#the gentle monotony of being in a safe space with others

[magicstormfrostfire]

[sunnysviolin]

Omotober Day One- White Space

You can also read it here. This is a continuation of Omori Continues

“Behind that door lives the small child that is the real you. The small child who hurts too much and feels too much and laughs too loud and always believes... true love involves unlocking the many padlocks on that door, taking him by the hand, and guiding him- Joybell C.

“We may never know exactly when or how this began, but if we acknowledge this little one, he will somehow know that we are listening to him.”- Bonnie Badenoch

Omori existed, and then he didn’t.

Sunny had held him, and he had closed his eyes. He stopped existing when he closed his eyes, but that was normal. He didn’t exist a lot of the time, only when Sunny closed his eyes.

Except nowadays when Sunny closed his eyes, Omori still didn’t exist. There was no lightbulb, no door, no neighbor’s room, no headspace. It was just Omori, not existing, but still there. He didn’t know where “there” was, but that was where Omori was now.

In “There”, he had lots of time to think, so Omori thought. He thought about his friends, and he wondered if they were still waiting for him in their technicolor tree house. He thought about Mari and her picnic blankets, about her gentle smiles and cheerful attempts to help him. Omori thought about a lot of things, but the thing he thought about most was Sunny.

Sunny had hugged him, but that wasn’t normal. Omori was used to hugs from his friends, tight squeezes from Basil (almost too tight sometimes) and side grabs from Kel. Omori thought he knew how hugs felt. They were nice, but flat. It was like looking at a picture of a delicious food. It was delectable, desirable even, but underneath that initial thought, there was no substance. It was just something that happened to him.

But hugging Sunny felt, for lack of a better word, like something...more.

Omori didn’t really like Sunny. He spent most of his time trying and succeeding in forgetting that Sunny even existed. Sunny had created him, but Sunny was bad. Omori was supposed to be the good parts of himself that Sunny hid away, because Sunny knew he couldn’t be trusted around good things without hurting them.

Omori wasn’t Sunny, Sunny was a monster, but he knew that he was Sunny’s creation just like everything in headspace was. Did that make him Sunny? Did that make him a monster too? It was easier to just try to stab the older boy than try to wrap his head around all of that. But then Sunny made him feel more.

Omori had never really felt more before, only certain little moments of it during the worst parts of his existence. When he went past just scared, past AFRAID and into STRESSED OUT. When he went past his normal limits and became not quite Omori and not quite Sunny either. He had thought that anything more than what he was had to be bad, because the only time he was more than Omori was when he was hurt or scared. That was why they were all in headspace, wasn’t it? A safe place to lock all the darkness out and only leave the good?

But Sunny’s hug had been more, and Sunny was more, and he had made Omori feel warm for the very first time since he had woken up in White Space on that night.

Omori didn’t know what to make of it, how to try and rebalance what he thought he had known with what he knew now. In the “There” that he was still existing in he tried to find a way that it all made sense, but he couldn’t. There was no reconciling Sunny the Monster with Sunny the Boy. Could they both exist? Then what did that make Omori?

He was There, and There was nothing.

Then There was White Space.

Usually right before he opened his eyes, Omori always had the same two thoughts. Welcome to White Space. You have been living here for as long as you can remember. This time he didn’t think of a thing. One minute he existed “there” and the next he was back in White Space.

Mewo slumbered in the corner of the white rug, and his laptop began the process of booting back up all on its own. He had his box of tissues, full now instead of almost empty, and-

His sketchbook. It was new. Omori could tell you every exact detail of the things in White Space down to a tee. He could tell you where the dents were on his laptop, the exact spot where Mewo loved to be scratched under her chin, even the number of tissues that perpetually existed in his box.

His sketchbook was supposed to be dirty and beaten up, the paper was supposed to be crinkled at the edges. It was a sketchbook filled with drawings that scared him, drawings he knew that he had done, but also had no memory of ever doing. They were only the surface drawings, and Omori was frightened by them because he knew what lay underneath.

This sketchbook was sleek, black leather with crisp white pages, his name embossed in gold on the cover. Next to it sat an open pencil box, clear plastic blue filled to the brim with sharp colored pencils. Omori stood up from where he had been sitting on the blanket, and walked over. He kneeled by the new items and picked up the box, inspecting its contents.

He had never had blue before, or green or purple. A full glossy rainbow of options was peering out at him, waiting to be used. Omori shut the box, the box clasping shut with a neat snap that echoed into the white. Omori jumped at the sound, startled. The only sounds he ever heard in here was Mewo, the knife falling, or his laptop booting up. He opened and shut the box a few more times, just to hear the new sound again. Then he put it down and picked up the other new item.

The sketchbook was heavier than his other one. He ran a finger along the letters of his name, the gold glinting and soft to the touch. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to open it, it was so beautiful the way it was. Seeing the drawings inside would ruin it.

Omori didn’t want to see them, to have to look at Sunny’s nightmares, or the fragments of Black Space he could never fully purge from his mind. Maybe he didn’t have to look, he could just keep the book sitting here on his thighs until Sunny awoke again and took him back to the There.

A familiar sound came from behind him, and then Mewo was brushing against his leg, sitting in front of him and pawing at the book. Omori raised a hand and pet between her ears, giving one long stroke down her back the way she liked and then a small scratch under the chin. She purred and then gave another soft meow, asking him her standard question.

Waiting for something to happen?

Omori hummed and gave Mewo another long stroke, taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what was to come. He closed his eyes when he flipped the cover of the book open, feeling on the page with his fingers. On his old book he could feel the shape of the pencil marks, the harsh jagged lines of black and red that marred his memories. He couldn’t feel anything. There was nothing under his fingers but paper. Omori opened his eyes.

The page was blank. He flipped through the pages, his pace slow but gathering pace as it went. Finally he reached the other cover, white turning to black. The entire book was blank. Was it...for him? How did it exist?

Did Sunny make it for him?

Sunny had never made him anything before. Sunny had just created the things he wanted, or chosen to protect the things he didn’t want to ruin. Sunny had never made anything just for Omori before. Mewo made a soft noise and picked herself back up, going to his side again and lying down against him, her neck stretching so her little head was in his lap alongside the book.

Omori was frozen, his mind swirling and racing. This had never happened before, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He was so used to the monotony of headspace, of repeating the same journey over and over. It all always happened the same way, it had a formula.

The formula had never been interested in his happiness before. He had just assumed Sunny couldn’t care less.

Eventually his legs started to cramp up, and Omori changed positions, lying on his stomach with the sketchbook sitting between his arms as he stared at it. Mewo wasn’t happy about this change, but she took advantage of it and jumped onto his back, kneading his muscles with her paws until she was satisfied and then lying back down. Once she was settled, Omori decided to gather his courage and test it.

Slowly he reached towards the blue plastic of the pencil box, not taking his gaze off the sketchbook. He kept his eyes glued to the page, expecting at any second for the white to vanish and for the horrors of before to replace it.

But they didn’t. Not even when he opened the box and took out the deep purple pencil and put it against the paper. The first stroke was just that, only a stroke. It wasn’t a picture, it wasn’t even an idea. It was just a stripe of purple on white. He stared at it and waited, but nothing changed. Mewo continued to sleep, the pencils sat in the box, and the purple stayed.

With constant pauses of hesitation, Omori flipped to the next page and started to doodle, switching pencil as he pleased. He ignored the red and black, but every other color was up for grabs. Soon enough he had a scene of the playground with all of his friends, Mari’s picnic blanket checkered with blue instead. Once he was done with that, something unexpected happened.

A blinding joy struck Omori, starting at his center and spreading up to his head. He was smiling, nearly giddy as he looked down at his drawing. It wasn’t like being MANIC, it wasn’t an overwhelming emotion that clouded everything around him and left him vulnerable. It was just happiness, clear in his mind and wiping away the fears that left him guarded. He flipped to the next blank page and dove into another drawing, fingers working at a rapid pace to make the next one.

He wasn’t sure how long he had spent drawing, time was always funny in White Space, but eventually his attention was coaxed away from his drawing and to something else new on his blanket.

It was a tiny plastic ball with circles cut out of it, inside he could see something golden. Mewo awoke when he shifted, and she let out a soft trilling noise, hoping down from her spot on his back and towards the ball. She sniffed it and batted it with a paw, a soft tinkling noise filling the air around him. Mewo was entranced, her pupils growing big and black as she pushed the ball again to hear the bell and her tail swung back and forth.

Omori watched her play for a while, and then he turned back to his book to draw what he saw. The sound of her ball rolling around in the background filled the empty air, and the JOY was joined by happiness for Mewo that she also had a new gift to enjoy.

Things began to appear in this fashion. Time passed in the too slow too fast way it always did, and new things would show up. His new sketchbook filled up quickly, and the moment it did there was another next to it. Omori was afraid at first that his drawings would disappear, but both books stayed side by side.

Soon enough he had a shelf too to put his completed books on, and his colored pencils were joined with markers. A blanket appeared, smaller than the one he was sitting on, but infinitely more luxurious. It was a rich blue with tiny white dots that looked like stars. Mewo enjoyed this gift just as much as he did, and she spent her time either dozing on its soft surface or playing with her small collection of new toys, the tiny bell ball continuing to be her favorite.

Omori liked all of the new additions to White Space, but if he had to choose a favorite, it would be his new light. The dark bulb that had hung above him was gone, the Black Space within it no longer hidden, but eradicated for good. In its place, Omori had a string of twinkling sea angels, hanging on nothing but the air. They swam above him when he lied down under the blankets with Mewo, swaying in an invisible breeze.

The more things were added, the more Omori felt. These were things with color, with sound and feeling. Things that made him feel more. White Space was no longer just where he existed. Now it felt...more like home.

[ly-canthropewrites]

Trust and Security

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 3460 words (I was aiming for 1000, but let’s just say - it got away from me)

Ratings/Warnings: SFW. 

Summary: “Didn’t you hear the news? It’s safer to shower in pairs” @twdeadfanfic​

It’s been over a month since the prison fell, and your group was weary. After one month of being out on the road, vulnerable and exhausted, your little family finds safety behind the tall walls of the Alexandria Safe Zone. Although, the walls do nothing to cease your skittishness. 

The new folk behind the walls were kind and gracious, but at the same time, naive and inexperienced to what lays behind their safe haven and that worries you. It worries your group as well; everyone picking up on the credulous attitudes and their misty-eyed optimism and it just doesn’t sit right. 

The first few days were difficult, a strange adjustment period. After being used to the wilderness and the danger it includes to now having a proper house to sleep in and call home, it felt, surreal. But after a few days, some of your people begin to relax and enjoy the safety of Alexandria. 

You weren’t one of them, and neither was Daryl. The pair of you refused to believe in this wonderland, a shared acceptance in the belief that this place will fall just like the prison and just like any other ‘safe place’ that stood before. Perhaps you weren’t giving this place a chance? Perhaps it is easier to set yourself up for failure rather than have your hopes high? Regardless of the reasoning behind it, you just can’t get rid of the gnawing feeling of the false safety this place eludes. 

Almost daily, Rick tries to convince you of Alexandria’s potential. He exemplifies the possibility of having a future here, a safe future for Carl and Judith to grow up in, a safe place where there isn’t fear about the dead or the dangers that stalk outside the walls. And almost daily, both you and Daryl turn him down, stubborn in your ways and between the false reality constructed and the abnormal kindness from the residents, you can’t help but feel unsafe. 

You can’t lie, however, that Alexandria does have its perks. You have been here for 5 days already and you have not gone hungry once in that time. It is nice to have a healthy food supply, to have a blanket and a mattress that isn’t damaged or dirty and of course, it is nice to be clean. You have taken advantage of the running water system in the town, taking more showers in the last 5 days than you have in the month and it is a luxury that you allow yourself to indulge in. 

The first time you had a shower you almost cried. Not one for the emotions normally, it couldn’t be helped that day when hot, running water cascading over you, temporarily washing away the trauma and pain of the apocalyptic world. For a moment, you could forget the ones you’ve lost, the agony and anguish every time you’ve had to take a life, the suffering and torture you’ve endured. For a moment, you could just be no-one. 

                                 -                         -                         -

Day six lingers, and the house is quiet. It had been decided yesterday that it’s possible to make Alexandria home and for that, houses were given to share. Rick, Carl, Judith and Michonne moved next door, never too far away from family but it gave them enough space to breathe. A large portion of the group, consisting of Abraham, Eugene, Sasha and Rosita, moved into another house on the same street. The remaining were quick to claim rooms; Maggie and Glenn taking a room as well as Carol stealing the spare. It left you and Daryl with a little bedroom on the ground floor and the lounge room. It didn’t matter, neither of you slept much nowadays and if you did, it was never at the same time. One always had to be on watch. 

It was a silent arrangement, just like how your friendship blossomed. One day you were alone, despite being with the group, lingering to one side, keeping one eye on the wilderness around you as if you were ready to jump up and run into its clutches. But then one day, with no significant event as the catalyst, Daryl grew close, being drawn to your side every time a new camp was set up. Neither of you asked for the other to join, it just always happened. It became an unspoken rule that you were to always be partners. If you were to go hunting, so would Daryl. If you chose to set up your sleeping roll in the corner, Daryl would linger close. If you missed a meal, or gave your portion to someone else, then Daryl would give you some of his. It was unspoken, but it was law. You weren’t to be separated. 

                                   -                         -                         -

Summer had followed your group to Alexandria and the pair of you sat on the porch. Daryl was fiddling with his crossbow, nimble fingers twirling and unwinding certain pieces, tightening this and that, fixing up his bolts before giving the entire weapon a wipe down. He worked methodically, quietly, as if his actions were second nature to him. You shamelessly watched him periodically, fascinated by the sleek weapon and by the rugged man. He was your best friend, your partner and companion. You would die for him and he would die for you. It was simple. It was easy. And he was the single person that never failed to bring a smile to your lips. 

Satisfied with your ogling, you return to your book. It wasn’t yours to begin with. It came with the furnished house and in a moment of boredom, you plucked it from its place with every intention to fill the small gap of monotony. What you hadn’t expected was to become engrossed with the novel, completely swept up in the mythical world it held. 

“Yer almost finished that thing yet?”

Daryl breaks your train of thought, startling you back into the world of reality and you shrug.

“Got a few chapters to go,” you say, flicking ahead to see that you indeed have almost completed the fiction. 

“You only started yesterday arvo’“ Daryl states, crooking an eyebrow in your direction, his hands continuing to work on the crossbow without a visual guide. 

“What can I say, I’m a fast reader. You finished playing with that crossbow yet? You’ve been fiddling with that thing for the past 3 days now,” You are quick to shoot back at him, a smirk dancing across your lips in victory and Daryl scoffs, shaking his head in small amusement as he turns his gaze back to the item in his lap. 

You finish your book just in time for Carol to leave the house, the older woman looking well dressed and holding a container of cookies. Both you and Daryl raise an eyebrow at her, silent questions being asked, and she pointedly ignores them. 

“Have you even had a shower yet?” She asks sternly, giving the quiet man a stiff side glance that he shrugs off. 

“I’ll hose you down when you sleep,” she threatens, “you are filthy Daryl, just take a goddamn shower”. 

You stifle a giggle, biting down on your lip to hide your growing smile but you fail miserably, and a chuckle escapes you. Daryl hears it, glancing over at you with a bored expression but when he sees you smiling, he can’t fight back a little smirk of his own. 

“You enjoy watching Carol take the piss out of me, ay?” he questions gruffly, and you laugh at that openly, throwing your head back to revel in the moment. 

“Hell yeah I do. Who wouldn’t?” you tease, poking your tongue out when Daryl rolls his eyes. 

With your book done, you throw it onto the table beside you and stand up, stretching out your arms as you unfold from your previous position. Your shoulders pop loudly as you rotate them and you groan with satisfaction, eyes closed as you continue to move your body. You miss how Daryl’s eyes selfishly gawk at the sliver of skin that is revealed as you stretch, your shirt just riding up to show the smoothness of your skin and he wonders how soft your body would be beneath his hands. 

His eyes quickly snap back to his crossbow when he hears you hum, stretching complete and body limber. 

“You off then?” he questions, not looking up at you as he speaks, fear that his eyes will reveal things he refuses to say. 

“Yeah, might have a lie-down or somethin’“ 

“Gonna take one of yer ten million showers?” he teases you and a warm flutter erupts in his chest when his words make you laugh. 

“Showers aren’t the enemy, Daryl” you remind him, a smile easy on your lips, but your tone is firm. 

He grunts, explicitly refusing to respond and you sigh. 

“Come shower with me,” 

Those words catch his attention. His head whips up to look at you, eyes wide and stunned. You admire his surprised expression, noticing how his lips part ever so slightly and how he sucks in a shallow breath as he processes your words and intentions. 

“Didn’t you hear the news? It’s safer to shower in pairs,” you joke, but your eyes convey understanding.

Daryl remains frozen for another moment or two, waiting for the punchline or the taunt but it never comes. Of course, it wouldn’t. He knows you. You aren’t like that, not to him. So, when it clicks that this isn’t an immoral joke and he allows himself to believe your gentleness, he nods, flustered but agreeing. 

You give him a small smile, jerking your head in the direction of the front door before you turn to walk through it, not waiting for Daryl to move. You know he would follow, he has always followed you and he would follow you to the end of the earth. 

By the time he reaches the bathroom, you already have the shower turned on. You have your hand beneath the stream, testing it, determined to have the perfect temperature and it is so unlike you, but at the same time, it is. He has seen you kill walkers with your bare hands, he has seen your unfiltered rage and your grief, and he has seen the special compassion you reserve for Carl and Judith. But it is rare for him to see you this gentle, this soft, this caring. 

You know he is there, standing in the doorway watching you. You felt the heaviness of his gaze the moment he reached the second floor. But you don’t mention it, instead, you hum as you adjust the water before turning around to rifle through the cabinets for soap. The house is a treasure-trove of good items and the luxury of having a shower also extends to bathroom products. There are different types of soaps and shampoo to choose from and Daryl sees you fish out two items; a creamy soap bar and a green bottle. You set them both inside the shower before stepping back. 

“Go on, get in” you gesture to the shower. 

“Thought you were havin’ the first one?”

“And leave you with an opportunity to escape hygiene? Not a chance,” you retort

You know him too well, he thinks fondly. But an uneasiness sets in and you can see apprehension flit across his face. 

“Daryl, you can shower. I won’t be leaving, I’ll be right here” you say tenderly, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid to prove your point. You weren’t going to leave him alone. 

It’s reassuring, as much as Daryl hates to admit it. He isn’t used to having someone stand by him unwaveringly like you do. He hates to admit that he has come to lean on you, come to let you in. You have never pressured him, never forced his hand and for that, you unknowingly have his eternal gratitude. 

“I won’t even look, so hurry up otherwise the water will run cold,” you announce, making a big show of closing your eyes and slapping a hand across your face for good measure. 

Daryl cracks a smile at your theatrics, relief rolling off him in waves and slowly he begins to unbutton his shirt. Your ears strain to listen, to catch a sound so you can guess what he is doing. The rustle of a shirt confirms that he hasn’t bolted, and it makes you smile. What you don’t see is how Daryl’s fingers shake slightly as he works his belt undone as well as his jeans. He is stripping off his layers, both literally and metaphorically, and he hasn’t ever felt this bare, even with your eyes closed. He keeps his eyes trained on you as he edges towards the shower, his back never turning to reveal the ugly past that is marked into his skin and he only feels relief when he has the shower curtain drawn, letting it act as a barrier in all senses. 

He has to admit; the hot water does feel heavenly. His sigh is, thankfully, masked by the sound of the shower and Daryl closes his eyes, tipping his head back and completely embraces the water. He stands there for a few moments, relishing in the luxury and the feeling of his muscles slowly unwinding, and he almost hates himself for putting this off for so long. He is so lost in heaven that he almost forgets that you are still sitting in the bathroom with him. 

He pokes his head out, eyes falling on you and he smiles when he sees that you haven’t moved from your seated position, hands still covering your face but to keep you occupied, you bounce your leg. 

It’s almost as if you know he is staring at you because you speak up, 

“How’s the shower?” you ask

“Are ya comin’ in or what?” he ignores your question, now smugly watching your surprised reaction. 

Gobsmacked, your hands fall from your face, mouth hanging open and your eyebrows raised in disbelief. This is the first time he ever hears you stutter. 

“Wh- what?” 

“Are ya gettin’ in or not? Ya expect me to leave you sittin’ and waitin’ for me?” 

You nod, “Daryl Dixon, I didn’t expect you to invite me to shower with you”

“Sunshine, you did the invitin’ first”

“I never specified if I was to be in the same shower as you at the same time” you respond, shock fading quickly as your confidence returns and Daryl enjoys the transformation. 

“Get in” he mutters and drops the curtain, standing back to leave you some room for when you come in. 

You are quicker to strip than he was and although he knows you are coming, he can’t help but jump when you step into the cubicle. You notice, of course you notice, but as always, you don’t comment. Instead, you smile up at him with such a warm gaze, Daryl feels his heart clench. Silently, you grab the soap bar and lift it up, expressing your question through your look and he nods. You are gentle as you run the bar over his shoulders and down his arms, taking your time to sudd up your hands so you can run your fingers over each individual digit, cleaning them of the dirt and the grime that had accumulated. Daryl was silent during your endeavour but by the quickness of the rise and fall of his chest depicted his nervousness. 

“Tell me if it gets too much” you murmur, eyes flicking to meet his and it amazes him how you don’t pressure him, letting him control his limits. It is his blind trust in you that allows you to be this close to him and you know how hard it is for the redneck to open up to you, to let you close to his turmoil. 

“Nah, s’okay” he mutters breathlessly. 

You continue on to his torso, rubbing the bar in circular motions and its satisfying to watch the water run dirty, revealing more of the gorgeous man in front of him. Daryl fears it will get awkward when you kneel down in front of him, eyes closed as he wills himself not to make a fool out of himself. Either or not you pick up on his anxious, you don’t say, but you avert your eyes from his lax cock, focusing on cleaning his strong legs. When you are finished Daryl offers you a hand, holding it firmly as he pulls you to your feet and once steady, he doesn’t let go. 

“I can leave your back” you offer. The story of the scars isn’t new to you, but their appearance is. He hasn’t let you cast your eyes upon the monstrosities, barely able to look at them himself. 

He is torn, gnawing at his lip as he tries to decide on an answer, but his silence is one you will accept. With a fond smile you shrug, reassuring him to the best of your ability. 

“That’s okay, tilt your head forward, hun” you are quick to move on, distracting him from the dangerous thoughts that threaten to surface, and it works, the pet name is a pleasant sound falling from your lips. 

He obeys, tilting his head forward and closing his eyes as the water runs down his cheekbones. The pop of the shampoo bottle alerts him to your intentions and a sprig of mint fills the steamy air. Your fingers massage his scalp as you clean the brown tresses and Daryl bows beneath your touch. He slumps forward, head resting upon your shoulder in full submission and you pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, fingers never ceasing their ministrations until they begin to cramp a while later. You don’t want to move him, savouring the weight of his body against yours but the suds need to be washed out, so you tap his shoulder. Daryl washes out the remaining suds himself before he looks down at you, guilt suddenly creeping upon him.

“Do yer want me... to, ya know”

Bashfully, he gestures to you, but you shake your head laughing.

“No Daryl, it’s fine, but thank you” you say sincerely, “now, let’s get you out of here and into clean clothes, hey”.

The shower gets switched off and the pair of you emerge from the stuffy cubicle. Daryl grabs the towels first, handing you one before wrapping his around his waist. There is no third towel to cover his back and he is painfully aware of that fact, tensing up as he realises that he is closest to the door and will have to turn around to walk out. Once again you amaze him, slipping by to walk out first and Daryl lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

When Daryl appears, he finds you in the small bedroom, stretched out on the bed with your eyes closed.

“Tired?”

“Warm showers make me sleepy” you confess, opening your eyes to look up at the man sheepishly.

He hums and remains standing at the end of the bed, hands tucked into the pockets of the old sweatpants that hang from his hips and takes his time to admire you. He doesn’t admire your clothes, although the sight of you in snug clothes makes the fluttering in his chest go faster; but he soaks in your comfortableness, your trust.

He doesn’t ask if you could move and make room for him, wordlessly you do it anyway when Daryl begins to climb onto the bed. He flops onto the mattress once he reaches the pillow, heaving a sigh as his body melts into the softness of the mattress. He rarely allows himself to sleep on it, leaving it for you to use while he takes the couch or the chair outside on the porch. And just like the shower, he realises how much he has been missing out on. And he is sick of it.

“Yer too good to me, Y/N” he mumbles, and you chuckle, shaking your head before you roll onto your side to face him.

“Nah, just doing what is right”. What you deserve.

You both fall silent, letting the post-shower haze settle over you and allowing your bodies to relax.

You are on the cusp of sleep when you feel Daryl’s hand slip into yours, calloused skin brushing against yours and instinctively you tighten your grip, Daryl squeezing back.

“Thank you” he murmurs.

You don’t say anything, fighting the pull of sleep and with a last-ditch effort you curl into Daryl, his arms sweeping you closer to his chest and cocooned in his security, you allow yourself to drift to sleep.

Alexandria may be weak, but it’s given you a safe haven, and maybe it isn’t all that bad.

[sugar-petals]

Can you tell us how to please a soft sub and hard sub? Like what could a guy enjoy?

it’s 95% individual, i’d ask + negotiate before ideas for play. i can suggest scenes but still, it might not be his limits. to remember is what differenciates the two: hard subs enjoy pain + power, soft subs don’t.

you can likely please the latter if you’re a gentle femdom aficionado. still depends on what kind of GFD you like, but you can grow into the role you agree on, shift. it’s a bit easier: fewer prerequisites. ofc there’s etiquette + talent, but you can please by tuning into the role pretty well. 

the former: not as flexible. there are set qualities. understand this as a ‘needed with good reason’ profile rather than gatekeeping. sadism is the requirement. no 50-50 zone, you feeling that you are a natural is key. your sub won’t be happy if you merely try it. it’s usually clear to a domme anyways, you either lick your fingers for s/m or not.

↳ as for specific kinks. what i can give you is a list of things to AVOID for each.💡it’s a roundabout way to see what he prefers and each sub’s a different case but it’s a compass.

✏︎ soft subs — don’ts

hair-pulling -> choose fondles and pats instead wherever he likes it the most.

name-calling -> praise is usually preferred

yelling -> whispering/soft-spoken, this is an asmr zone ☁️

hard spanking -> lighter squeezes

no squishy props -> use pillows, blankets, plushies if he wants. but, in any case, you’ll need pillows. can’t have enough of those.

tears -> only as a spontaneous release [during aftercare], most soft subs aren’t into dacryphilia

chaos -> soft subs love consistency. 

too much genitalia focus -> don’t forget the smooches and forehead kisses, and massages possibly. if he likes that, tend to seemingly neglegible body parts even, like ears and toes. boop the nose.

toy overwhelm -> back to basics, never forget he loves your hands. idea: choose pastels for color if you do get toys. dramatic black/red/metal is for the hardcore femdom department and suits the mood better. you likely have that preference already if you strictly soft dom.

breath play -> stick to neck kisses. mouth gags, same thing, he probably isn’t comfortable with it.

leaving marks -> 50-50, again, ask what kind you can and cannot leave. if he likes it, do 20% marks, 80% affection.

pragmatic, planned aftercare -> make it extensive + adapt easily. seems counterintuitive since hard subs take a lot more, but let me tell you soft subs think aftercare is literal catnip. if you’re a big brain domme, you transfer some aftercare favorites to the main act. also, about pragmatism: unlike with hard subs (see list below: #21), come up with a more fine-tuned safeword/limit system. these are play scenes where you can go into many different directions so that’s why. 

straightforward -> it’s no problem if you’re the indirect or shy type as a domme, it’s about careful questions toward him here. many soft subs approach their dommes well with wishes. ironically, hard subs are the other way around, they might anticipate more unless they’re very extroverted. the biggest hard subs were the quiet kiddos at school 😉 soft subs can be bubbly and reveal their demands rather easily.

deprioritize your orgasm -> make him tend to you in a lazy, slow demeanour. spoil each other.

all over the place -> stick to bedroom bed, bathtub and couch unless otherwise requested. the point is to have a safe and comfortable spot.

breaking him -> never push, always guide. again, consistency, no highs and lows.

suppressing critique -> he wants to know where to improve, show him exactly how to do things the right way and work with mistakes. not humiliating, more like teaching. 

dungeon -> keep it above ground. 

hands-on ownership -> show him he belongs to you in other ways. spoil him, that’s the best way.

high heels -> too impractical for 80% of GFD activities. fetish gear generally doesn’t work here. just mentioning, it’s probably already clear to everyone. and, purely soft dommes don’t gravitate towards dominatrix fashion in the first place.

passive -> unlike with hard subs, you likely do a lot of the work. soft dommes are busier than people expect.

atmosphere? -> switch on the fairy lights, candles, make it dim. make it as romantic as possible.

power imbalance -> air to breathe for any hard sub, but soft subs prefer flatter hierarchies. mind you, your position is still one of guidance. 

✏︎ hard subs — don’ts

tender voice > grit and growl in their ear aye

questions > proportion-wise, give more commands instead.

no tools -> introduce some devices according to your couple taste.

lenience -> tame that provocateur 😄 you define where his place is. show him, physically. under your foot, kneeling, bowing? find that perfect position for the two of you. 

only caressing > choke and slap him, but ask/announce right beforehand.

unbridled aggression -> misguided way of dominance unless it’s primal play. i know it’s more negatively connotated but deliberate brutality is the word, you exact it while keeping rather cool. unless... he fancies you as the angry mistress, or passionate, punishing. but then again, no aggression. just brutality. the difference is huge. the more sadistic the play, the more contained your action. not all understated, just very directed and according to how you spoke about it, and according to the feedback in front of you. you get perfect awareness, not dizzy tunnel vision and fluctuating feelings. i say brutality because it indicates a person knows what they’re doing. aggression and anger means you bottle your judgement. the brain switches off there, it gets too erratic. also, aggression is less severe and a means to an end while brutality is for its own sake and goes heavy which is what hard subs enjoy: since they’re masochists. aggressive and violent dommes are just assholes, brutal hard dommes... are good dommes. 😛

free reign clothes -> tell him what type of outfit makes him domme candy. experiment plenty. don’t worry, most hard subs enjoy being told what to wear. and even if they don’t, suggesting it won’t piss them off. also, you can get strict and exacting as fuck with this. hard subs want your possessiveness in creative ways.

plain undressed -> chances are CFNM could be a hot idea sometimes, or fetish wear which is often appreciated in all things hardcore. then again, dressing up is no must, but definitely try all-black outfits, suits etc, whatever makes you radiate authority and the upper hand. remember, hierarchy. your superiority is what he enjoys during sex, he actually gets confused if you don’t show it in your particular way. if it’s not clothes, it’s the voice, anyway. the voice lives in his head rent free.

no control -> full body attention, grope him the way he likes. also, the nape of his neck is where your hand belongs. guiding his head is just...mmh ❤️

monotony -> hard subs like a rollercoaster. roleplay = perfect opportunity.

static plans -> important: hard subs learn fast. since pain-pleasure is involved their sensations are more intense so feedback is usually unequivocal. mind you, soft subs can sort their preferences well but for them it takes exposure to variety.

what’s a nipple? -> pinching and more is most likely welcome. ask and test.

spoiling -> spoiling no. rewards, yes. he works for it. what does he work towards? pleasing you completely. in your body and commands.

shy domme -> when it comes down to it, you need to be resolute and eloquent. if you struggle with it, e.g. start with being stoic. pick your favorite pokerface and have a signature smirk lmao! and definitely do in-depth talks. yes, about his desires. unlike soft subs, some guys take more time to open up here. 

dry -> lube. keep it wet, especially his tear ducts anyway. 

unsure experiments/not knowing the outcome -> seriously tackle and prepare skills. yes, whip your pillow first. you can ‘try’ things with soft subs, but you ‘do’ things with hard subs. why? less room for errors. you please him by being precise. don’t let it intimidate you, simply take it as a responsibility he respects you greatly for.

heels -> hard subs might like that. plus, you’ll often simply stand. he does lots of the work. hard dommes can be more laid-back than you’d expect. remember, you kick his ass and give orders. he’s a pretty active party. exception: he’s tied up.

hesitation -> hard dommes have to be quick. especially since we edge a lot. also, never hesitate to praise.

forgetting skin -> stimulate large areas as much as you can.

unarmed -> chances are he likes knife play, ask about it.

too much caution and pampering -> an insult to his esteem. i’m not kidding. he feels in his element when you don’t hold back anxiously. trust his strength 😊 it’s a perk of femdom in the first place, you may be working on more muscles and often more space on the body, most maledoms don’t have that luxury. the same goes for safewording, keep it simple and applicable for the heat/reflex of the moment. it’s counterproductive to be overcautious since it makes it too complex.

the usual spot -> if he’s down: play everywhere, consider every room together. a cold and hard surface does something for a hard sub. as does rug burn if he likes that. make him do all kinds of things 100% naked on a carpet while you watch, it’s so humiliating. i did it, the result was my sub discovering even higher levels of sluttiness. 

suppression -> ask him to let it out vocally when he’s shy or not experienced. you’ll both love what follows. most hard subs are screamers. i hope you don’t have neighbors.

soft illumination -> use artificial light. not just to make your patient - doctor roleplay perfect, but because a hard domme needs to see what she’s doing for safety reasons already. use your (soy wax!) candles to ruin his back instead.

serious -> hardcore femdom is at its best when it’s peppered with little giggles. bring a feather just in case.

PS: these can even apply if they enjoy doing both, you have to match your tone according to the mood and plan then.

[deathfrisbeeinthetardis]

Bliss 7 and 12 please ;-;

Thank you anon, I absolutely adored writing this prompt, but being me I ended up with more angst than I planned to write for such a sweet prompt, but the ending is soft I swear. I hope you like it

Prompt Bliss 7. “Look at you… Goodness, you’re so cute.”

Ryan doesn’t know what they are even doing at this point.  

This is the tenth time this month that he had lingered at the office after work, throwing himself into doing and redoing his editing as people trickled out and the buzz faded away. His neck is straining and his eyes ache, but he catches himself before he rubs them, not wanting to jostle the contacts. The office is not the pinnacle of comfort and luxury, but he would give up his bed and all his jerseys if it meant he could be spared from his mind.  

There is no use thinking about it really, what’s done is done, but he can’t help his reluctance. It’s just an apartment, his rationality says. But why does every empty space hurt to look at, his heart whispers.

There are so many of them now. 

So he had hung back, and Shane had stayed with him, the two of them editing their various projects side by side, a giant bucket of Chicago Popcorn™ Shane’s parents had sent between them.

The problem, as it usually was, is that Shane’s company and some good old fashioned sleep deprivation don’t mix well, and productivity took the fallout, their work ethic gradually sliding off the table until they’re positively undoing efforts that they’ve already put out. 

Yes, maybe Ryan had something to do with Shane’s elbow and back crashing onto his laptop keyboard and deleting nearly two hours of editing, but it’s Shane’s fault he doesn’t save the videos every two minutes like Ryan does, non-compulsively of course. 

So their nights aren’t the most productive, but it’s off-hours so no one can really tell them off. The office is empty, unflipped light switches plunging patches of desks into shadow between the bright spots in mesmerizing patterns. The warehouse desk layout leaves much space for the mind to fill, but Ryan’s worked here for so long that he knows every twist and turn. He’d bet good money that he’d win in a ghost race through this organized mess. 

Ryan’s pretty sure the only person doing actual work tonight has chosen to evacuate from their desk to one of the corners farthest away from the pair of them. He feels a little bad to bother him with the un-moderated volume of their conversations and the not-so-infrequent giggling fits, but right now he’s too relaxed and happy to care. It’s the only time he gets to feel like this anyway. 

The Unsolved title card flashes, pulling his attention back to the screen, a white bar inching through the multicolored blocks of carefully compiled video and audio files at the bottom of the monitor. Ryan’s quite proud of this one, the crew were able to get some stellar shots on-location and there was probably one of the clearest spirit box replies they’ve gotten, no matter how hard the other man tries to discount it. 

“Aww you cut that part out again?’ Shane pouts beside him, headphones perched precariously on his big head.

"You can’t just go and tell ghosts they’re gonna be on Youtube every time.” Ryan swivels his chair to face Shane, a lofty air in his voice as he does his best to look down his nose at the other man, even going so far as pumping his seat up a few inches. Shane’s lip trembles like he’s holding back a laugh. It’s an argument they’ve had before, and Ryan knows how it’s going to go almost down to the line, but it’s always fun, so he plays the game. 

“And why not?" 

"They’re not from this time, they don’t even know what electricity is!”

“So you are admitting the spirit box is wack.” Shane rubs his hands together evilly, smiling so wide he could have been in that truth or dare movie, no special effects needed. “Oh, this is very good.”

“I did not say that,” Ryan protests, nudging Shane’s leg with a foot and feeling intensely satisfied when the boot leaves a dirt mark on the other man’s dark jeans. Jeez, they are literal children sometimes, but Ryan never has this much fun. 

“It’s just, they’re ghosts, and they’re making the effort to reach out to talk to these two idiots, cut them some slack.”

“You’re the only idiot here. I, Shane Madej, am a man of science.” Shane doesn’t even have to level up his seat and he’s still taller than Ryan. It is so, so not fair. 

“This is science!”

“Uh-huh,” Shane says, deadpan. There is movement just out of Ryan’s periphery, and he cranes his head to see the guy leave, wincing internally. He should probably apologize for being loud, but that can totally wait a day. Maybe two.   

“There has been plenty of evidence on ghosts and you know it.”

“From what I’ve seen? You really want to go into that?” There’s a challenge in Shane’s posture, and Ryan feels a rush in his chest that overruns the empty ache there, sees the trap but he jumps anyway.

“Hell yeah I do, we’ve caught some pretty good stuff along the way, Waverly, ‘brown and white’?  The freaking Sallie House?" 

"We both know the whole flashlight test is horseshit, Ryan.” Shane smirks, leaning back in his chair languidly with his hands behind his head, “As to the rest of those, the demons and ghosties gotta work harder than that, cause right now they don’t seem very interesting.”

  “How dare you! They’re more than interesting. They were all people once.”

“Let’s list what they’ve done, hmm? Jostling toothpaste, nudging bouncy balls, whispers so gentle you can’t even–”

“Nope I’m not letting you trivialize the evidence, it was fucking creepy to hear those on location.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a wimp.”

“Fuck you.” Ryan shoots back, but there’s no real feeling behind it. He pulls a serious face to match Shane’s, squaring his shoulders and oh watch how fast he folds now. 

The other man’s joy is infectious, and soon Ryan is joining him, their laughs swallowed up by the high ceilings and far walls. Ryan’s eyes catch on the lights shining down on Shane, tracing golden lines along the edges of his lanky figure against the shadowed monotony of conference rooms. Breathless and curling into themselves, their gazes meet and linger across five feet of space.

They’re just two guys working into the small hours of the night, just another aspect of their life that their ghost hunting career has bled into, it’s all normal. 

Except it isn’t. 

Neither of them needs to be here to work, least of all Shane, and really, Ryan thinks with a twist in his chest, it has just been the two of them spending time in each other’s company. And Ryan does genuinely enjoy it. He loves the ease of their interactions, how they can hound each other mercilessly and bicker, how Shane can poke that special unhinged laugh out of him and make him forget about everything else. 

And how he, in turn, can make the big guy’s eyes all curvy and bright like no one does. 

But there’s no use thinking about things like that. 

There could be, a small voice says, a light shining weak in the churning abyss. Ryan passes a hand over his face and keeps it there, not trusting himself to not let his heart spill right out. 

“Ryan?”

He had thought he found the one with Helen, the person in the world he’d like to spend his life with, but then things had started falling apart, and she had left. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Ryan knows, but he had gotten used to having someone to come home to, someone who knows him for who he is. 

You can have that again, the voice goes on small and determined, and Ryan wishes he could block it out. Isn’t he always good at that on their investigations? It was basically in the fucking job description. 

You just have to let yourself see.

Shane is safe, someone to trust, someone to rely on. No one else would have born with him all the times he lost his mind in those haunted places. No one else would have hummed Mama Mia to him constantly in those first days when Ryan hid the pain so well on camera, knowing the familiar tune would take the tears away, if only for a minute. Just one Shane Madej hailing from the Land of Lincoln, his co-host, his best friend, and the most important constant grounding him while the rest of his world is turned up-side-down. 

“You okay buddy?” There is a sharp tone in Shane’s voice, and Ryan belatedly realizes his eyes are wet. Shane’s face is flushed from laughing, but now he leans forward and there is suddenly so much care in the slight tension of his shoulders that Ryan wants to cry. 

He can’t risk losing this, he doesn’t know what he would do if he manages to fuck up this last good thing in his life. 

“Yeah,” He gives the other man a small smile, turning back to his screen to start up the video again, and he feels Shane relaxing back into his chair reluctantly. 

Soon he’s leaning forward again, attention rapt on every little detail Ryan had painstakingly compiled. 

“Hmm, didn’t you make a face at that point?” Shane taps a finger against his chin, eyes narrowed in concentration as Ryan reaches out to pause the replay, the lines of blue and yellow stark against the black background. 

“Oh, that? I didn’t think it would anyone would be interested to see it.” Ryan’s fingers tap at the keys for a few seconds, pulling up the clip from the front camera and overlaying it on the video. 

"I didn’t know it was gonna scare ya.” Screen-Shane says, tipping his head to the side and schooling his face into an impressive mask of innocence as he batted his eyes at screen-Ryan.

In-real-life Ryan feels warmth coil in his chest at the memory, and he smiles as he watches himself sputter for a bit, finally settling on a determined, You know what you did. He actually huffs out a laugh at his piss poor attempt to look intimidating, when the camera angle in the VO booth put Shane so much clearly taller. 

On the screen, Shane’s looking down at Ryan with a grin, though he at least has the self-awareness to look a little sheepish. Their eyes lock, and with an appropriate pause for dramatic effect, “I do.”

The clip takes another few seconds to end, their raucous laughter sound from his speakers. Then Ryan’s left with the still of both of them looking at the camera, frozen grins bright on their faces, captured in time. 

And Ryan’s caught in fucking limbo again, his free hand flexing in on empty air at the edge of his desk.  

“Good stuff huh?” Shane’s voice is quiet. 

“Yeah.” Breathe, just breathe, how is that so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard. 

“You considering switching the text out for this?” There’s a smile in Shane’s voice, and Ryan clears his throat and drags in a shuddering breath. 

“No it's—I’ll uh, I’ll put it in.” He hears Shane wheeling close on his chair, but he doesn’t turn to look, locking his eyes on the monitor and busying himself with the familiar shifts and adjustments. He just needs a bit of time to clear his head, then he’ll recover the ability to be a half-decent friend again, he’s sure of it. 

Ryan’s got his cursor hovering over the clip, leaning forward to keep an eye on the time markings when Shane loses a soft breath, his voice an awed murmur. 

“God, you’re so cute when you’re focused." 

And Ryan’s world freezes over. 

Around the edges of his vision, he sees realization, surprise, and something like fear flit across the other man’s face. But Ryan doesn’t do much, just holds as still as he can, like he can stamp down the giddy hope in his chest before it even has a chance to rise, so he can convince himself that it’s all just a freakishly detailed fever dream, because Shane can’t have just said that. 

Shane saw him as a friend, nothing more. Ryan does want that to be true, he really should. 

Breathing is becoming such a fucking bother again, he thinks absently. Maybe if he didn’t do it, life would be much easier. 

"Oh-oh god I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that, what kind of shitty friend am I—just,” Shane breaks off, dragging both hands through his hair and tugging in frustration. When he finally speaks he sounds broken, voice thick as if he’s holding back tears, “I’m so sorry.”

It’s all too much, there’s a loud rushing in Ryan’s head. He bolts out of his chair, needing the freedom in space to think, to process. His chest tightens when Shane flinches at the sudden movement, eyes wide, fingers white where they’ve wrapped around the arm of his chair in a death grip.

He needs air, Ryan thinks, and his feet start carrying him away, faster and faster. But Shane follows him, and it has always been like this, he supposes. Ryan takes the lead and Shane hops on for the ride, for better or for worse, always a steady presence at his side when he needs him the most. Sometimes even when he doesn’t want to.

Shane’s steps close in and he catches at Ryan’s arm, “Ryan wait, please.”

Ryan blinks hard, but he doesn’t get to wake up this time. Shane’s fingers are burning points of pressure on his mind. 

He opens his mouth to speak but there’s a strange taste, two cool lines trace down his face and his vision is swimming, and oh wouldn’t it just be perfect if he blacked out, poor little Ryan, can’t even take a fucking joke without fainting—

“Oh god, don’t cry Ry, please, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Was it a fucking joke.” Ryan bites out, voice barely louder than a whisper but it still comes out harsher than he means. He can’t look at Shane, so Ryan keeps his eyes down, stares at the mud on Shane’s boots from their last shoot. He needs to know. 

“No,” Hurt, that’s what it is, and there’s far too much of it in Shane’s voice for it to be right. “No it wasn’t.” Shane lets go of Ryan’s hand to curls an arm around himself, and Ryan aches for the burning contact like it’s a physical wound. 

“Oh.” It’s more a punched out puff of air than a word. Oh.

“I-” Shane swallows, eyes shifting then settling back on Ryan, “I was looking at you, and it-it slipped out, I’m sorry.”

The silence isn’t complete, of course it isn’t. The sound of traffic exists at all hours of the day here. But it still envelops Ryan, wrapping around his throat and trying to suffocate the words he’s struggling to form. 

“Don’t be."  

"What?” Shane breathes, hesitant, almost disbelieving, his eyes dart to search Ryan’s face, “you’re not saying—do you—”

“I think I can.” Ryan says, and he tastes truth on his tongue. 

Not now, not even tomorrow, but maybe next week, or the week after that.

“You do?"  

"I do.” He affirms, and Ryan’s throat closes up with something warm when a lopsided grin starts to form on Shane’s face, small and hopeful, a gentle flush creeping onto his cheeks. They’re just standing in the office looking at each other, and Shane’s hand lifts up a little as if to reach out, but he catches himself before it makes it into Ryan’s personal space. 

“You wanna head back home? I’ll pack the popcorn.” Ryan can’t really breathe, so he just nods and offers Shane a watery smile. 

Their fingers brush when Ryan hands Shane a blanket for the couch, the corners of Shane’s eyes are crinkling and Ryan is breathless. He’s been feeling like that a lot tonight, and it seems that life is determined to keep him that way with all the curveballs it’s been chucking at him. 

But this time it’s not a bad feeling. Not at all. 

He fiddles with his sleeve and watches Shane settle down, making his way around his apartment with a familiarity accumulated over years’ worth of movie nights and beers and popcorn. 

It’s still too soon, and he doesn’t think he can do anything about this whole thing he’s got himself into. But he’s got Shane with him, and for once Ryan’s not afraid he’s going to leave. 

And maybe, Ryan thinks. Maybe one day he won’t need to hide from his apartment and its empty spaces. 

[burntpastel]

i love you like an alcoholic

(on AO3)

Summary: There may be a few more issues in their marriage than Hizashi is willing to admit. (In which Hizashi gets wasted and fucks his husband.)

Notes: a fic commissioned by Eileeleedon. thank you again!!

cw rape/noncon, alcohol, a potentially asexual-interpreted character being sexually assaulted specifically because of their disinterest in sex.

Explicit, 18+ only, grapefruit, etc.

The sounds of a bustling bar are ones Hizashi enjoys. The scattered conversation, clinking glasses, and pulsing rhythms from the dancefloor all scratch a certain itch, a certain need for stimulation. Despite all the noise and thrumming energy, it puts him at ease—mends some frayed nerves after a patrol, or refuels him after an underwhelming evening working the radio station.

He’s alone, of course; Nemuri had a late patrol, and if Hizashi loves something, then Shouta is bound to hate it.

It goes the other way, too—Hizashi can’t stand too many quiet nights in, like Shouta always seems to want.

His wedding band clicks against the glass as he picks up his drink.

It’s fine, they mesh in other ways—they have the same stances on most things, sometimes Hizashi needs someone level-headed to help him think things through, and sometimes Shouta needs someone more emotional to remind him to feel.

Not tonight. Hizashi is still riding the wave of adrenaline from patrol, and he can’t bear the thought of going back to their dead-silent home yet. It would drive him insane. So this is his solution—an active environment to engage his anxious nerves while he remembers how to feel safe again, mixed with a few drinks to get him all the way there, until he’s buzzed just enough to tolerate the mind-numbing monotony of their home.

However, this time, a few drinks in he has a pretty good buzz going, and… he still doesn’t want to go home.

So he has another, and another, and another—but the dread of returning never goes away, and his mood just seems to get worse and worse, an ugly feeling rising in his chest.

Maybe it’s because he’s taken to people watching—the bar has no TV, so he’s been eyeing the crowd. His thumb idly rubs at his wedding band as he observes the tables of people chatting and having fun together; the pairs on the dancefloor with clear mutual attraction...

He's fine with Shouta’s disinterest in sex - really! He knew about it before they got married and it really wasn’t a problem; Shouta is a great partner in so many other ways. So what if the only way Hizashi can get off nowadays is by his own hand? It’s fine. He’s fine with that!

Or so he’d thought, but the more intoxicated he gets, the more he lets himself openly feel that envy towards everyone who isn’t alone.

He always tries to avoid getting hammered—Shouta doesn’t like it—but dammit, he came here to feel better! Just one more, he tells himself, he’ll feel better this time. One more. One more.

Then the bartender is cutting him off. And he doesn’t feel better.

Sure, he’s too wasted to be nervous anymore, but this goes beyond some nerves on edge. He groans as he staggers into a cab, slumping against the seat. He knows Shouta will be displeased when he gets home, but he’s not of a mind to feel bad about it. He spitefully feels good, thinking of how Shouta will tense ever so slightly, discomforted by Hizashi’s unfiltered state, at how he isn’t watering himself down for him. It's an empowering thought.

Hizashi lets himself relish in his daydream as his head swims, and over time slowly convinces himself that he won’t try to wrangle himself in like he always does. Why should he? It never goes the other direction—Shouta never tries to branch out for him, while Hizashi just spent two hours in a bar feeling miserable for him!

Isn’t it Shouta’s turn?

He nearly trips on his way up the front steps, and successfully jams his key into the doorframe four times before finding the lock. As he steps inside, Shouta sluggishly sits up from his position laying on the couch. The world is thrumming and spinning too much for Hizashi to tell if he’d been asleep or if it was just a movement characteristic of Shouta.

“Zashi,” he greets in a sleepy slur. The sound mixed with the fond, bleary way Shouta's looking at him from across the room is almost enough to extinguish the fire in Hizashi’s chest—but instead, it mostly serves to deepen the ache inside him. He wants to see those lazy lips stretched around his cock, to cup his round cheeks and fist a hand in his unruly hair.

Shouta works up the drive to rise from the couch as Hizashi squirms out of his jacket and kicks off his boots.

During the workday, Shouta keeps his wedding band on a thin chain below his clothes, but here, now, it hangs proudly around his neck above his pajamas as he approaches Hizashi.

However, he then pauses a short distance away from him.

“...You were drinking,” Shouta observes, caught between a question and a statement.

Hizashi missed the exact moment he’d realized it, but he can see the subtle tension in Shouta's shoulders and feels that flare of both power and anger.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little too drawn out and uneven, “but I missed you, so I came home.”

Shouta’s expression softens at this, his shoulders dropping. He lets Hizashi pull him into a half-embrace half-kiss that he returns tenderly. Hizashi loops an arm around Shouta’s waist, pulling their bodies flush while Shouta’s hands rest on his shoulders.

The kiss breaks naturally, but Hizashi proceeds to press kisses along Shouta’s jaw, drawing gentle laughter from him.

“Come on, you should get some water and go to bed. It’s late.”

He hums a protest, following Shouta hips-first as he tries to step away, keeping his arm firmly around his waist. His lips move lower to suck at Shouta’s neck, making his breath hitch and dig his fingers into the fabric of Hizashi’s shirt.

“Hizashi,” Shouta warns, gentle but insistent. Hizashi just tightens his grip and bucks his hips against him, sighing at the contact while Shouta turns rigid.

“Come on, Sho. I need this.” He punctuates this statement with another thrust. "I need you.”

“Stop it. You’re drunk.”

The soft, sleepy edges of Shouta’s voice are gone, replaced with firm, rising alarm. He pushes at Hizashi’s shoulders, backing away unevenly as his movements are offset by Hizashi’s pumping hips. He bumps into a chair, displacing it as he backs himself against their kitchen table. Hizashi pins him there with his pelvis and braces his hands on either side of him.

Hizashi growls against Shouta's neck, "It’s your turn.”

Shouta stays rigid in place as Hizashi kisses bruises into his neck and grinds against his legs, trying and failing to lean away from the contact. Hizashi's glasses skew on his face as he presses closer. He's so pent up that even this little bit of awkward friction has him straining against his pants.

He shifts his hips, and feels Shouta's whole body jerk as Hizashi's hard-on rubs against his flaccid cock.

“Stop!”

Shouta curls inward on himself and twists away, slipping out from between Hizashi and the table successfully, but Hizashi grabs a fistful of his clothes before he can skitter away. Shouta strains against his grip, elbow digging into his stomach as he growls something at him, but Hizashi’s hand snakes around to the front of his sweatpants and blindly gropes at the bulge there. Shouta snatches his wrist, a little too late, with such force that it would be quite painful were Hizashi not so wasted.

“Come on, baby," Hizashi breathes against Shouta's neck, "I know you can get hard for me...”

Hizashi doesn’t know how much force he’s using, but he does know that Shouta stops squirming and makes this wonderful, strained sound that he wants to listen to forever—so he keeps jerking his hand along the handful of flesh he’s holding while Shouta squeezes his knees together and whimpers.

"Zashi—" he chokes out, but quickly falls silent as he trembles in Hizashi's relentless grasp. Jamming his hard-on against Shouta’s thigh and hip while haphazardly jerking him off only sates Hizashi for so long, however, before he gets a better idea.

His free hand dips below Shouta’s waistband, intending to prod at his asshole. Shouta flinches and—unable to pull away with Hizashi’s vice grip around his cock—twists towards him enough to disrupt the motion, burying his face against Hizashi’s shoulder pitifully.

“Zashi— Stop." He sniffles. "Please.”

His voice is soft and quiet, and wobbles as he speaks.

All Hizashi can think about is how much he wants to bury his cock inside him.

With his free hand, he reaches down to free his straining erection from his pants—with some difficulty, as intoxicated fingers aren’t especially nimble. Shouta redoubles his efforts to pull away at this, lifting his head off Hizashi’s shoulder, revealing newly wet cheeks, and shoving at the hand around his cock. Hizashi does let go, instead reaching up to grab at Shouta’s waistband and pull his sweatpants down over his hips.

Shouta winces, curling up, and catches one edge of them along with one of Hizashi’s hands to prevent them from falling around his ankles.

Part of Hizashi expects to get hit for his efforts—to be slapped across the face, elbowed in the ribs, kneed between the legs, something —but Shouta seems more intent on merely pleading and trying to put some space between them.

Hizashi grabs and pulls at Shouta’s clothes while trying to get at an angle where he’s prone and exposed to him, while Shouta pleads and twists and tries to escape Hizashi's grasp and prodding cock. In their combined struggle, they trip over one another and fall to their knees, Hizashi’s glasses clattering to the floor and skidding a distance away when they’re thrown off his face.

Shouta ends up stomach down.

Hizashi's pretty sure this is what a predator feels like when it finally corner its prey.

And so Hizashi pounces, easily ripping Shouta’s pants the rest of the way off his legs and positioning himself over him. Shouta's too torn between squeezing his legs shut and moving away to properly scramble to his feet. His protests are drowned out by the rushing sound in Hizashi's ears, frustrated yet terribly aroused by the struggle.

He's going to fuck him whether he wants it or not. Digging his nails into Shouta’s hip to hold him steady, he tries, but pressing into an unwilling, dry hole is no easy feat, and the head keeps popping out before really getting inside.

Rubbing against him in his over-eager, drunken state, though, it sets him over the edge. Hizashi sees stars as he comes, the tip of his cock spurting come against Shouta’s entrance before he snaps his hips forward to grind between his cheeks, riding out his orgasm in full as he smears a sopping mess with his thrusts.

He can't recall hearing the sound of his own voice, but once the stars and swirling lights of ecstacy clear away, he sees Shouta halfway on his side, glaring at him over his shoulder with his quirk activated. His face is a bright red to match his eyes, from both tears and—guessing from his expression—embarrassment. His hair soon drops back down around his shoulders once he realizes Hizashi is done, and ducks his head to avert his gaze. He stays there, braced and ready to jump to his feet when Hizashi finally moves away.

Hizashi isn’t done, however. Instead of getting up and stumbling off to sleep or whatever Shouta’s clearly waiting on, he drags his fingers through the mess between his thighs and guides it into Shouta’s hole. He flinches at the contact, then rolls onto his back with an expression of wild panic in an effort to disrupt him, but that just lets Hizashi catch his leg as it swings over and hold him open.

He feels like this is all too easy. Shouta isn’t prone to locking up—not anymore. Hizashi has seen him face villains, death, violent students—all without hesitation...

Because he has experience with those.

He doesn’t have experience fighting off his husband.

Hizashi laughs when he realizes it—that he’s brought Shouta back to the state he was in during their first year of highschool—and a look of open hurt crosses Shouta’s face. He tries to reach between his legs for Hizashi’s wrist, but Hizashi curls his fingers upwards and instead Shouta’s interrupted by his back arching, a gasp dragging through his lips as his eyes flutter shut.

Hizashi isn’t concerned with pleasuring him so much as getting him slick enough to fuck, so his fingers move quick and harsh, the hisses and whimpers drawn from Shouta even between pleasure and pain

“—hurts, Hizashi!”

The words don’t register until a solid fifteen seconds after they’re spoken. Hizashi responds by adding another digit, leaving Shouta writhing against the floor, moans occasionally undercutting his sobs. His eyes are squeezed shut as he bears his teeth, cheeks shiny, wet and red. Hizashi finds himself leaning down to drag his tongue over those wet trails of tears, from which Shouta recoils as much as he can from his prone position.

Gradually Shouta stops clenching his teeth and crying out, and Hizashi’s fingers are met with less resistance now that he’s slicked up with come.

He draws back to better situate himself between Shouta’s legs. Shouta squirms sluggishly, his thighs straining against Hizashi’s lap, but his body is trembling too hard to move or shove Hizashi away with any real success.

“Please—” he gasps. “Zashi, please stop... Please don’t do this. Please—”

It’s just noise. Hizashi pays him no mind as he lines his cock up with Shouta’s hole.

They both cry out as he pushes inside, in very different ways. Hizashi’s head falls back in bliss as he eagerly pushes all the way in, whereas Shouta’s back arches off the ground and he grits his teeth.

He’s finally inside his husband, after all this time. Shouta’s soft, wet heat feels so good around him that he could cry. He can’t help himself as he begins thrusting into the tight hole. He swears it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

Shouta seems moved to a new round of tears. His fingers are curled against Hizashi's shoulder in that way where they’re pushing instead of grasping, a constant plea for space.

Hizashi may still be drunk, but he has more stamina this time around—and he never seems to adjust to the heaven that is Shouta’s body. For him, moments are completely gone as soon as they pass, like they never existed to begin with—he has no idea how long he humps into Shouta, savoring every single thrust, unable to perceive anything beyond his cock and Shouta’s insides.

Eventually, his eyes flutter open and he’s pleased to find that, conversely, Shouta has adjusted. His prick is hard, arched slightly above his stomach even as he’s taking staggered breaths between hiccupping sobs. His head is turned to the side, but his eyes are squeezed shut with arched brows in an unmistakable expression of pleasure, mixed with a fair amount of distress.

And Hizashi did that to him.

“I knew you were holding out on me!” Hizashi claims as he wraps a fist around his cock, making Shouta wince and clench pleasantly around him. Shouta sucks in a breath through his teeth when Hizashi starts pumping him, hand flying down to pry at his wrist.

“I want to see you come for me, baby.”

“I did!” Shouta cries. “I already— Christ, Zashi… please!”

Now that he says it, Hizashi can see a sticky white sheen splashed across Shouta’s chest, but that doesn’t mean he’s of a mind to comprehend its implications. He keeps jerking him off. Even pushing and prying with both hands, Shouta’s movements are too impaired by Hizashi humping into him to be able to stop his strokes. All he can do is drag his nails against Hizashi’s unfeeling skin and writhe as he forces a second, pitifully weak orgasm out of him, his cock squirting a tiny streak of come onto his abdomen. Shouta's eyes squeeze shut, forcing more tears out. Hizashi watches him through half-lidded eyes, groaning as Shouta’s body seizes up around him.

“Was that so hard?”

Shouta pants hard. “...—Zah-...”

“God, Sho… I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

Hizashi’s eyes fall shut as he feels himself beginning to ramp up to his own orgasm. Any semblance of coherence dissolves within his mind.

“Wanted… every night….”

He fucks himself desperately into Shouta, whose breaths are uneven and heavy in Hizashi’s ear.

“..Fuckin’ tease….”

A sensation coils along his cock into his stomach, reaching impossible heights.

“Shouta...”

His mind goes white.

He’s alone when he wakes up, of course. It’s not really surprising once the hazy memories from the night before come floating back in bits and pieces. He has a pounding headache and an upset stomach, because he didn’t have Shouta there to take care of him and force some water down his throat before he conked out this time.

Shouta doesn’t really come home after that. Mostly, they see each other at U.A.—otherwise Shouta has patrol, or is helping All Might form a lesson plan, or has an underground mission out of town, or some other excuse.

He’s always expecting Shouta to slam him with divorce papers, but it never happens. When they pass each other in the halls of U.A., Shouta averts his gaze—not with hate, but with guilt. Hizashi doesn’t even remember what he said to cause that, but whatever it was, it seems to be the reason their marriage is relatively intact.

Hizashi doesn’t apologize. Sure, he misses those warm moments between them, when Shouta laid back in his arms while they talked shit about something together—but apologizing won’t bring that back, and he can't truthfully say he regrets making his needs known.

Shouta seems to be slowly coming back around on his own, anyway. Hizashi doesn’t get to see him without his hero costume anymore, so he can’t be sure Shouta is holding onto his wedding band, but he does know that he hasn’t found it lying around their house.

[designatedloveinterest]

Witcher/Mass Effect crossover, Ciri x Asari OC, wip

This felt like a relatively safe place. 

Farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. The few buildings were a little odd - uniformly square, with rounded corners and stilts perched over the crops like lookouts. Even the people she could spy from a distance seemed familiarly dressed - enough that she wouldn’t have to steal their laundry to fit in as a local foreigner. 

Piling her hair high on her head, she strode towards a particularly sumptuous looking farm, hoping the rows of greenery with tiny white flowers were edible. 

*

Ciri had become comfortable too early, it seemed. Still, the blue girl wasn’t the oddest looking being she’d encountered on her travels. For the most part, Lady Blue looked human - except for the thick, muscular tentacles in place of hair. And the blue skin. And the purple markings. But still. Close enough. 

She had stolen a trinket from the Aen Elle before her flight, a homely but useful pendant that acted as a somewhat limited “universal” translator. The “universal” bit was grossly overstated, but you could generally make a start with it, and get by with charm and pointing. Ciri hallooed the blue lady. 

Please accept gold as a currency, she muttered to herself as the blue girl registered her presence. To Ciri’s amazement, the girl lifted her arm and pressed some buttons on a cumbersome glove of unknown material. A horrible whistling noise filled the air, causing both of them to flinch suddenly, but the blue girl took a couple of steps back and stretched her arm out to her left. 

“You-I help can?”

It took a couple of seconds for Ciri to work out that at least one of their devices was working. She wouldn’t chance it, and made a spooning gesture from hand to mouth. “Can I buy some food?” 

“Merchants-we sell only. People not. Work-you can?” 

Great. Of all the destinations in time and space, she picked one apparently ruled by rock trolls. Still, if she guessed right, the girl was offering work in exchange for, hopefully, a meal. Or multiple meals. Ciri had long ceased to be too proud for manual labour. 

“Work I can. Sword swish-a-swash. Foop-foop.” She drew her sword and swung it in a hopefully comical and non-threatening way. 

The girl frowned. “Weapon-good no. Tools give you.” She waved Ciri over to one of the buildings and gave her gloves, shears and a bucket. Long story short, The Lady of Time and Space spent a full afternoon carefully snipping pea-like plants into the bucket, emptying it into a cart at the end of each row, and managing to only eat about a third of her haul. It seemed like no matter how far into the future she portaled, food crops were still mostly gathered by humans with traditional tools. 

The other workers were a strange mix of humans, a few blue women (but no blue men), a dreadfully thin and tall creature with a pigeon chest and catlike features, and a couple of people in masks whom Ciri thought might be devils or fauns. They seemed friendly enough, though, and attempted to include her in their chat on the ride back to the farmhouse. As one might expect, most of the workers had different native languages and Ciri was about as disadvantaged as any of them. Fart jokes got them through any miscommunication, not least because the cat and the fauns apparently did not fart, and found the humans and blue women extremely funny indeed. 

Stew is stew pretty much everywhere that vertebrates have a digestive system, though here the cat and the fauns sat at the end of the communal table drinking out of packages. The workers tried to explain it to her, but both her amulet and the glove crapped out and it wasn’t important anyway. The stew was very, very good. 

*

Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months of harvesting, planting, trading, a bit of mild smuggling to break up the monotony. Up at dawn, work until lunchtime, sit around for as long as you could get away with, chewing and chatting…. More work, maybe even finishing early if you’d completed the harvest, then dinner, a long hot bath with a book, a glass of wine and lots of fragrant bubbles. The food was excellent, the people were friendly and the blue lady, named Illora, was very keen to demonstrate the commonalities in anatomy between her people and Ciri’s.

“How did you end up here?” asked Ciri, placing her glass on the edge of the tub and sliding down in the hot water. Above her, Illora swooshed water over Ciri’s long, white hair. 

“I was a commando on Cyone, did a few tours of the Milky Way. Then I left the military and became a merc for a while, go here, guard this ship, kill this guy, you know how it is.” Ciri knew exactly how it was. She tipped her head back, enjoying Illora’s gentle hands carding through her hair. “Were you sent here as a merc then?”

“No.” Illora snuck a drink from Ciri’s glass. “I was on an escort mission and it went badly. I jumped ship and fucked off to the furthest place in the galaxy, and that is here. Eden Prime.” 

“The name Eden Prime is human mythology. You’re an Asari?” Ciri had a most amusing view up Illora’s nose. 

“It’s true, Eden Prime is a human colony. But when the harvest calls, you answer.” Illora’s strong fingers pressed into Ciri’s scalp, and the human shuddered keenly. A little more pressing and a little more splashing, and the harvest could fuck off indefinitely. 

*

[the-roci]

Draomi space pirate au

Everything is dark, nestled in a silence that only comes when the crew is asleep. Inky blues mix with faded purples outside the hull’s widow, illuminating the stars that guide her better than any map display ever could. Drummer reclines in her chair, a ratty old thing that's one high g burn away from becoming spare parts. Until then, she’s content to run her fingers against the worn fabric, taking comfort in its familiarity.

Another rotation and they’ll be waking up on Tycho Station. As much as being out here, navigating their course in whatever way they see fit, is etched into their bones, time is beginning to close in on them. She feels the crew going stir crazy, itching with a need to stretch themselves out in ways they’re unable to when they’re drifting in open space. A little too long looking at the same walls, drinking the same piss they’ve been passing off as alcohol, and eating the same mushroom based noodles until they didn’t even taste like food anymore. It gets to the best of them.

Getting off the ship will be good – even if it’s just to stock up on food so Alex can start splitting his time between the pilot’s seat and the kitchen again, giving them all a break from the monotony that always seems to set in when hauls stretch on too long.

Thinking back on their cargo, it’s hard not to justify pushing the crew. Well worth the tremors of tension settling in the spaces between everyone. The brief squabbles about the coffee machine not working won’t compare to the faces of the families that’ll receive the rations and supplies they’ve scavenged on their trek. Drummer can already feel small hands grabbing at her sleeves when they bring out the boxes of toys they pulled from a Tumang

vessel. While Dusters and Inners exploit themselves and whatever else they can grasp and claim as their own, the Belt protects its own.

Before her mood can sour completely, Drummer feels a prickle at the base of her neck. Growing up OPA means you never forget to watch out for your peripheral, but this is something else. Something as familiar as the chair she’s sitting on.

Naomi is leaning against the steel frame, hands loose at her sides, when Drummer turns her head. She’s watching Drummer with sleep heavy eyes and an affection that’s as bright as the displays around them. Drummer’s about to ask if Naomi likes what she’s staring at but the words stick in her throat like a piece of red kibble that's been left on the plate for too long. Because Naomi looks gorgeous in the low light. Hair highlighted in the pastel pinks of the consul behind her, she looks so soft. Open and vulnerable in ways only Naomi is brave enough to be.

It's now Drummer who’s staring. Lost in the curve of delicate cheek bones and eyes that see through every front Drummer has ever tried to put on. Years ago, it unnerved her. To be peeled apart, cracked open and explored like the engine drive Naomi can always be found exploring. It feels safe now. As solid as the ship they're sitting in.

“You should be sleeping,” Naomi says, pulling herself away from the wall and walking towards her.

Drummer shrugs. “Mi sasa. Wanted to do another check,” she says and it’s true. “Meant to be quick.”

Naomi smiles, tired but genuine. “Let me rephrase that. You should be in bed with me. Leave the rest for later.”

The sentiment warms every muscles in Drummer’s body. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Naomi is standing in front of her now, reaching out a hand in offering. Weaving their fingers together, Drummer tugs instead of taking the invitation to be led towards their bunk. Naomi eases herself into Drummer’s lap before sliding slender fingers across her arms, behind her back and pulling until Drummer is flush against Naomi's chest. Drummer melts into her on instinct, becoming molten and pliant, ready to be molded in whatever ways Naomi asks of her.

Wrapping her arms around Naomi’s waist feels as natural as free floating through orbit. In these quiet moments, Drummer can only hope that she offers Naomi the same sense of security and peace.

"Tycho then?" Naomi asks, lips brushing against Drummer’s temple. Drummer’s pause is slight, nearly unnoticeable, but Naomi reads her like LADAR. “Camina?” She pulls away, drawing out a confession with an ease that shouldn’t be fair.

“There’s another ship,” Drummer says. She’s been torn between pursing it and heading towards dock but she can’t deny the buzz of adrenaline now that she’s voice it outload. It would mean extending an already long haul, maybe pushing the crew a little bit too hard for too long.

“There always another ship.” There’s a slight warning there despite the playful edge. Even with the heaviness, Naomi is smiling when Drummer pulls back enough to look at her. Naomi’s eyes are as bright and shimmering like the stars surrounding them. If she’s not careful, Drummer will lose herself, drift in a pool of brown she’ll never want to find her way out of.

“A luxury cruise ship,” Drummer offers. “Could make a good trip great.”

“You know how I feel about civilian ships.”

“All the way out here? No. Probably on the way back from repairs.  We’d be dealing with a skeleton crew at best.”

Naomi kisses the top of her head, feather light. “And if there are others?”

“Then we’ll hightail it out of there. No causalities.”

Naomi hums, thoughtfully. “We’ll run it by the crew when they wake, ya? See what they say?”

Drummer nods and Naomi pushes her forehead into the curve of Drummer’s neck. She breathes in, breaking her down into particles and consuming her. Everything is somehow forgotten in the sound of Naomi’s relaxed exhale. As they lean against each other, the gentle thud of Naomi’s heartbeat is the only thing Drummer is concerned about. There will be other ships if the crew decides to keep course. Sitting here, with her arms loose around Naomi’s waist, Drummer has everything she needs.

“So, about getting me to bed, then?” Drummer asks and Naomi’s laugh makes her feel weightless.

For @sugarfey who always gives us quality fic and rarely gets to indulge in things not her own.

[house-vexile]

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" Cyril, to Ranya. - Comforting Edition {Sentence Starters}

“I will not be gone for long. I promise, once I have handled a collection of maintenance tasks and renewed the fear of the Twelve into some of my less cooperative patrons, I will be back in the East as swiftly as I can manage.”

Staring across the table at the empty seat opposite her, Ranya released a careful and controlled sigh from her nose. A whole bell late, this bastard was. She had half a mind to redact their contract simply due to a lack of communication, let alone the hefty tardiness her future business partner had forced her to tolerate. Her steel gaze leveled and the Lady uncrossed her legs, only to recross them in the reverse order. Gloved hands rested, woven together, against the edge of the table, her form still safe for the gentle disturbance of her hair by the sea breeze. 

This was what she had selected over being by the side of the man she loved. Incompetence and inefficiency. The Vexile woman wished luck upon the next person to gain her attention that her now mercurial, molten stare would not melt through their flesh.

What good fortune it was that the tailored form that strode to her side was not that of the young waiter that had been nervously tending to her during her stay. A lesser being might have perished. The redhead recognized the Miqo’te more swiftly by the care of his dress and the vigilance in his stance before anything else. The iconic eye patch and cloudy jade of his hair were mere confirmations.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?"

“Captain,” Ranya greeted her acquaintance, the word sharpened on her tongue. She made little effort to dull her edge. The man was no delicate snowflake that required a gentler lilt; he would not be worthy of the title if he was. Her lips parted to offer a denial, hoping that the dissuasion would somehow summon her late business partner into her presence. 

And yet…

The offer was one she would not take normally. She was at home, and when at home, she immersed herself in the joys of coffee. But in the absence of her other half, something ached to fill the space. At least until he could fill it himself. And her brief excursions to the tea houses in Kugane had started to train her taste buds to the more subtle hints of flavor that could be offered by herbs and flowers alike.

Her silver gaze considered the empty chair across from her once more, and with the arch of a thin crimson brow, the woman unraveled one hand from the other to gesture to the empty seat. “I believe I would, if you were willing to grant me a brief reprieve from the monotony of an empty table.”

Perhaps she need not be terrifying at all. Instead, she would simply allow the Captain to keep the seat until she was prepared to move on to her next engagement. Tardy business partner be damned.

Comforting Edition {Sentence Starters} ((Closed))

[hiilikedragons]

YOU GUYS IT’S HERE

SACRIFICE AU

The days following are some of the quietest and longest Astrid’s experienced since those silent evenings in their nest. When Hiccup would disappear for hours at a time and return drunk and exhausted, before they could manage a civil conversation. There was an emptiness to those nights, a tense uncertainty and a frightening loneliness.

These days aren’t quite the same.

Boredom and monotony drives Astrid to the point of madness. She can’t stand the inactivity, the restrictions. She longs to be up and running, stretching, even flying. But where those dark times on their island were punctuated with arguments and steely glares, these endless hours are full of companionship. Light.

She’s never without company. Either Valka is at her side, telling her stories of a young Stoick that make her cheeks hurt and her eyes water from laughter, or Hiccup is there, babbling on without much input from Astrid herself. Sometimes it’s all of them, arguing over who is the worst cook, playing word games, coming up with names for their latest rescues. Their dragons come and go, demanding scratchies or starting up a round of fetch.

If it weren’t for having to stay off her feet, Astrid might almost be… content.

Valka has picked up a habit of talking to her grandchild. Sometimes it’s in passing, giving Astrid’s belly a kiss and a rub before leaving for the day. Sometimes she crawls over, stretching out next to Astrid, resting her hand in her chin and having a one sided conversation about her son’s personality as a baby.

Astrid won’t pretend it wasn’t uncomfortable at first. Her parents were never overly affectionate-- they weren’t generous with hugs, but she never felt less loved for it. They simply weren’t a touchy feely family. So the first time Valka arrived home from a rescue mission, patting each of her children’s heads and then burying her face in Astrid’s abdomen to mumble something incoherent, the girl was more than startled.

But it’s something she’s gotten used to. Just like Valka’s strange way of walking, her dragonesque mannerisms and the way she sometimes slips into dragonese without noticing. It took a couple of instances of learning not to flinch when someone besides her reaches for the baby, but now it’s something she almost doesn’t notice.

“I’m off,” Valka said once. An afternoon where she’d planned to sabotage some traps Hiccup had found the day before.

Toothless wasted no time in cleaning the scraps of fish off of her lunch plate once she set it aside. Standing, she left Hiccup and Astrid at the fire and began to collect her things. “You two keep an eye on things for me while I’m gone.”

“I am as vigilant as I am immobile,” Astrid replied over her shoulder while her mother in law strapped into her armor. “Don’t have much of a choice.”

Valka chuckled, crossing the room again to smooth a hand over Astrid’s braid. “Just another couple of days,” she assured her. She knelt, and Astrid leaned back just slightly so Valka could sternly instruct the baby to get big and strong while she’s gone. The older woman pressed her palm against Astrid’s tunic and dropped a quick kiss on her knuckles.

Astrid couldn’t help but laugh. She cut her gaze to Hiccup, to shake her head and roll her eyes teasingly. When she caught a glimpse of his expression, though, she faltered.

He was observing the interaction with what should be a smile. Except it was twisted, not quite reaching the rest of his face. He had one hand holding his plate, the other with a bite of food held halfway to his mouth. And there was a furrow to his brow as he watched, almost pained. If anything, he looked like he’d been kicked.

Astrid blinked, surprised. Looking away, she tried to pretend that she hadn’t seen, though she couldn’t really explain why. Something twinged in her chest, and she pressed her fingertips between her breasts to rub at it.

Valka reached over to him to muss his hair, then whistled for Cloudjumper. Hiccup reminded her to be safe as she stood, and Toothless bounded after them to watch them go.

Silence hung between the two, more awkward than it’d been in a while. The sounds of dragons in the distance clattered off the stone and ice.

Astrid stole a glance at him. His eyes were on his plate, but they seemed to look much farther, at something she couldn’t see. For some reason, she wanted to reach across the space between them and rest her hand on her arm. Just feel the warmth of him for a second.

She didn’t, of course. But she thought about it.

Laugardagur in the sanctuary is fast and frigid. Toothless and Cloudjumper are accustomed to using their fiery breath to warm the waters for their riders, but training Stormfly to do the same is proving a little difficult.

“Come now,” Valka croons to the Nadder. She leans over the edge of the icy lake, snapping her fingers over the surface. “Give it a try.” Adding something in dragonese, she gives Stormfly a tiny splash. The dragon responds by shaking out her wings and crowing like she’s been doused.

“I think you should have Cloudjumper show her again,” Astrid sighs, drenching her washrag in the chilly waters. She has her feet dangling over the side a little ways away, trying to get her body used to the temperature. Goosebumps have broken out all over her naked skin.

“Oh she knows what I want,” Valka replies wryly. She wriggles her fingers to try and get the stubborn Nadder’s attention. “She just doesn’t like being told what to do.”

Astrid’s short laugh is accented by the chattering of her teeth. “That’s my girl.” She dabs at her neck and shoulders, feeling water dribble like icicles down her clavicle. “Don’t worry about it, Valka. It’s not my first cold bath.”

“That doesn��t make it good for you,” the older woman protests, sitting back on her heels. She whistles for her Stormcutter while giving Stormfly a raised brow.

“Can I ask a question?” Astrid says a little while later, once the temperature is bearable enough to slip in. Shoulder deep in the tepid water, she has her arms folded on the grassy edge and her chin rested on her wrists.

“Of course,” Valka answers without looking up. She has a small pile of clothes that she’s attempting to wash before the icy chill returns.

The blonde narrows her eyes just slightly. “Why are you and Hiccup being so secretive about what’s going on with the trappers?”

Tilting her head, Valka slows her work a little and sighs. “One less thing to worry you with.” She gives Astrid a tight smile. “Drago and his men don’t know about this place, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know about what Hiccup and I have been doing for years now.”

“Do you think they’re looking for us?”

“It’s a possibility.” Flexing her soapy hands, Valka stretches her fingers before returning to the washboard. “To be honest, dragon hunting is a lucrative business. Hiccup and I do what we can, but the dragons we save are small in number compared to all the trappers out there. We’re an annoyance to Drago and the others, but likely not effective enough to draw their ire.”

Astrid hums thoughtfully, stepping back to drench her hair. Her eyes dart to the cliffside leading to their living quarters. Just to make sure Hiccup hasn’t returned from his grocery run early. He’s insisting he wants to make something special tomorrow to celebrate her last day of bed rest.

She glances back to the surface of the water, watching it ripple as a dragon swims by not too far away. Working at the tangles in her wet locks, she leans her head back on the ledge.

“It makes me more anxious being left out of the loop.” She sees the dragon do a playful somersault and wriggle away. “I don’t feel as helpless or useless if I at least know what to expect.”

“Well, there’s not much to expect.” Valka’s tone is sincere. “They’re expanding close enough that I feel more comfortable occasionally leading them away. But we have no reason to believe they’ll plan a blatant attack. And if they do? The Bewildebeast will protect us.”

Astrid wishes that made her feel better. Even the suggestion of an invasion makes her hackles rise. At least in a day or two she’ll be up and around again. If she needs to fight or escape, she’ll be able to. But showing Valka how much the idea bothers her is a surefire way of assuring that they never tell her anything about the trappers’ plans again.

So she stays quiet, washing her hair and looking out at the water. The Bewildebeast has taken up a spot beneath the crashing waterfall, and Astrid snorts with quiet laughter at the way droplets spray wildly around him while he stares ahead unbothered. Gentle giant indeed.

Something in the distance catches her eye, and she squints. Craning her neck to see better, Astrid tries to make out what’s glinting on the bottom of the lake several meters away.

“Do you see that?” she wonders aloud, pointing as best she can. “That little light there? Between those two big rocks?”

“Hmm?” The sloshing of the laundry stops as Valka glances up. After a moment, she makes a noise of curiosity. “I think so.”

Astrid starts to wade that way, to investigate, but Valka stops her. She purses her lips and makes a complicated whistling sound, and Cloudjumper spreads his wings. The owlish dragon flies over the rippling surface, circling a few times in the direction Valka indicated before splashing into the water like an eagle reaching for its prey. When he returns, he drops his prize on the bank of the lake with a smug whir.

“Oh. That old thing.” Valka waves a hand dismissively and gives the item no more attention.

Astrid pushes herself up on the grassy ledge, trying to make out what looks like a hunk of twisted metal. At closer inspection, though, her brows shoot up. She reaches for the familiar item, turning it over in her hands.

It’s Hiccup’s flask. Or at least it was. At first she suspects a dragon got ahold of it and gnashed it into an unrecognizable lump. But the way it’s been completely bashed in, and the lack of teeth marks make her wonder. It looks like someone took a hammer to it.

“He chucked that thing in weeks ago,” Valka says while rinsing what looks like one of Astrid’s tunics. The corners of her mouth are turned up like she’s attempting to hide a smile. “I certainly wasn’t disappointed to see it go.”

Astrid turns the flask upside down, pouring icy water out on the ground. The cap is missing, and the lip is dented. It’s absolutely ruined. She’s realizing that she can’t remember the last time she saw him take a sip of anything stronger than mead.

“He’s not drinking?” she murmurs.

She’s glad Valka doesn’t reply. The question really isn’t for anyone to answer. More for her own contemplation. Pulling the flask in with her, she sinks back into the lake, tapping the cold metal against her lips.

He used to keep this thing tucked into his vest, close to his heart. It was almost like an extension of him, another piece of his armor. She wonders what he keeps there now.

She’s brushing her hair by the fire later that evening when Hiccup finds her. He hasn’t been back long, and he only traded the briefest of greetings with her and his mother before disappearing to take his own bath. He rubs at his scalp with a towel, straddling one of the benches next to her.

“Evening, milady.” He’s wearing a clean shirt, and it clings to him where his skin isn’t completely dry. “Have you seen Mom?”

“She went out to the garden.” Astrid answers without looking up. Her mind has been filled to capacity, and she was trying to straighten out her thoughts while staring into the flames. “You just missed her.”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t look away from her face. She can feel his gaze on her cheek, warmer than the fire. At first she figures if she ignores it, he’ll stop, but it seems that her indifference only encourages him to keep staring.

Finally, she blushes and turns her face away, muttering, “What do you want?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Will you teach me how to braid your hair?”

The question takes her so aback that for a minute, she doesn’t know what to say. She squints at him, stunned. “Why?”

He looks down at his hands, spreads them apart in a shrugging gesture. Shaking his head, he gives her a weary expression. “What reason can I give you that you’ll accept?”

Astrid’s sure her perplexity shows in her features. Her hand stops brushing mid-stroke. “The truth?”

“The truth,” he kind of chuckles. “Okay.” Straightening, Hiccup meets her eyes. “I want to be close to you. I want to touch you.”

Her heart stutters. Like a hand has suddenly grabbed her by the throat, she has to take a moment to catch her breath. Light and shadows dance on his face as he waits for her answer.

Gods know he’s waited on her hand and foot these past couple of weeks. Helped her around the sanctuary, fetched her every whim, made sure she was eating as much as she was physically able. And, as fragile as things are, she likely would have gone crazy if it weren’t for his company. Honestly, it wouldn’t bother her having him near.

“Okay,” she says, and he blinks like that wasn’t the reply he was expecting.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Sliding down from her seat, she lowers herself to the stone floor and pats the spot she’s just vacated. “Come here.”

He wastes no time, tossing his towel aside. Stepping close, he sits where directed, and Astrid shifts so that she’s placed between his thighs. She places her cords next to him so he can reach, having to stretch over his knee. She’s glad that she has her back to him so he can’t see the color that’s likely risen to her cheeks.

“How do I…?” His hands float in her peripheral, unsure. She bats them away.

“Watch first.” She uses her brush to separate her hair into three sections and then sets it aside. “Do you know how to do a three-strand plait?”

“I understand the concept,” he answers uncertainly.

Without another word, she begins tying her hair into one long, simple braid. She tries to move slowly so that he can see each twist, until she reaches the ends. Then, she unravels the whole thing and holds the pieces out to him.

Hiccup’s hands brush hers when he clumsily takes them. The brief friction feels like electricity prickling her skin. He attempts to recreate the braid, weakly pulling one side over the other. Sometimes pausing and then undoing his previous turn so he can redo it. She can tell just by the way he’s gripping the locks that it’s going to turn out crooked and too-loose, but she doesn’t say anything. Frigga knows it took her long enough to learn how to mimic her mother’s perfect designs.

“Alright,” she breathes when he finishes, reaching a hand back to feel the lopsided plait. “Yeah. You’ve got the pattern.” Raking her fingers through it, she shakes the braid loose and spreads her hair around her shoulders. “Okay. So now you’re going to do the same thing, but you’re starting from the forehead and moving to the back. You’re picking up a little bit at a time.”

She lifts her arms, demonstrating. He’s quiet as she shows him what to do, clearly paying close attention to each whisp and strand. When she’s gotten about halfway down the back of her skull, she undoes her work and tells him to give it a try.

And oh gods, this must be a mistake. His warm fingers thread through her hair, gathering it in his clumsy hands, and a shiver reverberates down her spine. Despite herself, her pulse thrums loudly. His touches are so gentle, so feather light, but she feels each one with vivid sensation. She can hear his quiet breathing over the crackling of the fire, feel his exhales on her crown.

“This is harder than I thought it’d be,” he mumbles, maybe to himself. She agrees.

“It’ll take practice,” she whispers back. He’s pulling up too much, not holding it back enough. And he’s not tugging hard, probably for fear of hurting her. It’ll come out flat and uneven. “Keep going.”

Hiccup tucks a stray lock behind her ear, and she finds her eyes closing to savor the feel of his warm hand at her temple. Every graze of his thumb against her scalp, every shift of his legs around her left her trembling and weak.

He clears his throat. “I told you something true,” he begins. “Your turn. Tell me something honest, something I don’t know.”

She only pauses for a second. There’s already something on her mind.

“I used to blame myself for your death.” Astrid fixes her eyes on the flames. Sparks scatter as a burning log falls aside.

His hands slow in her hair, barely, and then resume their work. “How could that possibly be your fault?”

She wets her lips, and her scalp gives gentle pulls when she shakes her head just slightly. “That day you disappeared… It was you and me in the arena, and I was so angry at you for winning over Gothi.” Even now, she can recall the fierce jealousy and indignation that had consumed her as a teenager. It was an acidic, spiteful disappointment.

“I remember.”

“Well. I thought about following you. I did, once or twice.” Exhaling an embarrassed laugh, she drops her gaze to her knees. “I thought you were training with somebody, or you’d found some new dragon manual. I don’t know. I just knew you were up to something.”

Somehow, she knows he’s smiling a little bit at that.

“But that day-- I’m not sure why-- I didn’t go.” She’s never told anyone this before, not even her parents or Stoick. “Like, I got all the way to the cove where we found those scales, but then something made me stop, and I just… turned around. Left.”

Astrid’s fingertips tap restlessly against his knee. She doesn’t remember looping her arm around his leg, but he slides it closer so she can lean against it.

“Later, when you didn’t show up to your test, I was--” Shame tears through her. “I was happy. I was excited. I thought you’d backed out because you were scared, and I was going to get a second chance to prove myself. But…” Her breath rushes out of her chest. “When a day passed, and then another, and then we found the blood in the cove. That same cove, where I had almost cornered you--”

“Mm.” She feels him lean in, nuzzle his nose against her hair. He’s not braiding anymore.

“I felt like it was my fault.” She’s surprised her words aren’t too quiet for him to hear. “We all kind of assumed you were practicing for your fight, and it went wrong. So I always thought-- if I had just gone in and talked to you, I would’ve walked in to find you struggling with this dragon. I would’ve been able to step in and save you, or at least get help. But I didn’t, and you died.”

He strokes the nape of her neck with a single knuckle. It leaves her almost breathless.

“You would’ve caught me leaving,” he says with a ghost of wry amusement. “I’m sure you would’ve been so pleased, watching me run like a coward.”

“Maybe,” she admits. She tilts her head into the fingertips caressing her jaw, letting her eyelids fall shut. “But what if it was different? What if you changed my mind, and we saved Berk? What if we lived in peace with the dragons, and we--.”

“I can’t… think like that anymore.” His sigh is hot against the back of her ear. He takes her hand in his, bringing it above her head to cup his scratchy cheek. The familiarity of his scruff against her palm brings back heated memories of sunlit mornings. “The what ifs? I can’t, Astrid. I didn’t… realize it until recently, but there’s a thousand different lives we could’ve lived. Choices we could’ve made, dumb luck that could’ve changed.”

Her heart is twisting unbearably. He brushes his lips against her throat and a whimper escapes her. Everything is on fire-- too much, too much.

“This one is fucked up, yeah,” he continues, splaying his fingers across her collarbone. Astrid tilts her head to allow him more of her neck. “But I know that in every single one of those lives, I would’ve spared that dragon-- and I would’ve loved you.”

It’s as if she’s fallen from a great height, just to slam into the earth. Her chest crushes the air from her lungs in one concussive blow. Flinching away, she puts a hand between them.

“Stop.”

His hands lift away from her skin but don’t move. She twists to her knees, untangling herself from his arms. It hurts too much to look at him, so she keeps her gaze on the fire.

“This isn’t fair, Hiccup. You can’t just--”

“Be honest with you?” There’s indignation in his voice. In her peripheral, he rubs his eyes, a tell of frustration she knows too well. “Are we going back to the beginning, then? Pretending like we don’t care?”

“It was easier,” she confesses, so softly she’s not sure he’ll be able to hear.

“I don’t want easy.” Hiccup sits forward on the edge of the bench. “Astrid, I want you. Not just because you’re stuck with me, not just because you’re having my child. But because you’re fearless, and loyal to a fault. Because you never let go of your stupid pride and because you’re so damned beautiful when you laugh.”

She can’t move. There’s a thousand different things running through her head, and she can barely hear him over the roar.

“Please,” she says, gathering her hair to one side. Turning it into a wall, a shield between him and his seductive words, she twists it until it almost hurts. “Please go. I can’t do it myself.”

For a minute, she thinks he won’t. She thinks he’ll be stubborn and insist they talk this out. But after a long pause of tense and heavy silence, he finally pushes off his knees to stand. He gives her a wide berth as he leaves.

Everything feels cold after that. Not the comforting frost of anger, which held everything frozen like ice inside her. But cold like the day of Hiccup’s funeral on Berk.

It was bleek and rainy, which seemed appropriate for the ceremony’s tone. Everyone was in shock, still reeling from the search party’s find just two days prior. How was a kid who was so smart and lively just cease to exist? This nuisance turned prodigy-- how was he just not  a part of the village anymore?

Stoick was steely and black, glaring out at the sea with just a quiet swear of vengeance. Gobber could barely hold in his tears, coughing and cussing every time he lost his composure. Snotlout was wide-eyed. Fishlegs sniffled. Even the twins were morose.

Astrid was just cold. Cold and numb. The guilt was just starting to set in, the realization that she could have done something, she could have stopped this. Part of her wanted to be angry at Hiccup, for being reckless enough to stray from safety and get himself killed. But the emotion never caught traction. Instead, she just stared at the burning ship, feeling empty and chilled.

Valka must notice that something’s happened. She greets Astrid that morning with a bright smile and a cheerful hello, clearly excited to celebrate her first day back on her feet. Astrid tries to muster a matching expression, but the pull of her facial features must read false. Her mother in law’s face drops instantly, and then melts into one of compassion. She reaches over and brushes Astrid’s bangs aside with the backs of her fingers.

“It’s going to be okay,” she croons, eyes full of warmth. She rubs the girl’s arms, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “The moon wanes sometimes too. It doesn’t become whole all at once and neither will you.”

Astrid’s mouth curls upwards in a way that’s more sincere. She misses her mom.

“Now, come,” Valka commands playfully. “I know a Nadder who is just about dying to spread her wings.”

Truly, it’s nearly a miracle to feel the arctic air on her cheeks again. After over two weeks of being cooped up in the sanctuary, carted from one place to another like an invalid, just being able to look at the sky feels like delicious victory. Astrid didn’t realize how attached she’d become to flying, how much she needed to feel the wind whipping her hair around her face. It’s more healing than any of the midwife’s medicine.

It doesn’t last long, of course. Valka told her to come directly back if anything felt amiss, and Hiccup made sure she was wrapped in about three layers of clothing before returning to his quiet, surly mood. But they’re right-- she doesn’t want to overdo it. So even though she could ride the breeze and dip in and out of clouds for hours, she keeps it brief.

She does things she’s wanted to do for a while, like take a walk through the labyrinth of tunnels and help take the laundry off the line. Simply being able to relieve herself or get a drink of water without one of her companions hovering protectively nearby is liberating.

It does surprise her how thoroughly exhausted she becomes, though. She runs out of breath quickly. It seems like she’s only been up and around for a few hours before she’s having to stretch out in a shady nook for a nap.

Astrid wakes later that afternoon to Valka gently squeezing her elbow. Bleary-eyed, she shields her eyes from the aviary’s light with a hand. “What’s going on?” They don’t often disturb her when she’s resting, usually insisting she needs all she can get. “Is everything okay?”

The older woman chuckles. “Everything’s alright. Nothing to worry about.” She lifts a fine brow. “I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

Intrigued, Astrid sits up. She smoothes a hand over her braids to make sure they haven’t come undone. “Of course. What do you need?”

With a tilt of her head, she takes a steady inhale. “Hiccup’s taking a shift checking the usual trap spots. He’s spent all day cooking, and I know he won’t say it, but it’d make him happy if we all ate together before he leaves.”

Astrid groans, apparently dramatically enough to make Valka laugh. She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes and sighs. Her heart still aches, thinking about the night before and the thread of unwavering fervor in Hiccup’s voice. Having to sit across from him, put on a civil expression, while feeling a maelstrom still raging inside her-- it sounds absolutely miserable.

“I think seeing me is the last thing he needs,” she mutters. Still, she sits up, resting her elbows on her knees. She examines her jagged nails and begins to chew at one.

Valka leans back on her hands, lips tilted up at one side. In the light of the aviary, her green-grey eyes look like mist. She breathes deeply, and then sighs. “My deep well of infinite maternal wisdom has run dry, Astrid.” Shrugging, she shakes her head. “You have to be the one to decide how you feel. What you can and can’t forgive.”

If only it were that simple. She can’t stop weighing the risks, considering the consequences. What can she trust? What’s safe to feel? Is it her head or her heart telling her to run, and would it make her a coward if she did?

“I’ll eat with him,” Astrid says. She looks up at Valka. “Can I ask you something, in exchange?”

Her lashes flutter when she blinks in surprise. “Of course, dear. Anything.”

Astrid tries not to wince. She can’t meet Valka’s gaze. “Do you still love Stoick?”

It takes her a good minute to compose an answer. She licks her lips and tucks a spray of gray hair behind her ear, seeming suddenly years older. But then after a long moment of thought, she says, “I can’t forgive him. For what he’s become, what he’s done to the both of you.” Pausing, she swallows, and for a moment, those eyes of mist glitter with stubborn tears. “But the love always stays, Astrid. Six months, five years, twenty…” She waves a hand with a furrowed brow. “Your feelings can change from one day to the next, but love? It sleeps. It waits. And you will be fine for years, and then you wake up in the night with the smell of his shirt or a song in your head, and all at once you want nothing more than to be next to him again.”

She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. They sit together for a silent few minutes, until Valka’s sniffling stops and they’re both listening to the cacophony of dragon chatter around them.

Astrid pulls her hand away from her mouth, folding her thumb into her palm so that she can’t keep biting at the nail. “Well.” She tries for a brave smile. “Promise you won’t leave us alone together?”

Valka chuckles and pats the girl’s knee. “I will be by your side every step of the way.”

Together, they help each other stand. As they walk to their living quarters, Valka reaches an arm around her and squeezes her close. Not for the first time, Astrid wonders how she would have survived these last several weeks without her.

The scent of whatever Hiccup has cooking wafts from the stove long before they enter the room. It’s mouthwatering and heady, and it makes Astrid’s stomach growl like a wild dragon. She knows he’s not particularly skilled at the culinary arts, but she can already tell he’s gone the extra mile with this particular meal.

“Smells wonderful,” Valka notes cheerfully when they come upon him. He’s eating from a near empty bowl of thick stew, eyes scanning what looks like a recipe scribbled on parchment.

“Let’s hope it tastes as good,” he replies, barely glancing over at them. Setting his food down and putting the page aside, he grabs a pair of bowls and crosses the room. “Have a seat, ladies.”

“You’re leaving so soon?” Valka nods at Toothless, who’s already sniffing at the stew Hiccup just abandoned. He has his saddlebags attached, and at a second glance, Hiccup’s already dressed in his flight suit.

“Early flight, early night.” An outsider might not be able to pick up on his mood, his unhappy prickliness, but Astrid can sense it. The strand of tension in his posture, the not quite sincere shade of his smile. She’s so busy noticing that she almost jumps when his eyes flick up to meet her. “I’ll be back in two days. Okay? Before sunset.”

Making sure she knows he’s not leaving for good. She takes a seat by the fire and gives him a nod that she hopes looks appreciative.

He serves them two hearty bowls of whatever recipe it is he’s cooked up. He passes the first to his mom, and then sets the second in her hands. When she takes it, he holds onto it for a second longer than necessary.

“I did my best,” he tells her, eyes the color of emeralds trying to communicate something more than ingredients and spices. Before she has the chance to say anything, though, he pulls away.

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” Valka assures him, either oblivious to their interaction or deliberately ignoring it. She digs in right away, making sounds of instant pleasure.

“Thanks,” Astrid murmurs, accepting the spoon Hiccup hands over. It does look good. Heavy brown gravy, with carrots and potatoes and large chunks of meat. There’s a familiar scent to it, something she can’t quite place, and she leans over the bowl to inhale deeply.

“You two enjoy,” Hiccup says, latching the last strap of his armor in place. He gives a quick whistle to Toothless, who has his face buried in what used to be Hiccup’s food.

“Be safe, I suppose.” Valka sounds disappointed. But she smiles at him as he tucks his notebook into his vest and slips around the fire to drop a kiss to her crown. Before Astrid can decide whether she’s jealous or not, he’s giving them a wave and striding out the hall.

She can only stare at his back until he disappears into the dark. Just a few weeks ago, he left that same way, shattering her world and her heart along with it. Ever since then, she’s seen his ghost standing in the doorway, always one footstep away from disappearing again. Her hand tightens around the edge of her bowl, and she forces herself to tear her gaze away.

“I feel bad for waking you now,” Valka sighs. She blows on a steaming spoonful, testing the temperature on her lips. “Just us for dinner, it would seem.”

“It’s okay. I’m starving.” Astrid gives the stew a stir, and then lifts a bite to her mouth. “Told you he didn’t want to be around me,” she adds.

The minute Hiccup’s stew reaches her tongue, something hits her. Nostalgia, dreamy and warm, envelopes her like an embrace. At first, she thinks she must be mistaken, so she quickly takes another mouthful. But the more she chews, the more she’s sure.

She knows these flavors.

It’s the taste of being so small her feet don’t reach the floor from kitchen chair. Of cold winter nights wrapped tight in furs between her snoring parents. It’s the taste of Berk, of its slippery rocks and its wet earth, and the pine sap in the air. It’s learning how to throw an axe from her uncle, and listening to stories of dragon hunting as she falls asleep in front of the fire.

And it’s more. Somehow, beneath the layers of home, Hiccup’s there too. He’s holding her hand as they run from Gus’ forge laughing, and blowing raspberries into her skin as he tickles her ribs. He’s singing her to sleep in a thunderstorm. She tastes the sweat from his forehead and the alcohol on his tongue.

She can’t breathe. Astrid presses the back of her hand to her mouth, as if she can dampen all of the memories, the sensations, the aches and the warmth. Distantly, she’s aware of Valka asking her what’s wrong, but she can barely hear. Everything is too loud, too overwhelming. She’s choking.

And then, the storm clears. She stands, setting the bowl aside and walking over to the stove. The parchment is still there, half folded, and she picks it up like it might burst into flames at her touch.

Despite the blurriness of tears in her eyes, she knows this handwriting. She knows the curves of the runes, the heavy hand. The old Hofferson recipe, the one her mom swore she’d only share once she married. It’s scribbled out with ingredients, instructions, reminders. Hiccup has certain things underlined and circled, little notes in the margins in his blocky print. She has no idea how this is possible, but somehow it is.

A sob breaks out of her chest. Alarmed, Valka stands, but her concern turns to confusion when Astrid looks up at her with a watery, beaming smile.

“Did you know about this?” she asks, giving the parchment a shake. “Did he tell you…?”

Valka spreads her arms in a shrug. Her eyes are twinkling. “I assure you I’m quite in the dark here.”

Astrid looks at the recipe again. The parchment has been folded and unfolded so many times that the creases are worn. In the top corner, her mom has written, “For my beautiful, brave Astrid.”

She sets the recipe back down, and then she’s running. Her heart is slamming painfully in her chest, and her lungs give a protesting squeeze after mere seconds, but she’s flying. Astrid blows through the doorway where Hiccup’s phantom has been lingering for weeks, whisps of fear dissolving in his wake. Even though it’s a dim labyrinth of rocks and ice, she moves without uncertainty or hesitation. She knows, for the first time in months, exactly where she’s going.

“Hiccup!” she shouts, his name ricocheting off of cave walls. “Hiccup, wait!”

At first, she doesn’t think she’ll make it in time. She fears she’s missed her chance. But then, from the dark, his figure emerges, and she stumbles into a sprint.

“Hey, just because you’re off bed rest, I really don’t think that means you should be running--”

And then she’s kissing him. Because she wants it and she needs it and he’s here. Because she spent her whole life being afraid of the dragons destroying her home, and he tamed them. Because being with him feels like flying.

“A thousand lives,” she whispers, barely able to get the words between their lips. “I would have loved you too.”

There’s a clatter as his helmet hits the floor. Warmth, as he takes her face between his hands. And then for the first time in a long time, she’s melting.

[littleshebear]

Little Bird chapter 4

pt 1 | pt 2| pt 3

Ao3 Link

-/

Eva Levante meets a remorseful Amanda while Zavala gets a letter.

-/

Eva Levante has come to visit and thus, the orphanage’s common room is in a state of organised chaos. The Festival of the Lost will be upon them soon so Miss Eva has come to help them get started on decorations. Extra tables have been brought in and they’re already a riot of colour, covered in paper, glitter and foil. A few glue sticks roll off desks and begin to dry out on the floor, casualties of short attention spans and the excitement of an interruption to the usual monotony of their days.

Amanda sits in a corner away from the worst of the ruckus and looks down at the blank papers in front of her with an increasing sense of despondence. She’s not familiar with this celebration at all. Miss Eva had said it was to remember those who had been lost, “with joy and sorrow.” Amanda doesn’t feel like she needs reminding what she’s lost and while she understands the sorrow part, the joy aspect of it seems unattainable to her.

She glances around the room to try to glean some ideas from what the other children are doing. She sees mock candles rendered in cardboard, burning with ‘flames’ of orange tissue paper. Many of them create paper mock ups of some sort of round, orange vegetable she doesn’t recognise, only to then draw leering, grinning faces on them. It’s creepy. Why would anyone want that on their wall?

One of the other children spots her lack of activity and calls out, “Hey New Girl? Why aren’t you making anything?”

New Girl . It’s been months but she’s still “New Girl.” Amanda suspects that barring some major disaster in the City, she’ll always be the New Girl in the orphanage; refugees just aren’t arriving in the City anymore. She hears the stories, how she was the last to pass through the gates, how there’s no one left outside. She hears the jibes and cutting questions. Did you get lost? How could you miss the Traveler, it’s not like it’s tiny . They don’t say that to her face anymore, not since she channeled her frustration at their ignorance into her fists. She’d been put in detention for a week after that but it had been worth it. When her teachers sagely advised that fighting was wrong and asked if she’d learned her lesson, she’d nodded dutifully and said yes but that was a lie. There was nothing to learn, she was right. Those bullies had no idea what it was like out there. They had no right to pass judgement, no right to make fun of Ma and Pa or the rest of the caravan. They’d done their best.

That familiar, yet altogether unpleasant ball of heat starts to build inside her and spread up, through her chest, to her face and behind her eyes. She takes a deep breath and pushes her anger back down. She decides she wants nothing to do with this Festival of the Lost nonsense and opts on engaging in a totally different project. She sifts through her materials and picks out a piece of light yellow paper; not too garish, not too offensive, then picks out a dark blue crayon from a pot on the table. She wanted black but this is closest to that colour she has available to her. She leans over the table, nose nearly to the paper and begins to write, her little brows furrowing in concentration. After a while, she sits up to stretch and think about how to continue. It’s then that she notices Miss Eva standing over her, smiling and inquisitive.

“Do you not want to make decorations, dear?”

Amanda shrugs and covers the paper with her arms.

“Are you drawing a picture?”

She shakes her head. “Writing a letter.”

“Oh,” Eva says, with that exaggerated interest that grown ups always do when they don’t understand something a child is doing. “Who are you writing to, dear?”

She feels her cheeks warm with a blush as she suddenly feels very silly. “Commander Zavala.”

“You know the Commander?” Eva’s interest seems far more genuine now as she pulls up a chair beside her.

“Not really,” Amanda explains in an embarrassed mumble. “I made him mad.”

“Oh, what could you possibly have done to make the Commander angry? I can’t imagine that.”

She lists the all the things she could have possibly done to irritate Zavala and counts them off on her fingers. “Uhhm, I tried to steal from Executor Hideo, I keep running away from the orphanage and I snuck into the hangar and hid under a table.”

“Ah,” Eva tips her head to the side in agreement. “Yes, well. That would probably do it. He didn’t frighten you, did he?”

“A li’l bit, he’s pretty scary. But it’s okay, the monsters are scared of him too.”

Eva threads her fingers together and leans towards Amanda, her expression of quiet amusement switching to one of concern. “What monsters?”

“The ones outside,” she states matter of factly. “Y’know. The bad stuff beyond the walls.”

Eva nods seriously. “I do, dear. I do know.”

Amanda looks up from her writing with saucer-wide eyes. When she speaks it’s a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Have you seen ‘em too?”

“I was a refugee.” She hazards laying a hand over one of Amanda’s and looks gratified when the child doesn’t flinch. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

“The others ain’t seen ‘em. They don’t get it.”

“Is that why you run away?”

Amanda pulls back and makes a big production of neatly folding the finished letter in half. “This place gives me a stomach ache,” she finally answers with a shrug.

“Well. Maybe we can do something about your stomach ache,” Eva begins in an indulgent tone. “But you mustn’t run away. It’s not safe, that’s why Zavala gets mad. It’s his job to keep people safe.”

“I know,” Amanda smooths down the paper one last time before scrawling Zavala’s name across it. “That’s why I’m writing him.”

-/

Eva pops her head around Zavala’s office door after knocking. “Are you busy?”

Zavala raises an eyebrow in response. His expression is stony but the amusement is there for those who know where to look. Eva covers her mouth with her hand to stifle the embarrassed giggle that emerges.

“I’m sorry my friend, silly question.”

His expression softens and he beckons her in, “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing for now, all is well in the Bazaar,” she fishes a piece of folded, bright yellow construction paper out of her bag before she takes a seat. “I’m here as a messenger today.”

Zavala accepts the ‘letter’ with a confused frown. “What is - Ah. I see.” He smiles softly to himself as he reads, despite the childish scrawl and the myriad spelling and grammatical errors.

Dear comandur Zavala,

Sorry for trying to steal from exek execkyu Hidayoh. Stealing aint right I know that.

Im sorry I keep running away from the orfanage. I dont mean to worry no one, I just get I just dont like being cooped up. Sorry for creeping into the hangar. I didnt mean no harm. I wanted to see the ships. I like ships. When I grow up I wanna be an enj engani someone who fixes stuff. I hope I didnt get no one into troubble, can you tell the hangar folks that Im real sorry if I did?

Thank you for walking me back,

Amanda Nora Holliday.

Zavala finishes reading and fixes Eva with an incredulous look.

“I haven’t read it,” Eva holds up her hands and shakes her head. “I don’t know what it says, it wasn’t addressed to me.”

“How did you get it?”

“Sometimes I like to pop over the orphanage, for the children. Give them something to do, break up the monotony. Their little lives can be so regimented. Amanda asked me to give this to you. I couldn’t say no, she seemed so earnest and,” she summons her most matronly smile for Zavala, “Very concerned that she had made you mad.”

“Am I really that intimidating?”

“You can come off as rather brusque, I won’t lie.”

“I had no intention of frightening her, I just-”

“You worry,” Eva points out in a gentle interruption. “I know.”

Zavala takes a moment to glance over the letter before speaking again. “How did she seem to you?”

Eva’s smile fades. “A little isolated perhaps? I don’t think the other children understand her. Refugees are a rare thing nowadays. And she said the orphanage gives her a stomach ache.”

Zavala frowns, while Eva gives a sad smile at his puzzlement.

“‘I have a stomach ache’ is little girl-speak for ‘I’m afraid,’” she explains. “And she was less than enthused about the upcoming festival.”

“I don’t think it has been that long since she lost her parents. It’s likely still very raw for her.” He stares off into space, tapping the letter on the edge of his desk, lost in thought.

“I can keep an eye on her if you’d like?” Eva offers, breaking through his distraction.

“I didn’t ask-”

“I know you didn’t,” Eva chuckles, “You’re obviously worried about her but you’re a busy man. I often call into the orphanage, it would be no trouble for me.”

“You’re very kind, Eva, thank you.”

“Like I said, it’s no trouble,” she assures him, rising from her seat. “Have you considered my suggestion? About bringing the Festival of the Lost to the Tower?”

“You think it advisable to expose Cayde to dress-up games and sugar highs?”

“A small price. It would be good for you. You Guardians were lost once, too.” Eva opens the office door and cocks her head. “Think on it. For old Eva.”

“I will,” he nods indulgently.

Eva makes to leave before turning around to face him again. “Have you been crocheting lately?”

Zavala meets her gaze. There’s warmth and compassion there but Zavala knows it’s so keen and perceptive she could almost be an Awoken. “When I have time.”

“You look stressed.” She wags her finger at him as though he were a truculent child rather than a centuries-old immortal. “Make time!” She insists before showing herself out

[mitch--douglas]

DRAWING PINS || character analysis & headcanons

➕  Compassionate, affable, inquisitive, optimistic, patient, perceptive

➕ ➖  Overprotective, accommodating, subdued, nostalgic, altruistic

➖  Insecure, reticent, indecisive, mistrustful, evasive

Temperament: Phlegmatic: “Phlegmatics are naturally service-oriented. They are passive in both favorable and unfavorable environments. Phlegmatics are introverted, calm, unemotional, easygoing, indecisive, patient, and agreeable. They are slow to warm-up, but will be accommodating in the process. They are by far the easiest people with whom to get along—as long as you do not try to alter their routine or ask them to change. [...] They make good team players. They communicate a warm, sincere interest in others, preferring to have just a few close friends. Phlegmatics will be very loyal to their friends. They find it difficult to break long-standing relationships regardless of what the other person does or doesn’t do. However, once a relationship is broken, they seldom return.”

Zodiac: July 19, Cancer-Leo cusp: “Being born on the Cusp of Oscillation makes you a lover and a leader, helping you come across as both influential and commanding. Your natural empathy and genuine interest for others allows you to connect with people easily. [...] You are influenced by two drastically different signs, and it will take effort on your part to make these energies work together instead of against each other. Combining your care for others with your confidence in yourself will make you a successful leader who is deeply respected by your team, both at work and at home. You'll feel most fulfilled if you're devoting your time to helping others and making a positive difference.”

Chinese zodiac: 2119, Earth Rabbit: “The Earth Rabbit is a quiet person but is very wise and will do well with their life skills. They always set realistic aims that are not too far out of reach, and they are extremely hard workers. They can be quite persuasive and will experience little difficulty in getting other people to tie in with their plans. Their friends and colleagues always value their advice and think very highly of them. The Rabbit has many desirable qualities and is very careful in life. They are intellectual, polite and peaceful people. They dislike any sort of unpleasantness and will always try to steer clear of arguments and disputes. They will always be able to calm a bad situation down and maintain peace.”

Alignment: Neutral Good: “Neutral good value both personal freedom and adherence to laws. They feel that too many laws may unnecessarily restrict the freedom of good beings. They also believe that too much freedom may not protect society as a whole and encourage counterproductive divisions and in-fighting. They promote governments which hold broad powers, but do not interfere in the day-to-day lives of their citizens. These characters value life and freedom above all else, and despise those who would deprive others of them. Neutral good characters sometimes find themselves forced to work beyond the law, yet for the law, and the greater good of the people. They are not vicious or vindictive, but are people driven to right injustice. Neutral good characters always attempt to work within the law whenever possible, however. They will help those in need and work well alone or in a group. They respond well to higher authority until that authority attempts to use the law to hamper their ability to do good. They will follow the law unless more good can come from breaking the law.”

Myers-Briggs: ISFJ, the Defender: “The ISFJ personality type is quite unique, as many of their qualities defy the definition of their individual traits. Though possessing the Feeling (F) trait, ISFJs have excellent analytical abilities; though Introverted (I), they have well-developed people skills and robust social relationships; and though they are a Judging (J) type, ISFJs are often receptive to change and new ideas. As with so many things, people with the ISFJ personality type are more than the sum of their parts, and it is the way they use these strengths that defines who they are. ISFJs are true altruists, meeting kindness with kindness-in-excess and engaging the work and people they believe in with enthusiasm and generosity.”

Miscellaneous Headcanons

(Ongoing - feel free to hit me up if any of these spark your interest for thread purposes!)

Mitch doesn’t mind chore rotation, and actually enjoys the routine of it. He likes meal prep especially, having been something of a cooking enthusiast before D-Day, and sometimes the food is noticeably better or more interesting when he’s on that rotation.

He also has a preference for crusading, though not necessarily because he enjoys it (other than it being a chance to escape the monotony of the Colony for a time); Mitch does it because he endeavors to be a gentle, welcoming presence to survivors and earn their trust rather than trying to manhandle anyone into joining the colony.

Not one to buy a lot of things for himself, Mitch frequently has a surplus of credit allowance that he’ll donate to his students or housemates who need it, or use them to buy nicer supplies for his class. He doesn’t advertise this but word of mouth means plenty of people know he’s willing to help if someone is hard up.

A victim of bullying in grade school, Mitch has a zero-tolerance policy for such behavior amongst his students.

Mitch speaks very little about Adelle other than that he was married before D-Day and now he isn’t, leading to rumors that he lost his wife in the first Falling. He doesn’t intentionally further the assumptions but he also doesn’t bother to correct them. Asked point-blank, he’ll be evasive.

Knowing that alcoholism runs in his family, Mitch tends to avoid the stuff save for drinking in the occasional celebratory or social situation.

Mitch journals extensively and most of it the old-fashioned way, keeping no fewer than three going at a time.

He has an infamously ugly green couch in his office that is somehow the most comfortable thing in existence. Mitch went through a lot of trouble to get it, mostly so Annie Perrault could have a safe space to sleep near him.

[xlittlelionhamiltonx]

The Heart’s Affliction

Happy Birthday, @prodigyofprinxetoncollege / @whatisitlikeinyourfunnylilbrains !!!!

They corral them all up in this classroom silence, low murmurs and the occasional hushed chiding breaking up the sentence of monotony that their individual afflictions have apparently earned them. They wallow in their labels as though they are comfort blankets that swaddle them gently and keep them safe. No one here is any different from the other. They’ve all been fucked over, fucked up, or just plain fucked by someone they once loved, and while the guilty parties are, for the most part, likely running free, these poor bastards pay for the cost of someone else’s sins every single day.

Yes, they are pathetic. Rejects of a society they could never fit into. Nothing like Alexander. Nothing like Aaron. No... they are another story, altogether. They could change the world, if only the world would allow it. But the world is afraid. Society is afraid. They claim to save their lives by taking them away. Alexander has too much to accomplish to be trapped in this prison.

He’s counting seconds, now. They took away the clock. They took away the loud “tick-tock” of the old, practical decoration. What they don’t know, however, is that Alex has his own, internal clock. It ticks away constantly, eating down the minutes and hours and days until he is a free man again. He misses not a count. Death or liberation are all that he lives for. That... and Aaron Burr.

Who is outside. He is separated from Alex, as he has been so often in the past following a stint of “bad behavior.” Only, this time, Aaron is not alone. He is with the man whom Alex blames for his imprisonment, and, if Alex knows Aaron at all, the other man is apologizing to the one who put him here. It makes him ill, but there is little he can do.

Aaron is probably asking for forgiveness for a crime he never committed. He is probably blaming himself and begging this other man to take him back. And, God, Alex hopes the man refuses. God, he hopes Aaron comes back to him.

“Alexander? Please stop breaking the crayons. You aren’t the only one who wants to use them.” Alex pauses, his hands slowing to a stop as he hesitantly considers the broken bits of wax between his fingers. They don’t allow him any pencils or pens. They don’t trust him not to jam them directly into his ugly blue veins.

“Fuck off.” He glances up toward where the clock once was, annoyed when he is reminded of its corroded absence.

“How long until visiting hours are over?”

“Five minutes.” The woman sighs, clearly exasperated both by Alexander’s innate hostility, as well as his remarkable and alarming preoccupation with time. In fact, he had been one of the deciding factors in the choice to do away with the generic and tarnished timepiece that once hung, encaged, upon the tiled wall.

“Think you can manage to refrain from acts of delinquency until then?”

Alex snaps another crayon in two - no one uses Mango Tango all that much, anyway - expression chillingly neutral as he stares back up at the nurse.

“Have it your way. Don’t think I won’t be mentioning this to the doctor.” She shakes her head, dark curls swaying to and fro from the action, before stepping away to look after one of the other numerous crazies locked up in their glorified cage.

“Aaron’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

“Did I fucking ask you, Jim?” He doesn’t bother looking up from where his gaze has fallen, dark eyes focused on the pale light of the late afternoon, clawing hideously at the dull silver grates that mar the view of the outside world.

“Hm... that’s right. Pedophiles like you probably don’t like being reminded that their victim isn’t really a kid.”

“I’m not fucking with you today, Jimmy. Take a seat.” No. What would Aaron say? Be patient, Alexander. Let it go.

“Of course you aren’t. I’m a legal adult.” Goddammit. Alex finally looks over at that man with his shit-eating grin, and he immediately regrets it.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” He and Jim got along most days. What was it the guy had? Dissociative identity disorder? Hell, maybe this wasn’t even the real Jim he was talking to. Did that mean that the rules didn’t apply? That this wasn’t someone Aaron considered a friend?

“I mean...” And now Jim - or whichever personality this is - is close. Too close. Leaning down and speaking into Alex’s ear like he’s done it a million times before. If that alone weren’t enough to set Alex off, what he says certainly is.

“...how hard did your daddy have to fuck you to leave you this fucking broken?”

None of Aaron’s warnings work this time. The phantom words fade and die, crashing forgotten to the ground alongside the discarded bits of colored wax that fall when Alex rises, chair toppling over as his too-pale outstretched fingers find Jim’s throat. He pushes him hard into the nearest wall, previously dull eyes now bright with a storm of emotion, heart pounding in his ears when he pushes words through gritted teeth.

“I told you to shut your fucking mouth.” Fingers squeeze harder, he gains a slight thrill of satisfaction from the panicked look in Jim’s eyes.

“Fucking asshole.” Just as he hears the faint sound of the doors buzzing in the distance - the visitors are being directed out of the building - he feels strong hands gripping his arms... another set upon his torso...

The orderlies are pulling him off of Jim, and though he resists, a sharp kick to one of his pressure-points earns the other man his freedom. Alex turns, instead, to fight the men that now hold him. His sharp tongue is dulled by undiluted rage, utterances of annoyance and protest amounting to little more than angry grunts.

It doesn’t take long until he feels the familiar bite of a needle, some drug administered by some nimble nurse, and he is falling limp, his last thoughts, naturally, of Aaron, before he falls into his chemically-induced stupor.

Three days. They don’t allow him clocks or windows or even wake-up-calls, but Alexander is certain it has been three days since he has been locked away. Three days since he has last touched Aaron’s pleasantly warm body, or heard his delicate and alluring voice.

They drag him out of the dim room. They speak to him. They instruct him. What they say, he isn’t quite sure. Partially because he doesn’t give a shit, but mostly due to the way the drugs they’ve pumped into him have slowed his mind. It feels like a harsh high, like being helplessly, terrifyingly inebriated, and even as Alex wants to fight the hands supporting him, even as he longs for the strength to run, he is focused upon Aaron. He is terrified that Aaron has left him.

He is praying that he did.

Somehow, he makes it to his bed. Did they leave him here? He isn’t sure. But the door is opening, and then there is the silence of hesitation, the soft sounds of the doorknob twisting, the only noise permeating the still air. One of Aaron’s nervous little ticks.

“Hey...” Alex hates how tired he sounds, loathes how difficult it is just to push himself upright, to blink his heavy lids until he manages to focus on the timid man in the doorframe.

“Hey... it’s okay. C’mere.” He takes a deep breath, as though the stuffy hospital air can cleanse him of the unnatural substances that they pumped into his veins. He is about to say Aaron’s name, lips soft as he gathers the breath needed to speak, when the younger practically rushes him, closing the distance quickly, but keeping a minimal space between them, hesitant as always.

“How’d it go?” Alex whispers the question, head low as he struggles against the fatigue they’ve forced upon him in a quest for compliance.

“What?” Aaron sounds confused, and, more alarmingly, frightened, and Alex attempts a smile, shaking his head and reaching out to tug lightly at the hem of Aaron’s hospital-issued top.

“John.” His voice is even fainter, fingers shaking as they twist carefully into the pale fabric.

“Oh... oh.” Aaron makes a sound that might be akin to laughter, but he is always so quiet and careful, and Alex can never be entirely certain.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” There might be a trace of bitterness in Alex’s tone, but he’s looking up at Aaron with pleading eyes, fingers holding tight onto the shirt as though it is his lifeline. And, in all honesty, it just might be.

“He doesn’t want you to run away with him? Adopt babies with him? Did you tell him you were sorry? You don’t need to be sorry, Aaron. He should be sorry.”

“Alexander...” Aaron’s voice is so soft... so gentle. Alex immediately regrets his words, but he only grips onto Aaron’s shirt harder, willing him to stay.

“He thinks... he hopes that we can work things out. Once I’m recovered, of course.”

Fuck. Right. Of course he does. Aaron is a fucking God among men, and anyone would be insane to let him go. Crazier than anyone in this fucked up circus.

“Recovered...” Alex repeats that word. He hates that word. He hates that Aaron believes he’s sick. That he’s diseased... or worse - that he is a disease. That is what society tells him, and that is what he believes. And Alexander will stop at nothing to prove otherwise.

“You aren’t sick, Aaron.” He tugs a little on the fabric. Not enough to pull Aaron forward, but enough to keep him near.

“This world is sick. You, Aaron, are the fucking remedy. You are what everyone should be. Good. Pure. True.” He twists his fingers a little more with every word, but really, he’s just focused on sitting upright - focused on breathing until it doesn't feel like a chore.

“Alex...” Aaron makes that sound again, something like laughter, before bowing his head, shoulders slightly slumped when he shakes his head gently.

“Hey...” Alex is whispering again, bowing his own head and searching for Aaron’s gorgeous eyes, needing that connection more than he needs air.

“I think he’s right.” He swallows down hard, nodding when Aaron looks up at him, confused and curious.

“Maybe you should work things out. I mean... I think you’ll get out of here soon... but me...” No... Alex was going to be there for much longer. He couldn’t seem to curb his thirst for violence, however hard he tried, and that was going to keep him the hospital’s little pet project for far longer than he cared to admit.

“I thought you’d be gone...” The words slip out before he can stop them, and Alex finally loosens his grip. He hates himself for needing another person this badly, but, goddammit, he needs Aaron. He needs him more than the meds or the doctors or the fucking therapy. Aaron is the only reason he gives a single fuck about living right now, and he doesn’t know what will happen if he loses him to someone else.

“But I’m not.” Alex’s empty hand has hardly reached his lap before Aaron’s fingers are reaching for it, threading through his own loosely, with a tenderness that matches that lovely voice of his.

“I’m here.” Alex looks up, meets Aaron’s eyes, and immediately feels more confident - more complete.

“And I’m sleepy.” This time, the laugh is evident, Aaron’s eyes bright and smile shy as he pushes a little closer into Alex’s space.

“I haven’t slept much... felt too empty in here...” He’s looking down bashfully, and Alex wants to pull him close and kiss him. Instead, he squeezes the hand he now holds, and he pushes himself back onto his own bed, giving Aaron a gentle tug forward.

“Every space is full when you’re in it, Aaron. C’mere.” He tugs again and Aaron comes willingly, finding his place at Alex’s side with far less care than usual, clearly longing for the connection they’d been deprived of for so long.

“No more fighting, okay?” Aaron’s voice is already muffled as he buries his face into Alex’s chest, but the words are clear, and they hurt, but only as much as it hurts for Alex to deliver the lie that follows.

“No more fighting.” He pushes a careful kiss to the top of Aaron’s head and he pulls him closer, and he knows, as sure as he knows that he will fight again tomorrow, that this, whatever it is between them, will end in disaster. And, most importantly, he knows that he really doesn’t fucking care. He would trade a lifetime of sanity for a moment of this crazy, fucked up, unshakeable love. Every time. Without a second thought.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Heya amazing enablers, I've been looking for some more procrastination material. Some Sheriff finds out fics, can be about sterek or werewolves or both. You decide! Thank you in advance 😁😁😁

Here’s the Sheriff Finding Out all kinds of things. - Anastasia

The Longing Of Rebirth by MelodramaticSalad

(1/1 I 4,366 I Teen I Sterek)

The role that Derek played was guardian to the underworld, a place that chilled one to the bone at the simple thought of it. For the most part, he lived there alone with the souls of those that had passed to keep him company. The work was always busy and always thankless, colder than the ground one was buried in.

He longed for the warmth of the sun, for springtime when the flowers bloomed. Was his role a mistake? He'd always wondered if he was cursed and if this was how things would always be.

Stiles grew bored of the spring, of the flowers, of the pollen that would cover everything in a yellow dust. He'd tired of the monotony of the same old pattern; pollinate, bloom, harvest. Over and over again it had turned and turned. What truly fascinated him was when the flowers would wither and petals would fall from their stems.

He had a morbid fascination with death, with the destruction of everything so perfect. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to the gateway in the first place.

Promise You'll Look After Him by DiscontentedWinter

(1/1 I 9,901 I Mature I Sterek I Rape)

Sheriff Stilinski is used to dealing with victims of violent crime. He knows how to approach kids who've been beaten and sexually assaulted.

Except this time it's his son.

It's Stiles.

Thunderstorms & Polish Lullabies by Whispering_Sumire

(1/1 I 10,057 I Teen I Sterek)

Boyd is there, hovering over his claws, Isaac looks devastated, Jennifer looks bewildered and concerned and horrified, Kali looks smug, the twins are carefully keeping their faces blank but they're playing along, and- Gods, he's really going to be forced to do this, isn't he? Pack, his Pack, the make-shift family he'd all but accidentally gathered is going to die by his hand, and even if it's forced, it'll still be his fault, for wanting them, for needing them, for biting them.

Loving them.

He wants to close his eyes but he owes Boyd more than that.

And then, abruptly, in this saturated technicolor still-picture moment of chaos and violence- the eye of the storm- the door to the loft crashes open. With the water and the metal and the force of it, the sound is almost guttural, and far too loud- even Kali seems startled.

[Or, the one where Stiles time-travels just in time to save Boyd and Derek from the Alphas, and manages to heal everyone, including himself, just a little in the process.]

The Road Less Traveled by gryvon

(10/10 I 25,101 I Explicit I Sterek)

Stiles doesn't want to die in a basement. No one is going to die in the Argent's basement, not if he can help it.

Little red riding hood the nephilim by Zarhara

(11/11 I 37,500 I Explicit I Sterek)

“Stiles tell me you understand” His mum pleaded. “You are not allowed to talk about your biological fathers with anyone except me. Not even John” She waited for him to nod his head before continuing “And you can't use your powers, okay. No matter how much you want to. The demons will find you, if you do. You can only use your powers in emergencies, when there are no other way out. Do you understand ?” Stiles nodded, willing to give his mother anything, if she would just be happy again. “Good. Now enough about stupid rules. John is at the police station, and Gabriel is coming to pick us up, so we can spend the entire day with your fathers. Sound fun?” She asked, smiling. Stiles nodded his head again, his own smile breaking out on his face.

Or : Stiles is the nephilim son of Archangel Gabriel and Hunter Sam Winchester. Stiles is hunted by both demons and angels, but he will do everything in his power to keep his new pack safe. Still, keeping the secret is getting harder, and harder.Stiles just need a bit more time, but Derek has apparently never heard of personal space, that makes the secret harder to keep. And worse is that Stiles seem to react really funny to getting his personal space invaded.

Amor Fati by alocalband

(2/2 I 42,812 I Explicit I Sterek)

When Stiles gets thrown into the bank vault about twenty minutes after him, Derek isn’t even surprised.

As it turns out, neither is Stiles.

I'm Still Up and Driving by KouriArashi

(12/12 I 58,155 I Mature I Lydia/Jackson)

Jackson decides to teach Stiles a lesson for the interest he shows in Lydia. Stiles doesn't say anything until four months later.

Go Away, Scott by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere

45/45 I (66,232 I Not Rated I Sterek)

After the incident at the warehouse, Stiles is fed up with Scott. He finds himself drawn into Derek’s pack and in the process, drawn to Derek himself.

With the Alpha Pack closing in, Derek needs to learn how to trust his pack and those around him. And who better to help him than Stiles?

Hallowed Grounds by damnfancyscotch

(16/16 I 109,578 I Mature I Sterek)

Everything in Beacon Hills is the same when Stiles comes home from college.

Well, except for the fact that he's a published author now, Scott is halfway across the world with a travelling circus, Erica's epilepsy has been cured, her boss offers him a job too, and there's this weird black dog that seems to be following him around just to judge him.

Oh, and the murders, of course.

But other than that stuff... totally the same old BH.

Running Up That Hill by maypoison

(31/32 I 136,965 I Explicit I Sterek)

“Even before the pack joined together, Scott was trying to protect you. And he still is trying to protect you, even if it means leaving you out of all this.”

Stiles does roll his eyes at that. “Yeah, but it didn’t work did it. I was still involved, and so was my Dad. We were nearly killed by Matt, and then Gerard.”

“My point is, people change. Relationships aren’t always perfect. Scott's tried to kill me before."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So, you’re saying that someone trying to kill you is just a small flaw in a relationship?"

“We’re werewolves.” Derek answers with a shrug, as if that was a perfectly good explanation.

When It Comes To Being Lucky by sterekcrush

(45/? I 154,429 I General I Sterek)

Derek Hale doesn't do love. He's tried twice; the first time it made him a killer, and the second time cost him his whole world.

So he doesn't do love, and he definitely doesn't love Stiles. He doesn't care about Stiles' new powers or the fact that Stiles has been talking to Derek's dead mother, or even the fact that for some reason supernatural creatures from all over the country are sending Stiles offers of courtship.

But when Stiles claims he's not part of Derek's pack and takes off for parts unknown...well, maybe Derek cares a little after all.

Do Not Go Gentle by MojoFlower

(51/51 I 195,867 I Explicit I Sterek)

Derek Hale, Beacon Hills Alpha and Dom, wakes up in a dark cell already housing another captive – a mute, traumatized sub with a cruel collar around his neck. His only goal is to get them both free of their brutal circumstances; but even as he tries to get his young companion home, a bond between them grows. Nothing comes easily: danger and harrowing echoes of their ordeal shadow every step they take.

[theshatteredrose]

More Than A Memory - Etrian Odyssey 4 Fanfiction

Summary: Logre finally visits his Emperor’s gravesite and allows himself to finally begin the healing process. But after a confrontation he would have liked to have avoided, a familiar face returns. Could it really be true…?

Pairings: :’D

AN: Yes, I’m giving Logre the Gerald treatment :’D It started off as just a cute little idea that might be an AU but it clung onto my heart and won’t let go and it’s whispering to me that Logre deserves some damn happiness. And you know what? HE FUCKING DOES SO HELP ME HE WILL AHHH PREPARE YOURSELF LOGRE! Also ending might be a tad mean :3c Enjoy nevertheless~

Ao3 | Wattpad | FFNet

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The sky was a perfect blue as Logre stood before a weathered headstone covered in moss. A bouquet of white lilies rested in his hands. He trailed his fingers over the fragile tissue paper before he knelt down and placed the bouquet carefully in front of the headstone. He leaned forward to gentle touch the moss covered stone. Where a few letters had recently been engraved. Where they finally knew of the mysterious man’s name and were finally able to put his name to rest.

Afrodr.

Logre murmured a sigh as he sat back on his heels. He gazed at the weathered headstone while his mind wandered.

He hadn’t been able to properly mourn the loss of his emperor, even though he had ten long years to do so. When he took on the name of Whirlwind he had to also cast aside his connection to the empire and to anyone who was connected. Including Varuna and Nitish.

Though relieved that they had also survived the crash and though he had wanted to watch over them as they were so young, he knew he couldn’t. They were just too young. Varuna didn’t remember anything. Nitish wouldn’t utter a word for years. So he took on the task of returning to the empire alone. They didn’t need to get involved again. Emperor Afrodr never wanted such young innocents to get involved in the first place.

It was hard to pretend he didn’t know the twins. Especially when Nitish would look at him like he recognised him from somewhere. And yet could not quite pinpoint where.

Seeing the fragile twins under the care of Isiah and his father eased his guilt. They were in safe hands with them. Far safer than they would have been with him.

He could not have predicted how, despite his best efforts, the twins along with Isiah and so many others would become entrenched in the Empire and their plans to resurrect the Yggdrasil Titan.

Logre shook his head to rid himself of those memories. And he swallowed back the rising feelings of guilt for the series of betrayals he had inflicted upon the innocent members of Guild Phaedron.

A light breeze that ruffled his hair caused Logre to turn his gaze from his Emperor’s head stone and instead gaze up at the sky once more. The cloudless blue sky of the Windy Plains was reassuring in a way. And yet there was also a tinge of fear and sadness.

For it was in these very same skies where the Fire Dragon attacked the Emperor’s airship, causing it to crash in the first place. And it was the grass that he knelt upon where Afrodr took his last breaths, his precious son in his thoughts until the very end.

Logre turned his gaze from the sky and glanced over his shoulder where the entrance to the Old Forest Mine was found. Where the airship Duscha sat. With the Phaedron Guild. Waiting. For him. Granting him the space and time necessary to allow himself to finally find some form of peace in front of his Emperor’s grave.

Afrodr’s grave resided within walking distance of the Old Forest Mine. They had buried him close to the place where he took his last breathes. Isiah and his father were the ones to have taken care of him during his last moments, making promises, offering reassuring words to a man they did not know. They didn’t even know his name. But they stayed with him and eased him through his passing.

Ironic that Emperor Afrodr found far more compassion and kindness from a pair of strangers in those last few hours of his life than he had in the entirety of his reign over the empire.

Logre couldn’t help but allow another wave of guilt to wash over him. For ten years he had secretly mourned his Emperor’s and comrades’ death, yet he had not known where he had been buried all this time. He felt guilty about not visiting sooner. The least he could have done for the man who took him under his wing was to attend to his grave. Mourn for the future that was taken from him while celebrating the life he had lived.

The golden locket that hung around his neck and rested against his chest suddenly felt heavy.

It was a gift from Emperor Afrodr. He gave to him not long before they departed on their journey. He told him to fill it with memories. Good memories. Ones that gave him the strength to push forward, even when he felt like the world was against him. Even when he felt like giving up.

Logre honestly didn’t know what to think about the gift back then. Of course he couldn’t turn it down. So he took it with the promise of filling it with a precious memory, even though he wasn’t sure what Emperor meant by precious memory.

He clasped the locket in his hand for a moment before he lifted it up over his head and flicked it open. With a soft little click it popped open to reveal two small photographs. One was of four children. Huddled together as they looked up at the camera with expressions of intrigue or confusion on their faces.

Four children. Varuna, Nitish, Achyuta, and even Xander. Ironic, or perhaps it was just destiny that Achyuta and Nitish had met once in their childhood and had somehow found their way back to each other. He often thought of telling them this little fact but decided against it. It doesn’t need to be known. The two were so in love already.

The photo was taken on a whim. Varuna and Nitish were two children elected to join the fleet while Achyuta and Xander had been students of his for a short time.

To think…they were back together in Tharsis. Varuna with Bryce. And Xander with Ciaran, the same young man Logre had worked with to develop the airships. A part of him wondered that maybe the fates were trying to make up for the pain and suffering they had all endured. Or maybe it was Emperor Afrodr himself throwing his weight around on the other side.

The other photo, however, held faces Logre was more than certain he would only ever see again in his dreams.

It was a photo of his comrades that were also elected for the Emperor’s fleet. Pardoned off onto three ships. Claudia to fly one ship with two young and innocent occupants of her own. While the other, that of a supply shit, was in the hands of a young man called Jeroden.

Watching as the airship that Claudia pilot go down in the extreme weather of the Sacred Mountains was devastating. Emperor Afrodr himself had to reign in his pain at the sight. A strong airship taken down so easily. With such innocent lives on board. So close to home and yet so far.

But watching as Jeroden’s ship disappeared into the misty mountain ranges of the Scarlet Pillars was what broke his heart.

Jeroden was his closest comrade. And friend.

During those times it was difficult to maintain relationships with others. Their lands grew more toxic as years rolled by. They grew more determined to fight back in some way. His life during his first twenty-three years was that of survival and training to wield a driveblade.

It wasn’t a time to make friends. Comrades, yes. But not friends or companions. Their lives were to serve the empire and Emperor Afrodr. But he had managed to maintain a friendship with Jeroden. He was just a couple of years younger than him, but somehow infuriatingly taller.

A soft, sad smile slipped across Logre’s lips at the memory of Jeroden teasing the hell out of him for being shorter. As soon as their commanding officer left them alone after their training, Jeroden would turn to him and a cheeky half-smile would appear on his lips. Am arm would immediately loop around his neck and he’d tug him as close to him as their armours allowed. A joke about how he hadn’t seen him there despite the fact that Logre had been standing there beside him the entire time passing his lips. A roll of the eyes followed by a shove. Harmless teasing.

He helped to break the monotony of training. He wasn’t much of a joker (understatement actually, he was terrible at jokes), but he could be brilliantly sarcastic at the worst of times, making Logre smirk or “snerk”. That half chuckle, half cough thing that Jeronden called a snerk because that was literally the sound he supposedly made. He remembered how their superior would glare at the two of them whenever they were “out of line” and Jeroden made things worse by muttering something sarcastic and witty under his breath, which caused Logre to bite the inside of his mouth in order to prevent another “snerk”.

Another sad smile appeared on Logre’s lips as he stared down at the black and white photos in the golden locket. He actually missed those times. Their training was harsh. Their lands decaying. Their existence bleak. But Jeroden always managed to bring a smile to his lips somehow.

God, he missed him so much. He wished there was somewhere he could go to honour his name and memory, too.

He used to call him Logy. Which infuriated him at the time. But it would be nice to hear it again. After learning of Telem and Durriken’s survival, Logre felt a sense of hope rise in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, Jeroden was out there somewhere. Alive.

But…he couldn’t be that lucky, huh?

He should be grateful with the life he had now. Guild Phaedron. The Highland Count. Ciaran. And Kirjonen…what more could he ask for?

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Logre from his thoughts and he instinctively snapped shut his locket. He grasped it tightly in his hand as he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t at all surprised to find Isiah there, his hands in his pockets, and his visible eye holding a hint of concern.

“You all right?” he asked simply.

Logre gave him a lopsided smile as he pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said as he lifted the chain of his locket and carefully slid it over his head.

“Ready to head back home? It’s getting late,” Isiah said as he tilted his head toward the Duscha.

Home?

A genuine smile appeared on Logre’s lips as he briefly glanced in the direction of where Tharsis could be seen. With its sandstone buildings and windmills. Where airships of both local and imperial departed and docked.

Yeah. That was home. His real home. Where he lived with his prince, with his guild. Where he’ll one day allow himself to actually be happy…Maybe.

“Sure, let’s go. I’m getting hungry anyway,” Logre said casually as he and Isiah walked together back to their awaiting guildmates.

… … … … …

It was well and truly dark as Logre stepped from the Researcher’s Clinic. The voices of his guildmates were joyful and carefree as they relaxed in their after dinner rituals. Chatting, bonding, just spending time together musing and wondering what they should tomorrow.

Normally Logre would join them, their chatter actually allowing his mind to still and just enjoy the moment. But tonight he felt restless. Perhaps restless wasn’t exactly the right word. He felt surprisingly light tonight. Energetic. He supposed it was because he felt better after finally visiting his Emperor’s final resting place.

Whatever the reason, he decided to spend perhaps an hour or so just strolling around the city. Maybe chat with a few of his fellow imperial knights to see how they were settling in. Or maybe visit the Count just for old time’s sake.

He walked around aimless for a few minutes. No destination in mind. He encountered a few imperials here or there, receiving dutiful salutes in return. Logre just nodded his head in a friendly manner and continued on his way.

It had been a perfectly peaceful night and he pondered about returning to the clinic just to check up on His Highness. But as he moved to step down a narrow pathway that was a shortcut, he found himself stilling. There were already two figures in the centre of the path. Dressed suspiciously in dark clothing. Seemingly trying to conceal themselves while looking imposing.

And they were facing him directly. Their legs set firmly apart in the power stance. Their arms tense at their sides. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.

…They were obviously trouble.

Logre wasn’t exactly in the mood for trouble.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” a low, masculine voice stated. Dark and purposely menacing. Not at all friendly.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep waiting as my guild is waiting for me,” Logre returned as he too took on a firm, power stance.

He wasn’t meek by any means, but he would prefer not to get into a fight with a few assuming locals. Despite the events of the Cloudy Stronghold and Elder Gratiana’s return, of which eased some of the tensions between the citizens of Tharsis and the natives of the Empire, things were still tense in some regards. He could only assume that the two in front of him had some kind of beef with the imperials and thought they would confront him about it.

Better than Baldur or Achyuta. And probably better than Zesiro, who would no doubt be thrilled to show these two that he’s no shrinking violet when it came to brawling.

“That’s a shame,” the one that spoke early piped up again and took a purposeful step forward. “You see, we’ve got a few words we want to have with ya. A bone to pick even. And we’re not in the mood for a no.”

Typical. Just when he was in such a good mood.

…Fine. He was sure the Count would understand. He had the right to defend himself, after all.

An arm suddenly wound around him from behind him, seemingly attempting to pin his arms to his sides in a restricting manner. A moisten cloth was then placed over his mouth and nose by that same someone who had managed to get behind him.

Intuitively Logre held in his breath. He knew that anything forcibly placed over his mouth was not something that was healthy for him. No, it was obviously meant to incapacitate him.

God damn it, he didn’t hear a thing. How did they sneak up on his so easily? He had no idea what they were trying to do, why anyone would go after him personally, but that didn’t matter.

His instincts kicked in not shortly after. He immediately attempted to struggle and twist his head away from the hand. All the while he tugged relentlessly at his arms. He managed to free his left arm within a short struggle. The arm that his assailant behind him could not completely impede on his own. He grasped at his attacker’s arm with his left hand to forcibly pull and tug the moisten rag from his mouth while he jabbed his right elbow back, hoping to nail him in the ribs or stomach.

The other two adversaries immediately realised what he was attempting and lunged forward. Logre managed to lift his leg to kick one in the stomach, simultaneously pushing him away, kicking him towards the third man, and pushing off of him to ram the one restraining him against the brick wall behind them.

There was a telling crack followed by a guttural gasp of pain as Logre rammed his assailant into the wall at full force. From the sound of the crack, he had managed to smash the guy’s head against the wall. The arms around him immediately loosen and he immediately attempted to slip away.

But the other assailant somehow dodged his flung companion and lunged toward him. He managed to snare Logre’s right wrist in his hand while the other clamped the moisten rag firmly against his mouth and nose again. With one assailant struggling to his feet while the other slumped against the ground, the third man shoved Logre against the wall and pinned him there.

“I was warned you would fight back,” he hissed.

Warned? Shit. It wasn’t just an attack of opportunity. Someone planned it. But who could be behind this attack?

Despite his best effort, Logre needed to breath. And had unfortunately managed to get a good whiff of what was soaked into that rag. He immediately recognised the smell to be that of a sleep potion. Favourable in regards to poison, but still not something he wanted to endure right about now. It made him weak and dizzy.

And he knew that despite anything that happened in the next few minutes, he was going to succumb to the potion and fall asleep. Pass out. Or simply faint. Anything to do with unconsciousness. And he couldn’t fight back if he was unconscious.

Even so, he still had to attempt an escape. He just had to do it quickly.

There was the sudden sound of feet scraping against the gravel-ridden ground. Then, seemingly appearing out of the darkness, a fist enclosed in heavy duty armour that was the colour of dark green, smashed into the side of his assailant’s face. Logre could practically see chards of teeth mixed with blood and spittle fly out into the air from the force of the hit. The man’s head whipped around to an ungodly angle before he was flung off of his feet. And fell to the ground.

When he fell, he fell hard. He didn’t even bounce. He just hit the ground and stayed there.

Logre slumped against the wall behind him as he drew in deep breaths of fresh air, hoping to counter the effects of the sleeping gas used on him. He managed to stay on his feet, though he did rely heavily on the wall for support. Not good. The sleeping gas was going to take full effect soon.

As he panted, he peered at the figure in front of him. Though his vision was a little strained due to not only the sleep gas, but the darkness of the night, he could see that the one before him wore imperial armour. Armour that was a camouflage green. And they were tall. Very tall. Taller than him by at least a head.

They…they seemed oddly familiar somehow.

Logre couldn’t help but wince though when they turned to face him directly. Because of the helmet covering their face, preventing him from gauging what kind of look they had on their face or even in their eyes. And he tensed when they reached out to him.

As the arms enclosed around him, surprisingly tenderly and yet firmly, Logre found himself dismayed that he was slow in any attempt to fight back. He could barely even manage a struggle when the armour clad imperial began to forcibly move him, pulling him from the wall and against them.

Logre’s vision unexpectedly wavered and it took him a second to realise that he was being lifted up from the ground. Actually being lifted into a pair of arms and rested against steel plated armour. One arm was securely wound around his shoulders, the other under his knees. And somehow, despite the sharp edges of the imperial armour, his rescuer seemed to hold him close. In a familiar way.

Despite his current circumstance, Logre was surprised by the welling of embarrassment. He had literally been swept off of his feet and was being carried to safety. In an imperial knight’s arms. So easily at that. What an absolutely stupid time and reason to get flustered.

Good lord, that was not a good look on him!

“W-what? Who?” Logre tried to struggle, but was hampered by the sharp edges of the armour his…rescuer wore.

So instead he was forced to tilt his head back to look up at them. Fruitless, since they wore a helmet, but he had to look. They felt so familiar to him somehow. As he gazed up he could see faint threads of red hair behind the dark green helmet.

Red hair. Huh. Joreden had red hair. Bright red. He remembered. He used to make fun of his natural grey hair while flaunting his perfectly crimson locks, as he called them.

…It was just a coincidence. Stupid to think about. He had more important things to worry about.

“I’ve got you,” a husky voice emanated from inside the helmet. “…Logy.”

…What?

No…

It couldn’t be!

Logre’s eyes widened and his breath hitched in his throat. All he could do was stare up at the green helmet, desperately searching for something. Did he hear right? That voice…That nickname.

Nothing else seemed to register around him. Not even when one of his assailants returned with a sword. Not when his rescuer stopped and simply raised a leg to kick the man right in his stomach and sent him backwards a couple of feet. He barely even registered the voices of his guildmates calling his name in alarm.

Despite his vision blurring, despite his heart racing, despite his guildmates demanding to know who the hell this guy was and what the fuck was going on, Logre shakily reached out toward that green helmet.

“Take it off,” he ordered as his fingers skittishly tried to pull at the necessarily restraints keeping the helmet in place.

“Not now,” that familiar voice replied as he tilted his head back slightly to move just beyond Logre’s reach.

But Logre was having none of it. He wanted that damn helmet off. He needed to see. That voice and that nickname. No, it wasn’t just some cruel coincidence. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be!

“Take off your fucking helmet!” Logre yelled as he lunged forward, still resting in the man’s arms, and carelessly ripped the helmet from his head.

And he found himself staring into a pair familiar golden-coloured eyes.

Gold eyes. Red hair. Dark skin. A mole on the right side of his upper lip. Though there were a few added wrinkles and lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, his face was exactly the same.

Jeroden…

A half smirk that was tinged with teasing mirth and was oh-so familiar slipped across the man’s lips. “No need to be so rough, Logy,” he said as the helmet tumbled from Logre’s lax fingers.

Logre’s arms fell listlessly over the man’s shoulders as he continued to stare at him with unblinking eyes. Eyes that were slowly starting to blur. From the effects of the sleep gas.

And maybe even from tears.

…It really was him. Jeroden. He was alive.

That was the last thought that rolled through Logre’s mind before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped forward against Jeroden’s shoulder as he finally succumbed to the effects of the sleeping potion.

[gettinziggywithit]

Return to Normalcy: Ch. 1 - Help Me Out

So, this new fic is getting some positive reviews on AO3, so I thought I might post it here as well. It’s not by any means perfect and I consider it unfamiliar territory given the characters and synopsis, but I thought I’d try something new for once. Be gentle with it. 

Synopsis: You signed up for an ad in the local newspaper to be the designated human roommate to Horrortale!skeleton brothers, sans and Papyrus after getting out of an abusive relationship and needing some time away from other humans. The brothers were deemed fit to return to civilization following a long rehabilitation at the local mental facility and you are charged with integrating them back into social life and give them a chance to bond with humans after being under the mountain for so long. All three of you have your own personal obstacles to face, but can you face them all while living under one roof?

"Ooh, I need some temporary saving // Ooh, I need some, some uncomplicating // Help me out // 'Cause I don't wanna do this on my own // Help me out, out // Help me out, 'cause I need something up to calm me down // Help me out, out" ~ Maroon 5 - Help Me Out

Nobody said life was going to be easy.

There was always going to be some hurdle you had to jump, some sort of obstacle that you had to tackle head on to move past it. There would be good times to enjoy, but more often than not for you, those moments seemed to pass you by or downright ignore you. Currently, you found yourself curled up on a small rocking chair cross stitching a pattern for a throw pillow you had, but homely apartment on the edge of town in the middle of one of those rare good times. After trading an emotionally abusive family for a physically abusive boyfriend and then dumping him after the 3rd broken bone and sweet lies permeated under the stench of hard liquor of “I’ll never do this again” you were done with humans for a while.

Answering an ad in the local newspaper, you found yourself moving in with the most unlikely neighbors: two skeleton brothers. Apparently the myths and stories were true and a population of monsters did inhabit the inside of Mt. Ebott just to the west of the town. What was left of the monsters emerged from a freak anomaly in the universe. Or, at least that’s what the news outlets kept spewing forth. The group that did make it to the city were horrifying as it was soon found out that the monsters were trapped for so long without renewable resources that they began delving into insanity and devouring each other just to stay alive.

You could partially understand the monsters and their need to survive, even if it meant letting go of their morals. Of course, the local government wasn’t too excited to get a few hundred mental unstable, slightly cannibalistic, highly magical monsters in their town and the ones brave enough to help, put them into intensive therapy to rehabilitate them. Those who gained enough sanity back to not be a threat to the general public were allowed to leave the facility and begin a new life in a special part of town. Right, a special part of town. You snorted, the “special” part of town was literally just the older, more run down side of town. The buildings were slightly crumbling, there were barely any businesses still open and few humans made their own there. Not even the homeless would step foot in that part of town.

Each monster or pair of monsters that were living in the shoddy apartments were given a human roommate. Most thought they were to babysit the still mildly feral monsters, but what it gave them was social interaction. Not a lot of humans were up for that task as you ran the risk of relapses with the monsters. One or two volunteers had met a grisly end when a monster had a flashback and devoured them bit by bit. You weren’t put off by that though. Humans were far scarier, more devious than these monsters and the skeletons you were living with, two brothers by the names of sans and Papyrus,were more than you could ask for. The initial meeting of course was awkward, as you sat on one side of the table and the two on the other side. Sans was a large, stocky skeleton with an unnerving smile, one red, blown wide eye light, and a huge gaping hole on one side of his skull. Papyrus was an incredibly tall skeleton with small, pinprick eyes, jagged discolored teeth, and fragile bones.

Sans wouldn’t say anything to you when you first introduced yourself, he just sat there...smiling. It was definitely creepy, but when you turned to Papyrus and greeted yourself, his jagged teeth pulled up into a lopsided grin and he loudly greeted you back. “HeLLo, HumAn! It Is sO niCe To mEeT oUr pOteNtiaL nEw RoOMmAte! DO yoU liKe sPagHettI?” His voice was higher pitched and scratchy, like the sound a record makes when the needle scratches. It was grating on your ears the first couple of meetings, but eventually you got used to it. Every meeting up to the move in, sans would say nothing, letting his brother do all the talking. He would just sit there and stare at you. A shiver would run down your spine and it just felt so eerie, like he was judging you. Eventually the time came for the brothers to decide if you were qualified to be their roommate. You needed both of their approval in order for this to go through.

Papyrus had agreed with a resounding, “YEs!” and so it was down to sans as you turned to him, already used to the hard gaze and stared right back. “Sure.” The voice that came from this skeleton was low, gravelly pitch that made the inner part of your ear itch. It wasn’t a bad sound, if anything, you quite liked it. Of course you were going to keep that little fact to yourself and never speak it aloud if you could help it. Once the papers were signed and you were given an apartment to move into, you took what little you had out of storage that your ex hadn’t stolen from you and moved into your room on the first floor.

The skeleton brothers had their rooms on the 2nd floor for their own privacy which allowed you the small bedroom and dayroom beside it. You loved sitting in your rocking chair that you still had from your grandmother, the only family that seemed to love you, and did little cross stitch projects and crafts. Those moments of solitude were doing wonders for your anxiety, which along with weekly therapist visits, was gradually getting better. Sans and Papyrus were getting better as well. Papyrus was more alert and observant, although the childlike naivety would sometimes present itself when introduced to new things or people. Sans...sans was getting better in the sense that he would now murmur a greeting to you and once in a blue moon, his smile would relax into a seemingly genuine one.

You could feel there was still some tension from him if it was just you and him in a room alone or if he found you alone with Papyrus somewhere. You wouldn’t blame him, one look at his dossier told you that he raised and kept his brother safe in the Underground. A lot of the information was blacked out and he wouldn’t say much about their time before gaining access to the Surface so you left it be. Everyone was entitled to their space and their secrets. One thing that was blatantly clear on his dossier was: NO KNIVES. Apparently his main trigger was any knife of sort so you kept them away in a low drawer in the kitchen. Whenever it was your time to cook, you made triple sure to advise sans that you were using it so there were no surprises.

Papyrus loved to help you cook. It was difficult to basically rewire your diet as you LOVED red meats, but for the first initial months, meat was frowned upon as it could also be a trigger. But, soon enough, you got the hang of a basic veggie lifestyle with some meat every now and then through take out. Sans and Papyrus seemed to be fine with fish, as long as it wasn’t blue, whatever that meant, so you had salmon and tilapia a lot as well. Papyrus enjoyed making pasta and every Thursday night, he’d want to make something new. He had a devout love for the Food Network channel and enjoyed reruns of Good Eats with Alton Brown. He would often say that one day he would meet the great chef, Gordon Ramsey and chastise him for his language, even though he adored his cooking methods.

With sans, it was difficult to pinpoint something that you could do with him. He didn’t divulge much on his hobbies and mostly kept to himself. After a few days of seeing him sitting in a room alone and watching his fingers twitch with the need of something to do, you splurged on a couple of fidget gadgets for him to mess with and to give his thoughts a rest as he focused on something else. You also found that he enjoyed reading after finding several of your books missing, even if it took him a whole week for a small novel due to his slower comprehension from the blow to his skull. You also found out he was quite smart and so you purchased different astronomy and science texts for him to delve into, as well as sci-fi books to break up the monotony. Murmurs of thanks and the sounds of the fidget gadgets every once in awhile assured you that you were at somewhat of a breakthrough with him, which relieved you. You and the brothers had tackled quite a few intimidating obstacles the past month so that only meant a good time had to be around the corner

Right?