#recent events have stirred up these memories

[tojjist]

𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 ↳ r. sukuna

in which: the king of curses left you the moment you announce your pregnancy to him. but after nearly losing you... he might be having a change of heart contains: very slight objectification of reader, reader is a half-curse, mentions of injury and near-death experience, reader is pregnant, slight mention of pregnancy sex, sukuna is really ooc tbh A/N: yall really wanted soft sukuna lmao. i js wanted to write something more in my own style instead of the tumblr style. It's all over the place really, also obv trueform! sukuna. w.c : 1.6k

“Sukuna-sama?” Your voice comes out a breathy whisper, barely audible.

“Do– ugh,” The pink-haired curse sighs. “Don’t call me that. And don’t make me repeat myself.”

You haven’t known Sukuna to be tender. Actually, scratch that. You used to genuinely believe he mistook the adjective for an affront. He probably still does, despite the sheer softness of his actions. His mind is a marvel far beyond your, or anyone else's, comprehension. And if Sukuna hasn’t always been complicated, his sudden switch of behavior recently has rendered  unriddling the complex being that he is even harder.

“What do I call you then?” There’s confusion in your tone; confusion fused with unadulterated innocence. His eyebrows crease further. He loved how naive and ingénue you are. Such a simple, sheepish thing. Easy to lead one, easy to use, easy to hurt. But as of late, he’d come to hate it.

He hates that he hates it. He shouldn’t care.

“I don’t fucking know,” he snaps back. It’s enough to bring you silence, the somber tone he uses coming with a sense of finality. 

Rough callouses are surprisingly gentle against your flesh—callouses that slap, bruise, grope, but never caress. Despite that, he pulls your underwear up your thighs with utter care. If you didn’t know any better, you might even dare call his actions delicate.

“Does it hurt?” He reminisces. Curious digits stroke your lower abdomen and across the swell of your belly, where an ugly scar sits. It decorates your skin with a long, uneven line of dried blood cells.

“It’s not too bad,” You assure, daring to test your luck by bringing your own hand to his hair. It causes the king of curses to pause. His ember eyes continue to stare at your scar, unable to swat your hand away for some reason. The wooden floor beneath him feels too cold. Or he feels too hot. He’s unsure.

In the dimness of the room, there is no light but the flickering glow emitted from the fire, ensconced within a cage of brick—a fireplace, by name. Yet, the warmth that enfolds you does not excrete solely from the flames. It originates from within, a pulsating heat that comes with the beat of your heart as a large palm finds your shoulder, urging you forward with an urgency that seems to echo through the very fibers of your being.

“What about this one?”His intense glare persists, averting your demure gaze. Never before have you witnessed him in such a state, making you wonder whether this demeanor is a consequence of recent events.

“It’s fine, I promise,” Your whispered words cause his gaze to harden even further, his thumb tracing over another, deeper cut nestled in the valley between your breasts. This one could have been fatal. The realization sends a shiver down his spine, unsettling him to his core. Sukuna, the ancient and ruthless curse, has borne witness to countless horrors in his long existence, inflicted unspeakable cruelty upon countless souls, but none have shaken him to his core quite like seeing you teetering on the brink of death. The memory stirs within him an unfamiliar sense of disquiet, a realization that his desires may have consequences far more profound than he ever anticipated.

The brawny curse grunts in response, opting to continue examining the scar. He’s careful to not stretch it as your human flesh would hurt. 

Sukuna’s agenda never included leaving a child within you. It never even crossed his mind. Such muses were not to be entertained, especially not with you.

You. Yeah, you who doesn't try to kill humans simply for the pleasure it brings. You who takes life so lightly, as if you have several souls to spare. You who accepts every word Sukuna says as an indisputable fact, every order executed before he has a chance to reconsider.

You, who has shared your bed with the strongest curse more times than he cares to count, always intrigued him—an enigmatic subject for his manipulations. You, who confided in him the startling revelation that your half-cursed body now nurtures a growing fetus.

At first, Sukuna swore he'd never visit you again, adamant in his belief that he wanted no involvement in your pregnancy, leaving you to navigate the situation alone. Despite his capability to end your life without hesitation, he chose to spare you. Sukuna granted you a reprieve under the condition that he never crosses paths with you or whatever child you carry. He told himself time and time again that you would be a rather boring kill, not worth the effort. But it wasn't about the difficulty of ending your life—it was an excuse. He'd never admit that he doesn't want your blood staining his hands

Sukuna swears he’s not soft, that he doesn’t care for you at all.But the notion of being the one who brings you to your end does not enthrall him in the least.

He doesn’t care for the inferior likes of you, he reminds himself. That’s absurd. It’s laughable. It’s offensive, even. He doesn’t ‘care’, It’s simply curiosity that keeps him around. Curious of what kind of child the one you carry would come out to be. To see if they’d be worthy of being called his kin or not.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is dulcet, a melody that cuts his train of thought smoothly. Unlike anything he’s ever heard before. There’s a pleading tone, a need so urgent it's almost painful. He finds pleasure in that. Your perpetual longing for him, your unwavering loyalty even after his defeat by sorcerers the first time around—you kept him close like a devoted guardian to a fallen hero, even when you knew is anything but a hero. It's a power unlike any other—staying but not out of fear, it's a choice. A strong belief.

Balancing on his knees between her parted legs, he reaches out, his fingers finding purchase on the edge of the bed. His grip tightens instinctively, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the sheet as he steadies himself. With a controlled effort, he pushes upward, leveraging the bed for support as he rises to his feet

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?” He muses, his towering frame looking down at you. The flickering flames of the fire, their orange hues swirling and weaving a macabre tapestry around his countenance, lend him an aura of terror that would instill fear in any who behold him. Yet, unlike others, you find his presence strangely comforting. Despite the aura of terror he exudes, you've grown accustomed to it, finding solace in his formidable presence now more than ever before.

Your only reaction is to chew on the inside of your cheek, careful to not bite the fiber too hard. There’s an ambivalent air to him, remaining motionless as he towers over you. It seems as if he’s looking for something. Anything. He wants a reason to stay, but he can’t seem to find one satisfying enough.

He owes you nothing. But when you look at him like that… He’s never been one to falter at your pleading face, but perhaps he’s changing little by little. He staunchly refuses to acknowledge this change still, for him to do so would be an admission of vulnerability, a humiliation he cannot bear, even to himself. How he yearns for the willpower to end you, to push you away so you never obstruct his way like this again.

The worst part of it all is his acute awareness of why he feels so strongly now. He knows that it’s all him, and not at all you. He can pinpoint the exact moment he regret leaving your side. The memory is seared into his very core. 

He wishes he could forget, to erase the haunting image of you, wounded and bleeding, from his mind. 

It was when he came back a few days after his departure, for reasons he can’t recall, only to be greeted by the sight of a malevolent curse looming over you, hungry and poised to make you its next meal. He shouldn’t have intervened. It's the natural order—a relentless cycle where only the strongest survive, preying upon the weaker. He knows he's no exception. Nor are you.

But seeing you sprawled out on the floor, barely intact, with his child inside of you. 

He gulps at the memory, feeling an overwhelming urge to touch you once more, to make sure you’re not some figment of his imagination. To keep you from harm. You’re so stupid, so goddamn naive. He doesn’t know what to make of you. Other than a fucking headache.

“What is it? What do you want, brat?” He hopes to catch some semblance of his normal attitude. “Get it over with.”

“Please stay,” You plead, fingers gently gripping the open kimono he had thrown on once finished with you. “Please, Sukuna-sama.”

He sighs. You’re so obstinate.

Perhaps it's his lack of understanding that breeds hesitation within him, or perhaps it's his inherently fierce nature. A thing like you deserves to be treated with the utmost delicacy, cherished and nurtured. Sukuna, with his staunch commitment solely to his ideals, can never be the one assuming such a role for you.

“You’re doing things to me, you know?” Sukuna gets down, kneeling between your parted legs again, placing a warm palm in either side of your hips and seizing you within.

Maybe… staying with you tonight wasn’t such a ludicrous notion. He’s the king of curses; he  has all the time in the world to fret the trivial details.

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Six

For @erisweekofficial Day 6: AU

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Severely wounded after the fall of his father, Eris slips into a deep sleep, only to wake in an alternate world—one where he was the kind brother, the male who made all the 'right' choices.

Warnings: mentions of death, physical fighting, confused Eris

Word Count: 4.6k

Part Five | Part Seven

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Eris woke slowly, the weight of sleep pressing against his mind like a fog. He swore he heard someone say his name, faint and distant, but when he blinked away the residue of slumber, the room around him was empty. He sat up, hand instinctively drifting to his abdomen, where his injury had been. Flashes of the fight flickered in his mind—his fathers face, the clash of metal, his mother's final strike.

There was no sign of any injury. He was healed now. Strangely skinny and paler than usual, but healed.

He looked around, the familiar walls of his quarters greeting him. It was his room—his bed, his furniture—but something was missing. Everything felt stripped down, too clean. Too empty. His room had always been a reflection of him, a collage of things that mattered, memories and symbols of what he held dear. But now… it was bare. 

Not even his couch held traces of life, no lingering hairs of his hounds.

They must’ve already moved my things, Eris told himself, a strange tightness settling in his chest. They must’ve moved everything to my father’s quarters. The thought lingered, and he found himself repeating it. How strange. They must be very eager.

Slowly, Eris sat up, the silence around him thick and unnatural. There was no sound, not even the faint stir of wind or the hum of life that usually filled the Forest House. He ignored how foreign his own room felt, how cold, and pulled himself out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He managed to dress himself with the clothes remaining in his closet before he left the confines of his quarters. 

The hallways felt more familiar, the same twists and turns of the Forest House that were ingrained in him, walls that he knew like the back of his hand.

Yet, despite how normal it seemed, there was something unsettling about it now. It felt quieter, colder. Less alive. He did his best to ignore it.

Eris attributed his confusion to recent events. It’s just exhaustion, he told himself. Confusion from healing. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, how long his body needed to recover from the battle, from his father’s fall. It was expected for things to feel a little off. He was, after all, the new High Lord. His plan had been successful. Perhaps it was the weight of that new title, the surge of power, that made everything feel so alien.

But Eris didn't feel any power. In fact, he felt weaker. As if something was missing, something important. It confused him, unnerved him, as he wandered through the halls of his home.

There should be more people. The fall of his father should’ve left chaos in its wake—advisors, soldiers, someone should have been there, waiting for him to awaken, waiting for their new High Lord to take his place.

But the halls were silent. Lifeless.

Eris froze mid-step. He frowned to himself, feeling a deep discomfort settling in his bones. Slowly, he took a few steps back and glanced over his shoulder.

The door to his right was slightly ajar, just enough for a thin beam of dim light to spill into the hallway. His instincts screamed at him to move forward. He hesitated, blinking, and then reached out, pushing the door open just a fraction more.

Inside, the room was bathed in the same cold light that seemed to haunt the entire hall. A figure sat on the edge of the bed, back turned to him, hunched over like they were trying to make themselves small. Their hair, a dull blonde, hung limp, the ends unevenly chopped short. The person’s posture was frail, broken. But Eris’s sharp senses picked up something that made his breath catch in his throat—a scent he knew. A scent that tugged at memories of hatred and understanding all at once.

“Morrigan?”

The figure flinched, shoulders trembling, but didn’t turn. Eris stepped into the room, his heart pounding as he slowly pieced together what he was seeing. The hair was dull, yes, but unmistakable. He knew her. He was certain.

“Morrigan," he said again, a tinge of frustration tainting his tone. "Why are you here?”

She didn’t respond. Her body barely moved, as though she was too afraid to even breathe.

"Mor."

Finally, she turned her head, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her face—pale, hollow, and so different from the annoyingly outspoken, frustratingly arrogant female he knew. Her eyes darted to the floor, avoiding his gaze as though she couldn't bear to meet it.

“Eris,” she whispered, the words so soft they almost didn’t reach him. “You need to leave.”

“What?” His voice was growing louder now, confusion bleeding into anger. He took a moment to analyze her, to observe her with a critical gaze. Her skin was marked, marred by bruises and scars.

“What happened? Did I—” He faltered, his breath catching. “Did I do this to you?”

It wasn't possible. Eris would never have touched her. He had never laid a finger on her, didn't care enough to. Words were enough of a weapon when it came to the loud-mouthed female. But this world was familiar, cold, and he wasn't sure what he believed, who he was here.

Morrigan shook her head, but her eyes were full of something darker, more resigned. “He’s coming. You need to leave.”

“Who’s coming?” Eris took a step forward. “Morrigan, tell me what is going on.”

"Please." She gave him a long, haunted look. “You should have left me to die, Eris. You can’t help me anymore.”

Before he could register her words, the door creaked open again and Eris turned sharply. He recognized the new presence instantly, watched with furrowed brows as one of his younger brothers walked in. Caius was larger, more muscular than Eris remembered, and there was a gleam in his eyes that was nothing short of mad. It wasn't just cruelty. It was something darker, something even more sinister.

“Well, well,” Caius sneered, stepping into the room. His gaze slid toward  Morrigan, a smirk curling his lips. “Looks like you’ve finally grown a spine, brother. Decided you wanted her after all?”

Eris stiffened, straightening himself as he held his brother's gaze. He walked around Eris, approached Morrigan in a few, long strides. Eris could see her visibly shrink back, watched as her face paled with fear. The sight in itself was terrifying—the image of this female, who feared not even death, now trembling before his brother. It was wrong, so wrong, and made Eris more uneasy than the cold, lifeless walls.

"Step away from her," Eris said, "Now."

His brother laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed in the room. "Always the protector, always so noble."

While Eris had a complicated relationship with his brothers, they all respected him. Listened to him. He had raised them, taught them, kept them in line so their father wouldn’t have to. They had never spoken to him with this kind of defiance. They never would.

Eris clenched his jaw, eyes flashing as he took a step forward, attempting to place himself between his brother and Morrigan.

"You’re out of line," Eris growled, his voice dropping to a lethal quiet. "Move."

For a brief moment, something flickered in Caius’s eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or uncertainty. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that same mocking smile. His brother didn’t care about the warning; he was testing him. Caius took another step toward Morrigan, his hand stretching out as if to touch her. Morrigan flinched, though her wide, desperate eyes remained fixed on Eris, pleading silently.

“What are you going to do, brother?” Caius’s tone dripped with disdain. “Finally act like a male? Finally take what’s yours?”

Before Caius could move any closer, Eris’s hand shot out, grabbing his brother by the arm and yanking him back with a force that startled them both. Surprise flared in Caius’s eyes, but Eris didn’t give him a chance to recover. His grip tightened, and in a swift, violent motion, he shoved Caius away from Morrigan, slamming him against the wall with a fury that belonged to an eldest brother, to a rightful heir. The crack of Caius’s back hitting stone was the only sound as the room seemed to hold its breath.

"You forget your place," Eris growled, his grip tightening. His brother winced, the smirk faltering. "And I won’t remind you again."

With a grunt, Caius tried to wrench his arm free, but Eris’s grip was unyielding. The younger male’s eyes flickered with something new—fear. Real fear.

Eris shoved him again, watching as Caius staggered back, shock flashing across his features. He wasn’t used to being challenged, certainly not by Eris. When he made a move to retaliate, Eris advanced once more, this time with more force, shoving him until he crashed against the wall with a heavy thud.

Caius had always been more temperamental, more prone to lashing out. Eris had learned early on that the only way to keep him in line was to meet his aggression with equal force, to show his brother that he could be beaten. That he was outmatched. It was always for his own good. If Eris didn’t correct him, Beron would. And he would be a lot less gentle. 

"You show me some respect," Eris spat, stepping back as his brother slumped to the floor, dazed. He turned to Morrigan.

She was staring at him, wide-eyed, stiff.

“Will you be alright?” Eris asked, his voice softer now, the edge of fury fading into something like concern. He’d never spoken to Morrigan in such a way, had never imagined himself asking her anything that hinted at care. Yet here he was. It made him uncomfortable.

That alone was enough to confirm this wasn’t real. That it was a dream—despite the throbbing in his knuckles telling him otherwise.

Morrigan only nodded.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than to her. With one last glance at his brother, who lay slumped and breathing heavily, Eris turned and walked out of the room, leaving Caius on the floor and Morrigan standing frozen near the bed.

He needed answers. And he needed them now.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The more Eris thought about it, the more the halls of the Forest House felt different, unfamiliar. The once gleaming floors were dulled, the banners sagging as if weighed down by years of neglect. Figures passed him, and where there should have been respect, there was now disregard—intentional and palpable. Bodies brushed against him with force—someone’s elbow grazed his side, a boot came down hard on his own, followed by a mocking laugh that echoed behind.

"Thought you'd be taller," one courtier muttered as he shoved past.

Another voice cut through the air, louder, full of sneering confidence. "And they say eldest is to be the rightful heir?" A chuckle. "Pathetic."

Eris said nothing, his gaze fixed forward as the crowd parted only to provoke. The warmth beneath his skin, the heat that was always there, simmered just out of sight. He pushed it down, keeping his pace steady, even though each shove pushed against the restraint he'd built over years.

The familiar door to his father’s office appeared. It was open, an unusual sight in itself. His steps slowed as he approached, his brow drawing tight. Inside, slouched behind the large desk, was Beron Vanserra.

Eris stopped.

That wasn't possible. 

Beron was dead. He’d watched him fall, had seen the life drain from his father’s eyes as his mother plunged the blade deeper into his back. He’d stared into the soulless face of his father as his body collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

But there he was.

And yet, Beron looked nothing like the man Eris remembered. No, he looked worse than disheveled—he looked unhinged. The sinister gleam in his eyes had intensified, a wild, deranged look that made Eris pause. His father’s movements were sharp, erratic, like he’d lost any grip on control. The man murmured frantically to his advisor, Darius, the conversation laced with dark, twisted energy. This wasn’t the calculated cruelty Eris remembered; it was something more dangerous, something untethered. Even from the doorway, Eris could feel it—a tangible threat, his father teetering on the edge of madness.

He hunched over papers, speaking in low, frantic murmurs. It was hard for Eris to reconcile the image before him with the male he'd known— the male he had killed. Beron’s hands shook as he scrawled something, his voice barely audible.

“They’re closing in,” Beron muttered, eyes darting across the room though there was no one but his advisor present. “They're turning against us.”

Eris stood frozen in the doorway, his heart tightening at the names his father began to list—alliances, powerful connections Beron claimed were unraveling. But Eris had secured those ties himself. He knew they were strong, unbreakable. Every alliance, every bond he had forged was solid. He had ensured it.

But his father’s disjointed ramblings painted a different picture.

Something else gnawed at the edges of Eris's awareness. Darius—the way he moved, the flicker in his expression when Beron's back was turned—it all reeked of suspicion. There was a wariness in his advisor’s manner, a subtle but calculated hesitation in the way he responded to Beron's frantic mutterings, as if he were biding his time, waiting for the right moment to act.

He was a traitor, Eris concluded. He wondered how his father hadn't noticed.

A nagging voice in the back of Eris’s mind urged him to leave, to run and find you. But he stayed, forcing himself to assess the scene before making any move. Whatever was happening here, he needed to understand it first. Deep in his gut, he had a feeling that Darius would lead him to some answers.

So he waited.

And waited.

Until Darius finally left the room.

For a fleeting moment, Eris was grateful that this strange version of himself, in this twisted place, could blend in without notice. It grated on him more than he cared to admit, but even he could acknowledge that it was a blessing under these circumstances.

He had to remind himself over and over that this wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Because in reality, he had defeated his father. He had fought, been wounded, and his mother had delivered the final, fatal blow. Their plan—his centuries-long scheme—had worked. Beron was dead.

So, no, this wasn’t real.

It couldn't be. 

It was just some hallucination brought on by his injuries. Yet the vividness of it all was disorienting. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this strange world had a purpose, a meaning, something that he needed to understand.

Gods, Eris hated deeper meanings, hated the idea of hidden lessons and cryptic truths. Which was funny, considering that’s exactly what he was—someone who required time, patience, and layers to be understood. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Darius finally reached an exit, pushing through heavy doors that led outside. Eris followed.

He watched as Darius mounted a horse, the male glancing around, taking a moment to ensure no one was following. The sky above was oppressive, gray, and bleak. Even the colors of Autumn—once vibrant and alive—seemed muted, as if drained of life itself.

Eris waited, stayed hidden until Darius's figure was far enough away, until the rhythmic clatter of hooves gradually faded. Only then did Eris step into the open. He took a deep breath, letting the crisp, stale air fill his lungs, and winnowed, the world bending around him as he tracked Darius's path through the shifting air.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

He found himself at a residence, a few miles out from the heart of Autumn, an hour on horse-back from the Forest House.

It was a home of surprising elegance, far more refined than the modest quarters Darius had occupied in Eris's memories. For a moment, Eris lingered in the distance, nestled among the fallen leaves like a predator concealed in its natural habitat.

Darius glanced around one last time, his eyes scanning for any signs of pursuit, before walking to the front door. It opened as he approached and, for a moment, time seemed to stretch, every detail becoming sharp and vivid.

It was you.

Eris’s gut twisted as he watched you open the door wider, allowing Darius to step inside. The male grasped your face between his hands, his grip tight, eyes glinting with possessive satisfaction. A moment later, he released you, offering a dismissive wave toward the horse outside. A movement that indicated you were to tend to it. 

A command. 

Eris waited, expecting your usual defiance—the fire he admired so fiercely, the fire that rivaled his own. But you didn’t fight back. You only stood there, nodding in quiet compliance before moving toward the horse with a resigned grace.

Eris almost felt sick.

This world, this twisted reflection of reality, had ensnared you. Eris found himself paralyzed– paralyzed by his situation, by confusion and anger. What had happened to you in this strange, distorted reality?

What had happened to him?

He waited until you were absorbed in tending to the horse, until you had led it to its resting place, before he winnowed, pulling you away into a secluded strip of the forest. The second you were out of sight, you yanked yourself from his grip, your eyes flashing with a fire that made his breath catch.

Eris wasn't quite sure what he expected, what reaction to prepare for.

It certainly wasn't the sharp punch to his jaw that he received.

Before he could even register the pain, you were on him, a whirlwind of strikes and kicks, each one more vicious than the last. It was a relentless assault, far beyond what Eris had ever seen from you. For a brief moment, Eris felt a flicker of pride—impressed at the ferocity, at your precision.

But that pride quickly gave way to frustration as your fist connected with his face again, harder this time. He let out a grunt, finally managing to shove you back, flames licking his hands as he raised them defensively. You staggered, your expression shifting from fury to confusion as you blinked and truly saw him for the first time.

“Eris?” 

He almost smiled at the sound of his name on your lips. But he bit it back, focusing instead on catching his breath, trying to piece together the fragmented reality he found himself in.

“Where was that defiance with…” he began, but his words faltered as his gaze fell on your hand. To the ring on your finger. “… your husband?”

You straightened yourself, brushing off the dirt and leaves with a practiced grace. Eris took you in, still breathtakingly beautiful, and for a moment, he felt a surge of relief, the first since he’d woken up in this bewildering place. But the relief was tinged with unease; you were different—colder, stiffer, your demeanor as unyielding as the harsh winter.

“What are you doing here?”

Your voice was sharp, emotionless. It carried the same weight as his fathers, the same madness as his brother.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But—” Eris began.

You cut him off. “But what? This is not your land. Leave.”

Eris clenched his teeth, forcing himself to steady his breath. 

“No, Y/n, you don’t understand,” he said, reaching out instinctively to grab your arm. The gesture was absentminded, a reflex born of countless moments spent in your presence. But you yanked away, your eyes glazing over with disgust.

Every muscle in Eris’s body tightened at the sight.

Over the centuries, Eris had seen you look at him with many things, seen you look at him in many ways. There had been anger, fear, resentment, frustration— but never disgust. Not like this. He wasn’t sure he ever saw true hatred either.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, those cold eyes narrowing in on him.

A crease formed between Eris’s brows. He thought back to the ball—just a few hours ago in his memory. He scrambled to recall the image of you, one hand in yours, the other on your waist, as he danced with you. You’d told him you didn’t hate him. You’d seemed concerned, understanding.

You'd rushed to his side when he fell.

Those memories didn't match the female before him. The look in your eyes, this version of you, it was void of all the life he loved in you.

Loved.

Your face pinched into a deadly frustration. He could see the anger practically radiating off you in waves. The Y/n he knew was impatient, yes, entertainingly so, but the female before him— it was more than impatience. It was intolerance, unforgiving.

And you weren't unforgiving.

"What is wrong with you?” Eris's voice was quiet, contemplative.

He wasn’t sure if he was genuinely asking you the question or if it had slipped from his lips as a stream of consciousness. This was all wrong. How had he ended up here?

How could he leave?

“With me?” you echoed. “I’m aware you’ve harbored a pathetic crush on me but your title alone does not grant you the right to prowl through the forest like a fire-wreathed pervert.”

Eris blinked. Then he blinked again. "Excuse me?"

Your stare hardened. You casted another glance towards the home, towards the residence that you belonged to. "I will let Darius skin you himself if you don't leave."

Eris cocked his head at you. "Darius will do no such thing."

"And you are so confident?"

"Yes," he said through a sharp breath. "I am."

You let out a deep breath. He watched as your gaze danced over his form, as you took him in as he had done with you a few moments prior.

"You will leave, Eris. You don't belong here."

“No," Eris hummed. "I don’t believe I will."

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. “Is this you gaining a backbone, then? Standing up now?”

His eyes widened, face falling slack as his mind raced.

Suddenly, the similarity in your words struck him—words so akin to what his brother had said, to what Morrigan had implied. He paused, a chilling realization settling in.

He had often wondered how different his life might have been had he embraced kindness openly. His mother had been kind—strong, yes, but kind above all. Her kindness sometimes led her to act recklessly, driven by love, putting herself in dangerous positions. Eris’s own coldness had started as a means of self-protection, a shield forged to guard both himself and her. Autumn had never embraced kindness; it was twisted and manipulated, seen as a vulnerability to be exploited. The court’s harsh lessons had taught him that kindness could be turned against one, molded into a weapon of control.

Eris knew he wasn't as compassionate as others, understood that his empathy fell short in ways where it excelled for those around him. Lucien was warmer, his mother had a depth of love that Eris could never match. Yet, he had come to terms with himself. He wasn't ashamed of who he had become. Not anymore.

He had adapted to survive, and in doing so, had ensured the survival of others. He’d shielded his mother, manipulated circumstances to protect his brothers, and wielded influence to carve out a place for himself in the world.

Eris’s gaze locked onto you, his voice low and urgent.

“I need your help.”

"No."

“Please,” he implored, the edge of desperation creeping into his voice.

Usually, that would have worked. But not now.

“No," You snarled. "Leave. This is your last warning.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. "I can make you listen.”

“Then do it,” you challenged. “Why haven’t you?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he ran through his options. “Perhaps I’m being kind.”

You laughed bitterly. “And where has kindness led your family?”

Eris froze. Something cold ran up his spine, something uncomfortable shivering through his skin.

"What does that mean?"

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The silence around him hung heavy and suffocating.

The graves before him were smaller than he’d expected, though not lacking in elegance.

Each stone was meticulously carved from dark granite, their surfaces polished to a somber sheen. Lucien’s grave was engraved with intricate ivy vines, their tendrils curling around the stone like an embrace, while his mother's was adorned with a design of autumn leaves, their veins detailed in delicate relief.

In the center of the clearing stood a statue of The Mother, her arms outstretched in an eternal gesture of welcome or release. The marble was pristine against the surrounding decay, though the base was cloaked in patches of moss and creeping  half-dead ivy, signaling the neglect that had overtaken the once-tended space.

Fallen leaves formed a muted carpet over the ground, their colors ranging from deep russets to golden ambers. Wild grasses and brambles wove through the overgrown paths, and the contrast between the elegant memorials and the wild surroundings told Eris that no one had visited this area in a while— no one had mourned them in person.

Eris crouched beside the graves, his cloak brushing against the cold, smooth stones. His fingers traced the autumn-themed engravings, but the act felt hollow.

It was all wrong.

He needed to return to his own reality, but doubt gnawed at him, bit at his gut like an anxious dog. 

Was his reality even real anymore?

Had this been his life all along?

No, he told himself, it wasn't possible.

He could feel the pulse of power now, a flicker of something deep within. He needed to leave, to fight, to find a way to wake up. Lucien was alive, his mother was alive, you were on your knees by his body, and he was a High Lord.

A crunch broke the silence behind him, and Eris turned, his breath catching as he saw you. He rose to his feet slowly, unaware of the tear streaking down his cheek until your eyes tracked it.

A beat of silence.

"You were always too soft," you finally said.

Eris swallowed, his throat tight. "What are you doing here?"

Time after time, you always seemed to find him.

Even in this world, where everything felt twisted and wrong, where your gaze burned with a hate he had never seen before, you still found him. You stared at him now, with disdain instead of concern, with annoyance instead of curiosity. And yet, you still found him.

Here, at the graves of his family, where the autumn air clung to the stones like a silent witness, you stood before him.

You found him. 

As if you had read his thoughts, as if your mind had come to the same conclusion, you took a deep, unsteady breath. Your eyes flickered with a sense of vulnerability, barely recognizable to anyone— anyone but Eris. 

"I don’t know," you replied. "But I am."

Because, somehow, you always found him.

He stared at you for a moment. "This isn’t right."

Something softened in your features. 

You tilted your head slightly. "Then what is?"

Before he could answer, he heard something—his name. Your voice. The sound of it echoed in the air, tugging at him. Your expression shifted, the you before him mirroring his own confusion as you both looked around. The voice—real. Familiar.

He looked up at the sky, then back at you, but before he could speak, your form began to fade, and the world around him erupted into blinding white.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: eris was cruel at times bc he needed to be!! autumn and beron wouldve chewed him up and spat him out otherwise!!!

as always, thank you for reading <3

eris week/of our own devices tag list 🫶🏻: @i-know-i-can @scarsandallaz @anainkandpaper @ratgirl2020 @nyenye @rcarbo1 @katana180-blog @awkardnerd @hoemadegrace

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

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@angel-graces-world-of-chaos

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Bloody Mary | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, mentions/descriptions of parental death, implication of suicide (take care of yourselves, my loves)

Word Count: 6379

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You and Dean hadn’t talked much since the events on the plane. In fact, the two of you barely looked at each other anymore. Not out of disgust, your stomach just fluttered every time you caught a glimpse of him for reasons you couldn’t explain. You didn’t exactly like him, but you definitely didn’t hate him, either. In fact, your most recent journal drawing had been of your hand wrapped in Dean’s. You smiled at the memory.

Sam slept in the front seat while Dean drove the three of you to Toledo, Ohio. You had actually been the one to find this case. Steven Shoemaker’s eyes had bled when he died. According to his obituary, his death had been swift. He was much too young to have had a stroke or an aneurysm, and seemed to be in good health. Therefore, you concluded this was your kind of gig. 

Sam began to stir, catching your attention. You straightened in your seat as the Impala came to a halt in front of a large hospital complex. Sam’s stirring and whimpering was getting worse by the second.

Dean shook his brother. “Sam, wake up.”

He bolted straight up, confused, taking both you and Dean by surprise. After taking a second to catch his breath, he said, “I take it I was having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, another one,” Dean reminded him.

“Hey, at least I got some sleep.” Sam’s faux optimism caused you to shake your head. 

“You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.” 

Apparently, Sam was choosing the latter. “Are we here?” he asked.

Dean was happy to drop the subject, too. “Yup. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

The three of you began to approach the morgue wing of the hospital. You noticed Sam was holding the newspaper you’d circled Mr. Shoemaker’s death in. “So what do you think really happened to this guy?”

“That's what we're gonna find out. Ladies first,” you joked, holding the door to the first floor of the hospital open for the brothers. 

After making your way through the labyrinth of hallways, you found the dimly lit and vacated morgue. In the large room were two desks. One was labeled with a nameplate for Dr. D. Feiklowicz with neatly stacked packets, files, and books atop it. The other was a chaotic mess of stray papers labeled “Morgue Technician.”

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yeah. We're the, uh, med students,” Dean responded.

“Sorry?” the morgue tech asked.

“Oh, Doctor—” Dean gave his best shot at the name, “—Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He— uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemaker corpse. It's for our paper.”

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.” The morgue tech was smug, snarky, and clearly lacked people skills.

‘No wonder they have him locked up down here,’ you thought.

Dean changed course. “Oh, well, he said, uh— oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?”

“Sorry, I can't.” The morgue tech gave a tight-lipped smile. “Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.”

“An hour? Ooh. We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then,” Dean tried. “Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out—”

“Uh, look, man,” the technician mocked, “No.”

Dean laughed a little and turned around, mumbling. “I'm gonna hit him in his face I swear.”

You took the opportunity to try a different tactic. You leaned down on the morgue technician’s desk, doing your best to take advantage of the fact that he probably has had little contact with women. “Please?” you asked innocently. “These guys are my tutors. I’m really struggling in this class, and I just—” you bit your lip, “—I really need a good grade on this paper.” You used your arms to push your breasts together. “Please?” 

You could tell you had him on the ropes. “Uh…” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cleavage. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I guess I could do that for you.”

You smiled innocently. “Thank you so much.”

He began leading the three of you into an attached room to where the bodies were stored for autopsies. You turned around and winked at the boys with a smug smile. Dean rolled his eyes.

The morgue technician pulled the rack Steven Shoemaker’s corpse rested on out from the wall of stainless steel cells.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding,” Sam said.

The technician pulled the sheet back from over Steven’s face. “More than that. They practically liquefied.” The poor man’s eye sockets were still bloody, and they hadn’t yet been sewn shut. You could see the dried blood peeking out from under his partially-closed eyes. 

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean suggested.

“Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone,” the technician answered.

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam asked.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.”

‘Nope, he’s way too young and in much too good health for that to have been the cause,’ you thought, but kept the thought at bay.

“What do you mean?” you asked. You didn’t like playing dumb, but with this guy, it was necessary. 

“Intense cerebral bleeding. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen,” the tech answered. Although, he was more responding to your boobs than to your face. You fought the urge to snap in front of his face and get his eyes back on target. 

“The eyes?” Sam asked. “What would cause something like that?”

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims,” the morgue tech shrugged.

Dean’s tone was still aggravated with the guy. “Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?”

“That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor.”

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper.”

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” The technician looked back at you.

You suppressed the bile rising in your throat. Before you could do anything else, Dean stepped in front of you and pulled out his wallet. He shoved two twenties at him, hoping that would be enough. You could see the technician deflate, but accepted the money anyway.

Dean’s actions puzzled you. But you would be lying if you said your heart didn’t flutter at the thought of him doing it out of protectiveness of you. 

When you had finished looking over the police report, the three of you began making your way out of the building. 

“Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing,” Sam suggested after having seen the report. 

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean replied. 

“Uh, almost never.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, let's go talk to the daughter.” Sam started picking up his pace out of the building. You were happy to see him getting his mind off Jessica and back into the job.

“Wait, Dean.” You grabbed his arm lightly before he could catch up to his brother.

He turned to face you. 

“Why’d you do that?” you asked. 

“Do what?” He furrowed his brow.

“Give the morgue tech your hard-earned poker money,” you half-smiled. 

“I just didn’t wanna watch you prostitute yourself for information,” he replied gruffly, turning away from you. 

You took offense. “Hey, I was not—”

He turned back to you and brushed a hand over his hair. “You’re right, you werent.” He paused again, and his voice came back quiet. “I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, ‘s all.”

Your heart swelled in your chest and your cheeks began to heat up. “Thanks, by the way,” you said as you continued walking. You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You’re going soft on me, Winchester.”

***

When you arrived at the Shoemaker house, you hadn’t expected to be in the midst of the funeral gathering. If you did, you would’ve dressed more appropriately. Given this fact, you felt slightly awkward when you knocked on the door. A man let you in and pointed you toward the backyard and the two daughters of Steven Shoemaker.

The two sisters were sitting with two blonde girls near the firepit. Dean addressed the older, dark-haired girl. “You must be Donna, right?”

“Yeah,” the girl responded.

“Hi, uh, we're really sorry,” Sam lamented.

“Thank you.”

“I'm Sam, this is Dean and (Y/N). We worked with your dad.”

The girl looked at her friend before looking back at your trio. “You did?” She seemed surprised. 

“Yeah. This whole thing. I mean, a stroke…” Sam trailed off.

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now,” one of Donna’s pretty blonde friends spoke up. 

“It's okay. I'm okay,” she assured her friend. 

“Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?” Dean asked.

Donna shook her head. “No.”

The younger sister, who looked to be about twelve, turned around. “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

You were intrigued.

“Lily, don't say that,” her sister urged her.

“What do you mean?” you asked the young girl.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset,” her sister responded for her.

“No,” Lily wasn’t having it. “It happened because of me.”

Donna placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetie, it didn't.”

You got down on Lily’s eye level. “Why would you say that?”

“Right before he died, I said it,” she said softly.

“Said what?”

She lowered her voice even more. “Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror. She took his eyes, that's what she does.”

Donna interrupted. “That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.”

“I think your sister's right, Lily,” Dean broke in. “There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?”

Lily tried to take this in. She shook her head. 

“Exactly,” you told her. “I’m sorry, we weren’t trying to upset you. We’ll just be leaving.” You pulled the boys away from Donna’s group and went back into the house. Making sure no one saw you three, you crept upstairs to the bathroom where Mr. Shoemaker passed away. 

Sam pushed the door open, and you noticed some dried blood still on the floor. “The Bloody Mary legend. Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?”

“Not that I know of,” Dean replied. He walked ahead of Sam into the bathroom. 

Sam stooped to the floor and touched the dried blood. “I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.”

“Yeah, but maybe it’s fine everywhere else, but not here,” you suggested.

“The place where the legend began?” Sam tried.

You shrugged as Dean opened the medicine cabinet. 

“But according to the legend, the person who says B—” you stopped yourself and noticed your reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. “You know what is the one that dies. But here—”

“Shoemaker gets it instead, yeah,” Dean finished for you.

Sam rose from the floor. “Right.”

“Never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you-know-who scratches your eyes out.”

You considered Dean’s words for a moment. “It's worth checking in to.” You went to leave the bathroom when you noticed one of Donna’s pretty blonde friends approaching you.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked. 

“We— We had to go to the bathroom,” you answered, not believing yourself.

“Who are you?” the girl pressed further.

Dean stepped closer to you from behind. “Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad.”

She shook her head with scrunched eyebrows. “He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.”

“No, I know, I meant—” 

She cut Dean off. “And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.”

Sam put a hand up to calm her. “Alright, alright, we think something happened to Donna's dad.”

The blonde looked at you three like you were stupid. “Yeah, a stroke.”

“I don’t think so,” you argued. “He was pretty young to be having a stroke. His eyes wouldn’t have liquified if he’d had a stroke. I think it might be something else.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms. “Like what?’

“Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth,” Sam responded.

“So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead,” Dean snarked.

“Who are you, cops?” she asked, her brows still furrowed.

“Something like that,” you shrugged.

“I'll tell you what. Here.” Sam took a piece of paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote his phone number down. “If you think of anything, you or your friends notice anything strange, out of the ordinary, just give us a call.” He handed her the piece of paper before leading you and Dean down the hallway.

Your next stop was the public library. 

“Alright, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town,” Dean began. “There's gonna be some sort of proof— Like a local woman who died nasty.”

“Yeah, but this is hard. The legend is unbelievably widespread with hundreds of different versions of who she actually is,” you rebutted. “One story says she's a witch, another says she's a mutilated bride, there's a lot more.”

“Okay, then, so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asked you.

Sam answered. “Every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers, public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.”

“Well, that sounds annoying,” the older brother commented. 

“No, it won't be so bad,” Sam replied, “As long as we…”

You cleared your throat, gesturing to the only two computers in the library that had “Out of Order” signs on them. 

Sam chuckled humorlessly. “I take it back. This will be very annoying.”

The three of you picked up boxes of the town’s newspapers and numerous books of Toledo’s public records and brought them back to Sam and Dean’s motel room. 

You were beginning to go cross-eyed after reading for so long. Minutes turned into hours. Dean was sitting in a chair, you were sprawled across the floor with papers and books scattered around you, and Sam eventually fell asleep.

You stood up to stretch your legs and noticed his closed eyes. “Poor fella,” you said quietly. “How’s he been sleeping?”

“How d’you think?” Dean responded, eyes never leaving his book.

You nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Maybe we should get him to take something,” you suggested.

Dean chuckled. “He won’t do it.”

“Is it just because I’m suggesting it that you’re saying that, or do you really think he won’t take it?” you countered.

He gave you a deadpan expression. 

“You Winchesters are just about the most stubborn people I’ve ever met in my life. Including your dad,” you jested. You heard Dean chuckle a little, too.

“And I wanted to tell you,” you started, “I understand why you’d suspect me in your dad’s disappearance.”

He looked away from his book and over at you. “What do you mean?”

“What you said back in Colorado? The Wendigo case? I get it.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re still on that?”

“I mean, yeah, that was just about the most heated fight we’ve had. It kinda stuck with me,” you answered honestly, looking down at your stripey-sock-covered feet. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I understand.”

A moment passed silently.

“And I, um—” you took a deep breath, “I want you to trust me.” You looked back at Dean who was studying you carefully.

The tense moment was interrupted by Sam jolting awake in his bed. “Why'd you let me fall asleep?”

“Cause I'm an awesome brother.” Dean’s attention was back on his book. “So what did you dream about?”

“Lollipops and candy canes,” the younger brother responded hazily while staring up at the ceiling.

You laughed humorlessly.

“Did you guys find anything?” Sam asked.

“Oh, besides a whole new level of frustration?” Dean responded sarcastically. “No. I've looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror—”

“And a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave—” you chimed in.

“But no Mary,” Dean finished for you.

“Maybe we just haven't found it yet,” Sam tried.

“I've also been searching for strange deaths in the area, you know… eyeball bleeding, that sort of thing. There's nothing. Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary,” Dean said.

Sam’s phone rang just as his brother finished talking. “Hello?” A look of concern crossed his face. He was trying to calm whoever it was on the other end down.

You waited until he got off the phone to bombard him with questions. “What? What happened?”

“Charlie,” he told you. “Her friend’s dead.”

***

Charlie sobbed as she relayed the story of what happened to her friend Jill. “And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her— her eyes. They were gone.”

You had met her in a park not an hour after she had called Sam.

“I'm sorry,” the latter responded.

“And she said it,” Charlie told you. “I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?”

“No, you're not insane,” you said.

“Oh, god, that makes me feel so much worse.” You feared that might be the case.

Sam was honest with her. “Look. We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained.”

“And we're gonna stop it,” Dean assured Charlie, “but we could use your help.”

You knew exactly where Dean was going with this. And thankfully, Charlie obliged. She snuck you and the boys into Jill’s room through the window. Dean and Sam gave you a boost into the second story room before throwing up Dean’s duffel bag.

“What did you tell Jill's mom?” you asked Charlie.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things,” she replied simply. “I hate lying to her.”

You heard someone closing the blinds and curtains behind you. “Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights,” Dean instructed her.

She obeyed but asked, “What are you guys looking for?”

“We'll let you know as soon as we find it,” the older brother responded.

Sam handed you a digital camera. “Hey, night vision!” You turned it on. You aimed the camera at Dean.

“Do I look like Paris Hilton?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing an amused smile. You walked over to Jill’s closet door and began filming the mirror on it. 

“So I don't get it,” Sam began. “I mean, the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?”

You shrugged. 

“Beats me,” Dean answered. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke,” Charlie replied.

“Yeah, well somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time.”

You had made your way over to the bathroom and filmed around the mirror. You stopped when you noticed a trickle of something running from behind it. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?” He came over to you. 

“Look at this.” You showed him the substance oozing from behind the mirror.

Sam looked to his brother. “There's a black light in the trunk, right?” 

While Dean left to get the light, you and Sam pulled the mirror off the wall. When Dean returned, you could see a handprint and the name “Gary Bryman” illuminated by the black light. 

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie asked.

You looked up at her. “You know who that is?”

She shook her head. “No.”

You learned from Sam’s research and Charlie that Jill had killed Gary Bryman, an eight-year-old boy, in a hit and run accident. Dean then decided you needed to return to Donna’s house. When you pulled the medicine cabinet mirror off the wall, sure enough, there was another handprint and the name “Linda Shoemaker.” You learned from Donna that her mother had overdosed on sleeping pills. You had left Charlie at Donna’s house to comfort her friend after you and the boys had upset her with your questions about her mother’s death. 

You then traveled to Fort Wayne, Indiana to investigate the death of a woman named Mary Worthington. She had died the same way these victims were; bleeding from the sockets where her eyes used to be. You spoke to the detective who was the lead on her case. He believed she spent her last moments trying to expose her killer she was having an affair with. She went as far as to start spelling out the name of her killer in her own blood on the back of her mirror. She only got to the third letter of her killer’s name before passing away. It made complete sense to you that her spirit would spend its time exposing the secrets of other murderers. Mary Worthington’s body had been cremated, but the mirror she wrote on had been returned to her family. Now, you and the boys were trying to track down where that mirror had ended up. 

“Oh really?” Sam responded to the man on the phone. “Ah, that's too bad Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot for that mirror… Okay, well maybe next time… Alright, thanks.” He hung up.

“So?” you asked.

“So that was Mary's brother,” he informed you. “The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques. A store in Toledo.”

Dean momentarily looked away from the road to his brother. “So wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes?” 

“Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow,” Sam responded.

“Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?” you chimed in.

“Yeah, there is. Yeah, when someone would die in a house people would cover up the mirrors so the ghost wouldn't get trapped.”

Dean connected the dots. “So Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit.”

“Yeah, but how could she move through like a hundred different mirrors?” you challenged.

“I don't know, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it.”

“Yeah, I don't know, maybe,” Sam sighed. His phone rang. “Hello?... Charlie?”

***

You and the boys picked up Charlie and brought her to the motel you were staying in. You and the Winchesters were busying yourselves with covering every reflective surface in Sam and Dean’s room with sheets, blankets, jackets; anything. Charlie’s gorgeous blonde hair was knotted and messy, her eyes were puffy from crying but remained closed, and her knees were drawn into her chest. 

Sam sat on the bed next to Charlie. “Hey, hey, it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes Charlie. It's okay, alright?”

She looked up slowly. 

“Now listen,” he began softly. “You're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? And as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?” Charlie’s voice trembled.

“No. No. Not anytime soon,” the brunet assured her. 

You sat on the floor in front of her and put a hand on her knee. “We need to know what happened, babe.”

“We were in the bathroom.” Her eyes brimmed with tears again. “Donna said it.”

“That's not what we're talking about,” Dean stated. There was something dark behind his tone. “Something happened, didn't it? In your life— .a secret— where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?”

The tears were flowing from her eyes now. “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know? And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said "Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself." And you know what I said? I said "Go ahead." And I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She pulled her knees back to her chest and buried her face between them. 

You felt completely horrible for her. But there was no time for a therapy session because you and the boys were off to that Toledo antique store where Mary’s mirror was being kept.

Dean sped down the road despite the pouring rain which you deeply wanted to protest against. You remained silent anyway.

“You know, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault.” Dean broke the silence.

“You know spirits don't exactly see shades of gray, Dean. Charlie had a secret, somebody died, and that's good enough for Mary,” you told him.

“I guess,” he shrugged.

“You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror,” Sam chimed in.

Dean turned his head to his brother. “Why, what do you mean?”

“Well, Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean she moves around from mirror to mirror, so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it.”

“Well, how do you know that's going to work?” Dean asked. 

Sam shook his head. “I don't; not for sure.”

“Well who's gonna summon her?” his brother’s tone got a little panicked.

“I will. She'll come after me,” Sam replied solemnly.

“You know what, that's it.” Dean pulled over to the side of the road. “This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night— it's gonna kill you. Now, listen to me, it wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place.”

“I don't blame you.” Sam’s voice cracked.

“Well, you shouldn't blame yourself, because there's nothing you could've done,” Dean responded sharply.

Sam tried to shake his emotion away. “I could've warned her.”

“About what? You didn't know what was gonna happen! And besides, all of this isn't a secret, I mean I know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway,” Dean said.

“No you don't,” was all Sam could muster.

“I don't what?” 

“You don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything.”

You had been trying to stay out of it, but couldn’t hold it back anymore. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?” 

You and Dean were taken aback. “No. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it.” 

“Guys, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it. And you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now we're doing this. You've got to let me do this.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel, clenched his jaw, and pulled back out onto the road. The air was heavy and tense in the car. You sat back in your chair with your arms crossed over your chest. No one spoke for the rest of the drive.

When you reached the shop, you picked the lock on the door to reveal dozens of mirrors. 

“Well, that's just great,” Dean grumbled. He pulled out the picture you’d gotten from the detective in Indiana of Mary’s body next to the mirror. “Alright, let's start looking.”

The three of you split up. You were an incredibly detail-oriented person, but even still, all of the mirrors seemed the same to you. 

“Maybe they've already sold it,” Dean called from across the room.

Your flashlight came to rest on a mirror you could swear you’d seen before. “I don't think so. C’mere, Dean.”

He came over to you and held up the photo to the mirror. And sure enough, it was a match. 

“You sure about this?” Dean asked his brother. 

Sam nodded and handed you his flashlight. Taking a deep breath, he says, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”

You whipped your head in the direction of a light coming through the store.

“I'll go check that out. Stay here, be careful,” Dean ordered. “Smash anything that moves.” He crawled away from you and you heard him distantly say, “Crap.”

You paid no mind to Dean as you tightened your grip on the crowbar. 

You heard a whooshing sound behind you and wheeled around. In the mirror was Mary. You sprang to action and smashed your crowbar through the dead center of it. 

You could hear a distorted version of Sam’s voice coming from behind you, but before you could aid him, your own reflection caught your attention. It wasn’t quite syncing with your movements; instead looking at you menacingly. 

Before you could move to hit it, you felt an insane pressure coming from behind your eyes, your throat constricted, and blood began to ooze down your face. 

“You can’t keep running, (Y/N),” your reflection told you. “How could you? How could you be so careless?”

The blood dripping from your eyes began to mix with your tears. You didn’t have enough breath to protest. You began to sink to the floor, the crowbar clanging to the ground.

“It’s your fault that they’re gone. Why didn’t you try harder? Why didn’t you fight to keep them alive? Why did you have to kill them? Your guilt should eat you alive. You don’t deserve another family. You know you don’t deserve to be happy again. You know your recklessness will get these boys killed, too. You are so selfish! And your brother! If you hadn’t done what you did, he would still be alive, too. You are worthless. All you bring is death and—” 

The pressure around your throat released when Dean’s crowbar went through the mirror. He barely spared you a second look before going over to his brother. 

“Sam, Sammy!” you heard from behind you. 

You clutched at your throat and began to cry. You knew Dean had turned cold once more because he heard what your reflection said.

Sam groaned in pain as you saw Dean shouldering his brother and pulling him toward the exit of the shop. 

“C’mon, (Y/N),” Sam urged you. 

You shakily stood and did your best to follow the brothers out. Your dizziness caused you to fall back down to the ground on top of shards of glass, making you yelp as they pierced your hands. 

“Help her, Dean!” you heard Sam demand. 

Dean came to your side, clearly in no hurry, and cradled you in his arms. Before he could get anymore than two steps, you noticed Mary crawling out of the frame of her original mirror. Her dark hair was matted and fell in front of her face. Her dress was tattered, and her limbs moved in an inhuman manner; cracking with every movement. You and Dean were sent flying across the floor toward Sam, and the bleeding of your eyes started again.

You looked to the mirror inches from your head. Despite your weakness, you forced yourself to grab it and turn its face toward Mary.

“You killed them!” you heard her reflection cry. “All those people! You killed them!” Mary started choking just as you had and then melted into a pool of blood on the ground. You threw the mirror you’d been holding and shattered it completely.

You dropped your head back to the floor.

“Hey Sam?” you heard Dean say.

“Yeah?”

“This has got to be like,what, six hundred years of bad luck?” the older brother joked. 

Sam chuckled weakly. You couldn’t even muster up a laugh due to the bile rising in your throat. Memories were eating away at you, and the fact that Dean had heard your reflection was only adding to your anxiety. Your breath began to quicken, but you did your best to soothe yourself.

“(Y/N).” Sam drew you out of your trance. “Can you stand?” 

You tried your best to, but couldn’t. Dean squatted down next to you. “C’mon.” He motioned for you to let him carry you. You complied. You looked up at his chiseled face. You swore he was handcrafted by the gods; perhaps Adonis himself. Your hazy mind couldn’t focus on anything aside from his beautiful green eyes. You had so much to say to him about what he’d heard. You knew he didn’t think highly of you, but your relationship had begun to get better. You didn’t want, well, you, to ruin it all now. 

“Dean, I—” you started.

He cut you off. “We’ll talk later,” he said gruffly. Despite his cold and guarded tone, he put you down gently in the back of the Impala.

You ended up falling asleep in the back of the Impala. When you next awoke, you had been tucked into your bed in the motel. Your boots had been discarded, your jacket had been removed, and your key that you kept in your jacket pocket was now on the nightstand beside you. The gesture was sweet, but your mind immediately started reeling about the conversation you needed to have with Dean. 

You checked the clock; it was ten in the morning. You were surprised how late you had slept, and figured the boys had dropped Charlie off; potentially had even left town without you. Your anxiety getting the best of you, you rushed over to their door. Dean opened it when you knocked.

“Hey,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he echoed.

“Can we talk?”

He nodded. 

You led Dean back to your room. You sat cross-legged on your bed and Dean chose the chair across from you.

“Okay, um,” you sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Who’d you kill, (Y/N)?” came his straightforward and dry response. “Why did it say you’d get us killed, too?”

You looked down at the floor, the tears beginning to well up in your waterline. “I wanna tell you, I just—”

“Look at me.” His voice was firm.

You did.

“I need to know.”

You took a deep breath. “When I was eighteen, I was coming back home from one of my first solo hunts. My dad had sent me to take out a vampire nest on the edge of the town we were staying in. There were only three vamps there at the time. I got so excited that I had nuked them all, I didn’t account for the fact that all three of them seemed like newbies. I didn’t… register, I guess, that one or more was probably missing.” You averted his gaze, struggling to keep your voice level. “And so, I left. I went back to the house we were squatting in, and, um, one of them followed me.” Tears began to roll down your cheeks.

“Sweetheart, that’s not your—”

You shook your head. “It is. He turned them, Dean. He turned my mom and my dad. I— I had no choice. I had to—” Your sentence was cut off by a sob, but Dean understood what you meant. You wiped a hand over your face and did your best to continue your story. “I sat with their bodies for a long time after. When my brother came back and saw what I’d done, he drew his gun on me. He, um, he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t let me explain. He couldn’t shoot me, though. He… He just… left. And then— And then, his best friend called me a few days later.” The tears came back. “He found my brother’s car.” You pressed a hand to your mouth. “And he was dead in it.” Broken sobs wracked your body once again. “It’s my fault that they’re gone, Dean, it’s my fault.”

You couldn’t bear to look at him. You knew how disgusted he must be with you. And then, you felt the bed dip beside you. Then, a hand on your arm. Then, he pulled you to his chest, and you melted into his embrace. Your cries still shook your body, but Dean’s strong arms held you together. He sat with you like that for a long time. 

You and the boys had decided to leave Toledo sooner rather than later after Sam told you what Dean had done to the cops in front of the antique store. Long after leaving Toledo, Dean broke the comfortable silence that had settled over the car.

“Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.”

The younger Winchester sighed. “Look, you're my brother and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself.”

Your eyes remained trained on Sam as he looked out the window at something you were passing by. His expression went from confused to scared to saddened, and you knew he was seeing Jessica. After all, you had no doubt your face mirrored his every time you saw your mom standing on a street corner or your dad’s bloodied body lying in your footpath. In time, you knew he would learn to live with it just as you had. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz

[storeecbrcod]

In light of recent events (watch your back, Activision), I’d like to share a domestic Ghoap thought, or add to an existing one.

Soap and Ghost, living together. Whether it’s on leave, or after their time in the military, whatever. Usually, they take turns cooking; Soap is a good cook, whipping up delicious and hearty meals like his hands were guided by God himself (even if it looked closer to a failing juggling act despite the results, much to Ghost’s amusement). Ghost likes cooking, even if his food isn’t as good as Soap’s, because he likes doing things for Soap to help him. He likes taking some pressure off of his partner if he’s had a bad or tiring day (acts of service, amiright?).

Soap loves cooking. It occupies his mind, it’s something he’s got a natural knack for, and the end result is always worth the effort. While he’s never been one for instructions, he’s always shadowed his mam in the kitchen, which has compounded over the years despite not really having a space to cook since he was 18 unless he was on leave. All in all, it’s cathartic and helps him overcome his pestering perfectionism with small accidents that have no effect on the heavenly result, most of the time.

One day, Johnny tried baking. Unlike cooking, it’s not quite as smooth. Whether it’s baking paper that won’t rip right and won’t sit in the tray, or accidentally messing up the measurements, or having to go out to the store again because he forgot something, or trying his hardest to stir every little lump out of the batter, it just isn’t working right. He’s frustrated, struggling to understand why nothing was working as the recipe says it should, and he’s about ready to throw the batch of still lumpy batter at the wall.

Ghost, having been out on some errands, walks into the apartment to complete silence. There was always some sort of noise; music, tv, Soap’s own humming or playful singing or laughter. Now, though, it was eerily quiet, and Ghost couldn’t help but revert to creeping around silently, trying to find Soap.

When he enters the kitchen, he sees a scene. Flour spilled onto the counter and ground, a batter-covered spatula lying on the counter surrounded by opened containers of ingredients, and a metal bowl of batter sitting amongst it all, alone. As Ghost rounded the island, he found Soap sitting on the ground, legs out in front of him and his back against the corner of the cabinets.

If it wasn’t for the pure defeat on Soap’s face, Ghost would have laughed. Instead, he sighed, his concern melting to calm. He placed his wallet, keys, and handful of mail on an empty space of counter, then sat next to Soap on the floor in silence for a few minutes. He could practically feel the frustration rolling off of the other man, Soap’s jaw clenching and unclenching in silent irritation.

“What do you call a baker holding sugar in both his hands?”

Silence.

“Ambidextrous.”

A reluctant snicker later, Soap’s burying his face against Ghost’s shoulder, groaning.

“Ye’r fuckin’ insufferable, Lt.”

“And you’re a useless baker.”

“Aye.”

“C’mon, I’ll help.”

Ghost helps Soap finish up, fixing the batter as much as he could and setting it in the baking tray. They cleaned up as it baked, though somehow Ghost ended up with a face full of flour, and Soap ended up with his shit-eating grin being wiped off his face in surprise when a white handprint ended up on his ass with an accompanying chuckle.

When the offending brownies were finally done, they tried them.

“Steamin’ Jesus, these are incredible.”

“Not bad.”

“What d’ye mean? They’re beautiful, Simon!”

“Needed salt. And batter was over beaten, but yeah. Not bad.”

For Soap, it was yet another surprising thing he’s learnt about Simon in his time of knowing him. He was a damn good baker, a talent he’ll be looking to take advantage of in the future.

For Ghost, it was the first time in a long time where the memories of his childhood weren’t exclusively bad. Right now, with Johnny, he could almost feel his mother’s hands on his shoulders, a whispered “Good job, baby,” breathed against his ear like she used to in their own kitchen, with their own batch of brownies.

[chaibewriting]

A DOLLAR MAKE 'IM HOLLER (pt. three)

yandere! gang leader! sanemi shinazugawa x chubby! black! fem! reader x yandere! gang leader! katsuki bakugou

masterlist. part one. part two.

-> NOTES: my bad y'all, didn't mean to take so long with this part, but life was happening, however, i'm somewhat pleased with the way that this turned out and I hope that this chapter was worth the wait, the next chapter will be even more of a conundrum. be on the look out for that one soon because I've already started writin' it. -> WARNINGS: threatening messages, unknown numbers, stalking, manipulation. -> WORD COUNT: 5.2k

FALLING asleep after such experiencing such a terrifying chain of events was no easy fret, however, you managed to somehow fall into a dreamless sleep. Perhaps you were outwardly glad to not be back alone at your apartment and your long time best friend sleeping beside you managed to put you at ease. You were grateful for her and Tanjiro, they had come rushing to your aid as soon as you’d called out for them. Asking for assistance or help of any kind was a bit of a struggle for you at times, especially considering how you were raised.

As the sun began to rise, revealing itself through the window of Nezuko’s bedroom, you stirred in your sleep and slowly opened your eyes, lids fluttering as they adjust to your surroundings. To your surprise and sudden realization, Nezuko had scooted closer to you in her sleep and wrapped an arm protectively around your waist with her cheek squished against your back, effectively spooning you from behind. Fortunately, it was a rather cold season so the extra warmth was welcomed, even if it was by surprise. Then again, Nezuko always had a tendency to be a bit of a cuddle bug in her sleep, you had learned to live with it, finding it somewhat endearing.

Carefully, you lifted her arm just a smidge, enough to slip from her hold and sit up, then carefully tucked the pillow you’d been laying your head on under her arm, which she immediately cuddled to her chest.

When your feet touched the floor on the side of the bed, you sighed, reaching up to rub at your temples for a moment of clarity. The memories of the previous day were coming back to you slowly, but still all equally frightening. Suddenly, you look towards the nearby dresser where you recently left your phone and something /told/ you to get up and look at it. Your intuition screamed for you to, and so, you do exactly that, relatively slowly but you still manage to stand up and shuffle towards the dresser. Sharply inhaling, you snatch up your phone, and thanks to oh-so-wonderful technology and its ability to detect motion, your screen flashed on and previews of notifications appeared, one new message waiting to be read. After unlocking your phone you hesitated for a moment's time, but your finger betrayed you as you opened the message to full-screen and nearly vomited after reading what you’d been sent. Squeezing the device in your hand, you were sure that if you were any stronger you would have crushed it in your hands.

Nothing had prepared you when there was a sudden blare of an alarm behind you, causing you to yelp and nearly jump a foot off the ground, dropping your phone in the process.

Fucking Apple alarms…

Rising like a vampire from a coffin, Nezuko sits up straight in her bed and yawns, scratching at the back of her neck and grunting when she realizes some hair had slipped from the bonnet she was wearing (something you had so graciously gifted her last Christmas). You were frozen, still processing the threatening message and calming your racing heartbeat after being frightened by Nezuko’s alarm, and when she finally turned it off, your shoulders drooped, followed by a silent sigh.

Once she finally took note of your standing form, your back still facing her, Nezuko squinted and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands before she said your name, voice laced with worry.

“Y/N…? What are you doing standing up? Did something happen?”

Her question brings you back down to reality enough for you to finally squat down and retrieve your unscathed phone from the floor, silently moving to her side of the bed to hand the device to her.

Fortunately, the screen hadn’t locked and the message in its entirety stayed clearly displayed and allowed for the brunette to read what you were showing her. There was nothing but silence on her end as she stared down at your phone, gripping it nearly as tightly as you had when you’d first read the text. The silence was deafening as she did nothing but stare at your phone for a few minutes, obviously deep in thought seeing how her brows were knitted in the middle of her forehead and her lips were pursued in a focused pout.

When she finally did something, she inhaled sharply and turned your phone screen off, setting it face down on the bed while she pinched and massaged the bridge of her nose.

“You’re staying with me until things blow over, and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Y/N. This has just gotten a whole lot creepier.” She finally said, dropping her hand and turning her head to look at you. Staring back at her, you pondered her words, rubbing at your arm in a moment of deep thought. Once again, you didn’t wish to be babied but right now, you were glad that she was offering for you to stay with her. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to step foot in your apartment right now, let alone go back to staying there /alone./

Nezuko promptly waited for you to start putting on a strong front, ready for a debate about your safety, but she was surprised when you slowly nodded your head, no words leaving your mouth. Your reaction caused a frown to appear on her face as she stood up and walked towards you, opening her arms and beckoning you to her. Carefully, you went to snake your arms around her waist and she hugged you back, squeezing you in a gentle way that always had the tendency to make you feel safe.

…

Thanks to this new development, you didn’t feel up to going to work today which led to you having to call your second-in-command at the restaurant— Pony. You didn’t give too much detail, knowing that she would start to worry for your safety, and instead said you just needed a couple days to break. Luckily, she understood and said to take all the time you needed to before the phone call had ended. Now, you were seated at the dining table in the kitchen of Nezuko’s house, slowly consuming the breakfast that she and you had conjured up together. You’d showered, done your hygiene routine, and got dressed before coming out to eat, even if your appetite was nowhere to be found. Nezuko soon joined you and took a seat across from you at the table, eager to start scarfing down the food in front of her, she always did have quite the appetite.

“Wanna come to work with me?”

Your friend suddenly asked, shifting some rice and rolled egg around on her plate. You looked up from your plate and thought about her suggestion. If she were to leave the house, you’d be left alone again. To your thoughts, to your fears, and to everything in-between. Such thoughts caused you to start chewing at your bottom lip, nearly ripping some skin off in doing so. It took a bit of arranging of said thoughts before you were able to exhale before nodding your head, finally speaking up for the first time since you’d woken up.

“Sure… I don’t think I’ll be able to stay here alone all-day, at least if I go to work with you I can help around and keep my mind busy.” It sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself than giving reason to her but she simply smiled and nodded at your words. But then a thought came to mind on your end once you realized a bit of an issue that made the hairs stand on the back of your neck. “I think— I’m gonna have to go back to my apartment to pick up some more clothes, I didn’t pack much.”

Such words caused Nezuko to pause and stare down at her plate for a moment, tapping the ends of her chopsticks against the porcelain while she thought. And then she seemed to have a plan come to fruition as she went back to eating nonchalantly.

“We can just call Mirko then, I’m sure she’ll come running if we tell her what’s going on.”

“Ugh, and she’ll probably come with a lecture about me missing her and Mitsuri’s self-defense classes.” You murmured, already hearing what the woman would say to you as soon as she caught wind of what was going on in your life currently.

This caused your best friend to only laugh and shake her head, deciding that she should finish off her breakfast before the day would continue on.

Nezuko was the one to make the call since you didn’t have any desire to touch your phone at the moment, still a bit spooked by the threatening message, rightfully so. The two of you had plopped down onto the couch in the living room as the phone rang, waiting for your enthusiastic friend to answer on her end.

“Nezu? What’s got you callin’ so early? Need me to come and do some heavy lifting at the shop?” Her somewhat raspy voice asked, nothing but energy in her tone, along with the sound of something in the background. It sounded like she was lifting weights. Typical.

“Hey Mir'! No no, there’s no need for that, but I do have another request, or I guess I should say /we/ have a request. Are you busy right now?”

The sound of movement on the other end, as well as a groan was heard before Mirko sighed out a reply. “Nope. Whatcha need?” The brunette then looked at you, silently urging you to go on and say something. With a gulp, you mentally prepared for whatever Mirko would say next, and with a shaky greeting you gave a brief summary of the things that happened and what ‘request’ you were making for her.

…

Once you were done, probably putting in a few more details than necessary, the other line was silent, almost as if the woman’s brain was processing all of what you’d said—- which was more than likely the truth.

And then, with a sharp inhale she spoke up.

“Y/N…” She started by saying your name in a scolding manner, making you freeze up and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for what was to come next.

“Why did you keep this a secret for so long?! You should have told someone! That’s so goddamn creepy and weird! Of course I’ll come and escort you too! I swear to Bugz Bunny if I get my hands on that stalkery piece of shit I’ll grind 'em into protein power 'n make them into a motherfucking shake. I’m comin’ over right now.” Mirko rambled, you could already hear her moving around swiftly, you could even hear people calling out to her when she shoved them aside to get out of her way.

“Gimme like ten— no, fuck that, give me five minutes.” She stated before ending the call, you could only imagine what kind of laws she would probably break to get there.

Mirko was right, it didn't take her ten minutes to get to Nezuko's place, in fact, it took her a record breaking amount of three..that woman is a terrifying force to be reckoned with. That was something unspoken but her getting here in such a short time frame further solidifies that fact. And before you knew it, she was sitting at the table with you and Nezuko, finishing off whatever the two of you hadn't finished eating. You still don't know how it happened, it was almost like she'd teleported into the dining room, but you knew better not to question it and just go with the flow.

"So, do you think you know the stalker? Maybe it's an old classmate or something." Mirko began, enjoying a spoonful of rice as she glanced between you and Nezuko with curiosity. "Classmate? Huh. That would make a lot of sense, there were a couple of weirdos that used to smell your hair and stuff when you weren't looking." Nezuko added, starting to sip some tea from her mug. You glanced towards her with a baffled look, this was the first time you'd heard of this. "Eh!? Since when?! You never told me that???"

The woman coughed nervously and waved her hand around. "I didn't wanna worry you, plus they only did it once, then I told Tanjiro about what happened and he took care of the rest."

Both you and Mirko stopped everything you were doing and looked at your brunette friend, staring her down as she smiled and continued to nonchalantly enjoy her tea. Then, you looked at one another before giving each other a look that spoke millions of words.

"Scary..."

...

Fortunately, Mirko's presence aided in soothing you both, she was a tiny little thing but had the spitfire of at least one hundred great beasts with a smile that often set your worries aside. And in no time, with her help and Nezuko's, you'd packed up about a week's worth of clothes for your stay at Nezuko's. It'd been a while since you had a roommate, but at least you'd feel a little safer and less at the mercy of whoever was trying to 'sweep you off your feet'.

After dropping your bag off at Nezuko's place, Mirko escorted the two of you to Nezuko's Flower Shop and she was on her way, repeatedly telling you both to call or text her if anything seems out of the ordinary or if either of you feel unsafe about something. Then, she left with as much enthusiasm as usual, leaving you and Nezuko to busy yourselves with the daily tasks of running a flower shop. Nezuko was glad to have you to help her along, making it easier for her to open a little earlier than usual. If there was one thing you knew for sure about Nezuko and her work was that she was very serious about her craft and she was constantly busy, all for good reason. You were glad you had her to keep your mind busy and away from staying back to the immediate danger that was revealing it's ugly head every time you thought about it. You'd even made it a point to tuck your phone away into one of the desk drawer's in the little office Nezuko had in the back of the shop. One thing you hadn't expected was for the shop to be so busy with people, which you usually didn't have a problem with. But you couldn't help the feeling in the back of your mind, what if you're stalker knew where you were right now? What if they were one of the customers coming in today? The idea made you anxious but you tried to keep your nerves under wraps, helping Nezuko wrap bouquets and ringing up customers at the register. Everything would be alright, nothing out of the ordinary.

...

"I can't fucking BELIEVE she's friends with a goddamn cop. You sure we don't have him in our pocket?" The passionate, browless man asked as he paced around the carpeted floor in front of his partner's desk, clearly irritated about the build up of recent events involving their romantic life. His blond counterpart sighed from where he was, looking at him blankly through the lenses of his reading glasses. "How many times do I have to tell you that I already had shittyhair check? Stop gettin' freaked out. This ain't gonna change shit. It just means we gotta put the plan into motion a lil' earlier than we anticipated."

Sanemi stopped his pacing at that, turning to look at Katsuki with his permanent wide-eyed gaze. "And how the fuck are we gonna get the ball rollin'? D'you got some kinda masterplan you haven't told me about, man?"

The short answer was 'yes.' Katsuki made a show of explaining the bare minimum of the first step he decided to take and upon doing so, Sanemi gave his partner the side eye, clearly trying to see who would be the one to start off the man's plan. And since Sanemi's overwhelming presence was guaranteed to make their beloved piggy hightail it away, Katsuki decided upon himself to be the one to set things in motion. It was for the best with all things considered.

When would the plan start? That would depend on the one they currently have watching Y/N's every move at the moment.

If there was one thing you could appreciate about helping Nezuko out, it was the difference in smells; compared to wings and dipping sauces, the smell of flowers was a nice welcome. Alongside the calm and relaxing atmosphere, it seemed to put you at ease, even if just a little bit. It had put you in such a calmer space that when Nezuko suddenly ran out of the specific ribbon she used to tie up her special bouquets, you were quick to offer your services. But of course, Nezuko was a bit skeptical and protective.

"I could just close up for now and we can both head to the crafting store, shouldn't take too long if we speed walk—"

You cut her off with a shake of your head. "The least I can do is do this for you. It'll be fine, store's not even that far from here. Should take me just a few minutes to get there and back here, plus, I don't want to let some stalker make me become a recluse."

Naturally, Nezuko frowned at this, seeming to ponder your words as well as your safety, causing her to twirl a strand of hair around her finger. It was her way of fidgeting when she felt a deep sense of anxiety. Instinctively, you gently grabbed her hand, squeezing it with your own. She stopped fidgeting and looked at you with a pout, before sighing, her shoulders slumping as she accepted your offer. "Okay, okay... you're right, but, I don't want anything to happen to you, y'know?" She then let go of her own hair and huffed, pulling a hand away from yours before making a fist at the sky in a dorky movement. "That bastard's gonna pay when the time comes... Let me go get my purse."

Turning on her heels, she stepped away from you and went into the back of the shop, soon coming back with her wallet and a fistful of bills, as well as the tiniest bit of ribbon she had left to make it easier to find in the crafting store. And with that, you were off.

You almost felt like Dora with Nezuko making sure you had your phone and shit before she let you go out on your adventure. Where was Boots? The thought seemed to cheer you up a little as you stiffled a laugh, unknowing of a pair of electric yellow eyes and another set of onyx ones watching you from across the street over a cup of coffee they were nursing. They'd heard the entirety of you and Nezuko's conversation, thanks to the little bug they planted in the shop when the two of you were busy, and they were already informing their bosses of your movements.

Perhaps, walking to the crafting store was proving to take a little longer than you'd anticipated, but, at least you had a second to just wander around, and you felt a bit safe since the streets were somewhat busy with a sprinkle of traffic here and there, in the street and on the sidewalks. At least if your stalker *was* watching you right now they would be unable to do anything with all the witnesses around you, at least, you hoped that would be the case. Quickly, you shook your head, hoping a bit of physical deterrent would keep you out of falling into a pit in your mind, followed by a deep inhale and exhale.

With the crafting store in your sights, you picked up your pace, and much to your delight you were able to enter the store without any anxiety following in your footsteps. Entering, you chewed on your lip and debated on whether or not you wanted to spend a little time lollygagging in the holiday decorations or just go straight for the ribbons aisle. You chose the former, wandering over to the decorations to have a quick look around. It didn't hurt to start planning for decorating your franchise sometime soon, Halloween was coming up after all.

Perhaps... you got a little lost in the sauce as you were looking, giving a certain man ample time to speed his ass over to the crafting store you were located at and enter with a sense of determination in his stride.

How did you get caught in staring at a faux jack 'o lantern that lit up and sang a song from Night Before Christmas? You weren't sure exactly but it was mesmerizing enough for you to be oblivious to the threat that entered the store, clearly looking for something, looking out of place with his intimidating expression and permanent scowl. He began to slowly step forward, scanning the aisles as discreetly as he possibly could.

In that moment, you had finally tore your gaze away from the singing pumpkin and remembered your goal, you would come for decorations later. Stepping out of the aisle, you mindlessly started marching towards the general area of where the ribbon would most likely be, putting yourself in the sights of the man actively *hunting* you.

You had walked right past Katsuki and he instantly recognized you, his eyes following your every move as you made your way through the store. He soon followed in your strides, not even bothering to hide himself clearly following behind you and even turning to go down the same aisle as you. You'd yet to notice, too focused on getting the ribbon for Nezuko and then taking your leave.

As you headed down the aisle, you came across the section of ribbon and took out the sample Nezuko had given to you, making a quick scan around to try and find it as quickly as possible.

Now that Katsuki has found you, he paused, loitering about two yards away from you, staring at the abundance of yarn in front of him while still keeping you in his peripheral. He wasn't some acting fiend, but he knew how to speak to get things he wanted, usually with a bit of aggression but it always worked. Most times he would just swoop in and sink his claws into his desires, but he knew not to do that with you, he needed to truly think about this and not frighten you away.

After a moment of decision making, he plucked up some random skein of yarn and started casually approaching you, almost as if he was trying to get closer to get a better look at your features. Which wasn't hard to do considering the fact that there weren't many black people in this part of New Japan anyways.

“Knew I recognized ya. Long time no see, Miss /Hooters/.” The man says, standing behind you as you're squatted down and comparing the ribbon sample and another ribbon side by side. You paused what you were doing and narrowed your brows, obviously confused, before you stood up and turned to look at who was speaking to you. Soon, you came face to chest with the blond man who'd disrupted the peace at your restaurant some weeks ago. With a glance up, you were able to better recognize him, studying his striking features. It was difficult to forget his spikey, sharp hair and equally sharp carmine eyes, and you hated to admit it but he was attractive. You quickly raked your eyes over his form, taking note of his t-shirt, sweats, and sneakers. He was dressed casually this time around. Studying him further, you noticed the sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, along with the red yarn he had clenched in his hand, causing you to raise an eyebrow. He was watching you watch him, and you couldn't help but be suspicious.

"Is there a reason why you're talking to me right now? If you're looking for yarn recommendations, I can't help you. Sorry." You weren't really sorry, but you didn't know what this guy was capable of, something about him just screamed 'danger', not that you were the type to run away with your tail between your legs when threatened.

Even so, you looked away from him and glanced back down at the ribbons you were trying to compare. Nope. Wrong one. You huffed out of your nose and continued on your search, taking a few steps away from the man who'd decided to approach you. You plucked up another roll of ribbon and compared it to the sample, hoping to find it as quickly as possible so that you could leave and not be in the presence of this man anymore.

Katsuki continued to watch you, the gears turning in his head for a moment as he thought quickly on his feet. Slowly, he began to approach you again, keeping some needed distance between himself and you before he spoke again. "I know you'd rather continue with– whatever you're doin' but, I'm gonna use this coincidence to apologize on behalf of my friend. Didn't mean to disturb your place of work, he's just a piece of work and can be a little… *intense.*" He gruffly stated, watching as you kept up your search, back still turned towards him. That was one thing you weren't expecting from a man who looked angry all the time, an apology. Your brows furrowed as you looked back at him over your shoulder, thinking about what to do next. Then, you glanced back down at the yarn he was holding, deciding not to answer what he'd said, and instead changed the topic. Turning away, you nearly jumped for joy when you found the identical ribbon Nezuko used just in your sights, you grabbed the entire stock of them and sighed, standing up straight again.

"Do you knit or something?"

The question seemed to surprise him, and then he remembered what he'd grabbed as well as what aisle he was on. With quick thinking he answered.

"Nah, I'm more of a crocheter. Ran out of yarn so I came to stock up a little."

Glancing at him and then the singular skein, you looked back up at him and raised an eyebrow. "You came to buy just one skein? Hm. That's pretty goal-oriented, I respect your self-control."

He snickered at your comment (if only you knew) and then motioned to the numerous spools of ribbon you had in your hand. "Looks like you came to buy them out of their stock. You a ribbon dancer or somethin'?"

"Ha. Ha. No. I'm buying this for my friend's shop— which reminds me, I should probably get going before her hair turns grey from worrying." You'd stated, preparing to depart from the man and go pay for the ribbon. You commented and turned, beginning to head towards the check-out line, he fell in strides with you, not seeming to let you wander too far.

Noticing his presence, you look back at him and raise an eyebrow, with the spools of ribbon still in one hand, you put your free hand on your hip. “Is there a reason why you’re following me around like a puppy?”

“You should let me buy you dinner sometime. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re both here. Might be fate.” He remarked, staring down at you with a gaze you couldn't read. The thought seemed to make you chuckle, raising an eyebrow at his cheesy words, though you somewhat admired his straightforward attitude. "If I didn't know any better it would sound like you're trying to ask me on a date even *after* you've already apologized. Is this how you usually pick up women?" Now, it was his turn to scoff and he flashed you a smile that regrettably caused your heart to flutter just a tad bit.

"Heh. Ya caught me. So… whaddya say?"

The person in front of you in the line stepped forward to start getting their things rung up and you stepped forward as well, pondering the man's offer before a realization came to mind. You were still on edge about having your apartment broken in, along with the weird messages, and this obvious gangster was flirting with you. Tanjiro was

going to do his job and you were safe for now, but what if… You looked at the unnamed man for a second, observing him a little closer as you thought things out. Maybe if you went on a date with this scary-looking gangster just once, the stalker would take a hint and go the fuck away. Then again, what if the stalker was possessive? That would mean, they would probably try and hurt this gangster guy in revenge, that would be a death sentence but it could work out in your favor, as dark and cold as that sounded. Perhaps the benefits outweigh the cons of going on a singular date with this guy.

"Next."

Snapped out of your whirl of thoughts by the voice of the cashier, you move to place the heap of ribbon onto the counter and the cashier starts ringing everything up. And just as you're about to use Nezuko's cash to pay, Mr. Carmine places his yarn down on the counter as well and holds his hand up to stop you from getting your cash. Instead, he inserts his debit card into the card reader before you can even protest. You could have stopped him, but you didn't, you simply tucked the cash away and gathered the ribbon after it'd been paid for. In silence, the two of you walked out of the crafting store side by side, and once outside, you finally broke the ice.

"Fine. Just one date though, and nothing else. And don't think I'll agree to anything else just because you paid for some ribbon." You shoved the spools into your pocket and then retrieved your phone from your other pocket. To your disdain, you had new messages from your stalker but you ignored them and opted for creating a new contact for him. "Give me your name and number. I'll text you later."

Your attempt to control the situation made Katsuki all the more infatuated with you but he simply agreed, giving you his full name, along with his number. Once you saved his information, you turned and walked away from him, heading back in the direction of Nezuko's shop, tucking your phone back into your pocket.

Katsuki Bakugou… seemed like a fitting name.

Katsuki watched as your figure became more and more distant before he chuckled, it seemed his plan was a success, and you were none the wiser. It was probably for the best that you remained ignorant, for now, that would just make things easier for everyone.

taglist: @simpforerensattackontitan , @mehhhho3o , @onlyk4is , @winterlovessanemi , @darious , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @simpingfor-wakasa , @taesd-urag , @kashxyou , @black-bhabie-2000 , @dawnrose99 , @hudnkl , @walkerofclouds , @mmst4rz , @tinyjeo , @abandonedhhearts , @heaven857 , @sunghoonsblackgf , @thiccpizza ,

[jaennwrites]

Little things | Captain John Price x f!reader

feels like I'm the only person obsessed with this man, so I'm doing a service to all the Captain Price lovers fr.

summary: an eventful morning with Price :) cw: established relationship, smut, size kink (kinda), unprotected sex, praise, slight violence, aftercare, L-bombs (i think that's all of them or at least the major ones) word count: 2,615

ofc reblogs and comments much appreciated :)

You woke up to the sun gently warming your face although causing major obstruction to your vision. Lazily using your arm to shield your eyes from the sun but it only helped so much so you opted to just turn away, only to be reminded of the man you were sharing a bed with.

John Price…your captain.

You couldn’t specifically remember the first time you both slept together but the pattern eagerly ensued almost every time you both got the chance. 

It was indeed a privilege to be able to see the captain so relaxed, you seemed to always wake up before him so you would always have the chance to examine his face and it was as if you always found something new. 

Today was the prominent stubble growth, typically Price had always made an effort to shave his uniquely styled beard that you had a crazy infatuation with, but he has been really busy recently. Last night was the first time in 3 weeks that you guys had the chance to sleep together, you will admit that he made sure you knew that he was sorry.

You halted all movements as John stirred in his sleep but he soon calmed down and was quietly sleeping again. You noticed he always slept on his back as well, maybe that's why his face was so perfect.

You contemplated the risky move you were going to take but took it not caring if John awoke. You carefully pulled the blanket off of him, stopping a few times so as to not wake him. Soon enough his entire bare torso was visible allowing you to view one of your favorite things about John.

His scars.

Your favorite being a medium slash on his right arm that he got on a mission with you. You two had been running away after being overwhelmed by a cartel you can’t bother to remember the name of and he had found a fence that led to an abandoned part of the town. You urged him to go first but he firmly denied, he pulled the fence open and pushed you through first, but that’s not how he got the scar.

There were multiple enemies following behind you two and you hadn’t thought that they would be able to catch up in time but they did, but instead of Price allowing you to help him fight, he zip tied the fence closed knowing you had lost your knife in an earlier fight. 

He pushed you away and demanded you run towards an abandoned house, promising that he would meet you there. You ran hesitantly at his request and of course he met back up with you, rewarding you with a kiss on the top of your head but also with the scar that you’ve grown to love. 

“You’re a creep” A deep accented voice spoke ripping you from your silent trip down memory lane 

“No” You poorly defended resting your head on his chest as you looked up at him 

“Oh?” He hummed looking down at you 

“Oh” You repeated in an answering tone 

“I could’ve sworn I fell asleep with the blanket over my chest” He teased 

“Bad memory” You smiled 

The way John looked at you was intoxicating but this morning the look was different, it seemed somewhat sad in your opinion.

“I don’t like that look” You joked wrapping your legs with his so you could be closer 

“What look?” He questioned closing his eyes 

“Like a high school boy about to break up with his girlfriend before they start college” You joked 

“Secondary school” John teased 

You rolled your eyes playfully before sighing knowing that Price would never tell what was so clearly bothering him, you were just hoping it wasn’t you. You went to get up from his bed but his arms stayed tightly wrapped around you.

“Am I not allowed to leave?” You teased 

“Last night was the first time in weeks that you slept in my bed…” “You’re not getting away so quickly” He spoke with his eyes still closed 

You let out another sigh before turning your attention to the resting man, hell if he wasn’t going to let you go, you might as well keep “creeping”.

You stared at his closed eyes trying to remember the vibrant blue that continued to surpass your memories every time he opened his eyes. If you were an idiot you would admit that you were practically in love with the man, oftentimes you found yourself wishing he’d randomly come up to you and say that he loved you too. 

“What?” John questioned sweetly as one of his eyes peeled open to meet yours

“I’m not even doing anything” You defended with a small laugh 

You playfully huffed making another attempt to escape Price’s arms but once again his hold remained tight. He pulled you on top of him before placing a soft kiss on your lips giving you a smile after.

“Can you stop being so eager to get away from me?”  “Breaking my heart” He joked 

“Let me get on you then” You teased sitting up

“That sounds nice” John spoke as a smirk creeped onto his face 

His hands trailed from your hips slowly, simultaneously pulling off his oversized shirt you wore. You breathed in deeply at the feeling over cold air on your now bare torso.

John was a major “boob” man, the infatuation he had with your breast could entertain you for centuries. You couldn’t hide the smile that spread across your face as you watched his large hands go to your chest like magnets. 

You let out a sigh of contempt as you relaxed into the feeling of his rough hands massaging your chest. He used a hand to guide you down before happily taking turns sucking your nipples and leaving hickies on the soft skin of your breast. 

John always opted for hickies on your chest or just about anywhere that wasn’t visible, he wanted you to remember him but professionalism still needed to be maintained, he was still your captain.

“You’re obsessed” You teased prying his mouth off of your chest 

“You have perfect tis, what can I say” He defended moving his kisses to your mouth once again 

Your hands cupped his face with a slight smile forming as you felt all his facial hair. Your hips slowly grinded on his; filled with excitement for what was inevitably about to come.

“Fucking hell (british ppl talk tee hee)” John groaned placing his large hands on your rocking hips

“Captain” You teased sitting up knowing John went crazy for your little “performances” 

You smiled at your success to get the Brit so riled up as he wrapped an arm around your waist before flipping you over so that he was now hovering over you.

“I hate when you tease me” He defended 

“Liar” You hummed 

Price often had a funny habit of dropping most of his weight on top of you, whether you were just joking with each other in bed or he was ramming into you, he loved doing it and to be honest you didn’t really mind.

“Fuck you” You joked hoarsely as he dropped his body weight onto you 

He smiled propping himself up, freeing you of his weight, but he just stared down at you, once again with that somber look you noted before.

“What is it?” You asked searching his eyes as if to find an answer 

“I love you” John spoke 

He loves you.

“What?” You asked in disbelief but only for the best reasons

Captain John Price…loved you, you knew he cared about more than he’d ever admit, but this reserved man who always pushed you forward first, always questioned your comfortability, praised you ability…of course he loved you.

“I don’t want to scare you off” “I love you, and I want you to know that I care for you, all that sappy stuff” He joked placing a gentle kiss on your lips 

“I love you too John” You smiled

Price smiled down at you before kissing you again, you felt his hand descend under the blanket you two laid under, he pushed your legs open before fitting himself into the space he had made. A soft moan escaped your mouth as you felt his hard bulge prod at your exposed wet slit.

“Tell me” “Tell me you want it” He teased covering your neck with wet kisses 

“I want you” “Please” You begged shamelessly 

Price placed a kiss on your lips before freeing his leaking erection from his boxers. He looked at you amusingly as his large tip prodded your entrance. 

He was big all around, in every aspect of the word, whether it was his height, his general build, or wickedly enough, his dick. 

“Ready?” He asked covering his tip in your wetness

You nodded eagerly which made him laugh a bit but soon enough your eyes were fluttering closed as Price pressed into you with a deep groan. You placed one hand on the side of his face as you kissed him to remedy the fiery sensation of him stretching you out. 

“I love you” You moaned into his mouth 

Price smiled down at you taking in the sight of you, the marks on your tits, the way they bounced which each of his thrusts, the way your free hand gripped the bed sheets, everything about you was arousing, even when he wasn’t pounding into you.

The burning hunger that overtook his body when he saw you simply holster your gun, when you put on a mask, when you waked, hell even when you spoke to him. Everything about you always made him want to tear your clothes off and sink his dick into you.

Your legs involuntarily closed as John sat up making his thrust harder and faster, this was a common occurrence and every time your body began to tap out, he took it as a challenge to push you over the edge of stimulation.

“Open them”  “Or I’ll make it worse” He teased stopping his motion

“Just…” You began but just like every other time you didn’t know what to say, you didn’t want a break, you didn’t want him to stop…you just didn’t know 

“You know the safeword” John spoke placing his hands on your knees that were still shut 

When you and Price first hooked up, you saw the above average size of him which resulted in the agreement of a safeword and you were sure of the decision after having sex with him. You both decided on just saying his call sign ‘Bravo Six”, there was already a serious connotation attached to the words so it made sense to use it for a serious situation.

You obliged and opened your legs with instant regret as you saw the familiar smirk of a man who was about to drop half his weight on you.

“Stop” You warned attempting to be serious but the smile creeping up on your face assured Price that you were not.

His pace began again and you paid no attention to the shenanigans that Price planned on pulling, because you loved when he fucked you like this. When his face was so close to yours, his forehead resting on yours, being able to feel the vibrations of his groans on your face.

“Fuck” You moaned as Price’s heavy body pressed down onto you 

“I love you” “You’re mine” “I’ll fucking kill armies for you” He groaned before placing a rough kiss on your parted lips 

John lifted up his body allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist as your body scoured for more of him which he was glad to give you. 

You could feel the pit in your stomach building, it weirdly felt like a good stomach ache almost, you were close to cumming and John knew it. The way your breath got ragged as if your body was starting to panic, the way your legs were locking around Price’s torso, but his favorite thing was the eyes you gave him. The way they got low, the way you could barely keep them open, the faint dampness of your lashes from when your eyes watered when he first put his dick in you. 

“You wanna cum?” He teased 

“Yes” You moaned shamelessly

Price slowed his pace but his slow place was just as potent as his fast one, his thrust became deep and taunting forcing loud moans out of you everytime he sunk himself back into you. 

“Oh my god” You moaned loudly as your orgasm overtook you 

“That’s my girl” He praised clearly amused by your unfolding

It was a domino effect when you came and one thing John made sure was that you came before him because if you didn’t then he couldn’t. He loved the way you began to tremble under the pleasure, the sensitivity of each part of you, that’s what he looked forward to with each of your “encounters”. 

Your body shivered as Price peppered kisses on your neck and collarbones and picked up his pace once again, other than your hand that was gripping his, your body was practically just spasms now as his tip kissed your cervix with each hard, fast, deep thrust. 

“Is my beautiful girl, all cock drunk” He teased 

John began to focus on achieving his orgasm seeing that if he didn’t stop now you wouldn’t be able to get up for the day. He let go of your hand to your dismay, he used his now free hand to prop up your hips as he got rougher than you ever could imagine. 

“Please” You moaned loudly not even sure of what you were begging for 

“I love you so much” He groaned loudly pressing so deep into you that his pelvis smacked your clit

Price watched amusingly as some of his cum seeped out the sides of the “seal” you both created. He finally pulled out and made his way to the bathroom to run you a bath. John took full responsibility for his rough demeanor during sex and so he always made sure to make up for it after. 

You groaned at the soreness you felt as you sat yourself up; you loved sex with John but my god did it take a toll on your body after. 

“Stop trying to be independent” He playfully scolded before picking you up bridal style

He placed you in the tub before getting in behind you; he placed small kisses on your now wet shoulder. You laid your head back onto Price’s chest allowing him to wrap his arms around you peppering kisses on the top of your head.

“Why do you always kiss the top of my head?” You asked examining his hands 

“Cause I like to” He defended with a smile you could hear in his voice 

“Seriously” You spoke playfully slapping his knee

“I like the smell of your hair”  “And I love you” “That’s how I show it” He shrugged 

You craned your head back smiling at your upside down view of the handsome British man, you reflected on all the times even before your first hookup that Price had his face buried in the top of your head.

He always fixed any headgear you had on, always taking something out of your hair, and  patting down your flyaways. You sat yourself up turning your body to face him because it finally hit you. 

Captain John Price had been in love with you long before you two even had sex.

“I love you” You smiled

[milkyplier]

“C’mon, Vet, it’s just a scratch,”

Twilight tries to reassure the fussy Veteran as he presses his hands against the recently acquired puncture wound in the Rancher’s abdomen.

“This is hardly a scratch, Rancher,” Legend snaps, switching to just one hand as he rummages around in his bag. “You’re bleeding out.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” Twilight teases, and it’s true. “I’m not bleeding out, just bleeding a little much for our comfort.”

“I’d rather you weren’t bleeding at all,” Legend’s face is set in a grimace as he pulls his hand out of his bag with a thick square of gauze. “No potions; think I gave my last one to the champion.”

“Fine, it’s not a potion-worthy wound anyways,” Twilight replies. “Other people will need one more than me.”

“You’d better hope not. If I’m out of potions, chances are everyone’s out of potions.”

Twilight winces at that. He’s right; Legend always carries more potions than everyone else, true to his nature. Movement behind the Veteran catches his attention and he sees a bokoblin drawing back its bowstring.

“Vet, watch it—!” He yanks Legend down to the ground, flinching at the thwack of the arrow against the tree he’s leaned against.

“Good catch,” Legend thanks him quickly before pulling out his sword and charging at the ‘blin. “Don’t you dare stop applying pressure to that!”

Twilight grins. Ever the worrier, Legend is, and he’s been worse after the rancher’s brush with death back at the inn. Well, everyone has, but he’s noticed it most in Legend. The prickly, snarky Veteran, who has out-adventured them all before the age of eighteen, has turned out to be quite the caretaker.

Even now, Legend doesn’t stray far from Twilight’s position against the tree. After killing the bokoblin archer, he’s fallen back to a defensive position just in front of Twilight, and none too soon—another wave of monsters bombards teh once-peaceful clearing and the Veteran has his hands full defending the vulnerable Twlight.

As for the Rancher himself, he quickly begins to feel guilty. The stab wound isn’t anywhere he’s ever been stabbed before. Even if he is tasting blood and bleeding a tad bit profusely, he should be able to fight. But when he tries to stand up, he ends up getting dizzy and sitting back down heavily. It takes him back to when the dark lizalfos first hurt him, further urging him to get up and fight—he doesn’t like having to sit here as the anxiety of past events nags at him.

It becomes unbearable when Legend gets thrown across the clearing by a moblin and doesn’t get up immediately. Twilight is on his feet faster than he realized, almost sprinting towards Legend’s position, sword drawn. His wound throbs violently but adrenaline masks it well. Twilight yells as the Moblin raises it’s club above the Veteran’s stirring form, and throws his sword at the creature’s back, effectively catching its attention.

It turns, looming over Twilight and obviously burning with rage. Twilight, having lost his sword and being remarkably unprepared to be barreled over by a creature twice his height, turns to at least distract it long enough for Legend to get up. He leads it back towards the tree he was just under, and is almost there when a sharp stab of pain through his gun sends a shockwave through the rest of his body. He must black out for a second, because when he tunes back into the world, he’s lying on the ground and the Moblin is dead.

He sits up and almost immediately regrets it when the world starts spinning and his gut erupts into searing pain. He inhales sharply, triggering a coughing fit that ends with blood on his hands and dripping down his chin. He hates the why his heart races at the memory of the last time he was coughing up blood.

Evidently, he isn’t the only one having flashbacks. Sky is kneeling in front of him, gently slapping his cheeks to get him to focus. Twilight smiles at him reassuringly. This has nothing to do with the dark lizard. He won’t resist potions or fairies this time, because it’s a regular wound. He grasps Sky’s hand, trying to get him to realize this isn’t like last time and there’s no need to worry. Not as much, at least.

“I’m fine,” he rasps. “You have to help the Veteran.”

“Captain’s got him,” It’s Sky’s turn to reassure. “Just hang in there, okay?”

Twilight can do that, easy. He must be more drained than he realized, though, because the next thing he knows he’s being woken up, despite not recalling when he fell asleep. There’s a bandage wrapped tightly around his middle. The battle is over by now and the clearing is silent, everyone gathered around him.

“We’re ready to move on,” Sky says softly. “Can you stand?”

He’s quick to nod, and even though it hurts he’s able to get to his feet. He searched around for Legend, and finds him, seemingly asleep, and being piggy-backed by Time. The bandage hides the wound on the side of his head but not the blood that runs from it.

“Is the Vet alright?” Twilight asks, and Sky nods, and then hesitates.

“Well…he’s not dead, but he’s got a pretty bad concussion. We’re out of potions and fairies, so we’ll need to find a town, and soon.”

“Portal,” the call comes from up ahead and only Wind seems to have the energy to bemoan it. One by one, the battle-worn and weary heroes resign themselves to their fate, and walk through the portal without a word.

* * *

Hylia herself must have decided they deserved this break, because they were let out at the front gate of Twilight’s very own Kakariko Village. They’re able to get their hands on a couple potions—it is unfortunately in the middle of the night, so they’re only able to get a few using Twilight’s reputation as the town hero—and several people’s conditions are improved. For the first time in awhile, the heroes spend the night in beds and no one is in too much danger of dying—although, Legend’s concussion is bad enough that Hyrule insists on watching him through the night, even after he’s given a bit of potion, just to be sure.

The night passes without incident, however, and the next day they purchase almost every potion Kakariko has to offer and Twilight finds himself, completely healed, sitting on the edge of his bed, enjoying the peace and quiet.

A knock on the floor interrupts the silence, and Legend enters. He leans against the bedpost next to Twilight, and is quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” he says presently, “for saving me.”

Twilight smiles. “Of course. I’m always happy to help preserve your life.”

They fall into a slightly awkward pause.

“I should also thank you,” Twilight remarks. “For taking care of me.”

Legend shrugs. “It wasn’t much. Just a piece of gauze. Didn’t even do that much to help in the battle, I managed to get myself a concussion and if Sky hadn’t stepped in, you’d be dead.” Twilight hears the bitterness in the statement.

“You did a lot.” Twilight says. Legend raises an eyebrow, and Twilight is ashamed to say he can’t think of anything regarding that particular battle that would disprove Legend’s point. “It meant a lot to me, anyways.”

“Glad to help,” Legend nods.

Another pause.

“I…guess I should say sorry.”

That catches Legend by surprise. “What for?”

“I could have been more accepting of your help. You were just looking out for me and I tried to reject it.”

“Because you wanted someone else to get that help,” Legend shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re apologizing for protesting out of selflessness.”

“Well…no, no one really needed the help at the time. I was just in denial, I didn’t want to admit I’d gotten hurt and couldn’t fight. Again.” Twilight frowns, once again remembering the last battle that nearly killed him.

“Water under the bridge,” Legend says breezily. “I’ve done it before, we’ve all done it before, we still do. It isn’t in our nature to be useless, especially not in a fight.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Twilight snorts. “Anyways, I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

The ease with which the Veteran gives out his grace makes Twilight smile.

“You’re a big softy, you know that?”

Legend glares at him sharply, feathers obviously ruffled.

“Shut up,” he mutters. “I already have the Sailor calling me soft, I can’t have you doing it too.”

“It’s technically too late.”

“Shhh.”

“At least I know why your dark world form is a rabbit.”

Legend’s glare turns murderous. “I’m going to bury you.”

“I love you too.”

“Almost dying has made you almost as insufferable at the Captain, you know that?”

Twilight just laughs.

[professional-benaddict]

Stephen and Tony laying in bed. They have been together for 7 years now. Maybe they are having late night talks, serious, bare it all talks. And maybe on this night, they talk about "the one that got away" they are happy together, and things are great and wouldn't trade each other for the world.

But both their pasts are complicated. Most people are not still best friends with their ex's who got together. Who knew that Pepper and Christine would end up as the love story of the century.

But surprisingly, they don't say those names- the one the other was expecting.

" See... there was this intern. His name was Peter; I never clicked so well with someone. But he was young.... Pepper said it was bad PR so we kept it quite. We didn't go public... we were together about a year, but I still wasn't off the wagon.. just better at hiding it at that point... there was a party. I can't really remember the night, but the next day he was gone. ..."

" Funnily mine was named Peter too.... his aunt was a nurse at the hospital, and he volunteered there a lot for the scholarship for his college. We fit well together, I knew he had recently gotten out of a relationship, but we were moving fast. I had a long day with intense surgery... one of the few patients I lost. I was angry. I know he was trying to encourage me. But I wasn't having it. I said.... so many hurtful things... Came home a few days later to a package of my things from his place at the door."

Would they realize they were talking about the same Peter??

And just who is Peter with now....

- WinterSpiderPurrs

A year later, Stephen and Tony are at a charity event. They already made their donations, but they have to show some face as well. The couple is very much looking forward to leaving soon and going on a date, just the two of them. Tony found a new exciting looking restaurant they want to try.

Seeing familiar faces in the crowd is to be expected, but this one feels different. It stirs up something in Tony, even after just one glance. His curls are shorter, but the colour is the same.

The young man turns, and their eyes meet. Tony doesn’t make the first move, too embarrassed to do so. He knows he was in the wrong way back then. But, the man approaches. God, Peter is even more beautiful now.

“Mr Stark! It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, it really has. Mr Parker.” Tony manages to breathe out shakily. Peter’s smile seems so genuine, but there is something in his eyes. It is hard to pinpoint with all the memories swirling in Tony’s mind.

“Hey, honey. Ready to get going?” Stephen swoops in from behind, putting a hand on the back of Tony’s neck.

“Oh, Doctor Strange, too. Wow!” Peter gasps.

Only now does Stephen notice Peter and his eyes go wide in surprise.

“Peter! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Stephen says, reaching a hand out in a greeting. Peter takes it, but lets go quickly.

“Wait, you know him?” Tony asks, making Stephen turn to him with a puzzled look.

“Yes, uhm- he volunteered at the hospital. Is- is that- intern Peter?”

The husbands start talking over each other, not really listening to one another, but neither wants to back down either. By the time they look around, Peter has disappeared.

Date night probably isn’t going to go as they hoped it would.

——

i would love love looove if you continued it a little bit if you can hehe☺️☺️ maybe stephen and tony meet peter on their way out and see him with someone?? @winterspiderpurrs 💗💗

[bookishcarmela]

Shadows of Affection

warnings: none

Coriolanus Snow x reader, slight Felix Ravinstill x reader

Chapter 6: mothers warning

Walking out of the citadel, you maintained a facade of calm and composure until you turned a corner and stumbled into an alleyway. Collapsing against the cool bricks, you curled up, trying to make sense of the chaos that unfolded. The sun's harsh rays aggravated your eyes, and your breath came in uneven gasps, a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through your veins. The recent events left me bewildered — had Clemensia met the same fate as Arachne? Confusion, anger, and fear consumed you. Fear of Dr. Gaul, fear of the Capitol, fear of everything. If those meant to protect you played recklessly with your life, how could you trust anyone? The foundations of trust shattered, leaving me with an unsettling question: How does one survive when trust is a luxury denied.

A surge of bile clawed its way from your stomach to your throat, a visceral response to the overwhelming horror that unfolded. "I don't want this. I never wanted any of this," echoed within you. Arachne's desperate plea for life, Clemensia's piercing screams, and Dr. Gaul's threat reverberated in your mind. Tears streamed down your cheeks, and an agonizing scream clawed at your throat. In that moment, you longed for the comfort of your father, to be cradled in your arms, reassured that everything would be okay. The yearning for solace, love, and the affirmation that the world could still be gentle felt like an ache in your bones.

You sat there, cradling yourself in the aftermath, feeling like hours had passed before summoning the courage to stand. The thought of going to school in your current state was unbearable, so you opted to walk home. The journey was an attempt to compose yourself before facing the dreaded meeting with Quincy. Upon reaching home, you pushed everything deep down, almost as if you could blur out the memories of the harrowing ordeal. Entering your house, you presented yourself with a façade of composure, holding your head high. Christa informed you that Quincy was waiting in his office.

Ascending the stairs, you took a deep breath before opening the door. Quincy sat at a grand mahogany desk in a cream-colored room adorned with old portraits. He wore a tailored suit, engrossed in scattered papers. Behind him, a tall bookcase held ancient-looking books, and the room carried the faint scent of old leather and sandalwood. It exuded an air of calm refinement, a space for focused work and deep thought. Despite the serene surroundings, an overwhelming hatred for Quincy simmered within you. This office, once your father's, now occupied by Quincy, felt like an intrusion—a desecration of your family's legacy. He, an impostor, a new money nobody, acting as if he owned the place, stirred a profound sense of disgust within you.

As you fully entered Quincy's study, meeting his cold stare head-on. He reclined in his chair, eyeing you with disdain. “Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence. Out all night, I hear? Care to explain where you vanished to?”

You stood tall, offering a sly smile. “Missed me, Quincy?”

Quincy chuckled, dripping with condescension. “Ah, the rebel speaks. Remember, young lady, you’re under my roof now. My rules apply here. I won’t have you gallivanting around all hours of the night.”

you, met Quincy's gaze with a smirk. “Oh, I’m well aware,” you retorted, your voice laced with subtle sarcasm. “But let's get it straight, Quincy. This isn’t your house; it’s my father’s. You're just another fleeting presence, new money in old walls, trying to act like somebody.”

Quincy's demeanor shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Watch your tone—”

“Tone?” you interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with my tone. But there’s everything wrong with a nobody like you trying to play the lord of the manor in someone else’s estate. You’re just a tiny blip in a grand legacy, Quincy. Remember that.”

“Our little princess thinks she’s clever,” he remarked with a smirk. “But remember, Y/n, time’s ticking. One day you’ll be out of here, and then we’ll see how far your wits take you.”

Your smirk mirrored his. “Add 'escaping a palace of egos' to my list of talents, Quincy. Consider it a challenge.” With your confidence unshaken, you turned on your heel, leaving Quincy stewing in his chair.

After the small victory in a day filled with horror, you convinced yourself that you deserved the small reward of a nap. As soon as you entered your room, you collapsed onto your bed and fell into a deep sleep. What was intended to be a short nap turned into a long slumber. When you finally woke up, the sun had already set, and the house was shrouded in silence, indicating everyone else was asleep. Making your way downstairs, you headed to the kitchen.

As you padded into the kitchen for water, you stumbled upon your mother, swaying slightly with an expensive bottle of wine in hand. Your mother's gaze fixated on you, her words slurred. "Where were you last night? You can't just go around doing whatever you want."

you, exhausted and caught off guard, retorted with a sharp tongue,

 "I'm merely following your example, Mother. Trying to keep up with your illustrious standards."Your mother's eyes narrowed, her words biting.

 "Don't get cheeky with me, Y/n. Why were you with the Snow boy?" Your surprise was evident. "How do you know that?" you demanded. 

Your mother chuckled, a mocking laugh. "The maids saw you come home in clothes that weren't yours. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. So, I'll ask again, What were you doing with that boy?"Attempting to deny it, You were swiftly interrupted. 

"I'm not oblivious, Y/n," Your mother interjected firmly. "I know what happens outside this house. You should steer clear of Coriolanus and focus on Felix." Your frustration boiled over. "I'm not interested in Felix like that," you protested. Your mother persisted, warning you of the dangers. 

"Coriolanus is bad for you. You're walking down a dangerous path. You only like him because he challenges you, you see a part of yourself in him, but he's just like his father—full of nothing but hate." Your temper flared. 

"You don't know anything about him or me!"

"I know more than you think," your mother countered, her voice edged with regret. 

"You're just like me, Y/n. We're alike, and I made that mistake with your father. Don't be a fool. Marry Felix; it's safer to marry someone who loves you more than you love them."Anger and hurt flooded you, and you stormed out, seething, leaving your mother's words hanging in the air, unspoken retorts lingering on your tongue.

Despite it being a Saturday, the entire student body convened for homeroom before assembling on the Academy's front steps for Arachne Crane's funeral. Draped in a slim knee-length black dress beneath a tasteful black coat, you adorned yourself with a string of white pearls. As everyone filed in, you scanned the somber crowd, searching for the familiar faces of Sejanus and Coriolanus. It didn't take long before spotting them, but as you moved toward them, a hand gently but firmly intercepted yours, pulling you back. You turned to see Felix, and your mind echoed the conversation with your mother, her cautionary words ringing clear: "Don't repeat my mistake."

As Felix greeted you, with his signature smile "Y/n, you look absolutely captivating today, even amidst such a solemn occasion."

Caught slightly off guard but appreciating the gesture, you asked, "Did you need something, Felix?"

He responded with a charming grin, "Just ensuring you have the best seat in the house." He mentioned he had secured a seat for you next to him, to which you expressed gratitude.

Placing a reassuring hand on the small of your back, he guided you toward the seating area. Glancing back toward where Sejanus and Coriolanus sat, your gaze faltered for a moment before you refocused on Felix.

Surprisingly, you bypassed all the other seats, and you hesitated, "Felix, we just passed all the seats." He chuckled softly, "Yes, because you're sitting with me."

Your protests about seating arrangements in areas reserved for government officials and the president's family were met with Felix's warm smile, "Well, I'm the president's son, and I want 

you by my side. Who's to say I can't arrange that?" He led you confidently up toward the stage where the president presided.

As you sat beside Felix, looking out above the assembly, you couldn't deny the allure of the situation. Above the crowd, by Felix's side, thoughts stirred within you. Maybe being with someone like Felix wouldn't be as dire as you imagined. He was handsome, kind, and his status would ensure security, shielding you from the turmoil I'd known. Contemplating a future with him, you entertained the notion that perhaps this could be the right path for you.

In the midst of contemplating a future secured by Felix's charm and status, you found your certainty faltering when you locked eyes with Coriolanus. His disapproving gaze, unaffected by Sejanus's conversation beside him, pierced through you. Yet, you maintain your composure, meeting his stare head-on. He had no right to scrutinize you, especially considering his own entanglement with his little songbird, just as you sought solace with Felix. Maybe, reluctantly, your mother was right—Coriolanus and you weren't meant to be. President Ravenstill's words interrupted your thoughts, honoring the life of Arachne Crane and emphasizing the Capitol's justice to Panem.

The funeral procession emerged, showcasing the Capitol's power. The Peacekeepers, flawless and imposing, marched in unity, followed by a truck bearing the body of the fallen District 10 tribute, Brandy. The remaining tributes, chained and desolate, reminded everyone of the Capitol's dominance over the districts.

The sight of Brandy evoked haunting memories of Arachne's desperate pleas for life. Felix's reassuring grip on your hand offered comfort, a silent promise that things would be alright despite the grim circumstances.

After the funeral concluded, classes resumed their routine, yet Satyria gathered the twenty-two active mentors for an urgent briefing. She revealed that not only were the Hunger Games proceeding, but they were expected to be the most publicized yet. To amplify visibility, the mentors were tasked with guiding their tributes on an arena tour later that afternoon. Although you weren't a mentor, you would substitute for Dr. Gaul, functioning as an insider to scrutinize the arena and observe the mentor-tribute dynamics, reporting your findings back to her.

Despite the air of reluctance among your classmates, none dared to voice concerns; several parents had lodged complaints about inadequate security post-Arachne's death, yet silence prevailed to avoid appearing cowardly. You couldn't shake the feeling of danger and recklessness surrounding the plan. What prevented other tributes from turning on their mentors? However, you kept your reservations to yourself. A cynical part of you speculated whether Dr. Gaul was secretly hoping for another display of violence to publicly penalize another tribute, perhaps even live on camera. 

As you stepped out into the sweltering heat, the scene before you unfolded like a grim tableau. The tributes, shackled and guarded, formed a stark line, their presence a stark reminder of the Capitol's unyielding grip. Without a tribute of your own, you positioned yourself beside Professor Sickle, your gaze shifting between the tributes and the boarded-up booths, relics of a time long gone.

The Peacekeepers orchestrated the movements with precision, unlocking the colossal doors to reveal a cavernous lobby. A sense of desolation hung heavy in the air, the remnants of an era left behind by conflict and upheaval. As you ventured deeper into the building, you observed the faded posters and abandoned booths, once vibrant but now tainted by neglect. In the midst of the grandeur marking the Royce family's entrance, a set of dusty turnstiles stood forgotten nearby. These old-fashioned barriers demanded a Capitol token for access, a stark contrast to the exclusive entryway marked by a velvet rope. You couldn't shake the sense of distinction—the other entry seemed for everyday visitors, while the Royce box held comforts from a time when your father was present.

The stark division in the arena was evident. The Royce area boasted luxuries like air-conditioning and plush seats, reminiscent of better days. On the other hand, the Bradford box emitted a vibe of new wealth, exuding an almost obnoxious display of affluence that you found distasteful. The contrast felt overwhelming, amplifying the disparities within the arena. 

your early experiences at the arena were marked by childhood visits to the circus and military events led by your father. For nearly a decade, you'd watched the Games from the Braford box, yet nothing quite matched the overwhelming feeling when you stepped onto the field through the main gate.

The sheer size and grandeur of the arena amazed both mentors and tributes, leaving them breathless in the face of such decayed magnificence. The towering rows of seats made you feel minuscule, a mere drop in an ocean, an unnoticed presence amid the colossal setting. The arrival of camera crews snapped you back to reality, and you adopted the composed demeanor of a Royce, portraying an air of indifference to the spectacle around you.

As you surveyed the arena, nothing particularly noteworthy caught your attention. The decrepit grandeur held no secrets or revelations to report back to Dr. Gaul. Dismissing the lack of interest, you spotted Felix among the mentors and made your way towards him, your footsteps echoing faintly in the colossal space.

Joining him, you said, "Quite a different perspective from down here, isn't it? The raw reality of the Games without the comfort of the boxes."

Felix nodded, his eyes still on the tributes. "Indeed. It's a stark contrast to the polished image we're used to."

Your conversation took a turn as Felix, with a playful grin, remarked, "You know, Y/n, it might be interesting to experience the Games from this angle more often."

you arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in your eyes. "Is that so?"

Felix leaned in slightly, his tone flirtatious. "How about dinner after this? A change of scenery, perhaps?"

you hesitated for a moment, thoughts of Coriolanus flickering in your mind. Yet, a reminder of your mother's words lingered –always marry someone that loves you more than you love them. Suppressing conflicting emotions, you smiled at Felix. 

"Sure, dinner sounds wonderful."

As you continued to watch the tributes below, you wrestled with your feelings, determined to prioritize your future over the complexities of your heart.

For a moment you smiled, letting a blush show on your cheeks, forgetting where you were, how depressing the backdrop. For a moment there was just felix's smile, and the hint of flirtation in it.

Then the world exploded. 

[seijorhi]

Hey Rhi! Hope you’ve been well!

I recently binged through all your Tokyo Rev fics and it made me think of something. I really love the concept of Tailspin with Chifuyu being the one to remember the past timeline. The simultaneous regret of how they treated reader being balanced with this uncontrollable desire to be with her again was so great and really fascinating to me.

It made me think, what do you think Mikey would do in a post-bonten/sink to the depths timeline where those events never happened, but he’s still able to remember them in the new timeline? On one hand, he was in love with reader, but how she was treated by him and bonten was a complete nightmare for her. I guess it depends on which timeline, but do you think that would make him hesitate from trying to find reader in this new timeline (to prevent her from being dragged into his mess of a life) or would he not be able to resist finding her anyway?

hi nonnie first of all ily <33

so if chifuyu's fucked up about it, mikey.... oof. man's got trauma big time.

doesn't help matters that when he was on the brink of complete self destruction the reader became his emotional support pussy person.

on the one hand, of course she's better off far, far away from him and sanzu and kakucho – all of them. it was an obsession, fucked up and depraved and sickening and damn it all to hell if does he wish he could feel that disgust all the time.

it'd be easier that way, to focus the hate inwards and pretend that's all it was. that there aren't nights he doesn't like awake and fucking miss her like a part of him's been ripped away. that his cock doesn't stir at the filthy dreams – memories – that won't leave his head.

on the really bad days, it's like an ache. an itch. incessant. he misses her.

he'd taint her all over again.

so he should leave her alone. stay as far away as humanly possible.

there's a problem, though. two, if he's being completely honest with himself. the first is that along with their whole sordid relationship, he remembers how the reader managed to end up in bonten's clutches in the first place. bonten doesn't exist anymore, obviously, but just because he and his friends aren't running around as gangsters anymore doesn't mean bad men, bad luck and bad circumstance have ceased to exist.

her brother's probably still a bottom feeding piece of shit with a gambling problem. there's every chance he's gonna do something just as stupid this time, and she'll inevitably be the one to pay for it. glass stones and houses and all that bullshit, he doesn't like it. no one's allowed to touch her. no one but him.

the other problem, the one he's less eager to admit to himself, is that he wasn't the only one fucked up over her. the haitani's might not look twice (he thinks. hopes, maybe), and who knows with sanzu, but kakucho? koko? they might not remember any of it, but if they walked past her in the street, bumped into her at a bar, would they feel that pull in their gut? would it spark something?

mikey hates the thought of her in danger, being mistreated – by her brother or by anyone else, but there's a sick, possessive part of him that hates the thought of any of them taking her too.

she was his first.

but even if he shoved that all aside, buried his head in the sand and pretended he wasn't slowly being driven out of his mind by her, the universe is a funny thing. one way or another, it'll work its magic and shove her right back into his path.

some things are just... fated.

[paellaplease]

12. liberosis - the desire to care less about things.

pairing: revali x reader part: 5 of 6 summary: on the night of calamity ganon’s attack, you find yourself thrown back a week into the past, waking up outside the door of an unusual rito with deep blue feathers.

Read from the beginning

It was pitch black the moment you awoke not for the first time that night. With a cool draft hitting your back, you rolled over in discomfort. The blankets had been stolen, again. 

You tried to free the heavy knitted layer, but just like the previous time it was completely cocooned around him. Grumbling, you released the blanket and opted to press a knuckle into your temple. A horrid pain was beating at the back of your head, rattling your already sleep-addled thoughts. 

The pulse at your wrist was racing, and accompanied by your shallow breaths you knew you were having another episode. 

Even before this recent development, waking up like this was not uncommon. Though your body was reborn and made anew, the mind continued to retain memories from past lives. 

Night terrors were familiar territory for the company you kept. Though the subject matter was something different entirely, and something you wisely chose to keep to yourself. No matter how much effort you dedicated in repressing them, it wasn’t enough to expunge the pain completely. After all, even the hardest of metals lose strength over time. 

And so it led to events like these. Where your body was already panicking, anticipating a fight even after the restful void of sleep.

There was an annoying ringing in your ear. Great, that’s new. You thought to yourself in frustration. As if sleeping wasn’t difficult enough.

It took a bit of tugging to pull the blanket closer, but eventually you had it wrapped around you again. Like clockwork, your breaths fell into the rhythm of an old exercise. You had done it so many times that you had forgotten where you had learned it. It was well worn, like an old coat that had sheltered you from many a storm. 

Inhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four.

It had helped somewhat. The pain had lessened, though the dull ringing was still heard in your ear. Growing louder and louder. Some other tones began to join along with it, forming a noise that began to sound suspiciously like…conversation. 

Perhaps I am going mad. 

As you tossed and turned, the voices echoed. They were a choir of the old and young, the weak and the strong, stone-hardened and soft as meadow grass; ordering you to get up and run. Run? Your chest ached at the thought. Run where? 

Your bed partner then rolled to face you, throwing a wing over your waist. 

Oh. 

Okay. 

You were perfectly safe in this hammock. Though the frigid breezes from Hebra blew through the cloth coverings of the window, you were warmer than you had ever been. It was like sleeping next to a breathing pillow. Needy as it was. And despite your little fits, he did not even stir. 

You looked at him properly then, discerning his form in the darkened room. 

This was not the first time you had seen Revali asleep. You had both camped in the wilderness together and taken alternating shifts on watch when the moon had sat high in the heavens. 

Even on the field he slept like a perfect soldier, back straight and beak shut to a thin line. He was so silent you often wondered if he had been unconscious at all. Any noise deemed suspicious would wake him, his bow never far from reach in case of an ambush. 

Now…his eyes were closed, with not a wrinkle lingering on his brow. His beak hung slightly open, a little snore escaping from it as he drifted off in a deep sleep. 

There was no other way to react than in quiet disbelief. You ran a careful hand over his head, watching as a sea of feathers moved against your outstretched palm. Though soft, you could tell which were newly grown. A delicate patch revealing a history of previous injuries. Some were at his wings but most grew at the front of his chest, indicating they were sustained facing an enemy head on. 

You sighed, shaking your head and placing a light kiss over where his heart would be. “Fool,” you whispered fondly. 

As you pulled away you found that in the shadow of the night it was similar to viewing the inky void of a dark ocean. The feathers under your hand were blue. Soft as every suspiciously plush pillow in this village, and blue. Blue as the ink on your fingers. As Rigel in the constellation Orion. 

And you supposed he too was a dying star, with a core long since fated to destruction before you even met. But in this moment he was far enough that you could still see the light that rolled off him, resplendent. And not for the first time did you wonder if the stars knew of your own selfish thoughts. To hold on to the rattling hum of a shade as the supernova burned behind you, unforgiving and insurmountable. 

If you could keep him for yourself, you would. If the goddesses allowed it, more you would ask. More than his memory. More than one fragile plume which remained in your coat’s pocket like a constant companion. 

Never fraying, never destroyed. 

You leaned forward to press a kiss to his shoulder, but in that instance every restless spirit screamed out. 

You. Must. Go.

The pain behind your head flared again, as if you were struck dead on by a blunt object.

Coughing, you carefully extricated yourself from his hold. The tremble in your arms nearly sent you tumbling out of the hammock, the banister acting as your only support. It’s by some miracle that you latched on with ease, climbing your way back down without waking him and landing with a thud. 

The noise echoed, loud enough to rouse any sleeper. Dizzy, you forced yourself to remain quiet, watching nervously for any sign of movement from the hammock. 

A minute passed, then another. The voices raged in your head until you were nauseous. Sure that he was fast asleep, you turned back to the entrance and slipped on your shoes and coat. The voices followed you like angry echoes, urging you to move faster, waging war against your own wishes. 

Don’t look back. Weakness. Forward. Onward. Soles to dirt as wood is to ash. 

Before stepping over the threshold, a small noise rose over the cacophony in your head. It was quiet. So much so that it could have easily been mistaken as sleep addled murmurs or the creaking of a nearby tree. 

You were frozen still at the doorway when Revali called out your name.

It was whispered, as if in question into the darkness of his home. A shaky breath escaped you as your hands trembled by your sides. 

Both of you knew you were about to do something unforgivable. 

Just as well. It was always you disappointing him. In what world did you even deserve a fraction of his affections? You won’t…you couldn’t acknowledge it. Doing so would break you completely.   

Forward. Onward. 

You lurched to the side, slamming a hand on to the doorframe to steady yourself. The voices sang through your blood, picking at your fraying ends like the burnt off end of a cord. If you weren’t careful, you were going to be sick. 

He called out to you again, and despite your better judgment, you stopped and listened. 

“…please. Stay.” 

A flood of shame and guilt gripped at your already aching chest. There were no words that could fix this. 

“Go back to sleep. Don’t follow me, Revali.” 

The breeze which whispered from the doorway felt somewhat colder. You stood and listened, waiting for him to protest. To fight you. And you were ready to argue back through any means possible. 

But ultimately, in the stillness of his home, there came no reply. 

Good, you thought. Yet you remained standing at the door, stupidly hoping to hear something from him, anything. 

Just as you thought you saw the movement of blankets—Go. The voices commanded. 

And so you complied. The dim wooden ceiling of the hut became the infinite yawning expanse of the night sky. Finally outside, you clutched at your chest as if in deep pain, clouds of air leaving your lips as you tried and failed to breathe. But there was no time to mourn anything. Above you, the stars acted as silent witnesses, watching as you turned away from Revali’s home, listening to the voices and running into the night. 

The cold of the outside slammed into you full force, chilling you to the bone. It had begun to snow and even with your heavy coat you knew it would be an abysmal and chilly ride. 

Eimhin complained as you spurred her forward. You didn’t know where you were going, letting the chorus of voices lead you, becoming so loud that it rivaled even the howling of the Tabantha winds. 

Sun up, then sundown. You did not sleep. You did not eat. A supernatural force seemed to keep Eimhin going as well. Though you knew such things were unsustainable—the need to arrive at this unknown location eclipsed everything else. 

Finally, a building of darkened stone drew closer. It sat upon a hill, with the early dawn shining behind it like a beacon. Stained glass windows decorated every level like jewels on a crown. The heavy doors were wide open, with the combined smell of incense and burning candles wafting out into the open air and making your eyes water. 

The pain in your head grew worse. Not even the breathing exercise could temper it. 

With shaking legs you stepped off your horse. You made a break for the church’s spire entrance, climbing the steps by two at a time. 

At the top of the stairwell you stopped to catch your breath, shoulders heaving as the adrenaline from the past few days began to drain. The headache remained, days of enduring and finally it was lessened to a dull beating. You realised that you were afflicted by a fever as well, the violent sweats and shakes threatening to fold your legs from underneath you. 

Approaching an open window, you knelt beside it, resting your head on the ledge. A beautiful view of Hyrule Castle gleamed from the outside but you were too damn tired to enjoy any of it. 

Sleep. The voices urged you. 

“Now that,” you said to the empty tower. “I can do.” 

.

.

.

Planets and stars spun above you. The ceiling was but a vast, never ending canvas that stretched beyond your comprehension into the depths of gloom where dark blue faded into black. 

“—this is wholly inappropriate and a breach of the terms of our experiment. It is not within your rights to interfere.” 

“Be silent. Sibling. You gamble with time.” 

“I created time.” 

As the two goddesses argued, a warm breeze combed the hair away from your face, creating little waves in the water surrounding your supine body. 

‘Stand up, little sprout!’ Though no voice was heard, you could understand the command well enough. Your nose was filled with the smell of honey and jasmine, and like strings around a maypole untwirling, you felt the tension in your muscles be forcibly plucked up and released. 

You stood up, shivering and slightly disturbed. 

“Take me back,” you said. 

Though you could not see them, you felt all three godly presences suddenly turn to you. It took a lot of strength not to cringe under the weight of their collective judgment. Annoying as it was, you were practically a flea dancing under a magnifying glass, the concentrated point of holy light threatening to burn you into a crisp. 

“Behold. What your coddling has achieved. Sibling.” 

“I don’t appreciate your tone. You pulled them away once things were finally becoming interesting. It was their best run yet and you had to stick your meaty mittens into the stew!” 

“A sharpened sword. Wasted.” 

The water underneath your feet rippled. You felt something wet land on your head. Little drops of rain fell from the literal heavens above, hitting the pseudo-sea in gentle pitter patters. It reminded you uncannily of the sweetened notes of laughter. 

“Excuse me. It’s rude to carry a conversation about someone who is right here. Take me back. Now.” You said again, trying to add as much venom as you could to your voice though your exhaustion was evident. The headache had disappeared as soon as you awoke in this in-between world, but if you were to spend any more time listening to these deities argue, you were sure it would rear its ugly head back to torment you. 

“Be still my petulant spark, the adults are talking.” 

“I see anger. Vexation.” That other voice said, seeming to finally pay attention to you. 

“Of course I am angry,” You said, crossing your arms and scowling at the sky. “Why did you bring me here? I deserve an explanation—”

“Acceptable.” Was all you received in reply. There was a sound of protest from the other godly being, before the ocean gave way and you found yourself falling into the abyss. 

.

.

.

X—

The skin of your knees tore as you landed hard on the muddy ground. You caught your breath, shaking away the vertigo of being wrenched from your previous surroundings so abruptly. There were sounds of metal clashing and shields being bashed. It was difficult to discern where you were, let alone hear your own thoughts as you were plunged into the din. 

Groaning, you placed a hand to your face, surprised to feel the familiar surface of standard issue military metal. Your helmet. 

Before you had left the barracks, Revali had made you abandon it, arguing that it would be an eye-sore at Rito Village. In hindsight you knew he just wanted to see your face better. That very fact he had revealed to you the previous night, much to your delight and annoyance. 

Your heart clenched painfully. 

Now is not the time!  

Bottom line, you were wearing it now. And it was dented and wet, a line of liquid sliding down the side of it. You swiped a hand over the area, pulling back and realizing that the pads of your fingers were stained with the frank redness of fresh blood. 

A sword swung above you, and by instinct you heaved the Greatsword in your hands, blocking the blow easily. You kicked at your assailant’s knee, feeling the crack of bone under your boot as they went down.��

There was a whistling sound coming from behind your shoulder. You had a second to turn. The dagger sliced a line over the gap in your armor, barely missing your jugular. Pressing a hand to your neck, you felt the cut begin to bleed, dripping down to the collar of your tunic. 

Another whistling noise, another dagger cut through the air. Your heavy sword was lifted a moment too late as the sharp metal knocked back forcefully against your chest plate, staggering you backwards. 

The attacker was upon you immediately, light on their feet and quick with their daggers which were so fast they appeared as if from thin air. Digging your boots into the muddy ground, you held yourself like a strong pillar. You had fought quick opponents before, with the memory of graceful feathers followed by a volley of arrows coming to you unbidden. 

You exhaled a grunt of pain when a dagger cut through your side, followed by a swift kick to the injury. It would be easy to wince and double over, but the fire within you kept your eyes open. Your fist tightened over the handle of the Greatsword, and you saw it, there. A flash of white, and you feint as if to swing at them. 

They dodged to the side accordingly. You let one hand drop from the handle, using it to grab onto the enemy’s white hair. There is a burning feeling in your mind, as if something out there could read your thoughts. Whatever it was, they were pleased. 

Their cry of pain is lost in the chaos around you. The world you were pulled into had given in to bedlam as you slammed them into the ground. 

Before their head was severed, you saw their red eyes stare back at you. There was no fear. Only a blank acceptance of defeat. And in the reflection of the sword in your hands as you brought it down, you realized your eyes held the same emotion. 

“Power. It befits you.”

“A most cliche line, if I ever heard one.” You griped. Another enemy of similar appearance came running to you, enraged at the sight of their fallen comrade. You let the daggers glance over your arm, ignoring the stinging cut so as to allow yourself an opening to slip your sword between their ribcage. 

You could hear Revali chastising you for such a reckless maneuver. Survival isn’t as estranged from winning as you think, Stranger. 

The earth rumbled beneath your feet, and turning around you were given a split second to blink before you and many other soldiers from both sides were being flung through the air. The ground practically explodes as blood, muck and mud is flung. 

Landing hard on your side, you feel the muscles in your shoulder pull. Your hand was still wrapped around the hilt of your heavy sword. Clutching it in a death grip, you forced yourself to your feet, shielding your eyes from the debris which was kicked up, trying to peer at the giant thing in the distance. 

“Not all songs are sung. Some. Forgotten.” 

For a moment there is silence. The royal soldiers stand like fresh game, frozen by the sound which reminded you of all those terrible stories. Of prisoners being burned to death in the hollow of a bronze casket. Their screams reverberating; mingling into the metal. 

Terror lanced through your heart when the dust cleared, revealing a giant metal animal on four legs. The sky crackled in brilliant white. Lightning. 

“Shame. Perish they did. Quietly. In glorious battle.” 

Someone knocked into your back, and you yelled out in anger and frustration. As your swords met, lightning flashed once more, revealing the tattooed eye on her unwrinkled forehead. The woman opened her mouth and said something to you in a language you had never heard before as she parried your strikes with her longblade. The sword swung through the air, leaving trails of blue light like the tail of a falling star. “Where the fuck am I?” You swore back. 

“The King ordered them. Buried. Their treasures and children.” 

The beast roared again, lightning striking the earth a short distance away. The ground was dug up again as horses, soldiers and limbs sailed through the air. You looked on in horror before you focused on the woman in front of you again. Her mouth was covered by a dark cloth. Her frame was smaller than yours, but you could see the precision in her stance, the fearlessness in the way she struck against you. 

“The Sheikah. Proud. A stone yields not willingly.” 

The beast roared again. You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing. The air felt almost electric. There was warmth again, singing through your skin and providing you with inhuman strength as you wielded your Greatsword, cutting down the woman, then the next Sheikah beside you. 

“I can. Immortalize you. In fire. Blood.” 

The battle continued for what felt like hours. Yet you showed no signs of tiring. Your mind was slowly losing itself to the haze of this neverending skirmish. 

“Good. I understand your plaything now. Sibling.”

“Stop this at once, Din! Look at what you’ve done! Another year of this nonsense and their feeble mind will become mush!”

“Never. Relinquish them. To me.” 

Water began to fall from the sky, hitting the dry and cracking earth. It washed the blood from your skin, drenching your hair and wetting your parched lips. You had forgotten what it was like to feel thirsty. To hunger. To yearn for sleep. 

While the two voices clashed, a soft breeze was felt against your skin, like cold fingers brushing against your back. Such gentleness felt foreign, and immediately you spun around to retaliate. With eyes wide and teeth bared, you lifted your Greatsword against your assailant. 

It confused you to find that no one was there. 

The breeze swept past your cheek, making you shiver.

‘I can help you, little sprout!’

‘Simply, turn the sword against you.’

‘Quickly now! Before the other two notice.’ 

‘There we go, like pulling a splinter. One, two, three—’ 

You could feel yourself bleeding against it. Blood spurted from the wound with each squeeze of your heart. You heard your knees hit the ground as the world began to spin. A darkness was bordering your vision, creating a tunnel which gradually began to narrow. 

Looking down, you saw yourself reflected in the sword. The reflection blinked, though your own eyes remained open. Its mouth curled, whilst yours remained in a tight line. It opened its mouth, cheeks stretching and baring teeth like it had read what a smile was but had never seen a human execute it.

And in your mind, you heard them. Speaking through your own voice. 

“Let us leave this dour spot for greener pastures…”

.

.

.

X—

There is no sudden collapse of ground beneath you, no starlight which steals you away. Instead you blink, and that was that. Black void, without even a shadow. Darkness and solemn quiet. 

Exhaling, the echoing sound of your breath brought a semblance of comfort. It confirmed that this wasn’t some crushing box but at the very least a vast cavern. You held your hands out, unable to judge the distance in front of you let alone where you were. 

You stamped your feet and felt the dirt shift underneath your shoe. Curious, you thought to yourself. Bending down, you brushed what felt like the cool touch of several leaves, dew dripping from the ends of them. Tugging on a few blades easily yielded a bunch which fell from the gaps between your fingers. Grass. 

“Ack!” The bones of your spine straightened, making you stand to attention like a soldier. Your mouth opened without you meaning to, words falling from your lips. 

“Step forward. You can walk and sprint, jump even! Let all your fears melt away, little sprout.” You said, your voice sounding stiff and monotone, odd inflections being added at the end of your sentences. 

Tendons pulled like puppet strings, moving your legs forward in an unnatural gait. The darkness continued as you were forced to move deeper into this space. Several times your arms had bumped roughly into a broken column, or you had stubbed a toe against a pillar. But though it ached your body continued to move forward, refusing to acknowledge the pain. 

Then, you were deposited in front of a rock. Shaking hands were forced to feel around it, with your palm falling down the smooth downward slope of a curled wing, the other grasping on to the point of a beak. It was a statue of a bird. 

A crackling noise resounded, and the air stung as if electrified. Then, there was light. 

There was the roar of the wind, then the statue, a torch holder, erupted into flames before your eyes. A ring of similar bonfires came alive in a wide arc, eventually joining until they made a circle. 

There in the middle was a dense fog. Within it played a scene, like a twisted tableau. 

The world spun, a cyclone of memories. You were in the hammock again. The festivities of the village outside drifted like sweet music, a cold breeze rustling the tapestry coverings of the windows. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that right?” 

Turning in the mess of patterned sheets, you buried your face further into the crook of his neck, the smell of pine and violets making you smile. “Handsome, lovely, and now beautiful? Are you still dreaming or do you really say this to every stranger you meet?”

Curling a wing around your waist, he sleepily pulled you closer. “Just stating facts. While I’m at it let’s add exasperating to that list,” he sighed. “And you’re far from a stranger now.” 

Lifting your head, you found that both his green eyes were open and looking at you. You grinned, watching his whole face soften as he smiled back. “Exasperating? That sounds more like it. I’m surprisingly good at that.” 

His eyes slipped closed as you moved to place a quick kiss on his beak, blue feathers shuddering when you sank deeper into his embrace. “Well then, you’re my moon and stars, Revali. Every constellation in the sky pales in comparison.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“I know,” your hands found his wing under the covers, fingers moving to entwine with his own, holding tight. Resting your head against his chest, you could hear his heartbeat under your ear, thrumming and alive. ”But if it was, I'd have already won.” 

Please, stay. 

You kept your eyes shut, trying to focus on the steady inhale and exhale of his lungs. Listening closely, it sounded more labored, as if he was choking. 

Go back to sleep. 

A sticky substance spilled down your cheek, swiping a finger, you inspected it in the lamplight to be red and thick. Blood. 

Don’t follow me, Revali. 

Any attempts to lift your head were futile, blood began to pool into your lips, tasting like copper. 

You would have been long gone by now. 

You were trapped as the warm body underneath you began to grow cold. His chest stilled, heartbeat drumming slow until to your horror, it stopped completely. 

So be it. 

The air shifted again, and you found yourself suddenly able to lift your head, a sickly ribbon of thick red following you. Lifting your hands proved to be difficult, and as you struggled to stand, you found yourself slipping in a puddle of congealed fat and bone. 

The moblin stood before you, Aryll in its grasp. Rot, decay and death; that trio of horrid stench was more familiar to you than ever, and it reeked of it. 

You’re late. 

You were held by invisible chains to the ground, covered in gore. Seeing the terror in Aryll’s eyes made you fight desperately against your restraints, even as your arm began to pull from its socket. 

Don’t go. 

“This can’t be right. It never went like this!” The words were said helplessly as Aryll called out to you, her cries unintelligible as they mixed with her gasping need to breathe. 

I won’t get hurt.  

You began to sob at the sound of her bones snapping. Her diaphragm crushed to dust like the wings of a little bird. 

Plenty to last me a lifetime. 

The cyclone receded and took the fog along with it. In its absence, the dark forest was clear to you once more. Ancient statues alight like funeral pyres, circling a dark mass at its center. 

If your body was your own, you would have jumped back in surprise. Every nerve screamed to do so as the hulking form of that thing, revealed itself in the light of the fires. 

Divine Beast. 

This was the first time you’d seen it confined to the earth. Its fuschia glowing eyes were dimmed. Yet, even though it was grounded, your heart quivered in fear at the mere sight of the leviathan. 

Then, you saw someone familiar, cowering before it. Their clothes were plain, a basic winter coat to ward away the elements, barely keeping their weak form warm. Around them, star charts littered the floor. 

The glowing eyes flashed, coming alive. 

Why are they standing still? You thought in a panic. 

The air began to sizzle in an all too familiar way. Your eyes refused to blink as the person stood there, frozen dumb. 

The puppet strings were released. 

The muscles in your shoulders suddenly dropped, and you leaned to the side as you greedily inhaled a gulp of air. “Holy hell.” You gasped, your voice your own again. Immediately you dragged your feet forward, pushing past the static numbness and using all your strength to propel you forward. 

Your boots crunched against the precious scrolls and maps, adorned lovingly with constellations and measurements that you once spent hours committing to memory.

The empty sound before the blast stole your breath as you barreled into your past self, grabbing them and rolling away just as the beam eviscerated the grass where you both once stood. 

Grabbing their shoulders, you roughly slammed them into the ground. “Are you stupid!” You yelled into their face. Your words came back to you in that same instant, repeated like a twisted echo.

Their eyes were wide as they looked up at you, the fires reflected in them. Utterly terrified, their mouth moved in a mirror to yours. 

“You just stood there! Fucking coward! It took her! He—he’s going to die.”  “You just stood there! Fucking coward! It took her! He—he’s going to die.” 

“And it’s all your goddesses-damned fault.”  “And it’s all your goddesses-damned fault.” 

You sent a fist at your own self, wanting to cave in the face that you wore in another time. It wasn’t fair, how they lived life so blissfully, how they took everything for granted, how they existed without having known anything. 

But as your knuckles connected with skin, you felt no satisfaction from the act. 

Tears began to build in your eyes as you stood up, hastily wiping them from your cheeks. The past version of you did the same to their own, their gaze still trained on you in fear as their face began to bruise. 

Stumbling away, you fell backwards into the grass. The ruins around you burned and the heat began to singe your skin as a warm breeze, like oven fire, fanned the flames. 

Your past self sat up, massaging their jaw and stared at you unblinking. Bloodshot and beady-eyed, like a doll. Their hands stiffly pulled at their burning skin in unnatural angles, almost like they wished to rip the charred layer off completely. 

Then. Without your own mouth moving, they spoke in a voice that wasn’t yours. 

“And what, little sprout, have we learnt?” 

Your mouth tasted like rust. “Just send me to hell! What are you waiting for?” 

“Always choosing the option to run, to cower and hide.” They lifted their arms as the skin there began to flake and blacken, revealing bone. “You care for no one but yourself.” 

“That’s not—I cared for them. I loved—

“You abandoned them. Need I remind you of all the times you chose death over facing the full round.” The smog made by the fires partially obscured their grinning smile. You didn’t even know your own lips could peel that far. “However, I am benevolent.” 

They reached into their coat, pulling out the blue feather which had followed you through all these lives. “I can end this for you. Grant what my sibling cannot. I’ll take it all away.” 

Your eyes never left that feather, watching as it delicately waved in the oppressive heat, embers so close to singeing it. “Give that back.” 

Gleefully, they crushed it into their hand. “Let it burn with me. And I will restore you to your time. Your star charts, your neighbors farm, your sanity. Like all this had never happened. Is that not what you want?” 

Clenching your fist, you felt the deep ache of every scar that was carved into you. Every night spent without peace, with the anxiety of living wrapped tightly around your neck like a noose. 

The sins which plagued you until you walked this world in a haze of your former self. Aryll’s pain. Revali’s death. The knowledge of these events occurring. This goddess could take that all away. 

Yet, your eyes never left that feather. It’s familiar blue stubbornly showing itself in the cracks of their melting hand. 

“You know what I want?” 

The broken mirror tilted their head, an eye sliding to the side as if no longer sitting correctly in their skull. “Hm?” 

“I want you,” shakily standing up, you made your way towards them. “And your siblings,” with arms trembling in anger, you embraced their burning form, prying the feather from their fists. “To fuck off.” 

The goddess laughed in the prison of your arms, their voice sounding the closest to a human than it ever had in this entire twisted exchange. The flames climbed on to your clothes, excruciating. But it did not matter, you have burned before. 

“Noted, little sprout.” 

.

.

.

X—

The grain of the kitchen table swirled and dipped underneath the pads of your fingers. You focused on the indentations, tracing the marks until you found the chip. Aryll had hit her head there, playing tag with her older brother. It was almost a perfect copy. 

“Take a seat,” a woman said, her golden hair in a braided bun. “Tea will be ready soon.” She wore Medilia’s armor, the crest of the Royal Guard displayed proudly on her back. 

“And which one are you?” Sliding the chair out, you roughly deposited yourself on your side of the table. You noticed it was the place where you always sat whenever you were invited to dinner. “Is this house going to catch fire too? Because you might want to spare me the pyrotechnics. I’ve already seen that happen.” 

The woman shook her head ruefully, her face still obscured as she set down two cups of tea. It was Medilia’s favorite set too, the one her husband had gifted her after their quiet son was recruited to serve the King. 

You took a sip. “Who are you?” 

“A bystander to history,” she said, folding her delicate hands. The accent was regal, not unlike a voice you remembered from other lives ago, panicking over your broken form in the grass. “But that is irrelevant. I am here to grant you guidance”. 

“I’ve had enough of higher powers telling me what to do.” 

The woman’s shoulders shook in quiet laughter. “Apologies.” She said, “you just reminded me of someone.” It was then that she lifted her head, revealing a plain face. Pretty, but fairly unremarkable. “I want to help you.” 

Your hands tightened around the cup, close enough to shatter it if you weren’t careful. “Then tell me how I can save them.”

“The world will end, that is already known. But take comfort in the knowledge that it will be reborn in a hundred years.” 

“Lady, it has been a long day. Day? Year. Hylia’s third toe, I don’t know anymore.” The woman’s head tilted in amusement as you swore. “If you’re going to tell me to give up, then I’m going to stop listening right about now.” 

“You still think you can save him.” 

“I will.” Slamming your hand made the old table shudder, the cups rattling on their saucers. “I swear it. I swear myself to it. Now are we done here?” 

“Mortals always fail to focus on the bigger tapestry.” She sighed, her golden hair shimmering in the afternoon light. Past the windows behind her, the fields leading to Castle Town waved, green and healthy in the late summer sun. “Much sorrow and pain will come to pass, but is it not enough that all this sacrifice will be paid back more than a hundred times in the future?"  

“Excuse my mortal sentiments, but I don’t hold individual souls in such little regard.” 

She raised a brow. “And what of your own?” 

You frowned. "Touché. But I’m…working on it.” 

Taking a sip of her tea, she smiled as if in memory. “I haven’t had an informal conversation like this in a while. I must say, it’s quite refreshing.” 

You shook your head. “That’s great and all, but can we please get back to the point. Return me to the start. I have a lot of explaining to do for someone.” Draining your cup, you saw the Silent Princess at the bottom, its blue core and white lined petals in full bloom. “I can’t do this alone anymore.” 

The woman beamed, and her serene smile reminded you of the statues hidden in quiet alcoves, decorated in offerings and warmed by lit incense. 

Before you could connect the dots, she stood from the table, taking the pot from the stove and refilled your cup. “That’s wonderful to hear.” She said in relief, sounding like a mother proud that her child had added one and one to get two. “Such revelations should be rewarded.” 

“What.”

“Drink that please. Waste not a single drop.” At the sudden intensity in her order, you did as you were told. 

You set the empty cup on the table. Looking at your hands, you flexed them to see that nothing happened.  

“Okay, let’s cut the crap Hylia. What is my purpose in all thi—

.

.

.

X—

Starlight stole you away. 

[nogacheloveka-blog]

Horrorgaze

"I'm not very good at speaking and writing in English. I did my best to make the text understandable, especially the jokes, but I may have been mistaken in this. If you see any serious mistakes, don't hesitate to write about it. You will help me a lot. Thank you.

Pairing and Characters: Killer/Nightmare, Horror/Cross, Killer/Cross, Cross, Nightmare, Killer, Dust, Horror

Other Tags: only Horror point of view, no sexual scenes(i think so), a lot of reflections, some memory lapses, weak sexual dimorphism, pairings hinted at in general

Description: Horror lives among variations of himself. He can think a lot and say little. He is also a nearsighted stalker.

Notes: All "Sans" in the text belong to Horror. According to my headcanon, he looks somewhat frightening and beast-like, with fangs and claws, keen hearing and smell, but extremely nearsighted. He is also "older" than Killer and Dust: Horrortale moved forward in time, while the universes of these two remained frozen in repetition.

***

Sans often gnawed on things. This habit remained from the hungry years in the Underground: to suppress the gnawing feeling of hunger, akin to the birth of a black hole below the sternum, he would scrape his teeth against his post in Snowdin, the resinous bark of trees, boil pine needles, and the hard-earned fish. He chewed on thin children's bones.

After Nightmare gave his world a chance to survive, Sans had to keep an eye on his habit. It would be rude to leave marks on someone else's territory, right? But even so, the pens and pencils that came into his possession, as well as the mugs with cutlery, suffered. All his belongings bore the imprint of his sharp-toothed jaw.

All his belongings, not himself.

Sans noticed a bite on his left hand while cooking, surprised by its presence. It was not painful at all, but deep enough to still be visible. It crossed the malicious "U" of his metacarpals and slid into scratches along the heads of the proximal phalanges, becoming particularly deep on the middle phalanx of his pinky finger. Sans himself could not have forgotten to bite himself this way—such an awkward angle.

The injured head made itself known. His memory sometimes failed to retain recent events. It was not as dire as with the Multiverse Defender, as he did not forget his daily routine. Only incidents with strong emotional outbursts, moments of excessive tension, became heavily blurred and slipped away, leaving gaping holes behind. He remembered things in fragments, from the words of those around him or by finding himself in similar situations, but he never had a complete picture. Life now presented itself to him as a series of calm days with patches missing during certain missions—when something went wrong, he had to operate at maximum capacity.

All attempts to recall the nature of the injury were unsuccessful. He remembered a vague excitement and an unclear obsessive desire, as his hands were tightly wrapped around something thin, like tree branches. No, no, wait, it was round and rough. And fabric. The claws on his right palm had definitely snagged something made of dense fabric, digging in, and it had torn under pressure, but it hadn't split apart. And he sank his claws deeper, simply because it felt good to have that sense of power.

His soul raced slightly even at the attempts to remember. Sans swallowed.

Judging by these scant fragments, it seemed he had been holding someone. Perhaps Nightmare had tasked him with stirring up trouble in some place, and he had gotten carried away? That seemed quite plausible. In most universes, just the sight of his massive, twisted figure in the middle of Snowdin or the New Home was enough to raise the level of negativity. Usually, during such missions, time did not particularly constrain him, and he allowed himself to chase the locals, driving them through the woods or engaging in extortion. He loved hunting too. It reminded him of the old days, but now he was full and could do it for fun, like someone of royal blood. Nevertheless, Sans did not like to kill—this did not apply to variations of Undyne—and he had a good sense of his opponents, which was why Nightmare appreciated the work he did.

Horror glanced at the calendar. He marked the days when he experienced memory loss, just to ask the others for details later. Or they would tell him themselves if they saw a new note. The bite had been less than a day ago. Meanwhile, the events of the current day seemed quite coherent, and Sans had noted the second half of yesterday. It seemed unlikely that this was a task from Nightmare, and he would remember many more details if that were the case. Perhaps it was related to someone here at home. In that case, it definitely wasn't Dust: he had left for a mission three days ago. He had seen Killer this morning, bored in the living room, and he looked the same as usual. Judging by the feelings from the memory, his victim should have been pretty battered. And it definitely wasn't a boss. Simply because it's hard to imagine how Lord Nightmare would bite him in self-defense rather than leave him with yet another hole in his skull.

Then Cross…?

He hadn’t seen him today, so that made sense. Did he get into a fight with Cross? Should he...

…The strong, white radial and ulnar bones in the grip of one of his hands, due to the splayed fingers, look like maple branches. Almost dazzlingly white compared to the grayish-yellow of his own bones. They are beautiful. Their color is indistinguishable from the snowy white of his clothing; even the scars do not mar them. Sans sees a brief flash of fear and how Cross freezes, pinned to the floor by his weight. He takes a breath to ask something…

...bring him some healing food?

A brief flash of memory pierces through like a spark.

…Sans covers Cross jaw with his free hand, not allowing a sound to escape. Cross's head is now pressed to the floor, revealing his beautiful profile and the white pupil widened in confusion at what is happening. From this angle, the strong cervical vertebrae, usually hidden by clothing, are visible. They are as lovely as blank sheets of paper and white, sweet marshmallows. He wants to bite-

His heart races from the unclear images. Sans runs his palm over his face. This is just disgusting. Yes, Cross is definitely beautiful, but that’s no reason…

…Hypnotized, he releases the other’s wrists and places his hand on the warm side. Cross flinches. Sans's claws dug into the layers of clothing, tearing through under pressure, but not splitting apart. And he sank his claws deeper, simply because it felt good to have that sense of power. He feels a smile stretching across his face. He wants to purr from the intoxicating sensation…

...to pounce on bones like a hungry dog. Sans wants to be dusted right now. No, no, first he needs to check on Cross's condition, to do everything he can to atone for his disgusting act — whatever it may have been. And then he’ll go impale the remnants of a skull...

…Suddenly, his victim kicks out and bites the hand on his face. He blinks sluggishly, and that moment of confusion is enough for Cross to slip away and disappear in a flash of shortcut teleportation...

...on something deadly.

Okay, fine. Great. He just scared him. The collar of panic and guilt around his neck loosened.

He will get up now and make a coffee pot of hot chocolate. And he will go talk to Cross about what happened. Apologize. Maybe he’ll try to…

It’s painfully shameful because Cross is really too good for all of them.

***

Sans remembered how Nightmare brought in a creature that smelled of dust and human blood. It was like a ghost: a silhouette near the occupied sofas in the living room, disappearing food from the fridge, the scent of cigarettes in empty rooms. One-word answers and silence to personal questions.

It was acutely aware of monster magic — Killer was openly losing at hide-and-seek.

It only yielded to Sans himself in the real hunt. Sans even managed to remember its scent of death before it turned back.

The frightened expression of the skull reminded Sans of his own past when he looked at his changing body in the shards of a mirror. Back then, he saw living emotions. And how much effort it took him to discern in it the almost defeated self from the past, the one who needed help.

Hunger, long-standing trauma, and LV had long ago twisted Sans's bones, making him more dangerous, like a wounded animal. Dust's LV hung around like a heavy, biting cloud, constantly warping his mind, turning him into a madman, quietly begging the empty corners for either forgiveness or help. Horror caught snippets of phrases as he silently passed by. The addresses to Papyrus particularly pierced his soul. Sans remembered the times of the eighth human's fall and all that exhausting dance with timelines. In Dust's case, the hopeless conditions of the game broke him so much that he couldn't hold on. But it must be said that guy was holding up pretty well now, albeit with disgusting methods.

Dust's refuge was not far from Sans's own room, and at night, his keen hearing picked up unsteady footsteps, while his sensitive nose detected the alcoholic haze, in addition to the usual smell of the dust old attic. Horror was wildly glad that the skeleton didn't use shortcuts in such a state. Sometimes he heard the footsteps stop at his door. From that side came whispers and sobs, provoking a strong desire to grab this dummy by the scruff of the neck like a wayward kitten and carry it to safety.

On one of those days, Sans realized that he simply couldn't ignore his younger and more confused version. He had something to offer him. He did what Sanses did best:

“Knock, knock,” the knuckles rhythmically tapped against the door from the inside. There were doubts about the success of this plan on the first try, but at the very least, it would let him know he was open to company.

“ Who… is there?” The voice sounded uncertain from the other side, as if it were trying to remember the beginning of such jokes. Or preparing for an attack.

Sans was still glad to hear a response.

“A liver,” his large, clawed hand slowly unlocked the horrifically creaky door, creating a small gap. He could distinctly hear a shaky step back from the other side. A faint light streamed through the small opening into the dark corridor. Sans saw half of a skull, a swirling two-colored pupil beneath a disheveled hood, and an elbow frozen in a defensive gesture. The air smelled of fear.

“What… liver?” came the quiet mumble.

“Delivery,” Sans replied with a satisfied rumble, extending a Spider Donut.

It reminded him of how he used to lure children into traps in his Underground with bright sweets wrappers. In any case, the sweets had never been a trick — a really nice scream. He wasn’t a complete fiend.

Dust looked unusually bewildered. But he took the donut. What a good boy. Sans's hand itched to pat him on the head. But he had to hold back.

“Knock. I’m usually here. I’ll open up and help if you need it.”

Dust didn’t knock. It was as if he had completely evaporated. The need to find him and make sure he was okay left Sans restless. But there was no shuffling around and emptying the stock of strong alcohol in the kitchen either. Not for a while.

One calm day, early in the morning, Sans woke up to the sound of something falling outside the door. Could that be considered a knock? Yes? Definitely, yes.

Dust lay there without lights in his eye sockets, like an old, slippery, dusty rag that had wiped up a puddle of absinthe and hadn’t been wrung out properly. Sans took him in. He stripped off the stale Dust's clothes and the only remaining slipper, wrapping the unconscious bones in a blanket. After a moment’s thought, he brought an orange and a glass of water from the kitchen.

He would take care of him.

***

Sans stared blankly at the bare bones, unsure of what to do with himself. Scored with scars and illuminated by the poisonous crimson of the target's soul, they couldn't hide the gentle curvature at the joints. The light, elegant rib cage, with its lovely splay of collarbones, emphasized the fragility of the shoulders. The spinous processes of the vertebrae, unlike the others on the team, were not spiky like a gnawed fish spine but rounded, like feathers on a bird of prey. He had forbidden himself to look below the lumbar region of the spine, but even so, he counted three large vertebrae. The black tears of hatred, it turned out, concealed the subtle differences in the facial bones and jaw. Until that moment, Sans hadn't realized how nearsighted he was. Not just him, but everyone on their team of world evil.

Killer tilted his(?) head questioningly at Sans's confusion. The shattered radius seemed to bother him(?) not at all, just as the broken false ribs didn’t; he(?) was playfully swinging his(?) legs while sitting on the table amid the rubble of bones, like an unfinished cookie. A bit of bandaging and some healing food. That was all. Sans managed it in a couple of minutes, under the mocking, uncomfortable squint of the chocolate-black voids of eye sockets.

It was a pity that sorting out mixed feelings wouldn’t be so easy. He was somewhat old-fashioned about such matters. Sans was so flustered that he didn’t ask anything or request to cover up. Why did none of the guys react to—

But on the other hand, Sans reacted normally to other variations of himself. Himself who killed his brother. Himself with four tentacles. Himself in a blue neck scarf. Himself as a creator, himself as a destroyer. Why did he only short-circuit at the thought of himself

as a girl?

Their kind had weak sexual dimorphism, and the presence of an ecto-body reduced the natural sex to something akin to hair color, essentially a joke. It was a remnant, considering the overall bisexuality. In his time in Horrortale, there had been other skeletal beings — not that Sans “shared a closet” with any of them — who helped him a lot by looking after Papyrus and providing both brothers with an education when their father to vanish into Core oblivion. At the very least, he knew how the females of their kind differed from the males (a couple of anatomy atlases from the Surface had lived under his bed throughout puberty).

Sans decided to observe.

All previous interactions with Killer had not revealed any concern: his(?) clothing was unremarkable, he(?) didn’t try to cover his(?) nudity (Sans realized he hadn’t really noticed nothing during those times), he(?) spoke firmly in the masculine form, teasing without hesitation. Even the tone of his(?) voice (Sans had to listen closely to all the nonsense that came out of that voice) hinted at nothing. The only thing that distinguished him was his(?) fighting style, where Killer preferred to use his(?) natural flexibility and show off in close combat, impervious to pain. And, damn, it was beautiful. Inventive. Next to Killer's deadly tango, Horror felt like a clumsy bear.

The others also didn’t react. Only Cross occasionally grumbled about the need to constantly heal Killer’s fractures, to which the latter shrugged, saying, “It’s so you can touch me a little more, Crossy.” Dust was irritated to the point of cracking with barely restrained magic. Their LV didn’t allow for any other kind of communication.

It became amusing that in all their variations of unfortunsanse outcomes, the conversation about pistils and stamens would only be his. Nightmare clearly had no intention of changing the current state of affairs. Although Sans had seen how disapproving he looked at the flirting from his protégé. To be honest, he himself also looked at it disapprovingly — Lord of Negativity was too old for Killer.

In the end, Sans resigned himself. Killer had socialized as a guy for too long, so even the sudden news that his body was somehow different and that he had to behave differently wouldn’t affect much. If someone suddenly told to Sans, “Hey, buddy, you have feminine bones,” he would shrug it off and do nothing. But Killer could throw something unexpected (in a bad way) in response. So he needed to take his gentlemanly instincts and shove them far up his backside.

Killer was a guy. Conversations about his body being female wouldn’t change anything — they were, for star's sake, made of bones that were covered in magic when it was really needed, with open interpretations the rest of the time. Case closed. Apparently, the long-simmering tension made him worry about trivial matters.

“Been a while since you ran from me, big guy,” Killer said, playing with a knife. “Thought I’d lost my charm with you.”

Sans snorted softly. He had only been thinking about him these past few days.

“I haven’t fought in a long time.”

“Ah, that’s it. Then…” His bored expression shifted to childlike joy. “Hi there! I’m Kill the Killer! Want a little LOVE from me? I share it through my little, pointy ‘friendly knives’!” And with a laugh, he launched magical attacks that appeared in the air, not particularly aiming.

***

Lord of Negativity was strange.

But that was somewhat pleasing, as he didn’t respond to “Sans.” And his brother didn’t respond to “Papyrus.” The body made of black sludge was strange too. Theoretically, it was the same substance that flowed from Killer's eye sockets, which explained the latter's attraction: a part of the substance inside him longed to reunite with its source. Or something like that.

The only thing that was not strange, but rather predictable, was the aura of negativity that followed him like a cool trail, displacing even the feverish, biting whispers of their colorful company’s common LV. When it was nearby, breathing felt easier. Dust relaxed his tense shoulders. The trails of eternal tears from Killer dried up. Only Cross became more serious, but he revered Nightmare.

It was no secret that he simply fed off them during such moments.

Well, so what — he didn’t consume regular food, so everyone just benefited at dinner. And dinners were always communal since Nightmare always gave instructions for the next day if there were any. He didn’t make his presence known every time, but judging by the feeling of relief, he was always nearby. Sometimes, Sans felt like he was even сhecking on their well-being during such visits. The feeling of being Checked could have just been a figment of his imagination.

“I don’t need you worrying about your problems,” Nightmare said authoritatively when he sealed their deal. “Just take care of my instructions. I take you, your world takes the food.”

At that time, his words sounded like selling one’s soul to pure evil, which doesn’t keep promises. And he agreed to it simply because everything that gave him the strength to survive was dying in his hands, turning hopes and dreams to dust. But the longer he worked under his patronage, the clearer it became that putting Lord of Negativity's concerns above his own was the best means of achieving any other goals and desires. He wasn’t senseless evil; rather, he was a spectrum from chaotic to lawful and was a personality.

It wasn’t an act of love or care.

For a knife to attack your opponent, its tip must be pointed where you want it to go. If it looks elsewhere, you’ll miss. If the knife is dull, you’ll waste your strength. If you apply constant pressure to it, the knife will break, and you’ll be left unarmed. Also, butter knives are bad for chopping trees, and axes are for social receptions.

Nightmare solved their problems if it truly required his intervention. He taught them tactics and strategy, kept the necessary books on the lower shelves (even if it contradicted the library system), and personally trained them. He gave them personal time and time for healing if it was needed. He didn’t send them on missions if it didn’t suit their abilities.

In other words, he replaced their goals with his own, didn’t let them dull, and didn’t pressure them more than necessary. A delightful approach.

And Sans was devoted to him out of gratitude.

Dream's arrows were no more dangerous to him than usual. You could say he took only half the damage from them, just like any normal skeleton*. And he calmly caught them mid-flight with his bare hands or…

“Wow, big guy, you’re completely insane!” Killer sounded genuinely enthusiastic, encouraging his ego with a peculiar compliment.

His admiration warmed the soul pleasantly, like a fletching of pure positivity warmed his mouth. The magical arrow crunched like glass under the pressure of his teeth.

Dream looked flustered. Blue and Dust even paused their fight to see how the half-broken arrow vanished into cool blue sand in the air along with Sans's 5 HP. For Nightmare, it would have taken comically more.

Horrortale made all parts of the body weapons, so there was nothing strange about utilizing everything available for Lord of Negativity. Magic wasn’t as fast.

And by protecting Nightmare, he was primarily protecting everything most precious in his life, which Nightmare also protected.

However strange that may sound.

Notes:

Horror: Well, I would be quite hot in a female body. Killer: Flirting with a 500-year-old surströmming. Horror: Damn

- In games, skeletons often have resistance to swords or arrows

[captainshurley]

Baby I'm not alright, but I'm okay (Part 7)

Cash Wheeler x f reader

Previous chapter

Waking up this morning, y/n slowly opened her eyes, welcoming the warm sunlight. Daniel had left late last night when the rain stopped, but the scent of his cologne still lingered in the air. y/n smiled at her memories of yesterday. Of the support Dan had given her during her panic attack.  Who would have thought he wouldn't walk away scared or tell her, like the others, that she shouldn't act like that.

The girl stretched lazily and got out of bed to make breakfast.

In the quaint and cozy kitchen, a vibrant young lady meticulously crafted culinary masterpieces with an air of unwavering determination. Her hands danced nimbly across the countertop, measuring ingredients with precision and finesse. As she stirred, sautéed, and whisked, the aroma of fragrant spices filled the air, tantalizing the senses. y/n's eyes sparkled with passion as she poured her heart and soul into each dish, blending flavors and textures with impeccable skill. The rhythmic tapping of a knife against the cutting board provided a soothing soundtrack to her culinary symphony, creating a sense of peace and tranquility.

Finished with breakfast, y/n found her phone. Her phone had been bursting with notifications since early morning, but because the sound was off, she hadn't seen any of them until now. Several hundred people had subscribed to her Instagram. Some even wrote messages to her in DMs. Most of them were very toxic messages.  In addition to notifications of new subscribers, y/n was tagged in some photos. The girl opened one of them and was horrified to notice that the picture showed her hugging Daniel and geotagging the park they met at yesterday. Things got even worse when y/n read the caption under the photo.

“Wrestling star's private life secret revealed! Cash Wheeler, known for his brutal and little-talking image in the ring, was recently spotted in the company of a mysterious lady. For a long time, Wheeler has shied away from discussing his personal relationships, preferring to keep his private life under wraps...”

Under the photo was a link for the full article on the site. Y/n still didn't understand what it was about her and how she deserved all that was coming at her at once. She opened the link and continued reading the article.

“...This time, however, wrestling fans got a rare chance to see Cash Wheeler in an unusual situation for him. Last night, September 27, a Reddit user posted photos of the pair strolling through a park, exchanging smiles. Usually so focused and stern in the ring, Cash seems to have changed his look, becoming more relaxed and open in the company of his enigmatic companion.

The gossip and speculation have not been long in coming. Reddit users are wondering who is this mysterious girl who won the wrestler's heart? How long have they been together? And how have they managed to keep their relationship a secret until now? Undoubtedly, this exciting event caused a storm of emotions among Cash Wheeler's fans. Fans even found some photos from Dynamite that showed Wheeler's new girlfriend with a full access badge, including backstage.

We were able to find out that Cash Wheeler's new girlfriend Y/n Mercer serves on the Asheville Police Department...”

The girl couldn't read any further. She locked the screen and tossed the phone aside. What to say to her brother and how to explain to him that she wasn't hiding her relationship from him because there was no relationship as such. She and Daniel are just friends, right? At the thought of Wheeler, her lips curved into a nervous smile. How would Dan react? Wouldn't it become a problem for him? Rational thoughts quickly began to override the voice in her head. It was screaming that trouble was coming and she needed to run away sooner rather than later. Literally and figuratively.

Y/n literally ran to her bedroom and started packing quickly. She took only the necessary things: documents, several sets of clothes, a laptop and chargers for her gadgets. Y/n began to gasp with panic. She wasn't ready to go through all of this again and alone. She shook and slid down the wall to the floor. Her eyes filled with tears, her hands were shaking, and she was terribly short of breath.

Y/n sobbed for quite some time. She was just beginning to calm down as she heard her phone ringing in the living room. Getting up on slightly shaky legs, she walked to the common room, picked up her phone and saw a missed call from her brother.

“Damn, I'm not ready for this conversation yet...”

[amsgrey]

Deju Vu Part Two Teaser

In the effort to stress I am in fact working on Part Deux to Deja Vu, here is a lil teaser/snippet.

I have reached an impasse at the moment, mostly I don’t really have any idea how to end this or if i’m thinking of making it like a continuous thing? but atm i just want it to be comfy big brothers lookin after their lil sibling.

———

Will did a check over you and the monitors with his eyes, again. Then looked over to Jay, who looked completely deflated. It was no secret that Jay hated hospitals and medical treatment in general, especially needles. Spending time in hospitals usually gave him anxiety and he would always say to Will,

"I don't know how you do it, man.”

But Jay hadn't complained even once. Not when he was watching the IV get put in your hand, or while you were attached to countless machines. Will knew it was because he felt hopeless. The same look that he wore at their dads bedside he wore now. Will stood and stared for a while, the memory playing in his mind in time with real life. This was different. You weren't on life support like your father had been, things were different. That didn't change the memories Will had of his dads last moments plaguing his mind.

“I stayed calm because I had too," Will finally spoke.

Jay looked up, watching his brother cross his arms over his chest and take a deep breath.

"I had to stay calm, for her.”

Jay shook his head, grasping for words, “I just froze, Will. And you-"

"-Trained for years to react in medical emergency situations, spent years working the ER," Will interrupted.

"Jay,” Will reached over the bed and gave Jays shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “I do this every day. I know how to tune out the emotions and focus on task at hand.”

*Yeah, I guess."

Will sat on one of the chairs, mirroring Jay across the bed, "Listen. I could never get used to being shot at, could never be shot at and react how you do. Because I'm not trained, I'm not good at that. You aren't a doctor Jay, stop beating yourself up over something that was a basic human reaction.”

Jay didn't answer, letting silence fall over the room. Neither one of the brothers was up for a conversation, mostly consumed with their own thoughts as they watched you sleep.

You had stirred a few times in the coming hours but mostly stayed sleeping. Will told Jay that it was a combination of the medication and the stress of recent events catching up with you. In his words, it was nothing to worry about.

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXX

Celestia has a cruel sense of humor. He��s always known this, ever since his days as a student. But a soulmate? Really? Dottore/Female Reader Soulmate AU. Lore speculation, interpretations, etc. Chapter on AO3 here.

He surfaced at a break in the Leylines, water splashing at his boots as the world resettled around him.  You barely stirred in his arms, not waking even for a moment when he dove into the veins of the world.  Your limbs were limp, your body dead weight.  A Rishboland tiger could come and swipe at both of you and you would be none the wiser.

You recognized him when you woke the first time, even if the lines were blurred.  It was too early to draw conclusions but it was likely indicative that, at least cognitively, you were whole.  

Dottore preferred you that way.  You wouldn’t be who you were if…

He took a moment to look around, finding the waterway quiet and otherwise unbothered by his disruption.  Fungi slept nearby, frogs croaked in familiar rhythms, and a waterfall churned nearby.  The air smelled damp and not just from the pools of water.  It rained recently in the span of time that he was gone.  

The formations were familiar and he could see the worn path of the main road nearby.  Dottore calculated the time it took from the lab to this particular point; he’d been under for all of a few minutes, which meant he hadn’t gone all that far from Sumeru City.  In fact, he spent a great deal of time here in his younger years.

He shifted you in his arms and tried not to think about how warm you were, how well you fit there.  Now wasn’t the time, although he’d long debated with himself that there was never an opportune time for you .  He could feel the nagging scratching at his mind from the other Segments, the hive mind disrupted now that everyone else was keenly aware of what had transpired.

Above all of the chatter, the memories he’d forced into Omega floated like ice upon a thawing lake.  Whatever progress had been made was now lost and all he had of it were moments that felt stolen.  They shouldn’t even matter.  He never asked for this, for you.  

What to do with you?

Dottore looked down, your head pressed against his chest, brow creased.  

If he left you with your colleagues, returned you where you belonged, all it would do would signal to Omega that you were free to be bothered again.  The Segment would find you, ruin what little you had left.

Which wasn’t much.

His doing.  His Segment’s execution, yes, but it was his own neutrality that gave you the credence to stay.  You would have pushed back, would have stayed regardless of his stance on the matter, and therefore he was not going to waste precious time arguing that point.  He may not have known Omega’s plans or intent but events would have gone differently if he’d stopped being an observer in his own life, no?

Was this Omega’s point?  That he was too well-versed in neutrality, in observation, that the Segment saw no action in the decisions based on the evidence and data he gathered?

Even if he took you back to the inn, Omega could have laid seeds already taking root: you were gone for days, a search would have been enacted for a foreign visitor, or worse yet, no one would be expecting you and you left of your own volition.  He knew nothing about the situation. 

Your words rang in his ears as if you’d woken up just to say them again, your voice crystal clear.

If you care about me at all, let me go.

How could he do that when you were literally woven into whatever destiny Celestia had chosen for him, for you?  Ignoring everything was no longer a viable option, not when Omega forced his hand and potentially altered you permanently.

It would be tantamount to abandoning you.  And it would be impossible to forget you.  Celestia would never let him and you would haunt his dreams for the rest of your days.

Variables he never foresaw, not in this fashion.

Omega would obtain the Gnoses, if only out of the set parameters and system functions.  His goal was still intact, if a bit derailed.  Dottore could return to Snezhnaya as requested without hindering the long-term plans.

Leyline travel wasn’t going to work, not with the way his mind was clouded, and not when he hadn’t had a chance to observe the effects of Omega’s actions.  

He had to stay in Sumeru a while longer.  Of that, he was certain.

But you didn’t have to stay with him.  In fact, it was very clear the first time you would prefer not to.  

His arms tensed and he pulled your form into him a little tighter, the hand on your arm squeezing a little as his shoulders rounded, as if to shield you.  You smelled differently than you had when he first saw you, drew close to you.  Like singed metal and antiseptic.  Familiar scents but ones that did not suit you.

The one person who might tolerate him, understand what it meant to go beyond normality and cross the threshold into exceptional…were you, too, out of his reach despite being so close?

For a moment, he entertained the selfish tug in his stomach to simply steal you away, to keep you from harm, delve into what it meant to be bonded from every angle he could possibly conceive.  None of it would undo Omega’s damage but it would help him untangle another mystery of Teyvat.  One that he presumed would have to be left unanswered because for centuries, Celestia gave him nothing but misery for simply thinking differently.  There were few things in this world that he had yet to uncover and you provided the perfect entry into one of the remaining unanswered questions.

You would never stand for it, though.  He knew that much.  A caged bird would never sing, not of its own volition, its own passion.  Omega laid the groundwork.  If he wasn’t careful, Zandik would crush what remained.

For once, he’d hoped for more.  Wondered what could be.  What the world was like with someone by his side who might, at least, listen to him.  Someone that didn’t use his intellect and skills for their own gain in exchange for belonging, who accepted him and all of the monstrosity inside of him.

His attention snapped from his thoughts as a frog croaked loudly nearby, hopping once to rest on his boot.  Dottore clicked his tongue and shook the amphibian from his foot, trying not to jostle you in the process.  He couldn’t stay here, out in the open.  The last thing he needed was a forest ranger on patrol nearby spotting him, a Fatui Harbinger, holding an unconscious figure in the middle of the jungle.  

Dottore gritted his teeth and released a harsh breath.  Constantly sabotaging himself to the point of logic loops that were, in fact, bordering on nonsensical.  

If he recalled correctly, one of his first workshops wasn’t terribly far from here.  It was probably a little overgrown but it would do.  Assuming, of course, that another scholar hadn’t taken it for themselves.

He needed to know the effects of Omega’s actions, first and foremost, and he could only do that if you were awake. 

[ulircursed]

It's a strange settling in his chest, but one he does not pay much mind to. There's a stirring of the word 'friendship' that is accompanied by undeniable affection -- something he will not be speaking aloud, for fear of such a tenuous connection breaking.

Naesala is, and always will be, a bit of a coward. His hands did not shake when he wrote his letter, and they do not betray rising anxiety as he presses it to Andrei's door. He's not used to the abyss, but he's found his way down here into its suffocating halls in order to deliver his message.

The letter, of course, penned in his own hand. The wax has just cooled, and inside it reads:

Andrei, You know about the upcoming ethereal ball, don't you? There's to be a masquerade, of which I'm sure you will selfishly cover that delightful blush of yours. If no one has yet offered themselves as your chaperone and guide, might I suggest myself? Come see me if you accept -- I would like to coordinate outfits. Reyson and Tibarn will also be there, as well as my good friend Beowolf. You'll fit right in. Please send Cranberry my regards. You'd better be listening to all of his demands. - Naesala

Though he knows that Andrei will not understand the meaning and sincerity of the gesture, he leaves inside the letter a single black feather.

Andrei had heard about the ball; rumors always quick to spread among the student body and loud enough that anyone vaguely involved with the monastery would be guaranteed know of them within a few days’ time.

He hadn’t exactly planned to attend. While initially intent upon preserving the facade of normalcy in his life upon arriving in Fódlan, that habit had gradually fallen by the wayside until it had all but ceased to become normal in his life at all.

In fact, in recent memory, the only events of this caliber he could remember attending are the ones Ethlyn had decided to sign him up for, in a gesture meant to annoy, and one that he always pays back in full.

This, though... this is rather different, and even reading the letter alone, Andrei cannot quite suppress the hint of pink that rises in his cheeks at the invitation. Chaperone and guide. What does Naesala mean by that?

"Does your bird culture have a different meaning to something like this?" he mutters at Cranberry, who lifts his head up at the attention, tilting it with a soft squeak. Andrei sighs, withdrawing the black feather and holding it out to the pigeon, who eagerly takes it up with his beak in recognition and places it gently into his basket, tucked in with the warm cloth.

Andrei waits for the bird to finish fussing with his nest before rising from his seat. "Come," he holds out a hand and scoops Cranberry onto his palm, "I suppose we had better pay him a visit, then."

Just to clear up any potential misunderstandings, he tells himself, privately thankful that the long walk to the monastery grounds would give the flush on his cheeks plenty of time to abate.