats her eyelashes in Steve’s direction. Billy sneers and spits fire and makes it achingly evident that, regardless of what Steve says, this isn’t a sure thing.

Billy is praying they won’t last. When you go back to chicks. When you decide you’re done with me. When my cock doesn’t do it anymore so you buy Nancy Wheeler a strap-on to celebrate the anniversary of your breakup–

Steve doesn’t say that there is no when. No future where this isn’t everything he wants. Sloppy handjobs and poorly rolled joints and Billy, rubbing come into Steve’s hair while he calls him beautiful. So pretty it hurts.

–

One of the guys Billy fucked before he met Steve is always trying to start shit. 

He’s obsessed. The one shadow that won’t cower and dissolve, and as much Steve’s consumed with thoughts of tearing this asshole’s flesh off the bone if it means he’ll drop it, he can’t really blame the guy.

Billy’s Billy. He’s the stuff of dreams. 

Still, the guy’s got a mouth on him. Full of malevolence and fury, and the only person in the world who knows better than Steve the damage that mouth can inflict is Carol Perkins.

Steve tells her about it.

Drunk at a party with fruit punch stains on his polo, it slurs out of Steve’s mouth like the lazy drone of cough syrup. 

“You know your boyfriend’s sucking dick in the locker room,” Steve tells her. The truth.

And he can hear Billy laughing through the walls. His golden voice rising and falling with the crowd that hangs on his every word. Steve sways a little on his feet and thinks, knows, that Tommy can’t be too far off. Leering, closing in like a slinking wolf.

The image makes him sick. Lights a fire. Righteous fury edging him toward destruction.

“What do you mean,” Carol says. 

Not asks. Says. Like it’s old news. Like she was waiting for someone to figure it out and she’s hoping that someone is Steve. She’s looking at him with this weird, hazy glint in her eyes, and.

There’s a word, rolling tootsie on his tongue. 

A bad word.

Not one he’s ever said before because when someone else does he gets these flashes of hospital rooms and men who waste away to bones in front of the people who love them most in the world. He thinks of how his mom still talks about Uncle Johnny with tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Your boyfriend’s a cocksucker,” Steve sips on his beer and feels bad about it. Mean, because. He can beg for forgiveness, later. In this moment, he’s powerful. He’s fighting for love. He’s bringing the dead back to life.

When Carol blinks her stupid, big, empty eyes at him, Steve knows he’s gotta roll out the big guns. He opens his mouth to say it, a single syllable pointing to the edge of a cliff he hopes she’ll tumble off of and arrive at the feet of his point–

She’s gotta stop this. Hagan’s obsession with Billy. She’s the only one in the world who can help him.

But Carol frowns and says, “You’re one to talk,” and it startles a laugh out of him.

Carol doesn’t like that. 

She smacks her gum, “Is this about Billy?”

“Is what about Billy?” 

“Don’t play that stupid fucker shit with me, Harrington,” Carol snaps. She’s full of burning hot coals. Avenging attitude. Steve loved her, once upon a time, “You’re mad because Tommy played with your toy last summer when we were on a break.”

And.

Because Steve loved her, once upon a time, he doesn’t mention that Tommy stole Billy’s underwear from his locker last week. Doesn’t admit that he’s holding his breath always, waiting for the moment Hagan’s lingering stares to lurch everyone back in time. 

To before Steve.

Steve bites his tongue and mutters, “You know about that?” Because despite what Carol’s eyes may tell him, Steve’s better than he was, once.

Before Billy.

“Of course, I know about that,” Carol says, voice trembling, “Tommy wouldn’t lie to me. We love each other, we tell each other everything–”

“I know. Me and Billy–”

“You’re going to tell everyone about Tommy unless I do whatever you say, right?” She snaps. There’s a fear Steve’s never seen before, taking root in her eyes. For herself. For Tommy and Billy and underneath all that, Steve. “I know how this works, Harrington. I wrote the book on blackmail–”

“Carol, look, I. If I tell everyone, it’s only a matter of time before the witch hunt swings back around to me. And to Billy, and. He’s a pain in the ass, most of the time. I’d still rather die than see anything happen to him.”

Piece by piece, Carol deflates until she’s normal. Friend sized. “I get that,” Carol says, “I mean. Tommy Hagan is my boyfriend.”

Steve turns to dump his vodka down the drain, scrubbing all the vitriol from his face to show that he’s not that kind of person, anymore. “If Billy’s the ass cheek, Tommy’s the hole.”

Carol, shedding the chip on her shoulder, giggles. And Steve. He missed that sound. 

So he says, “I missed you,” 

And Carol admits, “I missed you too, dumbass.”

And Steve smirks. “If Billy and I have an ounce of luck, our love will be just like yours.” 

Lies through his teeth.

–

Uncle Johnny used to say things about the girls he knew in Chicago. 

Over a glass of wine, sprawled on the chaise lounge in Mrs. Harrington’s room, he’d exclaim that straight women were the same everywhere, cut from the same mold as the cheerleaders at Hawkins High who would hang on Uncle Johnny’s arm and call him their “best friend,” but turn on him if given the chance.

As a child, Steve took everything that came out of Uncle Johnny’s mouth as gospel, even the things that didn’t add up. 

Steve thought, peeking through the slats in the door as his mother told him to go play, that it was impossible to have more than one best friend. And besides, boys and girls can’t be best friends, because girls don’t like basketball and digging for worms in the soft springtime mud, and if every girl who met Uncle Johnny thought he was their best friend, maybe he was the common denominator. 

The problem. 

Uncle Johnny had made the extrovert’s mistake of over-availability, like the time Steve had promised two school friends he’d sleep over on the same Friday night.

The only difference between Steve and Uncle Johnny was that Steve only made that mistake once and learned his lesson. 

Truth be told, that wasn’t a fair judgment.

The older Steve got, the more he realized that some girls are predisposed to deceit. Their tongues cut sharp as knives, fingers gouging the wounds left behind so the bleeding never stops, and all the same, they try to make room for themselves inside of Steve’s body. Coiled like varicose veins.

Steve doesn’t have chick friends until Carol.

And he doesn’t have good chick friends until Robin, and Buckley changes everything. Steve’s worldview, how he sees himself, how he treats other people, and like most things, it gets him thinking about Uncle Johnny.

How the best friend for a gay man is probably a lesbian, and Robin’s a good thing. The best to ever happen outside of Dustin and Billy, so.

He blames Robin for Friday morning. 

In classic carol fashion, they make it sex days before the other shoe drops. She’s gotta marinate, make everyone suffer, and right when the dust has settled, the Earth turns dry again.

The snap of Tommy’s fist against the back of his skull before second period feels cosmic. 

The ricochet gets Steve biting down on his tongue, and he swallows his own blood and blames Robin for luring his guard down in a weird, Twilight Zone sort of way.

If it hadn’t been for her and the rose-colored glasses she handed over along with her friendship, Steve would never have stood in front of Carol Perkins and flapped his pathetic, sentimental mouth.

He knows better.

The punch cracks through every layer of Steve’s better judgment. Hurts more than any he’s ever had because he’d thought Carol would hold her water. Tit for tat, you know. Eye for an eye is probably more accurate. 

“What the fuck,” Robin shouts, and her chemistry books clatter to the floor, “Tommy, what gives?”

Tommy grabs the back of Steve’s collar and spins him around like he weighs nothing. 

White metal slams against his forehead, and somewhere behind them a crowd is forming as Robin screams for help.

“Teaching the queer a lesson,” Tommy says. Sneering and laughing.

“Steve can’t fight,” Robin insists. “You know that.”

And Steve, for all the parts of him that grew soft under the constant, annoying buzz of love from those around him, still opens his mouth to drop the bomb. To defend himself. But the second his lips part, tongue poised to kill just like Billy taught him, Tommy gets his hands on Steve’s collar.

Done deal. 

Dead meat. 

Tommy roughs him up, and gets in Steve’s face so the entire world and all the pale white light from the fluorescents fizzle out. 

He’s like an angry bull. There are tears clinging to his lashes when he spits, “Going on a date tonight, lover boy?”

Billy’s English Comp seminar is on the other side of the school. It’s minutes from the waring bell, he won’t hear about this for another hour, much less make an appearance, and–

Something’s trickling like rainwater into one of Steve’s eyes. He’s going blind. He can’t see the world beyond this moment, but he peers around Tommy’s ugly, sneering face, anyway.

Tommy shoves him against the locker, “Your white knight isn’t gonna save you, Harrington,”

Steve can smell the chicken tetrazzini they had for lunch. He’s disgusting. Every time breath puffs hot and putrid from his gaping mouth Steve can almost make out the shape of something stuck between Tommy’s two front teeth. 

He’s got dirt under his fingernails. 

His hair is never brushed or styled. He wears the same underwear two days in a row, and Steve can’t help but grin.

“What’s so fucking funny,” Tommy sneers.

Which get’s Steve laughing, almost giggling, because, “You’re so pathetic, Hagan,” Steve’s head wavers a little, some of that old venom coursing through his veins, “You were pathetic when you were getting your dick wet and you’re pathetic now.”

Tommy shoves him harder against the metal, hinges digging painfully into Steve’s back. “You wanna die today?”

“Sure,” Steve grins, “Doesn’t matter what you do to me. It’s hilarious that you think even if was dead and gone he’d ever pick you–”

Tommy shoves him out and away, and the first blow feels like taking a sandbag to the chest. 

For all the time that they were friends and all the bad blood that washed the memory away, Steve’s never actually felt how meaty Hagan is all over. From his neck, down to his arms, where his wrists dilate like pool floaties. 

His blows land like anvils from the sky. 

Steve’s getting crushed. He doesn’t see the point in fighting back, but somewhere through the springing crowd of onlookers, Robin begs him to kick Tommy’s ass.

It’s hilarious. 

Steve’s laughing so hard he’s got tears streaming down his face, doubling over with every word, every blow until Mr. Derkosh pulls them apart.

–

It stops being funny when Principal Murphy keeps him in the office all through second and third period. 

Steve wants to go home.

His head throbs. He’s worried about getting blood all over the hideous wood-paneled furniture the secretaries probably think makes the place more comfortable, but all of that is swallowed by the lapping waves of anxiety he feels. 

Steve bounces his leg and thinks about getting to Billy.

To explain what happened, why he’ll probably have to eat his lunch in this drab and boring office. 

Tommy seethes somewhere in the back room, each world hurling against the wall like dead pigeons. Steve can just make out that Hagan’s facing suspension for starting the fight, and that seems only fair.

Steve never threw a single punch.

Steve’s probably got a broken nose and as much as he yearns for his bed and a bowl of ice cream and a Nightmare on Elm Street marathon, if he gets sent home his parents will flip. 

From somewhere across the Atlantic his father will phone in and tell Steve’s mother that she’ll have to take care of it. Steve will march through the streets of Hawkins like Marie Antionette to the slaughter. 

He’ll be suspended and grounded and forbidden to every leave the house because his parents always choose the worst possible moment to give a shit about him, and Billy will never know why Steve missed their date.

Just then, the backroom door swings open and the knob takes a chunk out of the drywall.

“Watch it, Mr. Hagan,” Principal Murphy says. 

Steve remembers that Tommy once said she wasn’t intimidating because she’s a woman. 

Steve had laughed. 

He feels guilty about that, now, as if Tommy’s blows had dug up all the old rot inside him Steve worked so hard to polish away. 

Tommy shoots daggers at Steve the whole way around the secretary cubicle as if everything, lost love and both world wars and the inevitable demise of humanity were somehow Steve’s fault. 

“You’re dead, Harrington,” Hagan says, just as Principal Murphy shouts at him to get his bag and head home. 

Steve wants to say it doesn’t matter. Get in line. 

But Principal Murphy turns cold, lifeless eyes onto Steve, as if she’s already forgotten who was the perpetrator and who got knocked around like a pool-que. “Mr. Harrington,” She says, gesturing to the back room, “Let’s have a quick word, alright?”

It should terrify him. It doesn’t. 

Steve’s already dead.

He’s going to miss his date tonight and Billy will never speak to him again.

–

Steve walks away with after school detention. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon in Ms. Murphy’s office, sealing envelopes and staring at the wall. He’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t have preferred suspension.

At least then he could’ve run down the hallway and slammed into Billy’s classroom and declared he’s drowning in a mote of love that will never, ever run dry. 

When the final bell rings and the school cleans out, Steve resists the urge to press his nose against the glass. He imagines Billy, hair loose and wild, running home to get ready for their date. Steve pictures flushed cheeks and small, secret smiles when Max wonders what’s got him so excited, and. 

Steve takes his time, waiting for the secretaries to forge his letter home. 

Mom’ll be furious. Steve tucks it into his back pocket, waving goodbye to the ladies who are just trying to do their jobs.

Hawkins High is a ghost town.

Everyone’s shoved off for the weekend. He takes the turn into the parking lot, head throbbing when the sunlight pierces through him. 

The entire world may land on a pillow made of hope when Billy pushes himself of the side of the Beamer. 

Steve gapes. 

“Look like someone kicked the shit out of you, Harrington.” Billy’s eyes could back the sun into a corner, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I,” Steve mutters, temple throbbing slowly. “I got detention.”

“Robin told me. Hagan kicked your ass, pretty boy.”

“I don’t care,” Steve says. He closes the short distance between them, fingers rising to tangle in the lapel of Billy’s denim jacket. Detention is almost worth getting to touch Billy, like this. Tied together in a sea of cracked pavement and springtime glow. “I don’t care about him. All I could think about was you.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t want you to think I stood you up,” Steve tries desperately, “I’ve wanted this so long. I’ve had dreams about it and I didn’t want to fuck it up and lose you before I had the chance to say–”

Billy leans into Steve’s touch, eyelashes low and sleepy, and. “Can’t lose me,” He says, “No matter what.” 

Billy’s nose flares bright red and Steve wants to kiss it. 

So he does. Steve kisses him all over, feeling the clandestine tickle of Billy’s eyelashes on his face when they press in close and Steve feels like the pieces of himself have been glued back together. 

He’s whole and drying.

Billy pulls away. Tucks the hair behind Steve’s ears. “We should probably postpone our date.”

Steve doesn’t want that. He opens his mouth to say so, but instead he asks, “Will you come take care of me?”

And there was a time, not so long ago, when Steve never imagined saying those words to anyone. He’s the foundation, in everything. The fortress. 

But Billy nods and knocks him gently on the chin, and Steve knows they’ve got time.

All the time in the world.

--

For the INCREDIBLE @ihni . Thank you for your patience and I hope it was enjoyable. You’re one of my favorite creators on any app ever, it was an honor to write something for you.

All my love,

Jaz

[princessxgarbage]

Happy ShiSaku Week!

Day 5 | @shisakuweek

Title: Witchwood Chapter 2

Prompt: "don't look at me like that, it won't work"

Warnings: this is a continuation of Day 4's 'magic' prompt! Please read that first! Here on Tumblr or the entire work on AO3!

Words: 3,160

Read on AO3

The next time she sees him is when she's doing her deliveries in his village a few months later. She figured she'd have to deal with him the next time she came, but she wasn't expecting him to bring a friend.

Well, he didn't 'bring a friend' exactly. She's not sure he had much choice. The young brown haired boy was following Shisui like he'd be lost without him.

Sakura finished the delivery she was making when she spotted them, thanked her customer with a quick bow, then turned to inspect the approaching newcomer. He had a simple look about him, muddy hair, actually caked with mud, a plain face except for his big doe eyes. Dark and endless with a look like he was seeing through you. He looked timid and powerful at the same time, and it made her wonder what sort of magic simmered beneath them. An aura of deep forest green flowed off him in waves, playfully warping through the jade halo that always surrounded Shisui.

"Hey, Miss Busy," Shisui starts, "good to see you around again."

She sighs, "Hello again." She tries to walk around him to the next stop on her delivery path, but he moves slightly to block her.

"I have deliveries to make, Shisui. Did you need something?"

"Oh, so you do remember me. It's been so long I thought maybe you forgot," he teases. He's wearing a cloth headband across his forehead in a failed attempt at keeping his unruly curls out of his eyes. She glances at the rest of him and finds he's also caked in mud, and she can see the muddy fingerprints on his face left behind from obvious attempts at getting his hair away.

She ignores him in favor of the other boy.

"Did you two get in a fight with some sort of mud monster?" She asks directly to the newcomer. He seems surprised to be spoken to.

"Naaahhh," Shisui interjects, "This here is Tenzo." He slaps a filthy hand down on Tenzo's shoulder, "I was helping him out in his garden."

"You? In a garden? The poor plants."

Tenzo chuckles warmly. Everything about him is warm. She imagines to most it might be a comforting feeling, but to someone like her that can see how his energy is interacting with the natural energies around him, she's slightly unnerved.

"Don't worry," Tenzo offers, "I only allow him to haul the dirt and mulch."

"That is a relief."

"This is that girl I was telling you about! I bet she could help you out with your- the, y'know the cross-hyber-did things you couldn't figure."

Sakura and Tenzo sigh at the same time.

This boy is hopeless. And why is Shisui so intent on Sakura being a good person?

"I'd love to see your garden sometime Tenzo, but like I said- I have deliveries to make still. Some other time, maybe?" She starts to walk around them again, this time circling Tenzo who seems less likely to jump in front of her and stop her.

Shisui simply turns around and walks with her.

"I could help with your deliveries! I'm real fast! If you finish early you could come see the garden then, right?" Shisui eagerly bounces with each step he takes.

"Oh," he's really offering to help do her work? "Um, I mean I suppose-"

"Great!" Shisui is beaming, "let me just walk Tenzo back home real quick. I'll find you!"

Shisui grabs Tenzo by the hand and drags him off in the direction they first came from. Tenzo attempts a brief parting wave to her but is scrambling to keep up with Shisui.

That boy is something else. Sakura checks the delivery list her mother provided and heads in the direction of the next one.

Sakura has always been fond of this village. It's not the closest one to her home, but it is the most active. Every time she comes here the dirt trodden roads are bustling with life. She likes to observe the everyday interactions between the villagers as she walks. Her next delivery is to a shopkeeper that is a regular customer and she finds she has a small bounce in her step in excitement. The market here is her favorite place to people watch, it's not exactly crowded, but there's always a plethora of activity to observe. The customer she's headed to see also likes to show his appreciation by giving her free treats from his stall, so she's full of childish anticipation at the prospect.

She pulls her basket close to her chest with both arms woven through the handle. She knows the reason her mother sends her on errands instead of coming herself has something to do with how the people here treated her. She's never asked for the full story, but after a couple of years of coming here she's pretty sure it has something to do with her father. She's never known him, or who he was, but sometimes the way the elders here look at her, she imagines, hopes really, that this is where he was from. No one ever says anything to her about it, but she likes to think her hair color might remind them of him.

As she weaves through the villagers to her destination, she can’t help but start to daydream about what it might have been like to be raised here, by her father, instead of hidden deep in the woods by her mother and grandmother. Perhaps she would be running past the fruit stand with the group of girls she’s just spotted. She pictures herself in their midst and wonders. Would she be the one leading them through the market, waving and cheerfully smiling to vendors and craftsmen that she might have known her entire life? Would she be the one trailing close behind the tall blonde with fierce blue eyes and long ponytail? There’s a girl doing this now, her black bangs heavy over lavender eyes, she’s constantly reaching out to the blonde and her face is flushed. Sakura imagines herself alongside them, maybe she could be a comfort to the dark-haired girl as she struggles to keep up with her vivacious friend.

Sakura shakes herself out of her own head. Staring is rude, she reminds herself. She drags herself away from the hustle and bustle she loves to observe and quickly picks up her pace to her next delivery.

Once she’s gathered her usual payment and walked away with a sugary confection, she spots Shisui fervently looking for her in the market. It’s not long before he spots her bright hair among the crowd and dashes over.

“There you are! Let’s get going!”

She hesitates, “I still have a dozen stops today, Shisui. And they’re all over your village. Are you sure you want to help me with this? It’s going to take up most of your day too,” she reluctantly offers him an out, knowing it would go faster with help, but not necessarily wanting to burden a boy who is still practically a stranger with chores that are meant to be hers alone.

“Of course I want to help you. Do you have a list? Let me see it,” he waves a hand about and she hands him the delivery instructions. They start to walk as he reads, “Tenzo has been struggling with his garden for a while now, so if you can help him out, we’ll call it even.” He grins brightly at her and holds the itinerary in front of her, “I’ll take this one,” he points to a listing, “and you head to this next one, I’ll meet you there.”

She takes out the bundle that’s meant to be delivered to where he’s headed and hands it over.

“Alright, just make sure they know it’s from Sakura.”

He lights up like she’s suddenly turned into the sun and is beaming directly at him.

“Sakura, huh? Suits you much better than Miss Busy."

She’s glad he’s gone in a flash and therefore misses her blush at the realization that she’s finally told him her name.

////////////

They make quick work of the rest of her chore, and because it took half the time it usually does, she’s truly becoming excited at the idea of being able to spend time here. She has plenty of daylight left before she needs to head home, and she can’t help but smile at Shisui when he catches up to her to make the final delivery together.

"This one is for my neighbor," Shisui says as he leads her along, "Tenzo lives close by, so that's why this one's last. How we doin' on time?"

"I have a few hours before I'll need to leave, um… thanks."

"Yeah, of course," Shisui smiles.

Having someone run errands for you was very different than spending undivided time with them, Sakura was starting to feel a bit anxious about the new situation she found herself in today. She couldn't let it show. She takes in a deep shaky breath to settle her nerves.

Shisui leads her up to the last delivery's front door, and he knocks. After a lengthy pause, they're greeted by the elderly woman who lives there.

"Ohhh, Young Shisui," she greets, voice rough with age, "to what do I owe th- ahhhhhh, the young fledgeling. Is it that time already?"

Sakura takes a step forward, lightly nudging Shisui to the side so she can pass. "Yes, ma'am," Sakura hands the empty basket to Shisui after taking out the last package, "Since I have some time, do you mind if I give this to your husband myself? My mother has asked me to see how he's been faring."

"Of course, dear, come in." The woman opens the door further to allow her entry.

"Shisui, wait outside. I'll just be a few minutes." And with that, she heads inside.

Sakura has done this before, so she heads straight back to bedroom, the elderly woman on her tail. She lets his wife announce their presence and open the door for her.

Sometimes poultices and tinctures aren't enough, and Sakura is in the business of saving lives. Sometimes she has to get a little more involved to make sure her mother's customers continue to be customers. This is one of those times.

She prepares the medicine she's brought for the man. He's been confined to bed for the past year and needs some extra attention. His wife does her best to follow Sakura's instructions and keep up with his exercise and medicine, but she is the same age as her husband and can only push herself so much.

Sakura goes through her regular health related questions with the man and his wife. After she's done checking in she situates herself besides him and helps him sit up. She mutters a sort of prayer under her breath and places her hand on his back.

The man coughs once before she begins, but settles as soon as her hand starts glowing a soft mint green.

She uses her meager magic to soothe him and help clear the liquid from his lungs.

When she's finished she helps him lay back down, tells his wife to keep up with his exercises and vows to come back more often as he'll need more of these sessions as summer approaches. She'll have to increase her visits to twice a month, instead of every three months. She partially stomps out the quick swell of excitement within her at being able to come to this village more. Excitement that definitely has nothing to do with meeting and becoming friends with Shisui.

She makes her leave and finds Shisui leaning against a garden gate and tapping his foot. He quickly gathers her basket and stands as she shuts the door behind her.

"How is he?" Shisui asks.

"Oh, um. He'll be better given time and medicine." She answers, albeit hesitant about revealing the details of her work to him.

They start walking, he leads, she presumes they're heading to Tenzo's garden.

"So, you some kind of doctor-in-training?"

"Not exactly."

She can tell he wants to ask more about it, but thankfully does not in favor of pulling her behind a house and into the garden.

The smell of flora hits her first, wave after wave of familiar herb. The entire back yard is lined with plant boxes, neatly arranged in three rows. The fence is also lined with planters, large bushes, and a sectioned off area full of tools, a wheelbarrow, and a pile of plain earth. Each row has its own arrangement of plants and labels. It's extensive, to say the least.

"This is way more than I was expecting," Sakura mutters, mostly to herself. Tenzo perks up upon hearing her say this and stands to greet them, wiping his dirt covered hands on his thighs.

"Ah, welcome. Thank you for coming," Tenzo bows, the perfect image of politeness.

"I'm Sakura, by the way." She might as well introduce herself, now that Shisui's learned her name anyhow. She momentarily glances at Shisui and finds a smug little smirk on his face and she can't help but want to wipe it off for him. With her fists, perhaps.

"It is nice to meet you, Sakura. Please, come meet the plants." Shisui rolls his eyes as if this is not a perfectly natural thing to say about a garden. Sakura understands. Tenzo very clearly loves this garden and every bud, blossom, and branch within it. In this place, where he feels most at home, his aura dances. Sakura watches his energy playfully reach towards every plant within reach. As she watches him and listens as he 'introduces' her to his most problematic projects, she begins to truly understand what had unsettled her when she met him that morning.

This is what he is. His energy is more aligned with nature than any other human she's ever met. Some plants seem to mimic his movements, some plants seem to be ever reaching towards him, vying for his attention. His magic is life-giving, and Sakura wonders how aware of this he might be. And if he is aware, she thinks, what could he be capable of?

Shisui leaves them to it, and mostly stays out of the way. Occasionally he goes into the house and comes back a few minutes later. One time he brings them water to drink, another time he brings a damp towel and attempts to wipe the dirt and mud off his face, hair, neck, and arms.

Sakura and Tenzo attune their focus to two plants specifically. Tenzo explains how he'd been trying to crossbreed the two vegetables, but he had yet to be successful.

They spend a few hours like this. Sakura and Tenzo attending to the garden, Shisui more or less attending to them. The sun has gone from high in the sky to creeping back down across the horizon. When the time comes for Sakura to part ways, she feels a tug inside her, a small voice, begging her to stay. She can't listen, of course, but she smiles softly and gently chides herself. You'll be back soon enough, she convinces herself, hoping beyond hope that it's the truth.

Shisui walks with her to the edge of his village, and a small ways beyond. Sakura thinks he would walk her the entire way home if he could. He lightly converses as they walk side by side. Speaking with him comes so naturally, Sakura doesn't have to grasp for a topic, she doesn't feel obliged to laugh at his jokes (mostly because they're terrible), and she barely has to speak at all. He could talk in circles around anyone, the same rapid pace of his movements echoing in his speech.

"When's your next delivery here?" Shisui asks, as they approach the point where he needs to turn back. Sakura ceases her movement and turns to face him. He looks as hopeful as Sakura is feeling. A glimmer in his eye, a soft smile. She can see so much emotion through his onyx eyes and it all echoes into the soft green light clinging to him. She feels anxious at the amount of attention he has bearing down on her. She glances away from him once and tries to play it off.

"I'm not telling you that!" She huffs, "what do you need to know for?"

He actually pouts.

"I was just wondering…" he makes his eyes bigger and sadder. Bottom lip sticking out a little bit. He looks younger now than she thinks he has since she's known him, and she can't help but wonder briefly if his actual age is being reflected more now or if it's a display.

"Don't look at me like that, it won't work."

He smiles instead and his entire kicked puppy façade fades away immediately. He laughs shortly and says, "just tell me!"

"Why? Are you going to miss me?" She asks, teasingly, before realizing she should not have said that. She's practically asking him to play into her ego, and she has a good enough idea of him by now that she can predict how he might do just that. As soon as she's said it, she wishes she could take it back.

"Would you tell me when you'll be back if I say yes?"

She flusters a bit and huffs a quick burst of air from her nose. That's not exactly the answer she expected, and she finds herself hoping that he might actually miss her as much as she'll miss being in his village. Thoughts of missing and being missed manage to lower her resolve.

"I won't be away as long as I was last time," she says softly. "My mother will want me to come back with more medicine for your neighbor before very long." She fights the urge to drop her gaze from his intense eye contact, but loses her inner battle and shyly looks away. "He needs more attention, or he won't get any better. I'd like to come back within a fortnight."

"I'll be waiting."

Sakura swears she feels her heart skip a beat. She feels her face heating up with a crimson blush and quickly turns away from him to resume her journey home. She says nothing in response out of fear her voice will give away her… embarrassment? Is that what this is? She's unsure what the feeling wrapped tightly in her chest is, but it's a new one she's yet to put a name to.

She tosses a wave backwards in his direction, hoping it is enough to sate any curiosity he might have at her abrupt and literal turnaround.

She barely hears him as the distance increases, but it's there. Soft, and distant.

"Until next time, Sakura."

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Suptober 6 Oct.: Parody

"I'm Dean, by the way."

"Castiel." He shook Dean's hand just right, an apology still written all over his handsome face. "Again, I'm very sorry for the tree's…attack." He let go of Dean's hand. "I suppose I couldn't offer you an extremely deep discount on a lightly used pine?"

deancas, Hallmark movie au...sorta, nsfw-ish

Dean didn't remember Lawrence being cold as balls this early in December. He shifted back and forth on his feet quickly and rubbed his hands together, trying to stave off hypothermia. Even the scent of the just-cut trees was arctic, but also an invigorating, spicy green.

The smell tapped his noggin like he was a chilled keg of beer. He remembered the orange-tipped electric candles in the living room window and the fresh fir tree in the corner strung with multicolored lights and silver tinsel the consistency of Easter basket grass. His new ornament that year was a teddy bear wearing a Santa hat. The one he'd helped pick out for Sam – who wasn't even born yet, still just a lump in Mom's tummy – was a lamb holding a candy cane.

A gold angel sat at the apex of the tree, wings delicate gossamer, catching all the colors of the lights. He'd been transfixed, when Mom first turned on the tree for the season.

Dean stomped his frozen feet twice to make himself stop thinking about it.

"May I help you find the perfect tree, good sir?" a thin, dapper man with a decidedly non-Kansasian accent asked him. "We have the best selection in town year after year here at Heavenly Pines." His tag said his name was Balthazar.

Well, takes all kinds.

"No, I'm just looking, thanks." Dean tried to side-step him and didn't get far.

"For anything in particular?" Balthazar asked, far too politely.

Dean sighed. "To be honest–"

"Oh, indeed, please do."

"Do you sell any smaller trees?" He glanced around at the nearby stands of Douglas firs and Norway spruces, all at least six or seven or more feet tall.

Balthazar's enthusiasm flagged. Smaller tree, smaller price tag. "Let me find my brother to help you. We do have a selection for those customers with, shall we say, specialist needs." He waved a hand while doing a spin. "Ah," he said, pointing toward the greenhouse, "he's just over there. Blue vest, can't miss him."

Upon approach, Dean took a moment to admire the view he was walking towards. Where Balthazar might have been described as spindly, the brother would qualify as sturdy. Very sturdy. Dean paused. Was he checking out strangers' shapely…forms at Christmas tree stands now? Was this happening?

What harm, he told himself. Who cares. Just 'cause this wasn't a woman? If ol Balthy back there'd had a sister, Dean'd have looked at her too. He had eyes that worked, didn't he?

Okay. No worries.

The brother turned as he spoke with another customer briefly, and Dean found himself stalled again to admire the man's lovely profile, so much so that he was caught unaware when a large white pine tree suddenly fell on him as if asked by God personally to tackle Dean to the ground.

"Oh my goodness," someone said. Dean had a terrible feeling that deep, surprised voice was that of the brother. Sure enough, when Dean rolled out from underneath the tree's soft if plentiful limbs, it was the brother offering him a hand up. A big, strong hand. "Are you hurt?"

The brother's eyes were so startlingly blue, and so filled with worry, it took Dean a moment to speak at all. "No, it's fine, I'm fine." He brushed a plethora of pine needles and a bit of aisle mulch off of himself. "Despite the ambush."

"Gabriel, what the hell?" the brother called across the stand. "These trees in section B aren't properly secured at all."

"Yeah, yeah, on it," someone, presumably Gabriel, said from somewhere unseen.

"We are so sorry, sir. Are you sure the tree didn't cause any damage?" the brother asked Dean.

Dean got the impression this guy would've been patting Dean down to check for injuries if that was the sort of thing that strangers were allowed to do when their wares had tried to mug a guy. "Truly, I'm not even bruised."

The man reached out a hand towards Dean's face and then pulled back. "You have a small scratch on your cheekbone."

Dean touched it with his fingertips gingerly. Didn't feel too bloody. "I'll try to recover from this trauma the best I can." He smiled, wanting the man to smile back. Decided to stick out his hand. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"Castiel." He shook Dean's hand just right, an apology still written all over his handsome face. "Again, I'm very sorry for the tree's…attack." He let go of Dean's hand. "I suppose I couldn't offer you an extremely deep discount on a lightly used pine?"

"You could," Dean said, lighting up at the humor in Castiel's voice. "But I'm actually shopping for a tabletop tree. Bal said I should see you about smaller trees?"

Castiel tipped his head as if puzzled. "Bal? Oh, my other brother. Yes, we have a selection of those in the greenhouse. This way."

Dean followed, feeling downright cheerful. Cool your jets, Romeo, he told himself, which did not work. Under the greenhouse's twinkling lights Castiel looked better and better. Dean wanted to put his arms around his waist and line up his whole body against the strength of him. It was perhaps not the most helpful or even well-timed desire he'd ever had, but he'd almost died, for pity's sake.

All right, probably not. He was still going to take advantage of ogling Castiel's gorgeous hands and forearms as he hoisted a potted tree up onto a table at the door. "This is a dwarf Alberta spruce," Castiel said. "After the holidays, if you want to plant it outdoors, it'll eventually grow to be ten to thirteen feet tall. Emphasis on eventually; it'll take years."

Dean touched a small limb. The tree was a healthy shade of green and, importantly, wouldn't take up too much space this year in his tiny rental. "It's perfect."

"Then it's yours," Castiel said. "Least I can do."

"No, no," Dean said, "you don't have to–"

"Dean." Castiel's voice denied an argument, and jesus if that didn't make every nerve ending in Dean's dick jump to attention. "Enjoy your tree."

"Thanks, Cas." Dean was finding it difficult to look away, and finding it invigorating that Cas seemed to be having the same trouble. A long, long moment later, Dean said, "You guys been selling here a while, huh?"

"Third generation." Cas tipped his head again. "You're not from here?"

"I was. I mean, I am. I guess." Dean wrung his cold hands that were going numb. "Just moved back after about thirty years elsewhere. Town's not as different as I expected it to be. Lots colder."

Cas smiled a bit more shyly. "This is the hardest cold snap in December we've had in several years. They're saying it will be a much snowier winter than usual."

Dean nodded. "I gotta step up my game, wardrobe wise." Stop gazing, stop gazing. "Working with family fun?"

"No," Cas sighed. "But it's better now that our father is… Out of the picture." He looked down like he realized that wasn't an admission for small talk and shook his head. "You don't work with your family, I take it?"

"I did, for several years. My dad, um." Dean swallowed. "He passed couple years ago." Not long enough ago Dean didn't still feel guilty as shit for being relieved about it. "Been making my way here ever since, I guess. My brother's thinking of moving back too, if he can figure out the logistics with his law firm." Why are you telling him any of this, dummy? But Cas's eyes were kind as he listened. "Well, hey. You got other customers to attend to. Thanks very much for the tree."

"Of course, Dean." Cas made a gesture like he was going to say something else, but didn't.

Before regret – or common sense – could set in, Dean said, "You like pecan pie?"

Cas blinked. "Yes?"

Three hours and thirty-four minutes after that conversation, Dean opened his back door. Cas stood on the stoop holding out a red velvet bow.

Dean grinned as he took it from him. "It'll bring out my eyes."

Cas smiled crookedly. "It would, but it is for the tree. I forgot to tie it on before you left." At Dean's questioning expression, he said, "It's our signature thing at Heavenly."

"Ah. Come on in." Dean put the bow on the kitchen table. "Offer you a drink?"

"Whatever you're having," Cas said, coming over to stand beside him by the counter.

Dean handed him a beer from the fridge. Cas's fingers slid over his as he took the can from Dean and put it on the counter.

"There's homemade pie?" Cas asked quietly, looking up through his dark lashes as he and Dean leaned into each other.

Even bluer up close, Dean thought, ducking his head to kiss Cas, a soft, experimental touch of mouth to mouth. He had a question to answer but was almost positive the next kisses, more urgent as he pressed Cas against the counter, spoke for him.

It was minutes before they untangled for a proper breath, and Cas said, sounding wonderfully hopeful, "You have protection on hand?"

"Whole new box," Dean whispered, diving back for another kiss.

He hadn't actually made any decisions about taking things slow with a guy he'd known for four hours, and therefore didn't have to berate himself for telling the truth. Ten minutes later, in his bedroom, on his knees, Dean felt a number of delicious emotions, including plain old awe. He did manage to mutter, "There's a tree trunk joke in here somewhere," before swallowing down Cas's astonishing cock.

Cas's soft gasp of pleasure was the sweetest sound Dean had heard in forever. Cas curled his hand in Dean's hair and yanked–

"Dean," Cas said, "it's just me."

Dean opened his eyes at about the same time Cas caught his hand mid-slap, Cas's face looming over him with a half-amused expression. Dean felt the bunker mattress under his back and that heavy blurriness that came from being startled out of REM sleep.

Cas lowered his eyebrows as Dean noticeably woke up. "Sorry. Good dream?"

Dean rubbed his eye with his knuckle. "Hmm."

Cas gently pulled his hands down to kiss him before curling up on the bed next to him.

Dean took stock of the rest of his body as he curled into Cas and decided he was probably too sleepy to do anything about the quickly dissipating, murky arousal leftover from the dream. He also decided he was never watching another Hallmark movie again for any reason.

"We should buy a real Christmas tree this year," Dean murmured as he placed a kiss atop Cas's warm head.

Cas tucked his hand under Dean's shirt. "It's October 6th." He sounded confused.

"I know," Dean said. He yawned. "Just putting a pin in it for the holidays this year."

"All right," Cas said. He looked up as Dean started to sit up. "You're not going back to sleep?"

Dean had just remembered the last part of the dream with tremendous clarity. He smiled down at Cas like a shark.

[whoevenknowswhatimwriting]

Chapter Three's out! Remember to check trigger warnings (although that's less of a problem with this one imo)

Dare set his knife down, careful not to touch the blade, though comforted somewhat by it being made of stone inlaid in the hilt, not iron. It was safer.

He was alone then, since Amon had left a few minutes ago, planning to corral Kaya and Kaz into somewhere they could eat.

Dinner had been a process, and a longer one than Dare would have expected. Peel and cut vegetables, add them to a pot full of stock, and let them cook into a soup. No meat, which he found strange, but there was a loaf of bread to cut and toast. He had no idea where they got it from, since it looked generally fresh and they didn’t have any way to make it.

It felt good, to have something there that he had made, even if he’d just helped. And it was going to be eaten. So it wouldn’t be there for much longer.

But either way, he could do it again. And he probably would.

Dare had decided that he liked cooking. It was simple. He was in control. It was right. He was safe.

And the knife that sat across from him was stone.

Amon knocked quietly at the door, then ducked his head inside.

“I’ve successfully wrangled my sister, and am in the process of luring Kaz out of its workroom. It keeps almost all of the light out of there, I have no idea how it sees. It says to tell you it’s almost done.”

“Thank you. I think the food’s ready.”

“Should be. You want to help bring it in? I can give you directions, and take a second trip for whatever you leave behind.”

“Okay. I can handle the cauldron.”

“You sure? It’s heavy, I can take it. It always seems like it’ll be fine until you’re halfway there and can’t set it down without spilling.”

Dare shook his head. “I can do it. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Alright. Don’t hurt yourself, lift with your legs, not with your back, and all of that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sure. Should be the last tent on the right, table’s at about waist height so don’t let the cauldron drop below there. It’s awful lifting it back up. I’ll go check in on Kaz again, since it’d burn the midnight oil eternally if it needed light to see. I might need to help out a bit to convince it to exit its doom cave.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you’re helping. See you in a bit.”

Dare had her hands full. Literally. The good news was, they were full of the stew cauldron, and it was a perfectly manageable weight, at least for her.

She eased it down gently, careful not to spill, and leaned against the table.

Kaya was sitting at the table, legs crossed and feet up on the chair next to her, arm slung around the back.

“Is there anything you need me to do? I’ve already got dishes set out, so there’s that, but I’m here to help if you want.”

Dare blinked quickly, then shook her head.

“Okay, well, tell me if you change your mind.”

She turned around, sliding her arm off the back of the chair and her gaze to Dare’s. She paused for a moment, exhaled deeply, and started talking.

“So, have you thought much about whether you want to stay here? Obviously you’re free to go, but if you want to stick around, we’d be happy to have you as a friend and not just a visitor.”

Dare didn’t respond, didn’t know if she should. Instead, she stared at her hands, arms suddenly holding her steady, propping up a wooden statue of a person with termites in her veins and rotting organs turning to mulch.

“I… uh, I’m sorry, I…”

Don’t cry, please, please, don’t cry, hold it together, you can’t fall apart at the first kind thing someone says. 

Kaya was standing then, blurry and wavering in Dare’s glazed eyes, but with clear concern etched into her face. She reached out a hand, but pulled back before actually touching Dare, fingers hovering by her shoulder like an open door. 

Dare folded into herself, arms crossing over her chest and knuckles white and clenched around her biceps. Hold yourself together, that’s it.

The next time Kaya stretched her hand towards Dare, palm up like an invitation, she leaned into it, practically collapsing against her into a tight hug. She tucked her head down and felt fingers reach up to the base of her skull, almost catching on the chain in her left ear.

“Hey, love, it’s okay, you’ll be fine. Is something wrong?”

Dare felt like she might rip apart, because nothing was wrong, but here she was. Breaking down, like she’d always felt just on the verge of. And what was worse was that it felt good to be able to cry and squeeze her eyes shut and just be held. To be safe enough, to feel safe enough, to do so.

She stood there, still as a stone, for another minute. After that, she pulled away, wiped her eyes, and sat down. 

Back straight, eyes forward, she said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I know I want to stay.”

[brad-bakshi-loves-bugs]

one of my absolute favorite bugs, antares (my scolopendra dehaani centipede), passed away last week and it was pretty embarrassingly upsetting for me considering the fact that I had him for less than two full months, but he was so calm and sweet especially considering how bad of a place he came from before I rescued him so I got super attached. anyway, to work through my own Issues, here's my headcanons on how brad handles death among his own pet bugs:

for starters, brad shuts down VERY easily (it's a survival tactic, one that many people who have suffered abuse are intimately familiar with), and something as devastating as losing a beloved pet is no different. as bad as it sounds, he would do what im doing right now with antares - refuse to touch the enclosure or the body for the first several days, hating himself whenever he accidentally glances at it because he somehow manages to find a way to blame himself for the death regardless of the pet's age or prior health. that's the worst part of keeping bugs: there aren't any vets you can turn to for help, so you'll never truly know who to blame for a bug's death.

once he's done avoiding the pet and their enclosure, it's time to discard the body, which is always the part he hates the most. he hates touching dead bugs, hates the way they're limp and lifeless and can't fight back or run or stop him from handling them. he doesn't want pets that won't snap back at him for disrespecting their space, and a dead body can't do anything at all.

brad always buries his bugs. he doesn't have the heart to throw them away like trash (they're so much more than garbage to him, even dead), but he cares too much to feed the bodies to his other pets, so he goes to the local park a few blocks from his apartment building in the middle of the night and buries them. he always buries them beneath the mulch where trees are allowed to grow as they please, hoping that one day, fifty years in the future, they'll become a tree and live on and thrive without him.

brad isn't naïve or stupid. he knows the dead bodies of his beloved bugs won't turn into trees. but sometimes, when he loses a particularly close pet, he allows himself to believe they will. because then, even if they suffered under brad's care because he somehow fucked everything up (he has a funny way of doing that), at least they can have a new life, free of suffering and walls. a life where they can be admired and appreciated by thousands of people, rather than by just brad.

a life away from someone who may or may not have accidentally killed them because he has a nasty habit of losing (killing) everything he loves.

a life away from brad.

[oriocookie]

this is a gift for @cryptoidfuxer. enjoy. it’s post true pacifist ending. 

Frisk was laying upside down on their bed, reading a comic Toriel had got them from the library, when someone knocked on the door.

They flipped right side up and ran to answer it. Papyrus stood in the hallway, posed in his “mighty hero” stance.

Frisk giggled.

“HELLO HUMAN!” he bellowed. “I WAS GOING TO ASK MONSTER KID TO GO TO THE PLAYGROUND. WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO WITH US?”

“Yes please!” Frisk signed. They ran into the kitchen, where Toriel sat planning for her new teaching job at the school.

“I’m going to the playground with MK and-“ they made Papyrus’s name sign, a P combined with the sign for muscles.

“Alright, child. Have fun, don’t fall down any holes!”

Frisk rolled their eyes - why did their entire family need to tease them about Falling Down - and ran back to Papyrus, who took Frisk’s hand with his own gloved one.

“TO MONSTER KID!” he yelled, and both of them charged out the door.

As it turned out, MK was at Undyne and Alphys’s house. They opened the door, and a huge grin spread across their face. “Frisk! Papyrus!”

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME TO THE PLAYGROUND WITH US?”

“Definitely!” They turned and called over their shoulder, “Undyne, Alphys! I’m going with Papyrus and Frisk!”

“Okay!” Undyne yelled back. The strong smell of burnt spaghetti wafted from the kitchen. “Tell Frisk not to fall down any holes!”

Seriously??

MK headbutted Frisk in greeting, their tiny spikes poking Frisk, who laughed and headbutted them back. Then, both of them turned to Papyrus with matching devious grins, and headbutted him in unison.

“ACK!” Papyrus yelped. “STOP THAT!”

The two kids dissolved into laughter, and Papyrus scooped them up, grumbling. “I DON’T DESERVE THIS. I AM THE COOLEST SKELETON, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD. I SHOULDN’T BE BEATEN BY TWO CHILDREN.”

He put one on each shoulder. MK yelled, “Ride, O Great Papyrus!”

Tip: to get Papyrus to do what you want, compliment him, usually with words like “noble” or “brave”.

Papyrus took off down the street, Frisk and MK giggling and holding on to each other and Papyrus. He deposited them, slightly out of breath, on the mulch of the playground.

“HERE WE ARE. IF YOU NEED ME, I WILL BE DOING IMPORTANT, GROWN-UP, ADULT SKELETON THINGS.”

He ran off towards the swings.

MK surveyed the playground. “We could swing, or slide, or-“ They spotted the seesaw. “How about that?”

Frisk nodded.

“Okay! Let’s do it!”

It took a bit of maneuvering to get them both on, but it was worth it as they bobbed up and down, MK marveling at the seesaw (apparently the one in the Underground had broken years before they were born).

Then someone pushed them off. 

MK landed hard on the ground with a grunt of pain. Three humans-children- stood over them. The one in the middle said “Oh, good, you got the lizard off the seesaw,” in a tone that made it clear he knew exactly what MK really was. 

“Hey! I’m not a lizard!” MK said anyway. Frisk slid off the seesaw and hurried to MK’s side, crouching a bit and raising their hands in the stance they recognized as Frisk’s battle stance. 

“Really?” another kid sneered. “What are you then, a dinosaur?” She leaned down and squinted at MK. “Nah, dinos have arms.” 

“Ew, you don’t think it’s going to school, do you? Imagine that thing trying to do work!” the third kid whispered loudly. 

MK’s eyes filled with tears, and they struggled to their feet and ran. 

Frisk could hear the bullies laughing behind them as they sprinted after Monster Kid. 

They found MK hiding under the climbing wall, head buried in their knees. Frisk knelt in the mulch next to them and tapped their shoulder. 

“Why did I think I could do this?” MK whispered. “The librarbian from the Underground was gonna start a homeschool for the monsters, but me and Undyne and Toriel all fought against it. I wanted to go to human school.” 

Frisk poked them. MK turned sad eyes towards them. 

“There’s mean kids in every school. There would have been mean kids in the monster school. There’s gonna be mean kids in our new school.” Frisk said. “But do the other kids have Undyne?”

“N-no.”

“Do the other kids have Sans?” 

A giggle. “I hope not.”

“Do the other kids have Papyrus?” 

“No, I guess not.” 

“And do the other kids have me?”

“No.” 

“You can call on anyone for help, MK. You can even tell them to-” they used a word Mettaton had taught them and then told them never to say. “-off. Don’t ever listen to them. Unless they’re apologizing.” 

“You’re really smart, Frisk. When’d you get so smart?” 

“Probably sometime between falling down a hole and having to fight a demon hellbent on destroying the universe.” They stood. “C’mon. Let’s get back on our seesaw.”

The girl spotted them as they were coming over. “Ooh, look, she’s back, and she brought her pet lizard!”  

Frisk’s eyes glowed red, Checking the girl, then they signed, “You have 0 ATK and 0 DEF, Laura. I think you should maybe stop talking.”

“What is she saying?” 

“THEY scanned you for weaknesses.” MK said confidently. “Frisk says you have zero attack and zero defense, Laura.” 

She recoiled at her name. 

“Plus,” MK continued. “Frisk has fought all sorts of monsters. If they want to take you down, they can. They know how to SAVE.” MK didn’t add that Frisk had told them they hadn’t found a SAVE star since leaving the Underground. 

“Pfft, what-whatever.” Laura said nervously. But she still ushered her friends off the seesaw. 

“Thanks.” MK said to Frisk. 

“No problem.” 

[sisi-halloway]

Strange Man on the Fence

Hyde holstered up his pistol at the shelf in the foyer of his family’s house before taking his keys and heading out. The horses needed feeding and they were nearly out of hay. Been a while since it had gotten so low on stock anyway. He needed to go into the better part of town to get more. As much as they did on this farm, they didn’t bale their own hay.

The cowboy swung his keys on his finger while he trudged out into the November weather. It was cool, the wind trying to nip right through the denim of his jacket. The wool inside didn’t let it. His boots crunched the stiff, yellow grass underfoot. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked up at the silvery sky. Novembers in the valley got cold and lonely, that’s for sure. Not too many birds around singing, not too many butterflies like there were in the summer. November changed all the rich, red dirt to dull, copper dust. All the green flowering trees and bushes turned to scraggly limbs and squat tumbleweeds. November was sure enough different, but they were pretty in their own way. At least that’s what he thought.

Hyde could see the beauty in just about anything.

Hyde’s old pickup rattled to a start when he turned the key in the rusty ignition. It’d been a while since he had started this thing. It was the last time he went hauling anything, maybe in the early week of September. He remembered he had to get mulch for the garden. His sister had wanted it anyway. He thought about that time, all three of them lining their garden with pretty red mulch. His sister’s pale freckles got sunburnt that day. She looked as red as that mulch.

When Hyde stepped out of his truck in the barren drive up to his neighbor’s place, he saw someone else standing talking to him at the fence. Olius had never been one for talking, but every now and again, he’d listen. If someone had something important to say, that is. Hyde and Olius were alike that way. Men of little words and of great esteem with who to speak them to.

The world was a vacuum. The wide-open air drowned out any noise before it got too far. The crunching of the clay dirt underfoot, the jingling of the keys on his hip, breaths so deep and warm it looked like Hyde was blowing out the smoke of a cigarette. Everything was lost, swept up in the open range and wild country of Murik Valley. Hyde liked that quiet. That’s what he called peace.

That peace and quiet… it was good for a man like him. He wasn’t hard to please. He could live in this world and all its particularness as long as he could have that peace and quiet.

What he didn’t know is that the man in his neighbors yard was the source of his father’s worry and grief. Grief he didn’t know about yet. Grief that didn’t find him yet.

“Well, well, ain’t it a sight for sore eyes. Been a while since you been up here, boy! Keep on getting’ taller, look just like that daddy of yours!”

Hyde shrugs. It was true. At seventeen, Hyde was bigger and more ‘fatherlike’ than he’d ever been. His hair, which he kept in locs, was getting longer still. That was pretty much the only distinguishing factor he could say set him apart from his father, who sported a shaved head, clean.

His father, the mortuary worker for the whole town, was good friends with Olius. He buried so many of his family free of charge, you wouldn’t understand how he couldn’t be.

“Yes sir. Got any spare bales for me? I done called Zack, but his yield’s been low. Can’t afford to spare anything before the winter.”

The third man, the man Hyde noticed talking to the old farmer, was standing nearby along the fence. He was clad in a dark jacket, leather. He had freckles, head to toe it seemed like. Almost looked like vitiligo, how his freckles was a milky white compared to the dark umber of his skin. He wore some dark washed jeans and black snakeskin boots. Dark sunglasses obscured his gaze, but he was definitely looking at Hyde. Hyde sized him up right back as he waited for Olius to think of his next piece.

Something about this man had seemed so familiar. Not just his freckles, but his aura. Hyde could’ve sworn he had seen him somewhere here before. Somrald, the Valley’s most beautiful gem, was a small enough one that everybody knew everybody. If you didn’t, well you had some catching up to do. There just wasn’t right about him. Hyde would’ve let it go if that man didn’t say anything to him before he left. He was about to get in his truck and take all that baled hay loaded up in the back, and that man wasn’t gonna say a single world to him…

But he did.

“Tell, that sister of yours to keep up with her riding. She’s gettin’ pretty good. Just like that doll Monica.”

That would’ve been fine but…

Last time he checked, his mother didn’t ride horses.

Never did.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Black Light 2

Warnings: namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: someone said August.

Part of The Club AU

"Kam," you tug on Kamlai's arm, "we have to go."

The guy she's with gropes her from behind, grinding on her as she keeps him from tugging up her skirt. She gives you a look. The look. Please.

"Dude," she elbows the spiky-haired pervert, "get off."

He's reluctant until she stomps his toes. She yells at him in Thai, you're not sure what, and sways his arms away from her. You shake your head as you pull her free of his embrace.

"Where's Manda?" She asks with a slur dragging her tongue.

"Dunno," you cling to her, "that weirdo tried to roofie me."

"Huh?" She yells behind you.

"Put something in my drink."

"Ew," she nearly bowls you over as you stop short.

"Yeah, uhhhh," you look around, "where would she–"

"Gross!" She points over your shoulder, "typical."

You follow the direction of her finger to Amanda tangled up, macking on the guy she picked from the lot. Ugh, she really has to be the one and only. You roll your eyes and haul Kam with you as you approach.

"Amanda," you call above the music, "let's go."

She doesn't stop. Doesn't seem to hear you as you latch onto her arm. It's only then she turns her head, the guy's mouth almost continuing its sloppy work on her ear.

"Fuck off!" She shakes free of you and shoos you with the flick of her acrylics.

"Manda," you shout, "we gotta go."

"I'm having fun," she barks back, "you wanna go home, go."

"But–"

"Fuck her," Kam pulls you back. "Look."

You turn with her and look across the room, Cole and the spiky blond staring in your direction, chatting to each other. Shit. You thought the bouncer scared him off.

"But…" you spin to face Kam.

"Nope, not sticking around for her. She got the hot one anyway."

Kam lets go of you and stomps off in her heels, ankles threatening to bend as her arms swing violently. You trail her in a tenous scramble, hands sligthly out to keep from toppling. The flashing lights and the pumping music add to the disarming atmosphere.

The cool night breeze beckons to you through the open door. Kamlai is first out but as you exit, you run into the elbow of an unsuspecting barrier. The same bouncer as before recoils and grumbles.

"Sorry," you smile sheepishly. "You okay?"

He stares at you, his face drowned in shadows, "yeah," he answers dryly, "I'll survive."

You cringe and brush by to catch up with Kam. The glow of her phone lights up her features as her pointed nails tap.

"Calling an uber," she mumbles, "I can't believe Amanda. She's so stupid."

"Mmm," you peek back at the doors. "Maybe we should go back and get her."

"You think she'd help you? She's selfish," Kam sniffs, "remember the school trip to New York?"

"Uh huh," you squint at the dark figure beside the door. You can't tell if he's looking at you but it feels like he is. "I… guess you're right."

"You know I am," she scoffs.

🥂

Just after noon, you wake to the chirp of your phone. You snatch it blindly, rolling over to check the messages. Just Kamlai whining how hungover she is. Mood.

There's a notification that Amanda posted a story. You check it, anxiously, relieved at least to see her alive in the video, though unimpressed at the naked back of the man next to her. If she wants to make Seth jealous, you're sure she's doing a great job.

You get up and get going, the previous night following you around as it rattles in your head and mulches in your stomach. Such a happy birthday, almost drugged and ditched by your supposed bff. And that bouncer… a bit gruff but you can't deny he saved you.

Hmmm. You know exactly how to thank him!

🥂

You walk up to the club. It's not yet open and in the light of day, it's a bit less showy. As you approach, you see a face you recognize. The second bouncer, the pudgy one, yawns as he struts up to the doors.

"Oh, sir, sir," you run forward, your skirt fluttering around your legs, "hi."

He looks at you woth a crooked smirk, "why, hello, darlin'."

"Uh, hello," you reply, "um, I'm looking for your friend."

"Friend?" He frowns.

"Um, yes, the tall one! The other one," you explain poorly, you can't even remember what he looks like.

"Auggy? Ah, well, he should be 'round," he thinks, "didn't think he was seeing anyone."

"Oh, no, no, no," you deny, "I was only hoping to thank him. He really helped me out so I bought some cookies from Marie's…"

"Cookies, you say? I might know where to find him for a price."

"Uh, sure," you open the lid, "snicker doodle?"

He smirks and takes a cookie. He chuckles as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. He elbows it open as he swallows, "hey, Aug, out here."

He lets the door close and you wait on the stoop. You bounce impatiently and after a few minutes, the hinges grind again. You look up as the large man pokes his head out with a dull stare.

"Oh, hi," you keep your smile wide. You didn't notice last night the scars along the right side of his face. A curved ripple around his temple, and several long marks down his cheek and jaw. His eye is completely white and part of his eye brow permanently shorn.

"What?" He snarls.

"Oh, I… you might not remember me, but you uh, you helped me last night so I just wanted to thank you."

He sneers and doesn't react. You open the box and angle it towards him.

"Cookies!"

He stares. Silent.

"Cause you were so nice–"

He steps out completely and you lean away, but don't retreat. He grabs a cookie gruffly and holds it up. He wraps his fist around it and crushes it, letting the crumps rain to the ground.

"I don't want your fucking pity, you bimbo," he slaps the box out of your hands as he looms over you, "so why don't you get the fuck out of here?"

You stand in shock, hands still out as you look at the cookies littered over the pavement. You gape at him and fold your arms over your stomach.

"Why–"

"I said go," he growls, "don't let me see ya back her either."

He steps forward, half a lunge that has you staggering backward. You let out a pathetic squeak as you spin and flit away. You get halfway down the street before you look back over your shoulder.

Wow, he didn't have to be so mean. If he didn't like snickerdoodles, he could just say so.

[mediocre-writerr]

better half of me [lexie grey]

lexie grey x fem reader

requested: hi there can I request a Lexie grey x fem reader imagine where reader is marks sister and moves from Houston where she was working previously and gets a job in Seattle so when she arrives she flirts and sleeps around with all the nurses, but then she meets Lexie and falls deeply in love with her and stops sleeping around and tries to pursue Lexie but one day sees her and mark in bed together so she starts sleeping around again, and when the plain crashes Lexie makes it out alive, because reader saved her and when they get back reader confesses to Lexie, and if it’s possible could u write a time skip where they have a bunch of kids and are happily married?

trigger warning: slight mention of alcohol addiction

*not my gif*

You don’t remember what happened on that plane. How you guys got in the middle of the woods with your plane split in half. Everything was blurry, but you saw mostly everyone: Meredith, Cristina, Arizona, your brother Mark, and Lexie? 

Wait...where’s Lexie? 

You immediately shot up, ignoring the pain that you felt in the right side of your body. You tried walking normally when you started to limp. 

“Woah, woah, Y/N!” Mark comes over and you finally look at your foot and hand.

Your hand was impaled by the pieces of the plane metal. It was numb. Your whole hand was numb, but you didn’t care about that. So was your foot, you couldn’t feel it. But you didn’t care, all you cared about was trying to find Lexie. 

“Y/N, we need to get that out of your hand. It’ll cause serious damage,” he tried to stop you from whatever you were doing.

“No, I can’t. I got to-I got to find,” you start to say, but trail off.

He sits you down on the mulch ground before you can protest, “This is going to hurt,” he whispers. 

He pulled the metal plane out before you could even realize what was happening. You let out a piercing scream, he immediately ripped a piece of fabric from his scrubs and wrapped it around your hand. 

Before you knew it he did the same thing with your foot, “You need to rest Y/N,” he told you, but you shook your head, pushing him away.

“No! Where’s, where’s-” you start to say again.

“Lexie!” Meredith scream and your head shot towards the sound of her name like a deer hearing the softest of footsteps.

You ran towards her to see her trapped over a piece of hunky plane metal. Her breathing was heavy as she couldn’t move. 

“Y/N, is that you?” she whispered.

You nodded, immediately lying down on the floor next to her, “Yeah, yeah. It’s me. I’m right here,” 

“I’m gonna die,” she whispered.

You shook your head quickly, “No, no! You are not dying. I am going to save you, do you understand?” 

You started to get up from the ground when she grabbed your hand, squeezing it ever so softly. You were met with those beautiful brown eyes that you completely fell in love with. Then all the memories from when you first moved to Seattle and meeting Lexie flooded back. 

“So I was thinking you and I go on a date tonight. Something casual, wine and pizza at my new place,” you asked, suggesting more to come out of the date. 

The nurse had her head propped up onto her chin, “I’d really like that, but what’s for dessert?” she whispered back.

You were about to answer when someone shoved a chart in the nurse’s face. You looked to see a dirty blonde haired woman. She gave you a fake smile, “Hey, Dr. Grey?” you looked at her coat, “Have you seen uh Dr. Sloan?” you asked a dirty blonde hair girl.

She looks at you, slightly annoyed, “Another one of Mark’s suitors?” she asked and you shook your head.

“That is probably the grossest thing I’ve ever heard, I’m Y/N Sloan, Mark’s sister,” you told her, “I heard a lot about you,” 

“That explains the flirting with the nurses, wait- Mark talks about me?” she asked and you nodded, “What does he say?” 

“Well that depends are you the ‘dirty mistress’ Grey or ‘little’ Grey?” you return the question and she just internally rolls her eyes.

“Of course he says I’m the dirty mistress,” she whispered.

You were about to respond when someone called Meredith’s name. You followed the sound of the voice to see a beautiful brunette girl approaching the two of you. Your eyes widened slightly at the beauty of this one girl.

Her brown doe eyes caught your attention and you smiled ever so slightly, “Cristina needs you to help her with a CT scan. It’s for a patient,” 

“Thank you Lexie,” she said, but before walking away she turns to you, “I’ll page Mark. Try not to flirt with any more nurses while you wait. We already had a case of syphilis, we don’t need another,” 

You let out a heart laugh, “It was nice to finally meet the dirty mistress,” you teased and you knew it was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. 

“You know Mark?” the beautiful girl named Lexie asked.

You nodded, “Yeah, he’s my brother. I just moved here from Houston, got a call from Dr. Webber himself and was offered a job,” 

“That explains the comment,” she mumbled and you just raised your eyebrows, “Mark’s known to be a player around here and by the looks of it, it runs in the family,” 

“Well, you know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” you said with a shrug. 

She scoffed softly, “Is that my favorite Sloan?” you heard a familiar voice ask. You see Derek walking towards the two of you. You wrap your arms around them and pat his back in the process.

“I hope I’m your favorite Sloan,” you teased, “Where is my brother anyway?”

“I have no idea, but I heard you got a job here. You’re here to give me a run for my money huh?” 

 “Wait, your specialty is neuro?” Lexie asked.

“Yep and to answer your question Derek I am definitely going to give you a run for your money. Head of neuro will be mine,” you joked as he rolled his eyes.

“Did someone forget to tell me that my baby sister got a job at my hospital?” you heard his voice boom through the lobby. You rolled your eyes playfully as he hugged you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got a job here or better question how many nurses numbers have you gotten?” he asked and the two of you laughed. 

You reached into your pocket, pulling out pieces of paper, “I taught you well!” 

Lexie who was still standing there scoffed as Derek just let out a sigh, “The two of you are insufferable,” she stated annoyed before walking away.

You looked at her as she walked away, “Is she single?”

“Nope, that’s off limits for the both of you. You’re not going to put her through that,” Derek stated and you let out a sigh.

You were snapped back into the harsh reality as Lexie tried her best to squeeze your hand, “Y/N, I still remember being on your service. You came to talk to me about our patient...” she was lost in thought before she started speaking again, “It was a Jane Doe after a tragic car crash and I was having a rough day because of my dad. Then you, you heard me snap at Meredith...” 

She started to trail off and you nodded, “I remember,” 

You were walking up to where Meredith and Lexie were talking. Meredith started to walk away as Lexie followed behind her. You posted at the nurse’s counter next to where they were standing to right down a quick note, when you heard them argue.

“My mother was born in March. He lied, he’s a liar. And I’m glad. Really, I’m glad that you found him charming. I’m sure he was delightful. He’s a blast after five drinks not so much after nine though, he gets a little weepy and mean,” you overheard her say. 

You were about to walk away and find her later when she yelled, “He’s a drunk, Meredith. He probably came in and told you how wonderful you are. How sad he is that he doesn’t get to spend more time with you. You know, yesterday he told me I was his favorite daughter. The day before I was an ungrateful bitch. The week before he wrote me a check for 20,000 dollars because he said I deserved everything life had to offer because he was so proud of me. A lifetime’s worth of proud. So you can’t listen to anything he says,” her voice started cracking and your face softened, “Because it’s not about you. It’s about a pint and a half of Dewar’s. So thank you for letting me know I needed to keep a better eye on him. Thanks.” 

She started to walk away and you stood in front of her trying to get her to calm down. You noticed the tears forming in her eyes, “No please don’t,” she pushed you away gently before walking away.

You immediately followed after her to the attendants break room. You looked the door behind you as she sat on the couch, placing her head in her hands. You walked over and sat right next to her, sitting there in silence.

There were a few moments of silence before you spoke up again, “I know what it’s like to have a drunk dad. You’re not alone. You don’t have to take this on all on your own,” you whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder, “If you want you can rest up in here. I can handle Jane Doe until you’re ready. If any of the attendants give you shit about being here, let them know I gave you permission. If you need anyone to talk to, I’m here,” 

Lexie squeezed your hand, bringing you back from the memory, yet again, “That was the first time I saw you as an actual person. Not someone who just wanted to mess around with people’s feelings, an actual person,” she smiled softly through the pain, “But I didn’t fall in love with you until the night at my dad’s house. You came to pick me up to take me to Meredith’s party and my dad was drunk and he was mean and he-” 

“I know, I remember,” 

You pulled up to Lexie’s house. You were supposed to meet up with one of the many nurse’s you’ve been hooking up with it. But you cut it off, you cut them all off. 

After you comforted her, all you could think about was her. How intelligent she was. How sweet and kind she tries to be with everyone around her. Yeah, she was beautiful, but she was so much more than that.

That’s the only time you’ve ever felt that towards anyone.

You knocked on the door, you waited patiently. One minute would pass and you decided to knock again. But no one answered.

You turned the door handle and surprisingly it opened. You looked around the room to see shattered glass all over the floor and Thatcher passed out on the couch.

Lexie was sitting on the kitchen floor. A deep cut on her forehead. Her eyes red and puffy as she swept the shattered glass with a small broom.

“Lexie! What happened?” she jumped at the sound of her voice.

She sniffled, “He-he got mean and he didn’t like that I was going out. He through his beer bottle at me, not just one either,”

You looked at the empty beer case next to the couch and you pulled her up from the floor. Immediately, pulling her out of that horrid house.

The car ride was silent as you felt your blood boil. You forgot all about Meredith’s party and went straight to your apartment. The two of you entered and you immediately grabbed your first aid kit.

Lexie sat on the kitchen counter as you stitched up her forehead. The two of you in a comfortable silence. Once you finished bandaging her, you helped her off the counter.

“Are you okay?” you whispered and she nodded with a tight lipped smile.

“I-I’m fine,” her voice cracked as tears poured out her eyes.

She let out loud sobs as she broke down onto the floor. You scooped her up in your arms to keep her from falling onto the floor.

You held her tight as she buried her face into your chest, “Shhh I got you. You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

That night she fell asleep in your arms. You picked her up and laid her gently onto your bed. You tucked her in, placing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I promise I’m always going to protect you,”

You started to get up when she squeezed your hand, “Please just stay with me,”

From that night on, you decided to be better. To do better. To be someone she deserved.

But once you got there, it was too late.

You were going over to Mark’s house to surprise him with takeout, when you walked into something you didn’t ever want to walk in on.

Mark and Lexie were cuddled up on the couch. Their clothes on the floor as a blanket hanged loosely over it.

It was too late. You were too late.

“I thought you hated me for a while. Your whole demeanor changed around me,” Lexie said, her breathing still heavy.

You heard shouts from Meredith from behind you as Cristina kept on yelling for her shoe, “I could never hate you,”

You walked into the attendant’s break room to see Mark and Lexie being all couple-like, “Hey Y/N,”

You have them a tight lipped smile before going to pour your coffee, “You’re not supposed to be here,” you stated simply.

“What?” Lexie asked.

You didn’t look up from the coffee pot, “It’s the attendants’ break room. Residents aren’t allowed. You need to leave,”

“Y/N, seriously?” Mark asked.

“I don’t make the rules,” you whispered.

You could feel Lexie’s stare piercing at you, “It’s fine Mark, I’ll leave,”

“What’s going on with you, Y/N?” Mark asked.

“Nothing I’m fine,”

You don’t know what came over. You gave up on trying to be better. Do better. So there you were with a nurse sleeping on top of you and the only person you could think of was Lexie.

Then of course like it always does the worst happened. Lexie came bursting through the room, “I uh I’m sorry. But Hunt wants to meet with us, Mark, Derek, Meredith, Cristina, and Arizona,”

“I’ll be right there,” you threw on your clothes and walked right past her.

“What’s your problem with me?” she asked as you guys were walking to Hunt’s office.

“Nothing,”

“Obviously there’s something, you won’t even look at me,” she stated a hint of sadness in her voice.

“There’s nothing. We’re fine,”

“Just stop and talk to me!” she yelled.

“There’s nothing to talk about Lexie. You already have one Sloan in your life. You don’t need two. Remember the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” you snapped.

“Y/N, I’m dying,” she whispered and you shook your head. The adrenaline coursing through your body.

“No, you’re not dying today, okay?” you whispered.

You started to get up again when she grabbed her hand, “Please just stay with me. I have one more thing I want to say,”

“I always thought you were-you were a player. You didn’t want to settle down, you just wanted fun. But that didn’t stop me from loving you. If things were different, if we were different,” she whispered and your eyes started to tear up, “I never loved Mark the way I loved you. And he knew that, we both knew that.”

“Stop, okay? No goodbyes. You’re going to become and amazing neurosurgeon, Lexie. You have so much more to learn. A whole life ahead of you,” you told her, “You’ll settle down with kids and a husband or wife. Someone who makes you happy,”

It was her turn to shake her head, “I don’t get that. We will never get that together. I know you hate me, but Y/N, you’ll always be my favorite what if,”

That was all it took for you to get up. You don’t know what came over you, but you stood up and you tried lifting the stupid plane metal off of her. You let out a groan as you started pushing it off.

Hysterical strength is what they called it. When your adrenaline and your hormones and body chemistry kicks in during a dangerous situation. You pushed the plane right off of her.

Then started to immediately patching her up. Not too long later a rescue plane arrived. Lexie started falling in and out of consciousness.

You sat in the emergency room as your hand was getting checked out. They rushed Lexie back to the OR, you didn’t care if your hand lost all its function. All you cared about was her.

“I always knew,” Mark whispered to you as the two of you sat next to each other in the emergency room, “That she loves you and that you love her. I don’t know why I thought that I could get into the middle of it,”

He places his hand in your numb one, “She’s going to be okay,”

“The last thing she’s going to think about me is that I hated her. I never hated her,” I whispered.

You don’t know how long it was before the doctor came out, looking straight at me, “She’s okay and she’s asking for you.”

You shot out from your bed and rushed to her room. She sat there, her hair slightly messy as she gave you a small smile, “Hi,”

You immediately ran towards her, cupping her face as gently as possible, before pulling her closer. The two of your lips finally touching. It was magic. Sparks flying as the two of you kissed.

“I never hated you. I could never hate you. I’m sorry I was just so jealous and upset about you and-“ you started to ramble as you pulled away.

“I know,”

“I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you,” you whispered, “Please don’t ever leave me. You’re too special to be a what if,”

Fifteen years later

“So mommy used to have super strength?” your youngest daughter turned to Lexie and you chuckled softly.

Lexie nodded, “She still does. Whenever you’re in danger, mommy will help activate her super strength and help you,” Lexie bopped her nose as the two of you told her, her favorite bedtime story.

“She’s like the Hulk!” your son added and you laughed before ruffling his hair.

“You guys really set the bar for love stories didn’t you?” your teenage daughter asked, rolling her eyes playfully after hearing the semi true fairytale story for a thousandth time.

“Oh definitely. You can try to beat us, but you’ll fail,” you teased her and Lexie pushed you playfully.

You guys laugh, “Bedtime everyone!” Lexie announced.

“Goodnight,” the two of you said to your youngest daughter, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. Before hugging your son and daughter.

The two of you settled into bed as Lexie curled up into your arms. She placed her hand in yours, squeezing it ever so softly. The feeling of her hand in your once injured one was comforting.

“You’re my better half, did you know that?” you whispered, “You bring out the better half of me,”

“And you bring out mine,”

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART

Chapter 1

The woods were always a sacred place for you. When you entered their depths you felt a sense of serenity and safety that had no comparison in the civilized world. The sounds of the wind rustling through the leaves, flowing streams, and the sounds of the birds and the rabbits and the deer — all the sounds of Life. So, it felt only natural for you to go to them when running for your life. Even under the light of the full moon, dappled on the ground through dense tree cover, you knew how to navigate the trails in the undergrowth. “She’s heading into the trees!” The call echoes and forces you to push harder, to run faster, so you might live to see the sun rise.

Neither you or the others in your small village knew of the now occupied reach and how the surrounding lands had been claimed until it was too late. They waited until someone unwittingly stumbled onto the land so they could make an example of them in a show of power. He called himself The Baron. He was an asshole. In taking what had been free land for himself he had doomed your village to a slow, painful death of starvation unless they bowed to his will. There was no other alternative for the village, lest they lose everything. It was his brutish thugs that pursued you, all because you strayed too far trying to feed the people you cared for. “I can’t see her! Where’d she go?” “I don’t know! Just keep looking!” You stop, sliding down an embankment to seek cover.  Hunkering down further as you hear your pursuers coming ever closer, you force yourself tighter between the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. Mud and mulch cling to your cloak and soak your back and legs but you know that if you move now you will die. Holding your breath you freeze as one of the men stalks by where you’re hiding, narrowly missing your head when he strays too close to the edge. It feels like hours, lying there in the cold, wet earth, before you hear their voices and their steps recede until there’s only the sounds of the forest left. Even then you wait a moment longer before slowly rising to your feet, brushing yourself down with shaking hands. The Baron won’t stop pursuing you if he knows you’re nearby, so it’s with a heavy heart that you know you can’t return to the village. Your possessions, though meager and few, are lost to you. Your small home left to fall into ruin. The friends you had made will become distant memories. Bitterness settles deep within your stomach and you weep, out of anger, out of sadness, that one mistake was your undoing. It’s difficult to stop the torrent once it’s unleashed, but you know you can’t linger any longer. You should already be running far away from this place. Sniffling, you wipe frantically at your eyes and nose on tattered sleeves, continuing your escape.

The soft, building light of the rising dawn brings with it a sense of melancholic relief. You wander wearily through the trees, their figures no longer familiar now that you’re so far from home, the waking songs of birds sounding triumphantly in the air. They have survived the night, and so have you. Almost. The sharp, searing pain that erupts abruptly in your left shoulder blindsides you and you stop, the world suddenly going still. For the longest moment you forget how to breathe and your mind goes blank. A choked gasp escapes you as all at once the harsh reality of what has happened comes crashing over you like a tidal wave. At first you can’t tell exactly what is lodged in your flesh, your mind a garble rush of adrenaline, only that the pain is pointed in a single location. An apprehensive glance to your shoulder sends a chill down your spine. With a whimper you reach up with your uninjured arm to feel the sharp iron tip poking through ripped flesh, warm, fresh blood coating your fingertips, then behind to gingerly finger a long, slender body of wood. An arrow, lodged so deep in your flesh it came out the other side. Your nose crinkles as the metallic tinge in the air finally hits you, gagging from the rush of dizzying sickness that sends your stomach into freefall. Pain radiates from it, rippling outwards, rending your arm useless. The shrieks of panicked birds in the canopy overhead snaps your attention to the archer hiding among the trees, the rushing footfalls thudding against the ground betraying their path; one small mercy. You force yourself to move, crying out with the effort as you hold your arm still with a firm grip. It’s the only way to limit the damage the arrow can cause while moving, but it does nothing to stop the excruciating pain it leaves in its wake. Blood leaks between your fingers but you don’t stop, can’t stop, or else you will die at the hands of this assassin. Another arrow narrowly misses your head as you veer sharply to the side, towards the sound of running water. If you can make it to the water and lose them you might just make it. That is, if the exhaustion and blood loss don’t take you out first. Several more join the hunting party, to your dismay. You pant, your head spinning and your mind beginning to fog, but at least you don’t fall. The sight of clear water fills your vision and, to your shock, a man. He startles as you rush into view, arm veined with bright scarlet, bringing with you a band of armed men. It looks as though he’s in the middle of fishing, but that’s quickly forgotten when he sees your injury and the company that are after you. “Please!” You plead, falling to your knees before him in the dewy grass, “please don’t let them kill me!” Sharp gold eyes watch you for a moment in shocked silence before he turns to eye each man as they surround you both. They’re all pointing their weapons at him, swords and bows and arrows alike, shouting for him to leave them to their business. One of them separates to train his bow on you, likely the same man who shot you in the first place, as you clutch desperately at your bleeding wound to stem the flow. “We said be on your way, stranger!” Another one snarls to the man, “this bitch is ours.” It all happens in the blink of an eye. You barely have time to comprehend the situation before it’s already over. The man stands before you, a hovering sword at his side, and only then do you realize that he has killed them all in a single sweep without so much as raising a hand. You hazard a look at the carnage around you and instantly regret it; each man dead with his throat cut, shock petrified on their faces. Quickly you look back to the man, watching him with wide eyes as he descends upon you. He speaks not a word as he looks over your shoulder, still bleeding despite your grip on it. “P-please help me,” you beg feebly, your body feeling heavy under its own weight. The blood loss was starting to take its toll on you and, though the feeling felt oddly muted and detached, you were terrified.

The sequence of events that follows next are mostly lost to you, but not for a lack of trying. You remember fragments, haphazardly pieced together. Blurred scenery. White hot pain. The scent of burning flesh. A tightness around your shoulder. Muffled talking. You try to sit up, the edges of your vision tainted black, but a firm yet gentle hand on your chest pushes you back down into soft sheets. “Where—” Your voice quickly dies in your throat as searing pain shoots through your shoulder and down your arm, a sharp cry escaping you. It takes you a moment to recover but when you finally open your eyes you gawk at your surroundings.Your mysterious savior has brought you to a musty room filled with shelves upon shelves of books, a low, crackling fire catching your attention in the dusty fireplace. Looking down at yourself you see that you’ve been set upon an old chaise lounger, a lumpy pillow beneath your head. It smells of dust, as do the sheets, but there’s an odd sense of comfort that they, and the room as a whole, offers. “I removed the arrow,” he finally speaks, golden eyes observing you as you struggle to sit up, “you should rest, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” He moves to stand, collecting up the bloodied rags and tossing them into a bowl filled with water dyed crimson as he walks to the door to leave you in peace. It’s only as he’s leaving that you realize that he’s cleaned and bandaged your wound, no doubt saving you from infection and blood loss and the slow, painful death they would have brought you. “Wait!” You call, voice hoarse. He stops, remaining with his back to you. “I,” you swallow, breathing laboured from the effort of your outburst, “I wanted to thank you, for helping me,” you grind out, an aching throb pulsing from your shoulder down your arm. For a moment he is quiet and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake in speaking to him, but that thought soon vanishes when he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You wait in anticipation for his reply, clutching the sheets weakly. “Get some rest,” he says, softer this time, but he quickly steels himself and leaves the room without any further comment. The door is left slightly ajar so you listen to the sound of his receding footsteps before sinking back slowly into the sheets. The makeshift bed is nothing like your own but it’s more than you could have expected from a stranger so you’re thankful, heaving a sigh of relief. Then you frown, because you don’t even know his name.

[blackacre13]

are you still taking prompts? would you please write about how their first time goes with them being childhood friends and now high school sweethearts? I think they'll be nervous about bringing up the subject while still being horny teens

Yes, I am! (And have a bunch more queued up and waiting fo be written after this one, friends!) I even added a little prompt status on my tumblr page for when it’s open.

I’m sort of in love with how this turned out. I feel like we get a lot of hookups and chance meetings etc. so it was heartwarming to explore them from childhood into young love. Hope you enjoy this Loubbie version!

PART ONE (the prompt is too long for a tumblr response to an ask, so the end is in a separate tumblr post. Part two is here)

“I didn’t need help,” Debbie huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as she crossed her arms. She remained sitting in the mulch, upset that someone had tried to intervene and help her when she was perfectly capable of handling things herself.

“I know,” Louise shrugged. “But I thought we could be a team.”

The blonde offered out a dirt-covered hand and Debbie reached up, letting the girl pull her to her feet.

“I don’t do teams,” Debbie sighed, dropping her hand. She wiped the dirt off her palms against her overalls.

“Neither do I,” Louise smirked, crossing her own arms.

The two stood in front of the playground, staring each other down.

Suddenly, Debbie was giggling and Louise started to follow suit.

“This is silly,” Debbie smiled.

“Yeah,” Louise agreed. “Maybe we could be friends? That boy is mean.”

“They’re all mean,” Debbie sighed. “I’d like a friend.”

“Do you have other friends?” Louise asked.

“Not really,” Debbie frowned. “Everyone’s scared to talk to me because of my big brother.”

“He doesn’t scare me,” Louise smiled. “You don’t either. I think you’re pretty and cool.”

“Thanks,” Debbie grinned. “You’re pretty and cool too. Maybe you could come over after school and we could watch cartoons?”

“Do you like to color while you watch them?” Lou asked, excitedly.

“Yes!” Smiled. “Oh,” she stopped. “I’m Debbie.” She stuck out her hand.

“I’m Louise.”

***********************************************************************

“Lou,” Debbie whispered.

“Yeah, Bee?” Lou whispered back, looking around for any teachers that might yell at them.

“I don’t understand this,” Debbie groaned.

“Just make it up,” Lou laughed softly. “It’s the math right?”

“Yes,” Debbie sighed. “It never makes any sense.”

“I’ll do it on the bus,” Lou promised. “Just help me with vocab.”

“Deal,” Debbie smiled, extremely relieved.

Lou’s sneaker knocked against Debbie’s under the table and Debbie brushed her shoulder against Lou’s.

“Are you going to softball later?” Lou whispered.

“No,” Debbie frowned. “Mom’s making me try gymnastics.”

“But you like playing,” Lou groaned.

“Like she cares what I like,” Debbie laughed softly. It was a bitter laugh.

“I care,” Lou offered.

“I know you do,” Debbie smiled. “She’ll let me play again soon, maybe.”

“She better.”

“I don’t want to be caught dead in a leotard.”

“The bars are pretty cool,” Lou offered. “You could learn how to do flips.”

“Then I could run away and join the circus,” Debbie grinned.

“Just promise you’ll take me with you if you do.”

***********************************************************************

“Miller!’

Lou whipped her head around, mitt over her forehead to block the sun, blonde ponytail whipping around with her as she squinted through the fence.

Debbie stood, peeking through the diamonds of metal with an excited grin waving furiously at her.

“You made it!” Lou grinned. “We’re just about to start.”

“Oh, perfect!” Debbie laughed, clapping her hands together. She dropped her duffle bag down and plopped onto it, her skirt blowing in the wind, rippling around her.

Lou got closer to the fence and stuck her fingers in, Debbie reaching through to grab them for a moment before they pulled away. The blonde blew a bubble at her.

“Go sit in the bleachers, Deb,” Lou smirked. “You must be tired from practice. It’s stupid to sit in the grass.”

“And miss the view?” Debbie scoffed. “No thanks. Best seat in the house is right here. I can see that hot shortstop’s ass.”

“I do hear she’s pretty smokin’,” Lou nodded.

The coach yelled to the group and Lou looked away briefly.

“I gotta go, honey. Wish me luck!”

“Give ‘em, hell, baby!” Debbie blew a kiss as Lou scurried off to stand in her spot between second and third base.

Two hours, and a very sweaty but victorious Lou later, the girls were sitting on the hood of Danny’s car that Debbie had stolen for the day.

“I still hate it,” Debbie sighed, putting the soda back down on the car between them so Lou could take a sip. “I should’ve known back in middle school.”

“Known that your mom had a multi step plan to take you from gymnastics to cheerleading?” Lou laughed. “You are good at it though. I mean I get hating the football games and the cheesy parts of it, but at least you can compete and shit now.”

“I do like that part,” Debbie admitted. “And I am glad she ruined softball for me. Wouldn’t be able to watch you play if I was still playing.”

“And I wouldn’t get to see you in that poor excuse for a skirt,” Lou laughed, waggling her eyebrows.

“Hey!” Debbie shrieked, lightly slapping at Lou’s arm.

Lou chuckled softly before pulling Debbie closer against her side so she could kiss her forehead.

“Debbie?” Lou whispered soft as ever.

The brunette turned to look her deep in the eyes, her face soft and content as the light evening breeze swirled around them.

“Yeah?” Debbie whispered, her heart fluttering suddenly like the first time Lou had ever asked if she could kiss her.

“Debbie, I—I just wanted to say”

“I love you,” Debbie whispered suddenly, stealing the words from Lou before she could get them out.

Lou started to laugh, Debbie feeling it against her skin, and let out a sigh of relief.

“I love you, too,” Lou smiled. “You kind of stepped on my line there, Ocean.”

“You get to finish the soda and fries then,” Debbie giggled.

“You really love me?” Debbie whispered a few moments later as they settled back into the car so Lou could drive them home.

“I really love you,” Lou smiled. “I think since that day on the playground. But so god damn much more now.”

***********************************************************************

“Lou,” Debbie laughed softly. “Sh, baby, you can’t do that here!”

Lou smirked against the brunette’s lips to whisper a quiet, “why not?”

“We’re at a movie,” Debbie giggled. “There are people here!”

The people in front of their row shot them a dirty look.

“Come on,” Lou grinned. “Let’s go then.” She tugged at Debbie’s hand, the bucket of popcorn between them spilling onto the floor as Debbie snorted and the two made a run for it.

Lou led them out of the theater and the cinema entirely, ducking into the alleyway, her hand pulling Debbie’s, adrenaline buzzing.

She pressed the brunette against the cool brick and Debbie sighed contently.

“I’m sorry we took the bike,” Lou sighed. “I wanted to—“

“I know,” Debbie sighed in return.

Lou pushed against her, her hands sliding down to her hips as she breathed her perfume in, leaning in to brush her lips against Debbie’s. Debbie kissed back softly, the two keeping it surprisingly light and gentle. They were both distracted.

“Ugh,” Lou groaned. “Stop. This isn’t right. It’s not fair to you.” She slumped against the wall next to the brunette.

“What’s not fair?” Debbie laughed, turning to face her girlfriend.

“You deserve five star hotels and silk sheets,” Lou spat. “Or at least a regular room where I can kiss you without worrying about who’s around or how much time we have left to hide out. And I wanted—I want to—“ she cut herself off, frazzled and frustrated.

“I want that too,” Debbie whispered.

“You don’t even know…”

“Yeah, baby,” Debbie smiled. “I do.”

“And it shouldn’t be in a car or my shit stain of a room or your room with all those dolls from your mom tucked away,” Lou laughed. “I don’t want to say it should be special, because that’s cheesy, but fuck it. It should special.”

“But spontaneous,” Debbie added. “Don’t want too much pressure surrounding us or feel like it’s a performance kind of thing.”

“Deb,” Lou spoke suddenly, her eyes flashing with excitement. “You still have that emergency credit card?”

“Yeah,” Debbie nodded, trying to piece together what Lou was seeing.

“Could we figure out how to pay off a single purchase without your dad knowing?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Debbie smirked.

“Let’s go,” Lou smiled wickedly. “Let’s take the bike over the bridge and stay in New York for the night.”

“What if our parents—“

“Get Danny to cover. Or we’ll make up a friend who’s house we’re staying over. We’ll figure it out. Spontaneous right?”

“Yes!” Debbie laughed. “Okay, yes, let’s do it, baby. Let’s go.”

***********************************************************************

The door locked behind them, the two stood facing each other in the middle of the hotel room, the giggling and racing into the city gone. Now left just the two of them. Face to face. Unsure what to really do or how to start now that they had what they thought they never would. Time.

Lou finally stepped forward, running her fingers through Debbie’s hair. Debbie found Lou’s shoulders.

“Whatever happens,” Lou murmured. “Whatever changes…”

“Nothing is going to change,” Debbie promised, kissing her softly. “Well, things will change. But no bad changes. This is just us. The same us. You and me. And we go as far or as little as we want. No pressure. No timeline. No goals. Just you and me, love.”

Lou nodded, a smile breaking out on her lips. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real, baby,” Debbie smiled. “Lou?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Kiss me,” Debbie asked. “Please.”

Lou’s hands slid from Debbie’s hair down to her waist as she swept the Ocean into the gentlest of kisses, testing the water until Debbie’s hands were pressing into her shoulders more firmly, one sliding down to her waist and she found her hands slipping from Debbie’s waist to cup her ass, squeezing firmly.

The kiss got more desperate and hungry, tongues finding each other and teeth pulling against lips and suddenly they were gasping for air giving Lou the opportunity to move her kisses down Debbie’s neck and chest instead to give their lungs a break and she was enthralled by the way her lips against Debbie’s skin, hot and smooth, made her moan softly. And Lou wanted more.

The blonde pushed her thigh between Debbie’s legs and the Ocean let out a deep groan at the intrusion, Lou letting out a low growl as Debbie tried to grind against Lou’s thigh, searching for friction. Debbie’s hands were now tugging Lou’s hair and Lou was pressing her palm against Debbie’s neck, the two of them moaning at the feel of the pressure against them and the heat starting to swirl.

Lou walked them forward, backing Debbie against the bed and laying them down. She gave them a moment to move back towards the middle of it, and then Debbie was fully trying to grind against Lou, their jeans providing a delicious heat as they rubbed against each other, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Debbie brought their lips back together as Lou unbuttoned her pants, sliding a hand under the denim, her hand palming Debbie’s underwear.

“Please,” Debbie whispered, pulling her lips from Lou’s for a moment as Lou’s fingers danced against her underwear. “I want to feel you.”

They had done this before. The making out. The grinding. Feeling the other under them growing heated and desperate. Trying to get the edge off. Teasing under clothing with a finger or two.

Lou was about to slip two fingers under Debbie’s underwear when she realized what she had always been aware of, but knew that now it was possible. And if Debbie was on the same page as Lou, which they almost always were, then she would want this just as badly.

“Debbie,” Lou breathed against her neck. “I want to see you.”

Debbie smiled against her and nodded. “Me too, baby.”

“You sure?” Lou confirmed.

“God, yes,” Debbie laughed, tugging at Lou’s shirt. Lou sat up further, kneeling over Debbie as she helped her work the shirt up and over her shoulders, throwing it on the ground. She unworked the button of her jeans and zipped them down, sliding the legs off and throwing them on the floor.

Debbie let out a soft groan as she took in the sight of Lou in nothing but a plain grey bra and black cotton underwear. Her hand found Lou’s thigh gently as she smiled up at her.

“Do you know how gorgeous you are, Lou?” She asked softly. She took in her blonde locks and blue eyes, in awe of porcelain skin and toned muscles from Lou’s rigorous practice and conditioning schedule at school.

Lou flushed slightly at Debbie’s words and busied her hands by tugging at Debbie’s jeans, rolling them down her legs to reveal white panties trimmed with blue lace. She could already see a patch of dampness peeking through. Debbie sat up in the bed to help Lou get her cardigan and shirt off, a matching bra revealing itself. Debbie laid back against the bed, all chocolate brown eyes and soft curls of chestnut hair contrasted against crisp white sheets.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

I wanted to pay back some of the love given to me by @loosesodamarble so I borrowed her OC ship Nachsele for a moment, and this fic was born. 

I apologize if they’re out of character, but I wanted to do some fluff (aka hurt-comfort) for them, but their history doesn’t translate into fluffy fluff in my head. But, I tried. I hope you like it! ^_^

Pairing: Nacht Faust x Josele (OC; Erika’s and not mine)

Genre: hurt-comfort

Words: 2581

The rain outside

Why was she there again? She couldn’t remember. No, wait she could, she came here to retrieve something. But it didn’t really matter anymore. It didn’t matter, because she had thought that she would have been strong enough to do this now, after all this time. But instead, she had found the weight of the two rings hanging from a necklace around her throat to be too much. The burden of two bands that would have decorated the ring fingers of a husband and a wife in the future.

In the future… but never did.

And the pain, the pull of the depths of the hells beneath the Faust estate pulled her closer to the floor, to the dirt, the mulch and the stones. Closer to Morgen. It was as if he was still holding her in his gentle embrace, and yet… she knew that he wouldn’t pull her along like that. Oh no, he’d want her to live. He wanted her to live.

But still… The weight of her bones tried to implore her; beckoned her to go closer to the one she loved. One of the men she loved. One of the men… because she did, she did love Nacht too.

I do…

Nacht blamed himself for what he did to Morgen. And Nacht blamed himself for what he did to her, to his beloved Josele. Or rather what he did to beloved Josele, for she wasn’t for him to call his own. She wasn’t his.

“Nacht…?” She asked with a quiet tone that was laced with the sorrows her heart still harboured and the veil of empathy that she felt for the man she also loved; the man who now had raven hair, much like his brother used to have.

He was looking out of the window of his father’s office. The harsh rain beat the window relentlessly and the shadows that always followed him, danced on the walls.

He’s blaming himself for it… And he won’t let go of it… she whispered to herself somewhere in the back of her head. She would have called herself a hypocrite if she had had the energy. But she didn’t, the weight, the burden, and the draining exhaustion of the rings around her neck. The memory of Morgen that she still refused to let go.

“Go home Josele,” he told her without as much as looking.

“Nacht…” she repeated, but this time her tone had become drained of emotion. It was as if she was running out on it all, even sorrow. Even her tears were running dry.

“Go home!” He yelled this time, turning his head slightly over his shoulder.

She flinched. She didn’t know she still had that in her, but she supposed that it was a reaction that was imprinted into her muscles, something that would take a long time to fade.

“Nacht… What are you…?” She asked with hesitation dripping from her lips.

He stayed silent for one sixth of an eternity as he grit his teeth and wondered if he should reply to her. But. How could he not? For his heart, the tick tick tick of it, or rather what was still left of it, belonged to her.

“I’m bringing this house down…” he finally admitted.

She couldn’t quite grasp his statement. She wasn’t sure what extent of it was really intended and what was only her herself jumping into conclusions.

“Nacht… please…” the syllables dropped from her. She wasn’t sure why, and what she meant by them. The only thing her still ticking heart, even if ticking by a faint thread, told her was that she didn’t want him to be in pain. Not in the kind of pain she was in.

There was a brief pause, lasting only a few seconds, not more. Perhaps even fractions of seconds. Fractions during which she took a few shaky steps closer to him.

“Go home Josele,” he insisted once more, as if it was the only thing he wanted. The rain outside of the window before which he stood, tapped the glass into the pitch-black evening, not even night yet.

“Why?” She asked before she could really even think. A spur of the moment. Something that only happened in the presence of her near and dear. Near and dear…

“Because….” He paused for a moment. Did he really even need to reply her question? Perhaps not, but he owed it to her; he owed it to her. After all he had killed her fiancé, his own brother. “I can’t have you here.”

“Why?” Again, the same question, as if playing on loop. Why do I even need to know? She questioned herself. But the answer she knew was in the withering fragments of her heart. Because whatever waltz there was left in her soul, would be his, for she had always loved him too.

But this time the question irritated him to no end. And the steps that she had taken closer to him certainly did not help. He had heard every single one of them. He could feel her mana, so gentle, and soft, and as if a proclamation of everything that was still good and true in that cold, harsh world, and it… made his heart crumble.

He couldn’t have her there, not while making the estate crumble. She shouldn’t see it falling down. She shouldn’t see him tearing it down, as foolish as it sounded. Because the difference that it made, was insignificantly small. But to her, watching the home, the former home of him and Morgen, the house where they had spent so much time while growing up… He couldn’t quite know just how it’d impact her. But it wouldn’t be pleasant anyhow.

So, she shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be there to see it. She should just go home and leave him be. She should just leave. And not insist on asking why he said what he did. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t.

“Wh-“

“Because I love you!” He spun around, furious and tense, staring at her with eyes wide open and clenched teeth.

She looked at him, only a few steps away from him, and she was holding her hands close to her chest. It was as if she was curling inside of herself, even further than she already had.

You see… I am a monster. I can’t-, even confess in a proper manner…

His tense posture melted away, and instead composure took a hold of him again. He straightened his back and looked at her with a blank expression, much more like the one he always wore and repeated: “Go home Josele”. But this time his tone, it was more of an echo of his previous statement, as if this repetition had never left him.

Her eyes were empty. They had been empty, throughout it all. There might have been a hint of sorrow, a veil of melancholy, as if a distant echo of what was slowly dying inside of her; that which he had killed.

She stared at him, with a gaze that struggled to fixate on him, and instead looked somewhere far, far away. But she didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure. What was there even to do? Morgen wouldn’t want him to… She thought to herself, as if she didn’t have a wish of her own, as if what she wanted didn’t matter anymore. And all that did matter, was what Morgen would’ve wanted.

“I can’t,” she spoke with a tone that was devoid of everything, as if simply going through the motions. And that sound, the tone that wasn’t hers, it pricked Nacht’s heart. The soft melody of her voice that had once been so full of life, the voice that had breathed life into him, even if it wasn’t meant for him. “You shouldn’t,” she said, not quite sure what she meant with it.

“I have to,” Nacht replied, taking a step forward, as if stressing his point.

“No,” she shook her head, even if the motion was weak and faint. “You shouldn’t-, be alone.” Her mind was still, as if a dead calm sea. The statement was true, and hypocritical, since she too, longed to be alone. She didn’t wish for the company of others, and instead wanted to embrace her own longing and sorrows, hiding them away from the world.

He frowned at her. Spoken like someone who has locked herself away. He thought to herself, knowing fully well that she had hid herself into the shadows of her room, much like he had. “Why do you care?” He asked, because he truly wanted to know. If anything, she should hate him. She should loathe him. She should wish to throw him into a dungeon, take his grimoire, and throw away the key. He had killed her fiancé! She should-, she should want to-

“Because I…” she stopped, trying to think to herself. How should she phrase it? How?

She felt her heart tugging in her chest, but she tried to reel it in. She shouldn’t let it be free again. She shouldn’t allow it to beat together with another again. She shouldn’t. Because this pain; feeling as if her heart was carved out of her body, her ribs that once shielded the sanctuary of her tender emotions, were cracked and shattered, pricking through her lungs to the point that she could barely breathe. And yet, she hadn’t died. She still lived, despite it all.

“You what?” He asked, closing in the distance between them. His steps were heavy and slow, the sound of his boots thumping against the cold stone floor echoed in the air. “You hate me? You despise me? You can’t stand the sight of me?” He spoke out what he thought of, even if it didn’t make sense. The flow of the conversation didn’t make sense. But what else could it be?

She looked at him, his eyes that reminded her more of a scared animal than anything else. It was as if he was frightened. He was angry, because he was scared and he was hurt. She knew those eyes. She knew them, and she saw herself in them. She too was angry. Angry at herself.

She shook her head, defeated and full of sorrow. “It-, it hurts…” she uttered. His pain hurt her. Her own pain, hurt her. The pain of them both, it hurt her. And it all felt too much, too much to hold in her body, but there was nothing she could do to be rid of it.

Her admission shot a spike through him. The pricking and the numbing in his chest, was lost with the piercing pang that overwhelmed him. If it was humanly possible, the skies above or perhaps the hells below, shoved a burden far grander than before, onto his shoulders. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, for the state of being that could barely be called life, not console her. Or even try to console her.

His hands lifted slightly, pausing for a moment, and the continuing to wrap around her. And she felt so cold and frail in his embrace, as if she had been lying in snow for hours on end, as if she had not been eating properly for months. And she shivered as if a lonely leaf, caught in the wind.

He felt sacred, heavenly even as he caught her into his arms, as if a piece of something so holy that the gods, the saints and angels above would seek to keep him away from her. He was as if a glimmer of hope, a shadow of twilight, guiding her away from the darkness in which she had wandered with the death of light. There was warmth in him, and he was sacred, no matter what he’d try to tell her.

“I love you,” she whispered while sinking into his embrace.

Air got lodged into his throat as he held her closer, wrapping his arms around her eve tighter, as if hoping to shield her from whatever depths of darkness that would try to pry her away from him.

“How…?” The question fell from him like rain, full of disbelief and denial. She’s-, she must be joking. She’s… she wants me to suffer more. I told her-, I told her and now she’s twisting the knife in my heart… As she should… As she should.

Her eyes, having closed for a moment while sinking in to the soft sensation of his embrace, fluttered open with his question. How does anyone say how they love someone? She thought for a passing moment, feeling the urge to reply to him. “I just do…” she admitted with faint syllables. “I always have… I always did. Both of you.”

And that revelation, admission, spoken with nothing but sincerity, made a thought dawn on him. She didn’t blame him. She had never blamed him. But instead of it brining him comfort and consolation, it just salted the already opened wounds in him, making burning hot tears rise to his eyes, tears that he wouldn’t let her see.

He didn’t feel that he’d deserve to call her his own, not now, not ever, but still his body moved before he could grasp onto it. His head turned to face her, rolling across her head, until his lips were pressed against her skin. But that’s as fat as he went, for he had no right to kiss her. He had no right to press his wretched lips against her blessed skin.

She wrapped her arms as tight around him as she possibly could, assuring him that he could. Assuring him of the sanctity of his touch, embrace and his kisses; his kisses would be sacred too. He wasn’t evil. He hadn’t meant any of it to happen. He hadn’t meant it, but she still found it hard to forgive. But the one thing that was harder than forgiving him, was hating him.

She couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t inflict him any more pain than he already felt. She could see it. She had always seen it. The way he had loved Morgen too. The way he had admired him. And now, she could see how he had begun to believe what the entire world around him had kept telling him: “you’re evil, the bad twin; it should’ve been you that died”. But that’s not what she felt. That’s not what she thought.

And she wished, oh how she wished that she could have said something soothing to him. She wished that she would have words of comfort to him, but as words failed her, she pressed her head against him and squeezed him in her embrace.

As if pulled by something grander, his hold of her strengthened, clenching onto her. To him, she was the last good thing in the world, and he had no place in wanting her, wanting to hold her. But there he was, holding her, and wanting to call her his.

Rain and thunder raged outside, but the two of them were indoors, warming in each other’s arms. It might have only been a thin sheet of glass between them and the world outside, but it was enough. And with that warmth, she could feel her heart slowly, and hesitantly, beginning to beat again. While Nacht could see a glimpse of something behind that veil of darkness, a rising dawn.

A promise, and an assurance, of something better to come.