#the sun and moon metals were pain to find

[l0ganberry]

I just remembered I drew this 2 years ago.......

[diejager]

Nooo but there is something about the monster au where there is a casual mention from her that she won't live as long as them (I assume monsters/hybrids are longer lived plus she is a lot more likely to die on mission), like she probably just jokes about it offhandedly and it sends all of them feral because... no? Absolutely not? Insulting. Ridiculous. Not happening.

Cue ultimate clinginess, all rushing to be more intimate because the thought of her not being around is abhorrent. Soap maybe losing it a bit going off on a line of thought about how he could mate her right? Would it be awful if there was a way for her to be a wolf shifter?

I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND

Change cw: mention of turning, mention of death, joking about death, tell me if I missed any.

All options are on the table at this point, death had always been something that loomed over them like a shadow, the veil and sickle of death following you wherever you went. You’ve had more than one reminder of your short life, your vulnerability as a human, weak and tender skin, short lives and a delicate body. There were so many things in the world that could pose a possible danger to you and they hated that.

You lived shorter lives than most monsters or hybrids, you grew sick and frail whereas hybrids could fight any viral infections or diseases, you didn’t have thicker skin despite all the extra layers of protective gear and you were a target of many for your choice of career. They were reminded of you mortality whenever you get hurt, blood painting your skin with a strong, metallic odour.

And it didn’t help that you’d often joke about it, throwing offhanded comments that made their hackles raise, body tense and mind brewing with what ifs scenario that has them tearing their hair from the root. While some monsters were more solitary than others, all of them were possessive of what they deemed their family —pack.

Ghost and König stuck closer during training, a tall, imposing figure behind you that acted as a guard dog to ward away anyone they deemed a danger. Soap and Horangi hung around you in the rec room, either laying on you or clinging to you, putting a show of ownership over you. Rudy and Alejandro, the ever active couple, were always finding you around the base, striking up a conversation and wrapping their arms around you. Gaz would was the cuddliest of the group, finding time outside of his busy to snuggle up against you and cover you with his wings, pulling you to sleep on his shoulder. Price, the man with the most authority in the TF made sure that you were always with someone on every Op, having someone to back you up in the most dire situation.

Every visit to the medic made them wild, it brought them closer to desperate measures. Would it be so bad to turn you in one? Would it be so bad to let Soap bite you during the full moon, his bite infecting you with his power: thicker skin, sturdier build, longer lifespan and better sense? The only draw backs were the higher wildness, near feral during full moons and a competitive mindset over the possessiveness and brattiness of a young werewolf.

Would it be so bad to make you return as a wraith? While Ghost learned to control his powers alone, the pain and emotions building up in his body without any way of letting it out, you had him, you wouldn’t be alone with the resurrection. He didn’t want you to feel the terror and agony by yourself —he didn’t want you to know how it felt to die and come back.

Would it be so bad to have a vampire turn you into one without becoming a thrall? You couldn’t walk in the sun, something you told them you enjoyed, you’d be restrained to specific activities and you wouldn’t like that, being limited by the sun. Granted, there were solutions to that, but none very comfortable.

They knew you were aware of your mortality, made fun of it and laughed as it this was your last day, but you didn’t fear death, you only feared leaving them. You were open to their thoughts, listening to their ideas and options with a neutral expression, but you didn’t reject the idea of turning you. That was a good thing, a step forward in their mind.

Now all that needed to do was to let you decide which path you wanted to walk.

tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[heartofmortis]

✧ exile (what a ghostly scene)

. *. ⋆ Anakin / Vader x Reader

summary: you were bail organa’s ward, raised on alderaan with your younger sister. in the twilight of the clone war, you and anakin fell in love. when the war died, it dragged you and anakin to early graves with it — leaving only darth vader behind. even after years without you, he still wants you back. and there is nothing he would not do to bring you back to him. . .

tags: angst, tragic romance, suitless vader, no y/n, gn reader, inspired by the 2020 vader comics & vader immortal, past major character death, mourning, vader needs a hug, resurrection

note: my first reader/second person fic — i’m sorry if the tense is bad ajsjwjwjqjq. i’ve had this in my drafts for soooo long and i finally decided to finish it 🫶

word count: 1k

part 1 of 4

The stars have died, fizzling out into oblivion. All that remains is a charcoal heart that once belonged to Anakin Skywalker.

The boy from Tatooine is unreachable now, trapped inside the twisted soul of Darth Vader. The galaxy’s beloved Hero With No Fear is gone. With the rise of the Empire, the Jedi and their sympathisers will be erased from memory. A clean slate to start a new era.

Three years after the creation of the Empire, Darth Vader stands alone. His tower on Mustafar is isolating; its strategic position is a constant reminder of that day. His injuries still hurt sometimes: phantom itches on his now metal legs; scars from his burns that did not fully heal. The medical droids say he is lucky — the fire could have done more serious damage, and he could have been forced to rely on a suit keeping him alive for the rest of his days. Instead, the ebony coloured mask and suit he wears are to conceal his identity. A precaution so that Anakin Skywalker can fade from people’s tongues and memory, leaving the tyranny of Darth Vader in its place.

The weight of his failures is not the heaviest burden. Darth Vader drowns in his anger and grief. He was not strong enough to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi. He was not strong enough to save you.

(All things die. Even stars burn out.)

You were the stars in his sky, his light in the dark, the silvery moon to his blazing sun. So tender and kind. Perhaps your heart was too good for this world. Perhaps, it was your weakness all along. (How could peace ever love a dragon?)

Since you met, you had been Anakin’s sun. You anchored him; guided him home. You were his destiny. And, without you, the galaxy had turned cold. The fiery world outside, all hot air and lava fields, only stood as a reminder of his failure. He’d lost you. After everything Anakin had tried — surrendering himself to the dark side, betraying the light — he could not save you. Time had not quelled the pain.

Vader wonders if you would still recognise him. His copper hair has grown longer (he remembers how you used to cut it for him after he returned from another mission, and you’d giggle as you braided thin locks together), but his face hides behind an obsidian mask. You always loved the blue of Anakin’s eyes, but now they are blazing amber.

Mornings are the only time Vader allows himself to dwell on the past. It is when he finds himself alone and does not have to hide.

Vader recalls how you arrived on Mustafar like it was yesterday. (You haunt him every waking moment.) He could sense your conflicted emotions as soon as you disembarked your ship. Vader wasted no time approaching you, drawing you into his arms (where you belonged; where you were safe). His lips reconnected with yours, fitting together like puzzle pieces as he kissed you hungrily, his hands settled on your hips to keep you close.

You and Anakin had met after turning nineteen. He and Obi-Wan were called to Alderaan to protect the Queen and Viceroy from an assassination attempt. Being their ward, you had been there the whole time and quickly formed a connection with the young padawan — your relationship had blossomed during the Clone Wars.

He rested his forehead against yours as you spoke. “I heard terrible things. Tell me none of it is true.”

Vader hadn’t replied immediately and instead drew his head back to look at you. He would tell you any sweet lie if he needed to as he fought to quell the anger flaring in his eyes. “What have you been told?”

“Obi-Wan told me—”

Vader’s grasp around you tightened protectively. “Obi-Wan is alive?”

“He said you’d killed Jedi. Killed younglings.”

“You must not believe him, my love. He’s a traitor.”

It wasn’t the answer you sought, and you took a step backwards out of your husband’s grasp. “What have you done?”

“I did this for you. To save you.” He cupped your chin in his flesh hand and whispered your name. “I love you.”

Your eyes trained into his. There was no denial, no remorse in his stature; his only regret was letting Obi-Wan tell you anything.

He repeated his words. “I did this for you.”

From the shadows of your cloak, you drew a blaster. Only a small, weak thing. Vader watched your hands tremble. He did admire your courage. “Fix this,” you demanded. “Please,” you begged.

Anger flickered in Vader’s eyes. He had never seen you unimpressed with him. With an easy glide of his hand, Vader used the Force to knock the blaster out of your grip and pin your arms by your sides

“I am stronger than the Chancellor now,” he explained desperately, drawing you to his side. “I can overthrow him. Then you and I can be together; we can run away — just like you always wanted to.”

(But you didn’t. He lost you. Some might call you a traitor — Vader maintains that you were misguided.)

Three years later, regret still festers inside Vader’s hollow soul. There must have been a way to save you.

He misses you endlessly: craving your touch and the sound of your voice. (There is nothing Vader desires more than to have you back in his arms.)

Part of him wants to forget. To cast his memories of you into an abyss; to put the past behind him. But it is an impossible task. You are too well tangled into his soul. You haunt him. (And you’ll haunt him until his death.)

Today, there is no time to focus on you. A new morning brings meetings and training. You were Anakin’s Achilles Heel — but Darth Vader shows no such weakness. As Vader sits on his throne, reading over mission logs and other updates from the spread of the Empire across the galaxy, he receives a message: he must make his return to Coruscant immediately. (Your memory pulls him under the ocean again until he can no longer breathe.)

[bellaveux]

kiss of a vampire | w. maximoff

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: injured and alone, wanda finds herself out in the middle of the night, searching for the one person she can trust to help her. on that night, you find out what she truly is.

content warnings: 18+ minors dni. vampire!wanda, human!reader, victorian era, blood, very tiny mentions of homophobia, loss of virginity (?), smut! making out, biting, marking?, soft sex, fingering and oral (r receiving), praising

wc: 3.9k

note: surprise this is my singular contribution for kinktober hehe, happy halloween everyone!

Fall of 1863 in New York was more or less an uneventful time of the year for you. Your mother insists you read as many books as you can find in the manor’s library, and your father insists you go out and attend all those fancy balls and infernal tea parties—all in an effort to make you more presentable for any of your future suitors. It made sense for them to do so. Your mother was a respectable woman in the town, and she married your father, a man of riches, all thanks to that company he founded many years ago. You could honestly care less, not really having to do anything but read your books all day. Occasionally, in the evening when the sun has already set and you got too fed up with turning pages, you went out for a walk down that nice, pebbled trail through the woods, leading you down to that stone bridge over the river.

That’s where you met her. Wanda.

The moon was out. The sun was gone. She didn’t wear a fancy dress like you did the first time you saw her. She wore an unbuttoned vest over her white, well-made dress shirt, black pants, and riding boots to match. Her hair was red, and for a moment, you thought her eyes were the same color. It went away when you blinked, and suddenly, her eyes were green. You had never seen a woman like her before, much less someone similar in town. All the ladies and their voluminous skirts really only had boys, and gossip filled their daily conversations. It was tiring to be around them, but being with Wanda was relieving.

She told stories. Of adventures. Of distant lands you could barely imagine. She’d tell you about the sea, the moon, and the world beyond this little town you lived in. You found solace during your time with her, and you began to look forward to your walks through the woods every evening you could. She’s always there. Like she knows everything… She was your friend. And each time you met her, your heart beat faster than you’d like to admit, and your stomach fluttered whenever you thought about her. You always wondered, does she feel the same? You supposed you’d never find out, because who in their right mind would confess to having feelings for another woman?

Forbidden. Unthinkable. Criminal. That’s what they would say about you. So, you stayed quiet.

During the latest hours of the night, sometimes you’d see the glow of torches outside your window. You hear the noises first. A woman screaming. Pitchforks and shovels thrown up in the air, metal and iron clinking against each other. The sounds of arrows cracking through wood. Monsters, your father would say. They lurk out in the night, waiting and waiting until they come up to their prey and kill… You’ve heard the stories of those vampires, wolves, demons or whatever it is they are. You found it hard to believe. Even more so that so many people are afraid of what they probably haven’t even seen.

But then you see Wanda again. Not on your walk through the woods. Not on the bridge. A quiet knock is what you hear first. You look up from your book in surprise, then see her outside your window, clutching her shoulder in pain. She’s seated on the edge of your window on the other side of the glass, giving you a weak smile despite seeing how confused and worried you were. You rushed over and opened the window immediately, telling her to get in—of course, after you yelled—or whispered, really—at her for showing up at this ungodly hour.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” You exclaimed as you pulled her into your room.

But the moment she winced in pain, you immediately pulled your hands back, afraid that you might have hurt her. You watch her move to lean against the wall underneath the window. She sighs in relief, still clutching her shoulder. Your gaze falls to her hand, right where you see the stains of red seeping through her dress shirt.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding…” You think out loud, carefully watching her as you hold your breath.

The faint glow of torches outside your window shows up in the corner of your eye—people bustling loudly in your street. You could see Wanda duck even further beneath your window, staring up at the ceiling as you began to put two and two together.

“No…” You shake your head and take a few steps back. “You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you?”

Wanda’s gaze softened as she turned to you. Her mouth opened for a moment to say something, but she sighed and laughed sheepishly to herself as she shook her head. Then, you see it in her smile.

She looked up at you again, with those kind and caring eyes you’ve seen on her from the moment you met her, “Please, don’t be afraid of me.”

“Your teeth…”

“I know,” she nodded. “But, I need your help. Please. I’m begging you.”

You didn’t know what to do. “Wanda.”

“They’ll come after me if you tell me to leave, (Y/n),” she reasoned, leaning up to show you she was telling the truth.

“Did you… Have you killed someone?” You could barely get it out.

“No!” She said, “I-I haven’t hurt anyone, I promise you! I-It’s my brother. I’ve been looking for him. He’s…”

“He’s what?”

Wanda sighs and turns away from you in shame. “He’s hungry. We… We haven’t eaten in weeks. He’s got a bigger appetite than I do… I-It’s harder to control him. I think he might’ve hurt someone tonight.”

You stare at her. Her eyes were red now. Her breathing was heavy. Her fangs darted out slightly past her parted lips. You take a second to process what she had just told you. And in truth, you should’ve been scared. You should have been throwing her out of the manor, calling for your father to deal with such a monster.

But to you, she was still… just Wanda. If she wanted to kill you, you’d imagine she’d already done it by now.

You left for a moment to head into your washroom in the corner your room where you tried to find all of the medical supplies you currently had. It wasn’t much—a wet rag, a few bandage wraps, and a kit for stitches. You returned with all the items in your arms, and Wanda looked up at you with a thankful smile.

You sat on the floor with her, your white nightgown bunching up against the wooden paneling. “I… I have bandages—”

Wanda shook her head, looking down to avoid your eyes. “Thank you… But, that won’t help.”

“What will?”

Her eyes bore into yours, but her mouth doesn’t move. She has that look on her face that tells you she's too embarrassed to say or ask for it. Her hands squeezed her shoulder in pain, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Tell me, Wanda.” You say firmly, your gaze unwavering, and for a second, you thought she was intimidated by you. She was, in truth, because of her feelings for you.

“Blood.”

You pause. Then, she repeats it again.

“Blood will… replenish my energy. I haven’t eaten, so I’m weak. On a good day, this wound would not even phase me.”

“My blood?”

Wanda nods. Your prolonged silence tells her that there is no way in hell you’d allow her. Her love for you has her hoping for the best outcome—that you’d have mercy on her and help her relieve the pain. But then again, you don’t owe her anything, and this was a lot to ask. The idea of asking felt impossible even though Wanda had already mentioned it, worried that you might refuse or be horrified by the notion.

“Okay.”

She blinks at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. As long as you don’t turn me into a vampire or anything. I don’t mean it to offend you, but it would... complicate things.”

She nods once again, more eagerly this time. “You don’t have to worry about that. That’s, um… That’s a completely different process.”

“Okay,” you repeat, scooting closer to her, looking down at your dress and your hands as you begin to wonder if you should get a knife. “I-I’m not sure how to… do this.”

“Your neck.” She tells you. Of course.

You don’t ignore the way her red eyes darken and the way her ears perk up in excitement as you move your hair carefully to one side.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Wanda’s gaze softened at your words, “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

She watches you nod and holds her breath as she inches closer to you. Your sweet scent fills her nose with a much stronger fragrance than ever before. She has always loved the way you smelled. It soothed her in ways many other things couldn’t. It was divine, enveloping her senses each time she was near you, and she found herself utterly addicted. She had never been this close before tonight, her breath tickling the side of your neck. She could hear your heart beating fast as she moved closer.

You braced yourself, your heart pounding in anticipation for the expected pain of a vampire’s hungry bite. But it didn’t come. Instead, you felt Wanda’s soft, warm lips meet your skin, kissing it so gently in a way that sent shivers down your spine. You could feel her other hand, resting itself on the curve of your waist. Your breath caught in your throat, and your lips parted slightly as Wanda continued to press her mouth to your skin, littering your neck with the softest kisses she could possibly give you. You couldn’t help but notice the frailty and gentleness of her touches and her kisses, as if they were delicate and almost fragile.

Wanda was lost in the feeling of your skin. Every kiss left her craving for more, and she found herself losing control of the overwhelming desire she had been suppressing for so long.

You were so distracted by the soft kisses she left on you that you barely noticed the faint, almost imperceptible sensation of Wanda’s fangs piercing your skin. She was so gentle, and you expected much less when she had promised, but this… It felt too good. A moan slips past your lips as Wanda bites into you. Her first taste of your blood was nothing short of divine. So sweet. So warm. The most delicious thing she had ever put her mouth on. The flavor of you was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and it sent shivers of pleasure coursing through Wanda’s body. Every second that passed as she drank from you, Wanda began to feel her weakened body begin to mend itself. It was as if your blood had breathed life back into her. Wanda’s senses sharpened, and she felt a profound sense of rejuvenation. The pain in her shoulder began to fade away.

Wanda pulled away from your neck, running her tongue softly against the bite, before turning to look at you. The prettiest thing she ever laid her eyes on.

And Wanda couldn’t resist. She pressed her lips gently against yours and sighed against you. You gasp at the feeling as she places her hands over your waist, then down to your hips, pulling you closer against her. A soft moan falls from your mouth and into hers, and Wanda can’t help but groan. She swiped her tongue on your bottom lip, and naturally, you opened up for her, letting her in to explore the expanse of your mouth, the slight taste of iron on her tongue.

Your lips were parted slightly, and your eyelids felt heavy. But you started to feel weak and lightheaded. You found yourself leaning towards Wanda’s touch, unable to hold yourself up without tipping over, and the next thing you knew, she gently scooped you up and carried you to her bed with her mouth still pressed against yours. Kissing you became the next addicting thing for her. Wanda hovered over you as she laid you down on your back.

She pulled away from the kiss and smiled softly, “You’re so beautiful.”

Her lips traveled down to your neck once more, kissing your skin softly as she felt your arms wrap around her neck. This time, you feel it when she bites you again, unable to stop the moan that escapes your mouth. Wanda smiled as she continued to drink softly from you, her hand reaching up behind your dress to pull at the string that was holding your nightgown together as you arch your back and pressed your front against her. Your dress comes loose with a simple tug, and your cheeks flush, a deep shade of red donning your face as you feel Wanda’s hand cupping and groping your breast over the fabric.

After she pulls away, Wanda kisses your skin again, her lips traveling further south and her face coming up in between your plush breasts. She moans against you, your scent filling her nose in the most addicting way. She could smell you. How aroused you were. How wet you were. And tonight, despite all that you’ve given her, she was feeling a little greedy.

“I want you. I want to make you feel good,” she tells you, her voice all breathy against your skin. “I want to touch you.”

“Please,” you begged her, running your hands in her hair as she began to pull the dress off of you, agonizingly slowly.

When your body comes into full view, Wanda can’t help but stare. She mutters a curse under her breath before letting her fingertips run along your stomach, your nipples, your hips, and your thighs, and Wanda feels like she’s in heaven.

“Stop staring,” you say, pouting shyly as the vampire continues to ogle you.

She only smiles, fangs darting past her lips, “I can’t, angel. You look so pretty like this.”

Wanda leans down to litter your skin with wet kisses and small bruises. She eventually makes her way down to your legs, holding your plush thighs in her hands, and she kisses you, running her tongue over each part that she kisses. You allowed her to spread your knees apart, exposing your glistening sex to her shyly as she leans over, her kisses traveling closer and closer to your wet core.

“Spread your legs wider,” she said, unable to take her eyes off of you.

You do as she says, your hands now gripping your bedsheets slightly. Her fingers make their way in between your folds, softly touching your opening. She lets them move up and down, collecting your slick and spreading it all over, down in between and up to your clit, where she presses slightly harder against your bundle of nerves. She sees you when you bite your lip to stop a moan from falling past your lips. Wanda smiled at the sight. Her love bites are littered all over your skin; the bite on your neck looked more delicious than ever, and your pretty face looked up at her like she was the only one who could ever make you feel like this. Hell, it drives her crazy.

With a new sense of determination, Wanda finally slips her cold finger into you, your tight and warm walls wrapping around her digit. She sighs and leans forward to lay her head against your tummy, watching closely as she pushes her finger in, then pulling out with a squelch.

“You’re so wet for me,” she thinks aloud.

She groans, listening to the delicious sounds of your softest whimpers as she fingers you. Another finger slips inside of you, pulling them in and out of your pussy at a faster pace. Your breathing got heavy. You could feel your stomach getting tighter, but before you could come undone, Wanda pressed her thumb to your clit, working you up to your orgasm. Her fingers are long, and she can’t help but add another one into your tight, dripping sex. Her other hand holds your quivering thigh down as you tremble against her.

“W-Wanda, I’m—”

Your mouth falls open at the feeling of being filled up with her fingers. She’s much faster now, curling her fingers into your walls sloppily as she continues to press your clit, pushing you closer and closer to your high. And then, it comes. Wanda travels up and kisses you, swallowing your moans as you fall apart on her fingers, cumming all over her hand. Your back arched and your legs jerked closed as she pushed your legs back open.

Wanda carefully pulls her fingers out of you, but she doesn’t stop rubbing your clit, making you shiver against her. She rubs it in tight circles as her kisses travel back down to your neck, where she takes another greedy bite into your skin, welcoming the taste of your divine blood into her mouth once again. She groans when you pull her hair slightly, getting drunk off of your essence and the way your hands feel on her head.

When she pulls away, she kisses you again. And when she pulls away for a third time, she makes her way down your body, traveling through the valley of your breasts, over your stomach, and then her destination—back in between your legs. Her nose nuzzles against your clit, your scent filling her senses all over again.

“W-Wait, Wanda this is…”

You had never done this before. And now that Wanda was face to face with your glistening pussy, you got shy. Wanda only looks up at you and smiles, pressing gentle kisses along your inner thigh.

“I want you,” she reminds you, pulling you closer to her face. “I want to be the first one that makes you feel good. I want it to be me. Only me. Inside of you. I want to see how pretty you’ll look when I have my mouth on you.”

She says it so absentmindedly, her eyes not leaving the sight of your pussy as she spreads your lips apart with her thumbs. You couldn’t help but blush at her words, your face getting hotter each time you felt her breath on your pussy. You felt like time was ticking so slowly, with Wanda staring at you for what felt like hours. You grew tense with anticipation, waiting and waiting for her to do something. And when she finally does, your jaw drops, and a silent moan falls from your mouth. Wanda memorizes every little noise you make, the way you arch your back, or the twitch of your thigh.

She was in heaven. Your inner thighs glistened with arousal as she held you down against your bed, noting the way your hands made their way back to her red hair. Your body was a hot, trembling mess right underneath her as she devoured you, licking every space she could reach with her tongue.

When Wanda looks up and sees your mouth wide open in silent screams, arching your back off of the mattress, your soft hand tugging at her locks in a pitiful attempt to slow her down, she knows you’re close. She grew desperate. She keeps licking you, eager to get you closer and closer to your climax. You’re chanting her name as quietly as you can, eyes closed shut as the pleasure keeps building and building inside of you.

“Wanda, I-I’m about to—”

You whimpered, your legs closing around Wanda’s head. She hummed into your pussy and continued to eat you out right as you came into her mouth. She ran her tongue through your folds and over your clit softly, easing you through your orgasm with a satisfied moan. Wanda practically forced herself away from your sex, wishing for nothing but more time with you. She pulled back and sat on her legs to stare at the beauty right in front of her. She rubbed your soft thighs in soothing circles with her hands as she smiled down at you. You trembled slightly, still shaking from the orgasm she had given you.

You reached out to her, your weak arms lifting from the bed, wanting to be in her embrace again. She obliged happily, leaning down to hover over you once again. Wanda kissed you up your neck, to your jaw, and, lastly, to your lips, the taste of you still lingering on her tongue. She moaned against you and smiled into the kiss when she felt your hands slide from her neck to cup her face.

Then, you remembered.

You pushed her away softly, just so you could look at the blood stain on her shirt, where an arrow had struck her earlier tonight.

“I’m okay, now,” you heard her say.

Running a slow and gentle hand over her shoulder, you took a peek, pulling the fabric down a little bit to see her wound, but nothing was there.

“It’s gone,” you said in awe.

Wanda smiled softly at you as you continued to inspect her shoulder. You looked so beautiful. So unafraid of her. And it made her the happiest woman on Earth. She sighs and leans down to pepper a few kisses on your cheek, still surprised by her healing abilities. But you got distracted again, feeling her soft lips against your skin. The light of a candle on your night table danced across the room as she kissed you. Wanda was so gentle. Like she promised.

After a moment, Wanda turned to look out your bedroom window, where she had come in. Her senses immediately took notice of how quiet it was and how dark it was outside. The night embraced the world outside of your bedroom, blackness stretching as far as her eye could see. It was different from the warmth she felt in this sim room—a room with you, her love. It reminded her of the world and now, the secrets you both carried together.

Your voice pulled her out of your thoughts. “You have to go, don’t you?”

Wanda smiled, knowing you already knew the answer to your own question. “Your mother would throw a fit if they found me here.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes at the thought, smiling sadly as you begin to play with the fabric of her shirt.

“I’ll come see you again, angel. I promise you.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask, looking up at her with hopeful eyes.

Wanda turned her attention back to you, and her heart skipped a beat. You were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Unable to stop herself, she leaned down and kissed you once more.

“Tomorrow,” she said firmly.

With one final, lingering kiss on your lips, Wanda whispered three little words. Then, with a graceful and silent movement, she made her way over to the window through which she had entered. Wanda disappeared into the night, leaving the room she made love to you in. You lay in bed, contentment washing over you as a soft smile played on your lips. She was different from the stories you’d hear about vampires. People called them monsters, and even though you only knew Wanda, she was miles and miles away from being one.

You missed her already.

But just as she promised, you saw her again the next day. This time, with more kisses and closer encounters.

— navigation!

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

“You’re scared…. and broken…” With, literally any of the Glamrocks after Ruin(preferably Eclipse and Monty)-

"N-NO!! STOP IT!! BAD GATOR!! BAD GATOR!!!!"

Hearing the terrified shrieks of a certain daycare animatronic, you were quick to rush into the garage, stumbling upon a rather frightening scene:

Eclipse, who reverted back to Sun, was on the floor as Monty's teeth were latched onto his leg, violently tugging on it in an attempt to shred what little remained of the tattered striped material. The gator snarled all the while, shaking his head around while the former kicked and screamed.

It didn't take long for you to figure out how to separate the two, grabbing a metal pipe and tapping it loudly against the wall to get Monty's attention on you for a second.

"Montgomery Gator. Let him go NOW!!"

Upon hearing his name, he let go of Sun and stared at you, shrinking away as you approached. With a huff, you tossed the pipe towards the furthest part of the area. "Go fetch."

As he crawled away, that gave you a chance to examine Sun for any serious damage. You kneeled down, frowning as the traumatized animatronic was whimpering at the current state of his other leg--arguably the only "good" leg he had remaining.

'Jesus..I can't leave these two alone for even a second..'

"Are you okay?" You asked worriedly. "Is your leg still functional?"

"Yes, but alas....p-pretty patterns are all ruined now..." He bemoaned. "No stars..no stripes...all gone. No more..."

"Sun, I promise I'll get this sewn up for you. But listen...I warned you not to go anywhere near Monty." You set a gentle hand on his knee. "Why did you go near him?"

"I....we just wanted to say hi! I-I didn't think he'd hurt me! He used to be so nice! S-Sure I might have called his music too loud, but he didn't seem offended by it!!"

"What he did to you wasn't anything personal." You shook your head, sighing. "He's not himself. He's gone...completely feral now. Do you know what that means?"

He was still for a moment, before shaking his head.

"It means he's not gonna know who you are. You all have been stuck there for so long that...he's acting on animal instincts now. He barely even knows me anymore."

"..so..you mean....he thinks he's actually a gator?"

"Exactly." You nodded. "And until I can figure out how to restore his original personality, we'll have to treat him as such."

Sun remained silent, his gaze wandering back to Monty. He was gnawing on the pipe. It wasn't much, but it stopped him chewing on anything else in the garage, such as the important Fazbear Ent. equipment you stole from the plex.

It's not like anybody was going to use it anyways.

"It's not fair to him...o-or me. Why did this have to happen to us?"

"..I don't know. I wish I knew why, Sun." All you could do was shake your head, feeling sad that you couldn't simply repair them both like nothing even happened.

Like they weren't left to rot in that mall for years.

Your exploration of it was still fresh in your mind.

While you couldn't track down Chica, Roxy, or Freddy...you were able to at least find Eclipse and Monty, convincing them to come home with you as it was a lot safer.

Eclipse was more than willing despite being worried about when the children will return to the daycare, whereas Monty just started following you randomly, always being at your heels like a protective guard dog.

He was your favorite out of the Glamrocks, so maybe part of him remembers that--hence he never attacked you.

Unfortunately you had no idea how he would behave around Eclipse, considering you just rebooted him after Sun and Moon were fighting for control nonstop. The two were in obvious pain with the lights being broken in the daycare, so you were lucky to have a fazwrench on you at the time.

But the strangest thing during your time working for the pizzaplex was that you never knew Eclipse even existed as a character. The company never talked about him, and not a single advertisement (old or new) mentioned him anywhere.

There was only ever Sun and Moon.

Regardless, you were glad to officially meet him and see his balanced personality--with Moon's calmness and Sun's optimism

Unfortunately Monty had some fit of aggression when he tried talking to him, sending him into a panic so bad that it made him switch back into Sun. Now you weren't sure how to bring Eclipse back to the forefront without doing another reboot...as that apparently caused Moon great pain.

The gator, as feral as he was, seemed guilty for what he did as he stayed huddled in the nearest corner of your garage. You could clearly see that he didn't mean to attack Eclipse; he just couldn't control himself.

"[Y/n]...a-are we monsters? Is that why nobody comes to see us anymore?"

Those heartbreaking questions almost made tears spring to your eyes, before you turned back to Sun, taking his hands into yours. "No. Neither of you are monsters. You're scared...and broken. But I'll try my hardest to put you back together. You, too, Monty."

"Grrahhh..?" He perked up at his name, dropping the pipe and crawling over to you when you beckoned him closer.

At first the attendant was panic-striken, almost hyperventilating even. But then he saw him abruptly stop beside you and was confused for a moment.

You smiled sadly and patted Monty's head, feeling what little remained of his red hair. "It's amazing that your mohawk is still attached to you, pal."

He chuckled at that, before looking to Sun and huffing. Although he couldn't speak anymore, the guilt was clear in his body language, something that was quickly understood by the solar animatronic.

"Awh, it's okay, buddy. We can still be friends!" He giggled, mimicking your gesture and patting Monty's head, albeit with great caution.

Fortunately, he didn't bite his hand off this time.

All you could do was continue smiling, being a watchful observer of your two (technically four) favorite characters who you were relieved to have rescued.

'Looks like there's hope for them yet.'

[rorja]

˗ˏˋ TAKE ME TO THE LAKE WHERE ALL THE POETS WENT TO DIE ─── g. suguru

🪷 synopsis. all suguru wanted was brief moment of silence, a lone moment to take a deep breath without thinking ─── but the blood on his hands failed to grant him much. | knight!suguru x water nymph!reader.

🪷 warnings. 18+. major character death, angst. mention of blood, description of blood, suguru is utterly exhausted, just as suggested by the title, reader does not talk a lot, mentions of death and war. really angsty overall.

ᥫ᭡. notes ; it’s here, it’s the 27th june!! since my birthday is here i wanted to share this little piece with you :33…. hope you enjoy it! as always, i’ll proofread it as soon as i wake up <3 🐣

KNIGHT!SUGURU who finds the lake after a difficult night where most of the king’s men found their ruination. it happens under a full moon, deep inside the forest where he sought refuge in— away from the enemies with a sacred text in their left hand and a crimson stained spear in their right one. on the night where half side of the moon is hidden by darkness and the other half is as luminous as ever, his only guide in this shadowy realm, his only hope for another night of salvation.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who fall on his heavy limbs once he spots the lake lying at the center of the forest, its water kissed avidly by the moonlight and painting its ripples in silver and stardust. the lily pads are in bloom, of pearly white and the softest shade of pink, adorning almost every corner of the stretched and lively body of water. the moon, its lover, reflecting on it as beautifully as ever, quelling his racing thoughts: for the very first time that night, suguru acknowledges the fatigue sitting heavy on his bones.

KNIGHT!SUGURU focused, with what is left of his limited strength, on removing each and every single piece of metal that hangs on his body the same way a noose would around his neck— death’s embrace weighting the same way inside that armor of his, bloodied and twisted like the first time he’d worn it a long time ago. it’s a mark, a heavy reminder of the loss of his humanity for he is now reduced to a mere toll to fight useless battles in other people’s stead. so, when even the littlest piece of iron has found a temporary grave on the dirt, and suguru feels the crispness of the night dancing in his lungs again, it’s in that moment that he lets his emotions out. whispered freely to the lake, the only one listening to his grieving heart.

KNIGHT!SUGURU that is consumed by devotion and duty, honored from the crowds but crumbling on the inside; his soul a castle, a fortress, now victim of the many enemies around it. falling brick after brick, stone after stone until all his walls and the hinges of his doors grow too old to resist the perpetrator’s kicks and punches. what once avidly protected people and made them feel safe, now left to dust and ready to meet its end in a fire. it’s only a miracle, no matter how suguru views it, that he found this place to rest for the night. perhaps the moon took pity on this shadow of a man? or perhaps it was the goddess of luck, toying with his fate the same way the king does from the height of his throne? it doesn’t matter, not anymore, for the sun will rise again and his soul will die a little more.

KNIGHT!SUGURU whose lips part in a pained frown once he dampens his wounds with the lake’s water. it’s a slow process and it takes whatever it’s left of his consciousness washing away from his skin all the blood offered in a single night. scrub, scrub, scrub away all that is left of muted goodbyes and veiled despair that would be uncovered under the scorching sun. men take pride in dying for their country, suguru is convinced it is now a lie: they were the finest of chess pieces, moved on whims and tantrums by greedy beings who never cared about their wellbeing. men die for protecting women and children (of that, suguru is certain— he’s one of them, after all) and not to slaughter them when a monarch cries for a bigger playground. a hiss, and his lips part the slightest— he realizes he is poisoning the lake with a new river of blood.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who catches a glimpse of light moving abnormally between the lily pads. it’s quick, causing some waves to reach the shore and petals to dance as if moved by a nightly breeze, but the winds have gone to rest too, away from that tranquil heart of the forest. but suguru is tired, his legs wounded and aching and he isn’t scared of death— whether it decides to suddenly appear or letting him live enough to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who doesn’t flinch away when the water decides to cling onto your form, rising from the depths of that lake you call home and revealing yourself. your eyes caught the way his lips part, how his eyes narrows suspiciously— but you do not comment on it, merely getting closer to the shore and starting to mend his deep wounds. he carried the sour taste of desperation, polluting your home, disrupting your sleep… and yet, all that you can do is keep his whispers somewhere close to your heart and offer your ears to him. for you don’t carry every answer to his questions, nor any guidance to the doubts fogging his fate, but you can listen and offer your home as a place where he can always return to rest.

KNIGHT!SUGURU who comes back the next night, covered once again in crimson, half belonging to him and the other to all the companions he lost few meadows down. a little close to the forest than the castles on each side of the infinite land. he comes back the night after, and the one after that, and suddenly he becomes a constant presence in that lone lake. you notice that he always sits in the only corner where the lily pads do not grow and where the fishes do not come near, moonshine impossible to reach because of some branches. you do not say anything, you never do— silently offering to wash away the blood staining his hands and the dirt under his nails, making of them a distant memory. so, at least, until the next sunrise because you know war is nothing more than a ferocious river that takes, takes and takes. and somewhere along the way you find yourself growing as restless; how many moons until suguru’s life will find itself trapped in that endless stream?

Suguru was tired.

It was a weight that he’d grown accustomed to over the years, a horrible thing that has always been present and that built its throne somewhere between his shoulders and ribs. It’s always been there, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but as of lately it grew and grew and suddenly Suguru couldn’t stand still on his feet anymore.

A snakelike thing it was, slithering its way down his bones and then his limbs, biting with no remorse nor any hesitation. And suddenly the armor weighed much more than the first time he wore it.

Could it have been the stains of dried blood of all the companions he fought with? All of those he considered friends, now a indistinguishable pile of empty shells waiting to either be buried or burned? Where were they— they started in many, now left in less fortunate numbers and manners. Outweighed by the endless streams of men that came from the other side of the land, flocking and carrying the sacred words of their gods.

All lies. No god would ever incite his sons in battles as such, putting a brother against another to carry out a sick and twisted game of power and politics concerning few, nameless people that could be counted in a single hand. Was it worthy, he always questioned at the first rays of sunset, was it worthy the lives of many to conquer another piece of land? With all the blood drying into the battlefield, Suguru merely thought that it was not, for no fruits would grow where a man found his uneasy rest.

His legs ached, more so than any other night. And his body failed to carry the weight of the armor— too oppressive, too important on his now frail body to bear. Where the air failed to meet his face, and for a moment he almost believed he forgot how to breathe. It was useless, all of that iron and whatsoever blacksmiths used to forge it.

When he left the helmet to fall, Suguru felt a little bit of relief in his chest. And so, piece by piece, like a ever crumbling fortress, he peeled off what had been a sort of second skin for all those years feeling neither pity or gratitude in his gesture.

The end of an act and the start of another.

It took longer to reach the lake, perhaps longer than any other night and he realized that once he saw the restless waves dying on the shore. He felt bad knowing, as of lately, that every smallest change was the fruit of your own emotions— and he wondered if his tardiness made you feel a tiny bit of the despair he grew used to feel in his chest every waking hour.

Were you scared he wouldn’t come back? That he died like his companions on that gruesome battlefield? That he would leave you without a proper goodbye?

At that his lips eased in a gentle smile, a chilly breeze grazing his exposed forearms by the many cuts on his humble shirt. His boots stepped on a twig and it easily caught your attention— were you scared of the monster he’d been forced to become?

You stilled. Roaming, widened eyes taking in the severe conditions Suguru was in and you found yourself quickly wondering how he could’ve managed to walk up to the lake in that miserable state. It was admirable, in the worst kind ever known to mankind.

He didn’t seem to care, uttering your name in a fond farewell before falling to his knees. The murky waters of the lake dampening the cutted fabric of his pants— and for once you didn’t waste time in cradling lovingly his head on your lap.

It made you sick, how peaceful Suguru looked in his last moments. How the water washed from his body all of that grim stains to leave tearful kisses on his bare skin. How the lily pads framed his body, granting him a blanket in his grand and deserved finale.

His eyes never once left the stars in the sky.

You moved your head, to grant him a better view, and he raised a weak hand to bring you close. That was another silent promise between the two of you: when you strayed away from him, his hands would always guide you back to him. Home. Suguru found a home in you wherein you accepted him in yours— and surely it took a little time before finding a suitable rhythm for the relationship to blossom, but there was a suguru-shaped void now where he usually sat and some of the lily pads were growing too weak and old to bloom next spring. It brought you to tears realizing that he would never come back to fill the gaps he once cut for himself and that he was now leaving behind.

“I want to look at you…”

Because Suguru was leaving after all. Stone after stone, the walls of his fortress had eventually collapsed; leaving him open and vulnerable for anyone to steal and destroy. The white flag has been weaved and of all the people he tried to protect there was none left.

“Bless me a little more with your love.”

Suguru closed his eyes soon after, a smile coloring his face for the last time. His hand limp on the bed of lily pads— and you hated it. Hated how he finally looked peaceful, as if he made amends with his past in the dephts of the constellations reflecting in your eyes.

You hated it so much— for that very reason you left the lake bury it in its dephts, somewhere between your love and your endless sorrow.

©RORJAN — dividers credits: @/strangergraphics , @/firefly-graphics and @/rorjan.

[robinette-green]

Robin's Mer DCA Romance Fics

These are fics I’ve started that involve Mermaids and aquatic life!

Unbreakable Chains:

You’re a mermaid captured by pirates. Scared and injured, two strange metal men care for you while you’re trapped in this scary place and slowly an unbreakable bond is formed between the three of you. ________________ Wind and rain pelted down on the ship as the men scrambled to lift their catch from the water. The waves rolled, tossing the ship back and forth, slamming water down onto the decks as ropes were pulled and the net was lifted from the water. A screech rang out over the waves as something much larger than your average fish was raised from the black depths. Lighting forked across the sky, illuminating sharp teeth and claws as the beast fought to free itself. The shout of pain, as claws met flesh, was drowned out by the rumble of thunder, but the sharp crack from the pistol rang clear across the water, followed by a scream. Another shot and cry of pain, and the men were finally able to lower the beast into the belly of the ship. 

Caught in a Fish's Net: (tag)

what if I wrote a story where a human is kidnapped by mermaids. And they were forced to marry two mer princes because of a prophecy that said if the princes married a human they would be able to end the plague killing their people. But the marriage seems to do nothing and now the human is trapped deep in the ocean with these mer because mer bond for life and now magic ties them together so if they’re apart for too long they’ll grow sick and die. OH! And there’s a sea witch who creates chaos. The sky had been cloudless when we'd set out this morning. The sun shone in the sky, causing sparkles to ripple across the waves as my father and I set out to sea in our small fishing boat. We cast out the nets and had a good laugh as we waited to pull them back in, Father at the rudder and me by the tethers we'd connected the nets to. Neither of us noticed how still the water had gotten. Neither of us saw the shadows below the surface. 

Bubbly:

A little waterlily mer guppy is trapped, home destroyed, and taken to a pet store to be sold. After spending some time living in a fish bowl, our little guppy is saved and moved to a tank that has been dubbed the daycare by the human tending to it. The daycare tank is set up to rehabilitate fish before they are released back into their natural habitats. There our guppy meets Sun and Moon, two fish that live full time in this tank taking care their healing guests. Sun and Moon and our guppy fall in love and then shit goes down.

Fish Fry: (tag)

Pulled from the sea 5 years ago, I was tied up, beaten, and sold to owner after owner, each deciding I was too dangerous to keep. Back then, I was strong, able to break bones and tear flesh with ease, singing to lure humans to their demise. It's what my kind was made to do, kill humans. But no more. Kept in increasingly small tanks, barely fed, and unable to swim, I started to weaken. Eventually, I was dumped here. It was some kind of oddities collection. My owner had other humans pay to look at his strange assortment of items he had gathered from around the world. Then one day I encountered two strange humanoid creatures that resembled the Sun and the Moon and my life started to change for the better.

Monster in the Sea:

Sun and Moon are human and go by Solaris and Lucien. The MC is a water dragon. Water dragon reader finds Sun and Moon lost at sea during a storm

Dark Waters:

When your parents died all their debt fell on your shoulders. You did everything you could but in the end, you were penniless and without a home. Reaching out to what relatives you had left, your uncle offered you a place, living and working at his little circus in the middle of the desert. It wasn't long after you moved into this little community that you found a strange abandoned tent hidden at the back of the grounds, a large tank inside. Posted just outside was a sign that read 'DANGER! KEEP OUT!' If you had headed the warning maybe you wouldn't be in this predicament but you also wouldn't have met the two most amazing creatures you have ever laid your eyes on.

Fishy Business: (tag)

Attacked and almost killed, I manage to escape my attackers and hide in a cave only to be found by something... not quite human. Too weak to get away and with the beasts that wanted to eat me waiting outside, this non-human kidnaps me, taking me to his ship. This is where I find that there are not one but two of these metal creatures. A story where the main character is a mermaid and is rescued/kidnapped by Sun and Moon

Some of these won't be finished and some are OLD writing of mine. you have been warned. Please don't let that stop you from reading these and enjoying them <3

[celestial-toys]

Paralyzed

As your shift in the daycare came to a close today, something triggered a terrible panicking trauma response in you. You've locked yourself in the storage closet in an attempt to get away from it all. When Sun eventually manages to get the door open, his heart breaks at the state he finds you in. Cue 4k words of ensuing caretaking and comfort.

Pairing: Sun/Reader/Moon Word Count: 6,014 Contains: [NSSI/Self-Harm] [panic] [PTSD] [crying] [emotional & physical hurt/comfort] [bandaging wounds] [undressing (not the sexy kind)] [caretaking] [cuddling] [literal sleeping together] [established relationship] [GN!Reader]

“Sunshine? I know you’re hurting right now… but you need to let me in there with you so I can help…”

A faint rattling comes from the locked doorknob, shortly followed by silence.

You barely hear it from where you’re slumped, back against the far wall of the pitch dark supply closet.

You’re far too consumed in your own suffering to even consider the impact of your actions right now. You have to make these feelings stop. You have to make it all go away. You can’t take anymore today.

Through your panicked haze and ragged breathing, your ears barely pick up on the faint sound of metallic tinkering, and Sun’s muttering on the other side of the door.

“Oh, for heavens sake… why does the supply closet even have the ability to lock from the inside in the first place?”

Your panicked breaths come faster and faster, until you begin to feel lightheaded from it all. The pain of your memories. The fear of whatever trigger had set you off this time. The shame of causing Sun such distress, having to see you like this.

You told yourself you’d never let them see you in such a state, yet here you fucking are. Trembling and soaked in sweat, tears, and snot, curled up on the cold tile of the supply closet floor.

It was bound to happen eventually, you suppose. You could lie and say you were doing better but this always comes back to drag you down again eventually.

You register the sound of a bolt shifting, before a few small screws fall down and roll across the floor in different directions. You watch the door creak open slightly, and thin, long robotic fingers snake their way around the edge and take hold of the loose doorknob before it can fall and clatter to the floor.

You feel your stomach drop at the knowledge that your time in hiding has come to an end. The door swings open slowly, the daycare’s bright lights casting into the room. The light makes a path all the way across the floor, from the open doorway across to your darkened form curled uncomfortably in the back, like a wild animal, cornered.

You lift your head enough to glance at him and you catch the sight of his silhouette, backlit in a way that has him looking more intimidating than he likely realizes. You instinctively curl back down into yourself and miss the way he subconsciously shrinks in on himself when he sees your apparent fear.

He’s the last person on earth that you should fear. He just wants to help you. He was built for this, wasn’t he? Taking care of the vulnerable?

Why’d they have to make him look so terrifying, then?

He pushes his own thoughts aside, his hand curling around the doorframe in search of the light switch. He quickly locates it, flipping it up and flooding the room with fluorescent light.

The proper sight of you breaks his mechanical heart.

Your hair is an absolute mess and your clothes are all bunched up around you as you’ve contorted yourself to take up the least amount of space possible. Like someone was trying to hurt you even though you were alone in here. He doesn’t even need to do a full body scan to tell that you have been hurt, actually. When his optics pass over your left hand, warning signs flash across his vision.

Injured. You’re injured.

In his daycare. Under his supervision.

Oh, no. No no no no no.

Not you. Not like this. Not ever.

He has to fix it. Fix you. Make it better.

Yes. Yes, he can make it better. He- he can fix this. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You have to be. He… needs you. They both do. You have to be okay.

They’ll make it better.

You keep your head tucked away into the pulled-up hood of your jacket, waiting. You don’t even know what you’re waiting for, exactly. Yelling? Screaming? Panic? Anger? Disappointment? Rough hands, grabbing, pulling, hurting you again?

If you were thinking straight right now you’d know this isn’t necessary. You’d remember where you are, and who you’re with, and that you are absolutely safe here. Sun and Moon wouldn’t ever lay a hand on you in anything other than love. Their touches don’t hurt. Neither do their words.

You’re not thinking straight right now, though. Your mind is somewhere else entirely. Completely caught up in the past, your mind replaying all the bad that you’ve ever encountered, like it’s trying to teach you a lesson you already know. Trying to warn you of a threat that is no longer there.

Sun slowly lowers himself to the floor and makes his way over to you on all fours in the least terrifying way he can.

His voice is about as quiet as he can get it to go but you still flinch when he breaks the silence.

“Sunshine, are you here with me right now? Can you hear me?”

You’re about halfway here and halfway gone, to be completely honest, but you manage to nod your head, the movement stiff and jerky. Your muscles are all so goddamn tense it’s a wonder you can move at all.

“Do you think you can take a deep breath for me?”

You try to, and fail miserably, the air catching in your throat and coming back out as a choked sob. Gods, you can’t even breathe right, can you? You shake your head vehemently, tangling your messy hair even further in the process as you start mindlessly muttering apologies between short, quick breaths.

“I’m-I’m sorry…  I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry…”

Sun’s hands flex open and closed, held firmly down at his sides to prevent their urges from taking over and just allowing himself to scoop you up into his arms the way he wants to.

“Hey… e-easy, love. There’s no need for apologies here, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Your tears pick back up again at that, voice accidentally coming out in a sudden shout, only muffled by the balled-up sleeve you’ve brought up to try and hide your face.

“YES I HAVE! I-I-I don’t know what… but I must have done something… something to end up like this.”

It’s getting harder for Sun to close out of the numerous warning pop-ups that flood his vision. His voice is a bit more strained when you hear it again.

“No-no-no not at all! You haven’t done anything to make this happen. This is just… something that happens sometimes, yeah? And-and-and I’m here now to help you through it!”

He eyes your left hand again, lying lifeless on the cold tile beside you. It’s completely red and swollen, with long, angry red lines running down along your forearm and the back of your hand. He knew he’d heard the sound of repeated, dull banging when he first discovered you’d locked yourself in here, but he hadn’t wanted to think about what you might be doing to yourself.

He’s gonna find out now, though.

Losing yourself in your panic again, you shakily pick your stiff hand up off the tile, balling it into a fist as you bring it up just to slam it back down on the cold, hard floor with as much force as you can possibly muster. Sharp pain runs through your wrist as the already swollen joint is forced to take the impact of yet another hit. A hiss of pain is immediately ripped out of you, and you revel in the small relief that it brings, forcing you to take a deep breath to distract yourself. You’d been at this for a solid thirty minutes now, based on Sun’s calculations of when this whole ordeal started.

Sun’s body locks up at the sight, and he can’t even feel the black, watery fluid that begins to leak from beneath his eyes, running down along the curves of his faceplate like tears.

He’s paralyzed. Stuck in between two equally important rules.

They sound off on repeat like warning sirens in his mind.

[ Protect you. ]

[ Never touch you without permission. ]

[ Protect you. ]

[ Never touch you without permission. ]

[ Protect you. ]

[ Never touch you without permission. ]

He’s forced to sit there, glued to the ground and watch as you lift your fist and slam it back down once again, your body reeling forward in response to the pain.

He suddenly feels Moon’s presence fighting to take control in their shared headspace.

He watches on helplessly as an unauthorized edit is made to one of the rules cemented in the forefront of his mind.

[ Protect you. A̵T̸ ̶A̶L̶L̶ ̵C̵O̴S̴T̷S̴.̸ ]

He immediately breaks from his paralysis just in time to reach forward, his movements lightning fast, and wraps his massive hand around your fist as it makes its way towards the ground once again. He moves your connected hands downward together, trying to follow the motion so as to not hurt you any further by suddenly stopping you mid-swing.

Your hands both slam down onto the tile, but you hardly feel the pain this time. Sun registers that the back of his hand took the brunt of the impact, no real damage done given his sturdier components, and his body nearly collapses from the sudden relief.

His other hand quickly reaches out and loosely wraps itself around your wrist, needing to hold you still. He’s careful to not aggravate the swollen joint, nor the stinging lines of broken skin you’d torn across the back of your hand.

You stop crying in your shock, and your head jerks up to look at him, and the both of you stare at each other, unsure, for a long quiet moment.

He breaks the silence first.

“I’m sorry. I-I-I know we can’t touch you without permission but-but-but you weren’t LISTENING and I-I-I had to. You were hurting-hurting-HURTING yourself.”

His repetitions are getting noticeably worse, and so is his volume control. He’s stressed beyond his limits, clearly.

Your remaining panic evaporates at the realization and guilt suddenly takes over, washing over you in waves that threaten to drown.

Your right hand is trembling as you pull it away from your face, poking out of your sleeve and reaching out towards him, no longer caring about the absolute hell you must look like right now.

You grab onto one of his upper arms and pull yourself towards him with what little strength you have left in you. He sat up straight as a board in response to your sudden shift in position, clearly not expecting you to fall right into him. He quickly recovers though, gingerly adjusting you to be more comfortable in his hold.

Your voice is miserable and thick with tears when you speak, face making a mess of the soft, colorful ruffles around his neck. He doesn’t mind it at all, at this point. They can be washed.

“Don’t, please… don’t apologize. Just…”

You let out a shaky sigh.

“just hold me… please.”

That’s permission enough for him, and he quickly gathers you further up onto his lap, adjusting so he’s leaned back against a cabinet and you can lay against him.

“Okay… okay. We can do that.”

He slowly brings your injured hand up to inspect it better in the light, and mutters another string of quiet apologies when you whimper in pain. From a quick scan he can tell that nothing is broken- thank heavens - but it will definitely bruise something awful. He also quietly takes note of the way your sharp nails must’ve broken skin, as there’s tiny dried specks of blood along your forearm when he cautiously lifts your sleeve.

The injury warning pop-ups are still flashing in his vision, but they’re easier to see through now. You’re stable. You’re safe. There will be time to patch you up once they get you calm.

Speaking of they, Moon is now throwing an absolute fit inside their headspace, more impatient than ever to be released so he can do his job. You need to be calmed, you need to be soothed, you need to rest.

[ LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT ]

Sun shoots him a silent response as he brings a hand up to cradle the back of your head against his chest, heart breaking all over again at the way you still tremble against him.

[ You know I would if I could. We have to wait for the lights to go out. Have patience. It’s nearly your turn. ]

He outwardly flinches at the sudden sharp volume of Moon’s voice in his mind.

[ PATIENCE? I just had to sit back here and witness them actively HARMING themselves like a helpless SPECTATOR and you’re telling me to have PATIENCE, SUN? REALLY? ]

Sun settles you back down against him when you stir in response to his sudden movement, assuring you once again that you haven’t done anything wrong.

[ Moon. Please. Look at them. Now is not the time to be fighting. ]

Moon doesn’t reply, so he adds on.

[ I… sincerely thank you… for editing the rule for me, you know? ]

He hears Moon sigh in exasperation, and feels the tension in their headspace begin to slowly dissolve.

[ …yeah. You’re welcome. Don’t make me have to do it again. ]

As if on queue, the lights power down in the plex all at once, and their transition begins. They feel the way you suddenly tense at the realization, and they hush you as their voice shifts from Sun’s into Moon’s.

“Shhh, shh, shh. You’re okay. Everything’s alright, little star. No need to be scared. I’m right here. You’re still safe.”

You keep your head buried in the fabric when you speak.

“Moon?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Are you… mad at me?”

He struggles to keep it together when he hears how scared you sound.

“Not at all, doll. Never. Never mad at you.”

He brings your left hand back up a bit to get a better look at it through his own eyes, and his body releases a soft burst of warm air from his vents.

“Mad at ourselves? Mmmaybe. But that’s none of your concern. It’s over now. We’re gonna fix this. We promise.”

He shifts a little, and whispers a soft question.

“May I move you up to our room so we can clean you up?”

You nod against him, humming in unenthusiastic acceptance.

His movements are incredibly careful and fluid when he picks the two of you up off the floor. Walking out of the storage closet, he calls down his tether and adjusts his grip on you to assure that you won’t slip.

You cling tight to him with your good hand, and close your eyes to avoid the unpleasant sight of being so far up in the air. Before you know it, you’re being lowered onto their bed so carefully one would think you’re made of glass.

When you finally detach yourself from his chest so he can put you down, you finally notice the dark tear-tracks leaking from his eyes. They shimmer, reflecting the dim string-lights hung throughout the room. You reach out to him, trying to wipe them away and failing miserably, smearing the dark stains further across their faceplate.

He gently takes your hand and brings it to his smile, pressing the equivalent of a kiss against your skin before placing your hand back down in your lap.

“Don’t you worry about us right now, star. You do that enough already. It’s your turn to be taken care of now.”

He shifts from his crouched position by the bed and moves to stand, intending to go fetch the first aid kit. You stop him by clinging to his hand with a nervous whine when he pulls away. You don’t even recognize how small and vulnerable you sound when your thoughts slip out of you.

“Where… where are you going?”

He crouches back down to your level, brushing your messy hair back away from your face.

“Just need to run down and get some things to patch you up with, doll. I’ll be back within a minute. Do you think you can wait for me here while I go do that?”

He’s slipped into caregiver mode, speaking to you like he’d speak to a frightened child in the daycare, but honestly… right about now, you don’t feel much different. His kind, patient tone works wonders to quiet your lingering fears.

“Okay… yeah, I can wait.”

He moves to press another kiss to the crown of your head when he stands back up, whispering to you.

“Very good. I’ll only be a moment. Wait here for me, starlight.”

You don’t count the seconds it takes him, but from what you can tell he stayed true to his word, for it couldn’t have been more than a minute before he was swinging himself back onto the balcony, arms full of various items.

He quietly sets them down one by one on a table in the room, and turns to you, crouching down again to be on your level.

“Now, patching up injuries is usually Sun’s thing, but I’m fully capable of it as well, if you’ll let me.”

You nod in silence, looking down, letting the shame, guilt, and embarrassment wash over you again. He picks up on it, and is quick to reassure you, crouching even further down and tilting his head at an angle so as to catch your gaze again.

“Hey, hey, hey… you don’t need to be ashamed of this. We’re not angry with you, and you don’t have to explain anything tonight if you don’t feel up to it . ”

Some of the tension bleeds out of your shoulders at that, and you take a resolving breath before granting him permission to tend to you, holding your left arm out towards him.

“…Thank you.”

He takes it in his, and reaches to grab a cleansing wipe from his pile of assorted things.

“It’s our honor to care for you, love.”

He hesitates, looking you over for a moment before setting the wipe back down and turning to you.

“It’ll be easier to do this if we take your jacket off first. Would you like assistance?”

You raise your arms out away from you, nodding sheepishly.

If he could smile any bigger than he always is, he would have.

“Alright, then. Mind your hand…”

He gently removes your jacket and folds it over the back of a chair. Then, returning his attention to your arm, he tears the pouch open and pulls the cloth out.

“This will sting at first, but it’s necessary, okay?”

You nod, only wincing slightly as he cleans your scratches and then pulls out a tube of some sort, twisting the tiny cap off with nimble fingers.

“This will help you heal.”

You watch quietly as he takes the utmost care to evenly coat each red, stinging line with the ointment, and in the back of your mind you wonder if this is a bit overkill for a few scratches… but you’re hesitant to turn him down. It couldn’t hurt, and you were rather enjoying the treatment. Far, far more than you’d like to admit, honestly. The torn lines of skin run all the way down your forearm to meet your knuckles, and he doesn’t miss a single spot.

He then turns away, pulling out a thin roll of gauze, and gestures for you to hold your arm out once again. When you offer it, he begins wrapping your arm up, starting from your hand. He’s extremely careful to not put undue pressure on your swollen palm and wrist, and once it’s secured around your hand, he winds the dressing all the way up around your arm, covering every little wound.

You’re nearly in a trance by the time he fastens the bandage in place and pulls back, pilfering through the other things he brought. You snap out of it when his voice breaks the silence again.

“Would you like my assistance while changing into something more suited for sleep?”

You nod before you even really register the inquiry, still too caught up in how good it felt to be bandaged up the way he did. It’s not like he hasn’t seen you undress before, anyways, so you don’t dwell on it too much when he guides you to stand and helps you remove your wrinkled work clothes.

Digging around in their dresser, he pulls out a plush pair of your sleep pants that you leave here for unplanned nights like this, and an oversized Superstar Daycare logo t-shirt.

He squats down, letting you use his shoulders to support your unsteady frame as you step into the pants, pulling them up around your waist before guiding you to sit back down on the bed. Reaching for the shirt and motioning for you to lift your arms, he makes sure the sleeve doesn’t catch on your bandages as he drapes it down over you.

You’re tempted to collapse back into the mattress then and there, but he’s not done coddling you yet.

He begins climbing all around you and gathering up every pillow in the room, propping you up and placing them around you to form some sort of… protective nest, you suppose? Whatever he’s doing, it seems like very important work in his eyes, so you let him fuss over the arrangement ‘til his heart's content, watching him with a small smile and tired eyes.

Once he seems satisfied with his work, he gently picks your left hand up and places it on its own special elevated pillow. He takes a ridiculous amount of care to make sure all of your bruising fingers are spread out in the best possible position, and then looks to you in question.

“Is this okay? Comfortable like this?”

You nod with a bemused smile, and he tilts his head for a moment, gauging your expression. Whatever he makes of it, he seems content now, and so he returns to his duties.

Reaching back to the table, he pulls over an ice pack, carefully wrapping it with soft fabric before situating it over your hand and wrist. He spends a few quiet moments just holding it there, practically staring straight through the ice pack and down into your injured hand. There’s something almost… far away about his voice when he speaks this time, but it’s gone again before your tired mind can question it.

“This should help bring the swelling down…”

You give him a tired smile, and a quiet thank you in acknowledgment.

That seems to snap him out of whatever momentary daze he had slipped into.

He moves back, stopping to take stock of the things he brought with him for a moment before grabbing a wet-looking washcloth and settling himself down on the bed in front of you.

“You’ll sleep better if your face isn’t all hot and tear-stained.”

You’re not gonna decline him, but you do feel compelled to say something.

“You really don’t have to go to such lengths like this, Moon… I don’t really feel like I deserve all this pampering after the burden I’ve been here lately...”

His body language visibly falls, seeming almost hurt by your words.

“Let’s get one thing straight, doll. 

You are no burden. 

Second of all, if you think that this is pampering…”

He lets out a small, sad laugh, looking down and obviously thinking something over internally.

“…then you’ve need to raise your standards, love. This is just basic care.”

He turns back to meet your gaze again.

“Besides. We’d be some pretty awful caretakers if we couldn’t even do this, wouldn’t we?”

His faceplate spins until it’s done a 180, reversing its path and righting itself once again as he speaks. That gets a small smile out of you, and you drop the subject, closing your eyes and leaning in to let him wipe the mess of your breakdown from your flushed skin.

Once you’re cleaned, he steps away for a moment, placing the damp cloth back atop the first aid kit on the table. He’ll put everything away in the morning, but for now, he’s quite hesitant to leave your side again. The small mess of assorted items and today’s dirty clothes will have to wait until tomorrow.

Leaning down to pull their belled slippers off, he places them neatly away to the side. You eye his long fingers as he lifts the back of their neck ruffles, deftly undoing the small bow holding them on, and watch as it unravels. He tosses the fabric onto the same chair he hung your jacket from, and your eyes follow his hands as they move down to his waist, fingers working to undo the tie that holds their pants up.

You avert your gaze as the star patterned fabric drops to the floor, pooling around his ankles. It’s not like there’s anything about each other you haven’t already seen before, but it still feels a bit inappropriate to just sit here doing nothing and watching him undress.

As you lean your head back to stare up at the sea of glow-in-the-dark stars that decorate the ceiling, he steps into the longest, softest pair of black palazzo pants known to mankind, a rare find of yours from a lucky trip to a thrift store.

You hated it when you first found out that they either had to sleep in their work clothes or nothing at all, so you had begun to buy up any casual clothes you could find whenever you happened across something that might fit their unusual frame.

He wraps the ties around his thin waist twice, tying them into a neat bow in the front. He then grabs a baggy, cream colored open-front cardigan and slips one arm after the other into it. Loosely wrapping the sides across his front, he turns and makes his way back over to the bedside. He didn’t particularly care one way or the other about wearing any sort of shirt to bed, but you often fell asleep on him and weren’t a big fan of waking up with your cheek adhered to the silicone of his chest plate.

When you notice his approach in your peripheral vision, you pull your lidded gaze away from the stars above you to look at the Moon beside you.

He settles himself down right next to you, careful to not disturb the nest he’s created, and then reaches out to the bedside table one more time, returning with a bottle of water and a packet of your favorite crackers, which he presumably snatched from the daycare’s pantry.

Why on earth it is that this is the gesture that finally does you in will forever remain a mystery to you, but at the sight of him presenting you the food and water, your eyes well up again with tears you didn’t think you had left.

He visibly falters for a moment, unsure if he’s done something wrong. He drops the crackers down onto the bed, freeing a hand to reach out and cup your cheek, guiding you to look at him. His voice is heavy with a quiet concern.

“Hey, hey, no more tears… Why are you crying again, starlight? Is something still hurting you?”

You smile in spite of your shining eyes, and lean into his touch.

“They’re good tears this time, Moon. I just… Thank you. For everything, for all of this, thank you. Both of you.”

He seems to relax a bit at that, and his thumb runs over your cheek to brush away a stray tear. His eyes get that distant look in them for a moment and you realize he’s listening to Sun.

“Thanking us is not necessary, but you’re very welcome all the same.”

He opens the water bottle for you, assuring that you’ve got a good grip on it before he lets you take it. As soon as it hits your throat you realize just how thirsty you were, greedily downing about half the bottle before Moon’s hand appears in your line of sight, gently ushering it away from your pursed lips. 

“Please pace yourself, starlight.”

You swallow your current mouthful of water as you watch him open the package of crackers, expecting him to hand it to you before you remember that you’ve got a bottle in one hand and an ice pack on the other. He picks one piece out of the package and as he brings it up towards you, you connect the dots quickly enough.

“Open.”

Oh, brother, he’s really giving you the full treatment tonight.

You feel heat return to your cheeks once again, albeit for a different reason this time around. Your voice comes out in a mixture of embarrassment and want.

“You don’t have to feed me…”

His faceplate angles down to the side, cocking his head at you. If he could smirk you’re sure he would be right now.

“But we want to.”

He gently nudges the cracker at your closed lips and you side-eye him as you part them just enough to snatch the food in between your teeth. You pull away with a small smile as you chew, and for some reason you struggle to look him in the eyes.

If circumstances were brighter, he’d likely be teasing you for being so shy, but tonight… Tonight, he sets the jokes aside. He patiently feeds you one cracker after another, reminding you to take a small sip of water every few bites. At some point, when your mind slows down enough for you to notice the silence permeating the room, soft music begins to play from the speaker hidden in his chest.

It’s the tune that he reserves especially for nights like these with you, one that he never plays during nap time. In spite of how little Sun and Moon have to call their own, they still manage to find small parts of themselves to share only with you.

Once you’ve finished your snack, you let him place the remainder of your water back on the side table. When he turns back to you, ready to get you laid down to sleep, you’re fixing him with a thoughtful stare. His faceplate tilts 45 degrees, his tone curious.

“What are you looking at?”

Your tired gaze roams across his faceplate, following along the smeared oily tear tracks he seems to have forgotten about. You then look past him, over his shoulder, and your eyes land on the still-damp cloth on the table.

“Would you hand me that cloth for a second, please?”

He’s silent for a moment, processing your question, but eventually reaches behind himself to retrieve it for you. When he places it in your open right hand, you use it to gesture out in front of you.

“Can you move to sit in front of me for a minute?”

He tilts his head the opposite direction in confusion once again, but does as you requested. You motion for him to lean down a bit until his face is level with yours.

Once you can reach him, you pinch one corner of the cloth between two fingers and set to work wiping away the dark tear tracks. You follow the path they’ve made down from beneath their eyes, around the inner curve of their cheeks and down to their mouth. The trails of inky fluid had weaved their way through the crevices of their smile and eventually converged, pooling in the bottom curve of the crescent moon.

You feel his eyes, now tiny pinpricks of red in a black void, following your every movement. Not really in a dangerous sort of way… he just seems more taken aback than anything. When you’ve wiped every last trace away, you meet his gaze briefly as you give him one final look over, and you give him a small smile.

You go to hand the cloth back to him and he doesn’t move to take it, still sitting there with his hands clasped in his lap and staring straight at you. Oh god. Knowing your luck, your attempt at returning the favor has broken him. Cautiously reaching out, you take one of his hands in yours and maneuver it until it’s face-up. You ball the cloth up and place it back in his palm as your hand comes to rest over top of it, eyes darting across his frame in search of any movement, any sort of response.

“Are you still with me, Moon?”

At your words, his faceplate suddenly clicks back and forth a few times before making one full rotation, the bell on the end of his hat grazing the pillows below you along the way. Life seems to finally return to him, and his fingers close around the cloth in his hand as he leans back. Silently, he moves from his spot seated in front of you to return the cloth to the table before settling himself back down in his prior spot beside you. You turn to look at him, uncertain, and his gaze is settled on the bed sheets when he speaks.

“I never left you.”

Your tired mind struggles to understand what exactly that means, looking up at him with furrowed brows.

“Huh?”

He tilts his faceplate to look down at you, still being a head taller than you even when you’re sitting next to him.

“You asked me if I was still with you.”

His hand reaches out and he carefully laces his long fingers between yours.

“I never left.”

A warm feeling spreads through your chest at the sincerity in his voice and in that moment, you can’t do anything other than lean into him, gently resting your forehead against his shoulder. After a little while of just breathing in the moment, you speak again.

“I just… wanted to return the favor. You two take such good care of me, wiping your tears is the least I can do…”

One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head against him.

“It’s entirely unnecessary but we both appreciate it nonetheless. We really do. We’re just… not used to it. Being treated so gently is… unfamiliar to us.”

You pull your left hand out from beneath the ice pack in order to wrap your arms around him in a proper hug, talking into the fabric of his cardigan.

“Oh, come on, guys… you’re starting to sound like me now.”

Moon resists the urge to reprimand you for moving your hand, instead allowing their body to lean into the embrace, wrapping long arms around your soft, vulnerable body. His voice sounds far more exhausted than any animatronic's voice ought to when he speaks.

“…it’s well past your bedtime, little star.”

You put the last of your energy into squeezing him as tightly as you can before you finally let go, allowing him to re-situate you however he deems fit.

You know that there’s a heavy conversation to be had tomorrow, and you’re gonna have to find a way to hide or explain away the remnants of your obvious injury to little questioning minds on Monday. You’ll have to think of all the right things to say to anyone who may ask questions, and you’ll come up with something, you’re sure. One thing you can find comfort in though, is that you don’t have to worry about any of that with Sun and Moon.

They deserve a more detailed explanation of course and they’ll get it when you’re ready, but at least for tonight… the three of you can rest knowing that you’re safe and understood in each other's arms. None of you are strangers to this, and you both know that things will be okay again. One step back doesn’t erase any of the progress you made beforehand.

So for now, you breathe in deep and focus on the feeling of gentle, strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you safe from anything that may seek to harm you.

Even if that’s yourself.

A/Ns: Crisis Text Line provides free, 24/7 support via text message. They're there for everything: anxiety, depression, suicide, school. Text HOME to 741741. Or, you can click the link here to visit their website for more information and resources. As usual, if you want to see all of my commentary and additional context in regards to writing this fic, you can find that in the notes right here on AO3!

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[azsazz]

The Midnight Hour

Vampire!Cassian x Reader

Summary: After a rough night at the bloodhouse, you stumble across a handsome male you've only seen once, a soft gleam in his eye as he reaches out to help.

Warnings: Blood, reader works at a bloodhouse/brothel.

Word Count: 3,366

Notes: Happy Monday my lovelies! 💙

_________________________________________

Your mind swims in darkness, but not the soothing kind. Not the kind that streams down on you from the bright moon, a caress of silver that drives your heart’s steady beat. It isn’t the darkness of calm, nor lovers, but of one so achingly painful and lonesome that you don’t know how you’ve managed to survive it.

Chilled to your very bones you groan, blinking yourself awake. The room is plunged in black, and if you couldn’t feel the plush couches beneath your tender body, hear the muffled moans of pleasure through thin walls, and smell the metallic twist of blood in the air, you wouldn’t know that you’re awake.

Your neck throbs like a bee sting, painful as always upon the first break of skin. If you reach your fingers up to trace the punctures on your throat, they will prick with discomfort. You wonder if the blood has even dried yet, how long you’ve been unconscious.

The memory comes back in bursts. Golden hair. Green eyes. A set of dimples almost as startling as the sharp set of fangs he donned. Voice a low rasp that even without compulsion could bring anyone to their knees.

Used to it, is what you are. Selling yourself to make a dime in the city of Starlight, where vampires roam freely, drunk off of lust and well, blood. They crave it like the moon chases the sun, needing it to survive, just as you need the shiny coins lining their pockets for that exact reason. A trade to survive.

You told yourself that you wouldn’t stay here long, fleeing from your home court to find out if the others were any better.

The first time you had ran into one of the creatures of night, you almost hadn’t survived. Just like tonight, the vampire drank and drank, eyes glazed over like they were painted with lechery, his firm hold pinning you to this very chaise had gone soft, pliant like a lover’s as your blood sated the primal urges flashing hot beneath his skin. He was hungry, starving nearly, pupils pinpricks and canines as sharp as the knife stowed in your boot.

The owner of the bloodhouse, Aima, had greeted you with a sinful smile and offered you refuge for the night in exchange for your services. Sleeping with him you could handle, but as he led you to a room with nothing more than a wink, you knew you should’ve kept running.

Even the werewolves weren’t quite as ravenous as the vampires.

Groaning, you manage to force your arms under you, shoving yourself up. Your head spins like a dancer’s twirl, her captivating beauty only one you’d been able to view as a server at the party, silver tray in white-gloved hands, offering fae wine to royals who ignored you completely or glared at you as if the action alone would send you bursting into flames.

It never did though, even as much as you wished it would.

Coins glint in the low light sweeping in from beneath the door. They’re scattered everywhere, running from across the sofa to the floor. One tumbles down the front of your gown as you right yourself. The hungry vampire who paid for your services had either come to his senses when the haze of bloodlust had washed away from his vision, guilt fueling him to toss the payment haphazardly in his haste to leave, or he simply did not care, the only thing stopping him from being able to come back even if he had sucked every drop of your blood dry would be if he didn’t pay. 

They always pay.

It takes you longer than you’d like to collect all of the coins. Your head is dizzy and your breathing is labored as you move sluggishly throughout the room to gather your payment. It takes you two tries to curl your shaking fingers around the first one, appendages colder than the vampires skin themselves, stiff and stinging like needles.

You count, then stuff the few extra coins in your boot, right next to your knife. The rest you’ll leave for Aima. Hopefully you can slip out without him seeing. You huff as your fingertips brush the hilt. Fat lot that it does. You’ve never been able to so much as reach for the weapon, as more powerful vampires can paralyze their prey. Handy for them, very much a danger for yourself.

Your knees buckle as you try to stand but you can’t stay here any longer. Aima will come looking soon, when he either realizes you’re in here alone or when he walks by and doesn’t hear the muffled moans and gasps of the ecstasy that comes with a bite. 

You might only have mere moments, so you lock your legs and twist the doorknob. Your body feels heavy. Sweat already lines your brow just from the effort you’re using to keep your body upright. You lean heavily on the wall as you stumble your way down the familiar halls, legs unable to bear your full weight with the amount of blood you’ve lost tonight.

Close. So close to completely losing your life. You never wanted this for yourself.

The iron door is almost too heavy for you to shove open. You’re sure your shoulders will be the perfect evidence of how you’d shoved your body into the metal, mottled purple, green, and yellow. But not even those colors will take the eyes off of the red holes in your throat.

You don’t live far from the bloodhouse, five blocks at the most in an apartment building that has seen better days, next to a neighbor who drinks and fucks like she has both on retainer.

Even so, it’s yours. You can’t wait to hear the slide of the lock on the door with you on the other side, safe for the night. With the tip the vampire had left you tonight, you wouldn’t have to go back to the bloodhouse for a few days, but with the way that your head pounds and your neck burns like flames, you’ll have to spend all of the extra money you’ve earned on seeing a healer tomorrow, and you’ll continue in this never ending circle of Hel you’ve managed to find yourself in. 

City of Dreamers, what a lie.

You trip over upturned cobblestones. Your knees crack loudly on the ground, echoing through the abandoned streets, and you know the vampires nearby will stir. You can feel your palms tear open on the stones as you try to catch yourself. The last bit of energy expels from your body and you slump to the ground, a breathless lump in the middle of the streets. The bite of your hands is the only thing keeping you from slipping into the warm embrace of darkness yawning a chasm in your mind.

Forcing your eyes open confirms what you’ve thought. Your palms are bleeding and you know without a doubt that one of the creatures lurking in the night will follow like a bloodhound, hungry.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be for you, a wholesome meal for the vampires of the Night Court. Maybe it had been your mistake to flee here, even if the lure of having all your dreams come true was the one thing on your mind. You should’ve gone to Summer or Autumn. Surely sirens and kitsune are better than vampires. Dawn would’ve been ideal but you never would have had enough money to travel all the way to the Lands of the Angels.

A voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade through soft flesh. It’s rough, a strain of confusion as he speaks your name.

“Cassian?” you gasp, blinking away the darkness trying to swallow your vision. He towers over you, even more so than he had that single time he’d bought your services for the night. You can still remember the flash of his stubble against your neck when he went in for the bite, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before a brush of his fangs, sending a shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the icy cold of his skin and everything to do with the handsome male.

But he hadn’t come back. It was unusual for a vampire not to return to the bloodhouse after a particularly tasty meal, and you had more returning customers than you could count, but Cassian had never been one of them.

“What are you doing out here all alone at night?” He sounds like he’s scowling and when you finally focus on him he is. His thick brows are furrowed and there’s a frown adorning his perfect face. His hazel eyes glow as they take in your crumpled form.

It’s so hard to lift your head up to meet his gaze, heavy with cement. “Bloodhouse,” you breathe, “Greedy–ah, greedy asshole.”

Cassian growls low in his throat. You watch his nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, the blood on your palms, coating your throat, and the slow pace of your heart. That’s how he knows you’re not yourself. The last time he’d seen you your heart had been beating so fast he thought it might try and jump from your chest into his. 

It’s why he hadn’t come back. He could’ve sworn that his own heart had jumpstarted in response to yours, jolting in his chest when it had been an unmoving thing sitting inside of him for centuries. You smelled like the sweetest perfume and tasted like ambrosia of the gods. The tender touch he’d used to hold you close to him turned iron as he tore into the cushions trying to hold himself back from draining you and mounting you all in one.

If he had blood running through his veins it would be boiling. He’s angry nonetheless, and you can tell by the way he goes as still a stone for a second, thunder raging in his gaze and wings twitching at his back. 

His gaze goes soft as he looks you over once more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “You’re too cold. That’s not good, especially coming from me.” He tries to joke, brushing some of the damp hair from your face. You’re too hot but you’re shivering, lips tinting blue. 

“I’m f-fine,” you whisper, but your teeth are clacking too hard for you to make out the words.

Cassian tuts softly, making sure you’re secure to his chest. Large, membranous wings unfurl from his back, and the moonlight shining down across them makes him look like a winged hero. 

Your winged hero.

“Let’s get you home.”

You’re too weak to protest, to even stay awake as he flies. You would love to see the sparkling stars above and the twinkling city proper as he goes but your eyelids feel like anvils, shutting on their own accord.

You rouse when Cassian lands, the jolt of his feet on solid ground again stirring you from your slumber. 

“Where are we?” you slur, looking around in wonder. Your eyelids are still heavy, the comforting feeling of unconsciousness that your body screams that it needs is drawing you in like one of those sirens from Summer, but you force yourself awake, drinking in your surroundings.

It’s a quaint home, buttery light casting warmth throughout the room. There’s a fire raging in the hearth and Cassian snags a blanket off of the back of the well-worn sofa as he goes, tucking you in. 

You bury your nose into the softness of it, and the smell of sandalwood melts your straining muscles.

“This is my home,” Cassian says gently, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s answering. “I will be taking care of you, sweetheart. That’s an order.”

“An order?” you snort, peering up at him. His hazel eyes are a shock of freshness as he holds your gaze, not needing to look up to know the way throughout his own home. “Who do you think you are?”

The smirk he gives you makes your head spin. You squeeze your eyes tightly and let your head fall against the hard planes of his chest again. “An order from the High Lord of the Night Court’s commander of armies.”

You huff in his arms, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as his boots hit the first stair. “I’m no soldier.”

“No,” he agrees softly, “But you are a survivor.”

Something coils in your chest and you refuse to open your eyes, to answer. If he asks you’ll blame it on the loss of blood, the throbbing in your throat and head becoming louder and louder the longer you stay quiet, pounding like his boots against the wooden stairs.

You let yourself be, floating in and out of consciousness as you cuddle into Cassian’s strong chest. There’s the sound of water, and he adjusts you for a moment as he pours sweet scented oils into the bath. The room fills with the warmth of sandalwood, the scent that’s clinging to his very being.

Cassian murmurs your name, and when you blink up at him, he smiles. “I’ve run you a bath. It will help warm you up and I’ll take a look at your neck afterwards. Are you able to get into it on your own?”

You look at the inviting tub, filled to the brim with bubbles. There’s ripples of heat wafting from it and the thought of even sitting in something that luxurious brings tears to your eyes.

He sets you on your feet but your knees buckle. Cassian holds you upright and you try to cling to his shirt but your grip is weak.

“I can’t,” you shake your head, an errant tear escaping. It rolls hot across your cheek and the male before you is quick to wipe it away, shushing you soothingly. “I need help.” 

You can see his throat work around a swallow but you don’t call it out. He nods once, curtly, like this is just another mission he’s on, formulating a plan and how best to execute it. Overthinking it.

His fingertips are deft as he pulls at the ties of your dress. It falls away in a wave of blue but you don’t blush or shrink away from him, you’re much too tired. Cassian holds your hand while you slip out of your undergarments and helps ease you into the water.

You sigh, immediately settling back against the side, reclining so your body can absorb as much of the warmth as possible. You’re still feeling a little dizzy but the aroma of Cassian helps ground you, calm you.

“Can I take a look at your throat?” Cassian asks after a few moments. He’d been a statue at your side as you settled, the little pleased noises you released going straight to his cock. He willed stillness into his bones, thought about the worst things imaginable, like the bathrooms at the warcamps or the beast living in the library.

You hum in agreement, tilting your head away so he can have a better look.

Cassian plants himself by the side of the tub, fingers brushing your wet hair away from the wound. He hisses, cursing. The wound is tender, red dribbling out of the marred flesh. The bastard must’ve been half-feral with the way that these punctures look. He’s undeniably furious.

“Well, how bad is it?” you ask, though by his reaction you think you already know.

“You’ll have to drink some of my blood,” he answers, and you can hear the grimace in his voice, “But I think a tough female like you will pull through.”

You let your head fall his way in a lazy motion, wincing as it stretches your wounds. You try to cover the twist of your mouth with an unconvincing grin. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, affirming. “Yes, you’ll live. That’s an order.”

Your smile turns real. “Sir, yes sir.”

Cassian chuckles as he brings his wrist to his mouth. You watch with intrigue as his sharp, glorious fangs rip into the delicate skin of his wrist. When he moves the bloody arm towards you, you catch the sight of his pink tongue lapping up the remnants of blood on his lips and you wish he was doing that to your skin, your mouth, your cunt–

“Drink,” he demands softly, hazel eyes nearly glowing in the low light, as if he can tell what you were thinking.

You do as he asks, a tentative brush of your tongue that drags heat up his spine with the motion. You nearly moan at the taste of him, all hot and heady like a drug. Your second gulp is eager, blunt teeth clamping at his wrist like you’re a vampire of your own.

Cassian lets you drink as much as you want, even after your wound begins to close. He watches you closely, his pupils becoming larger and his breaths become deeper the more you swirl your tongue against his skin. This is everything to him, to have what he’s been aching for but not letting himself have for so, so, long. 

This…this is better than him drinking your blood, the sweet sight of you taking your fill from him, the prideful feeling that he’s providing for you fills his chest.

“Thank you,” you breathe, breaking him out of his trance. He blinks, not realizing that your lips had left his skin. Apparently it’s not only vampires that can paralyze their prey. 

“You’re welcome.”

He stays by your side, helping you with the soaps even though you feel better than ever. You feel like a whole new woman, ready to go back to the bloodhouse and kick Aima’s ass. Cassian’s blood is vibrating through your body, and it feels like every icicle that’s been slowly forming in your body after these last few months of working at the bloodhouse melt. You feel invincible, and as your head clears you begin to understand the very appeal to blood the vampires of this court have.

“You look cold,” you murmur before you can think clearly about what you’re saying. “You should get in.”

Cassian frowns, “Get in?”

You nod, even though your heart trips at his reaction. Your anxious fingers skim the top of the water, wisps of heat coiling around your fingertips like smoke. Shrugging, you answer. “You look cold out there.”

“Cold,” he whispers, “Always so cold.”

Your heart aches for him in that instance. He can see it in your eyes, too, that you care. So he takes off his shirt.

The fabric lifts over his body, revealing rippling muscles that look carved from precious stone. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart skips in your chest. 

Cassian tosses the clothing into the growing pile at his feet. His hazel eyes are hot as they take you in, the top of your knee sticking out of the water and up, to the mark on your throat, now only to pink dots across your otherwise smooth skin. They linger on your mouth, and when he meets your gaze, you know that you’re his.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is throaty, rough like he’s been screaming for years. “Because if I get in that tub with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave.”

His admission makes the breath catch in your throat. You don’t dare break eye contact, even as you see the way his pupils dilate in response to the way your heart picks up in pace.

“I know.” 

The breath leaves his chest in a whoosh and nearly as fast his trousers fall to the ground.

“Are you positive?” he asks again, ever the nervous gentleman, so close to having what he’s always wanted.

You roll your eyes, sitting up further so he has room to join. The water slides down your body and Cassian can’t seem to look away, his throat going dry when it covers the bottom of your breasts.

You flutter your lashes at him, a siren beckoning its prey into dangerous waters.

“Yes. And that’s an order.”

[xcyphoz0a]

When the night stole you away

Gender neutral reader, angst TW/CW: mention of death Character(s): Tighnari Word count: 912 Proofread: n/a | He disliked the night. Especially when you disappeared in the darkest times within those 24 hours. | A/N: …hi. also i'm supposed to go sleep but i needed to get this idea out before i lost it :)

Spirit Borneol–an incense commonly used for meditations practised by Sumeru scholars.

Tighnari would never think he’d be using it–for this particular manner.

Yet he couldn’t help but find his hand subconsciously reaching for the little metal carved bowl of incense, as he finds himself drifting towards his own utopia–a world of something that was catered to his own tastes, his own, his likes.

He’d find someone waiting for him in the cool, yet warm forest–standing or sitting on one of the rocks next to the tree that he walked up to.

He noticed how his downturned ears and lifeless tail would spring back to life as he’d nearly bound over towards that someone, eyes given back life as if water had been poured on a dying plant, waiting for the water that it so desperately needed.

It felt as if the darkening circles of accumulated pain and loneliness had been lifted off of his eyes and skin.

Yet when the incense’s effect lightened and dissolved into nothing as his utopia began to fade, he’d feel the weight of his reality come crashing back down, the reality that he desperately ran away from, avoided, hid from.

It would come running, hunting him, the hands of the cursed shadow of reality that took him by his ankles and pulled him into constant turmoil and isolation.

Tighnari would let out a quick huff–the irony of his life being the bane of his own existence, he honestly couldn’t believe it. Yet he felt it now, it was overwhelming. It forced his soul down towards the ground, waiting for him to break, crash, fall, shatter.

He knows why he’s like this now.

He knows all too well.

He thinks he could’ve done something to prevent it, no, he knows– he’s sure he could’ve done something.

But he was too late.

He’d like to blame the traveller, the city and the Akademiya for taking so long, he wants to blame the illness for being too hasty, to take someone’s life…

Though he knows that there’s no one to blame except for the fate that life throws on to people once they’re born.

It only pains him that this was the end.

Tighnari remembers the day when you disappeared, with only the husk of your physical, tangible form left for him to grieve.

He remembers when he had crashed open your door at the darkest night with the traveller and Collei, only able to find you on the bed, alone, a smile left on your face as he ran over, shaking you and checking for any signs of life.

He can recall vividly how he felt the tears fall down like heavy rain before he found you, he can recall the anguished choked sounds of his own breath on that day, he could hear Collei’s gasp, her tears, the traveller’s neutral yet teary expression, Paimon’s own tears.

Your own house had filled with the cacophony of anguished weeping and crying.

The young girl–Collei– held on your hand, your hand, the dark, hardened scales that decided to take your life before it was eradicated.

The traveller and Paimon could only stand and feel the tears slide down endlessly from their eyes to the floor.

But all of them knew it was him that hurt the most.

Tighnari’s heart could rival a breaking glass as he felt his heart be crushed by the steel hammer of your death. When he had finally heard that the damned illness was gone for good he was ecstatic– he watched with happiness as the city burst to life with the news. But you weren’t there–where were you?

Perhaps, he’d think, you were just tired, he didn’t think much yet when you didn’t appear at all until the sun had set and the moon had woken, the eating worry led him to your house, running and breaking open the door.

He could recall the feeling of the hard scales that took over your hand, the scales that covered your once soft hands and touch.

The scenes from your lying form to your funeral runs around in his mind playing ring around the rosie as he watches, eyes losing its vigour.

The night that blanketed over Teyvat had such bright, twinkling stars–the moon seemed to have smiled, the subtle white light of the moon’s reflection of the sun shone over your sleeping features.

You looked beautiful, as always.

But the eerie silence and lack of breathing stole it away as it rendered you to nothing but a lifeless husk of your tangible existence.

The night that stole you away had a star. A lone star that seemed to twinkle and shine brighter than the others.

Tighnari wishes. He thinks that it’s you–watching over him.

Yet in the end he’d be coming back to this meditation–where he’d be able to find you waiting for him, smiling blindingly bright and happy as the two of you stayed in each others’ arms, watching the butterflies dance, the birds coming to rest on your shoulders and head.

And when it all came to an end and he’d leave with tears, the night came back to greet him.

The night that reminded him of you.

He wishes it a scornful goodbye as he moves to go on his patrol. The distaste on his face hides the sorrow and anguish of his grief.

And when the moon shines its subtle white silvery light on his face, a teardrop falls.

He loathed the night.

Taglist: @chaoffee @scribs-dibs @solstarz

[wren-l-winter]

“Abandoned again?” Those cool words slipped through the darkness like a serpent’s forked tongue.

The hero sat in the center of the chamber, bathed in moonlight from the hole in the ceiling. Chains glinted around her limbs, allowing her to kneel but restricting any further movement. She looked into the shadow, frantically trying to find the viper in the shadows. “My team will come back.” A laugh, sweet as poison, filled the high ceiling. “Like they did last time?” The villain stepped into the gentle lighting, basking in the way the hero recoiled at the sight of her. 

“Last time was different.” 

Were the villain capable of pity, the hero would have earned it. “Is that what they told you?” 

Metal clinked together as the hero squirmed. “It’s true,” she insisted. 

A hum filled the room, low and sensual. “Forgive me for not believing you.” The slow, elegant footsteps of the villain took her along the moonlight’s edge. Too close for comfort, and yet far enough to give a false sense of ease. “Why don’t we play a game, hm?” The dark silhouette of the villain continued to idly pace around the circle of moonlight. “Perhaps you aren’t lying and your team will come for you.” The villain paused behind her captured prey. The hero turned her head, startled by the sudden silence. Amusement played on the sharp line of the villain’s onyx lips. “Call for me when you’ve decided they’ve abandoned you.” 

The hero’s silence was admirable but foolish. They both knew the hero’s supposed friends would never return. They expected the villain to let her go, as she had done time and time again, but what would they do when the hero realized they’d truly left her behind?

The villain left her alone in the chamber's silence. 

The moon gave way to the scorching sun as the hero remained. Brilliant rays bit back the darkness and warmed her cold, stiff limbs. But as the day wore on, the chains grew hotter. 

“Free me.” The hero’s voice rang in her ears like a murder of angry crows. 

The villain appeared in front of her, delighted at the visage of the squirming, sweaty hero. “And why would I free you?” Gorgeous eyes, so soft and pained, looked up at her. “Have they abandoned you?” 

“No.” The hero shifted, her skin red beneath the metal sitting on the flesh of her shoulders. “If you free me, they’ll show you mercy.” A bark of laughter burst from the villain. “Show me mercy? Me? Oh no, my dear, have they really convinced you they could beat me?” Her figure trembled with restrained laughter. “Sweet, delicate flower, they couldn’t kill me even in their dreams.” 

“They could!” 

“Then why haven’t they? Why do they keep leaving you like a sacrificial lamb? Hm?” 

“They don’t.” The hero bowed her head, unable to look at the sneering villain.

“I see your delusions remain intact.” A harsh sigh left her. “Very well. Call for me when you’ve realized they won’t come for you.” 

The sun loomed above her, slowly crossing the sky as it continued to scorn her beneath its brutal gaze. When dusk arrived, the door to the chamber groaned open. A silent servant shambled into the room with a bowl and a bucket. Calloused fingers pinched the hero’s nose until she was forced to open her mouth. Watery, cold porridge was forced down her throat—the villain already knew she’d resist any food or water offered to her. The chains were loosened enough to slide the bucket beneath the hero before the servant disappeared, offering her the illusion of privacy. Several minutes passed before they returned to fetch the bucket and tighten the chains. The hero had shifted onto her rear, allowing her to stretch her leg as much as her bindings would allow.

The heat of the day gave way to the prickling chill of night. Metal cooled, offering a reprieve from the angry throbbing along her shoulders. Relief turned into shivering. Alone, in the darkness of the chamber, she rocked from side to side, trying to do anything to keep herself warm. Fog swirled from her lips as she tried to blow warm air on her stiff, aching fingers. She remembered her team’s captain, how he’d gently cradled the hands of his lieutenant when she’d complained of the cold. The hero yearned for the care offered to each member of her team, and yet, she always found herself pulling her coat tighter, fighting the frigid night on her own. 

Soft, clicking footsteps echoed around her. “How’s my darling hero?” Her words were sweet and soft, but they cracked against her nerves like a barbed whip. 

“Cold.” 

“I can see that.” Behind her, the hero felt her enemy close in. Warm, delicate hands brushed through her unkempt hair, sliding down to gently rub the tension along her stiff jaw. “You could come with me. There will be a warm bath waiting for you and you can sleep wherever you’d like. I even have your favorite blanket in my guest room.” 

The aching fibers of her jaw relaxed beneath the villain’s painfully familiar touch. She closed her eyes, imagining the soft fur against her. The first time she had been left behind, she’d been offered a room instead of a dungeon. The villain, cruel and wicked, had offered her every luxury she possessed. The hero still didn’t understand why. “What do you want in return?” 

“The same thing I always want—for you to be honest with yourself and me. They don’t care about you. They never have and never will. You’re expendable. Something to be left behind when you’re an inconvenience. Look at you.” The villain’s touch disappeared as she moved in front of the hero. “Caught in a trap they could have saved you from, but why would they sacrifice themselves for you? Hm?” 

“They know you won’t hurt me,” the hero said. “You’ve let me go every time.” 

“And what if I didn’t this time?” The villain crouched down, her features etched skillfully with neutrality. “Do you think they’d try to set you free?” 

Uncomfortable silence fell over them. An entire day had passed since her team had disappeared. “They would come for me…” 

“And how long do you think they’ll wait?” 

The longest the villain had kept her for was three weeks before the hero had miraculously escaped. There had been no news of her team during her time with the villain, but when she’d returned, they’d said they’d searched for her. They wouldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know,” she said, though the words scraped against her heart with an iron claw. 

The villain regarded her for a long moment before standing. “I will come when you call for me, even when they won’t.” She stepped into the shadows, letting them consume her. 

Left only with the ache in her chest and the weight of the chains bearing down on her, the hero let the first of her silent tears fall. 

When the darkness lifted, the servant came again—their treatment as harsh and swift as before. 

The cycle continued for days. The hero’s skin, abused by the sun’s torment and the scorching metal, had blistered, and begun to ooze creamy puss. Discomfort had long since turned to incessant pain. Night and day offered her no reprieve from the isolation of the chamber. The villain had stopped visiting her, though the hero suspected she watched from the shadows. The phantom presence of her enemy offered the smallest comforts as she recalled the time spent with her team. They were always doting and caring when in need of her talents, but when there was nothing for her to do, they left her out of their conversations. At times, they were even annoyed when she spoke up. They’d never listened to her suggestions. She was an instrument for them to wield and discard until they needed her again. And now they’d left her behind. But they hadn’t just abandoned her. They’d left her helpless to the whims of their enemy—to suffer at the villain’s hand until she was released again. She was convenient to them. Something to swoop up when the villain was done with her and use again to their advantage. Had they ever truly needed her? Did they even like her? Did she mean anything to them? 

Nine days passed before the weight of the chains and her team’s betrayal became too much. 

The villain’s name had hardly left her tongue when she appeared from the shadows, as radiant as the sun and just as oppressively beautiful. “Why have you summoned me, little lamb?” There was no kindness in her smile, nor was there cruelty. 

“Everything hurts.” The hero looked up, her eyes hollow and dark from lack of sleep. The villain said nothing. She bowed her head, the movement pulling painfully at her blistered skin. “Let me go,” she whispered.

“You know my price.” 

The hero’s shoulders trembled, too tired to show any restraint. “I thought they’d come by now.” 

“Disappointing, isn’t it?” There was no empathy in the villain’s words, only thinly veiled disdain. 

“They should have come.” The hero’s lips trembled as she stared at the ground. “I would have come for them.” “You wouldn’t have left them behind.” 

“I don’t understand” Her voice tightened, dancing on the edge of tears. “They said they would come back. Every time I disappeared, they said they did but I was gone. Why haven’t they come back yet?” 

The villain lowered onto her knees, taking her sweaty head within her gentle grasp, coaxing her gaze up. “Because they do not see your value, sweet flower. They don’t see how hard you work or how much you care. All that matters to them is what they have to gain. You’re of no use to them when they have to save you.” 

“I could do better,” the hero whispered. “I could train. Be more careful. They wouldn’t have to save me.” 

A gentle thumb wiped away the hero’s tear, smudging the grime on her delicate features. “You know it would never be enough. They don’t see you as one of them.” 

“They used to.” The hero’s hands clenched, her nails slicing open the tender flesh of her palms. “They used to care about me.” 

“You don’t need them to care about you,” the villain said, her voice cool and calm. “Not when you have me.”

“You left me here to freeze and burn.” The hero yanked her head back with all the feeble strength she could muster. 

“For good reason.” Gentle hands fell away and waved over the chains. The villain murmured and the heavy bindings fell away. “You needed to see the truth.” The hero slumped forward into the villain’s arms. “I just wanted to be good enough for them.” 

“The problem was never your worth, lamb.” In one smooth motion, the villain swept the hero’s weakened body into her embrace, taking her away from the chamber. 

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part I — A Beetle in a Matchbox 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: sexual assault, grief (past loss of parents/caretaker). 

A/N: This story is about surviving sexual assault. Over the past two years I’ve been writing this an effort to cope and process my own experience, but I also set out to write this for others who have suffered this as well. I wanted to craft a story that explored healing, finding a partner who understands consent, and feeling safe with them. Not every reader may be in the headspace to read this as I deal heavily with the wave of emotions that comes after an attack. The attack itself I did not desire to go into violent detail of, but it is there and it may be triggering. 

Regardless, I want any reader who decides they aren’t in the right place to read this because of the triggers to know that healing is possible, that you are not broken, ugly, or worthless, and no matter how much trauma has taken from you, you can still live a good life. Arthur Morgan is a comfort character I imagine would be that partner who understands boundaries and vulnerability and sees a woman he holds feelings for as more than her pain.

Part Two | AO3 Link

In memory, the woolly tufts of a moon-white dandelion swayed in a long departed breeze. You held it close, contemplating your heart’s desire amidst the babble of brook and the music of birdsong.

I want my first time to be with someone I’ve given my heart to.

The wind sifted through your skirts and the trees, meanwhile the deepest hope of your heart unfurled with a wishful blow until all that remained of the dandelion was a bald stem. You cast it off into a pebbled stream for the water to claim. The seeds coasted in the air and a motherly breeze carried them in its gentle wake, cradling your wish to the future day it could come true. No spider webs ensnared them, and the canopy parted to admit their passage into the turquoise sky. On that bank you stood on the cusp of womanhood, your world lush with possibility and untouched by tragedy, allowing your young heart to nurture such a naïve fantasy in the spring sunshine. 

                                                            ~ * ~

                                      ~ I — A Beetle in a Matchbox ~

Sawtooth Mountain Range, Idaho. 1891

 In the before, life was a fairytale. It was rising with the sun to a land still cold from a night beneath the mountains’ shadow, where wildflowers purpled the meadows and dawn trailed amber fingers through the abundant evergreens. Every day you opened your kitchen door little changed. Each morning, before you unlatched the garden gate, you enjoyed the music of singing birds alone, breathed in deep the thick and clean scent of pine, and cherished every place the sunlight touched in this little, precious corner of the world. From spring thaw to fall frost, the morning grass beneath your lively step held pinhead glitters of dew, dampening your hem as you would amble to the chicken coop, basket in arm and contented at the sight of a tawny rabbit nipping at the vegetable patch. It was the rewarding routine and rustic simplicity of tending a goat and digging your fingers in the fresh soil of your garden, the enjoyment of friendly society while working at the hotel in town and the privilege of sharing a cottage with your grandmother—the only family you had left.

A few years after you were born you lost your parents to cholera. You had no memory, fond or otherwise, tethered to them and the objects they left behind to unfailingly inflict the salt and sting of grief. Tucked inside your blouse you kept your mother’s ring on a chain, and on your bedside table a portrait of them sat framed and propped. The coolness of the metal and the sepia tone of the photograph made you smile with gratitude for what pieces of them remained. Pieces that were soft and unserrated, that you could hold on to, thumb the edges, and feel only the smooth ease of kinship. But the most comforting reminder of them all was your grandmother.

To you, she was a soft-spoken and welcoming woman, one who had lived a full life beneath the sun by the token of her laugh lines and the fan of wrinkles beside each of her eyes. With others she was sensible and solemn, and not a person to scam or underestimate.

Few saw the side of her you did: the kindhearted woman whose hair you helped pin up in a nautilus of braids each morning, whose dainty collar was kept mathematically straight. She often took you through the forests and taught you all about herbs and curative plants, instructing you to gather the roots of ginseng and the ruby heads of yarrow for teas and tonics and you took an instant proclivity towards it. She gifted you with a stack of field guilds on mushrooms, wildflowers, trees, birds, and everything else within the forest to prepare you. With a cattleman stowed on your hip she trusted you to venture out alone, and your horse, Willa, carried back your fragrant pickings in large, leather sacks that hung from her saddle on the path home. In the evenings, through the space in the boughs overhead, a scarf of smoke greeted you from the cobbled chimney of your home, where inside a stew pot waited, simmering with the fragrant steams of vegetable broth.

Those were treasured times, and you would never fully appreciate the true goodness of those days until your grandmother passed away, because for as much as she taught you to watch out for yourself, you still had so much to learn about the dangers of the world.

The people from town came by to offer their condolences and casseroles, and Mr. Greely gave you a week’s pay and time to grieve. You would get back on your feet, you knew, but you were grateful for everyone’s generosity and sympathies.

Winter came, a season of most cold reflection, and the solitude of trackless snows resembled the emptiness in you. Food turned to ash in your mouth, the pale and placid blue of the sunrise on mountain snow stirred no awe in your eyes, and you drifted through life as if it were a waking dream. Loneliness was a pit, and long had you trailed the span of its walls with unfeeling hands to a degree of familiarity and cold comfort, circling, circling, listless and hollow. 

As snow did, melancholy mellowed with spring. A day came when you awoke and opened the windows of the cottage to a renewed earth, wherein the singing liberation of fresh streams and rosy birds suffused the air and lifted your spirits. A breeze stirred the curtains. A cloud melted in the sky. The serenest of sunshine warmed your cheeks and a wind cleared your lungs, and each breath you inhaled was like a sip of chamomile tea as it swept its balmy way through your body. Venturing out, steps bedded by clovers, the water you drew from the mossy well held your reflection, and within its silver glimmers you glimpsed a girl who had grown into womanhood and aged a year in the space of a season. You were not the only one to notice this change.

With the spring the surrounding woods grew replete with game, drawing in hunters from all around, of which included one familiar face: the town Sheriff. He rode a buckskin horse with syrup brown eyes and a tail so long it brushed the earth; a wild stallion he tamed himself. The horse’s dappled flank often carried deer pelts on his way back from the deep forest. A trail wound not far from your cottage and he loped up one day, checking on you. You spied the old cedar stock of his long gun, stowed in his saddle holster as he pulled up the reins, the fringe of his suede jacket rippling as he jounced to a stop.

A howdy was exchanged as you balanced a basket of currants on your hip. Hand cupped against your brow, the sun beamed warm through the straw of your hat and you offered a polite smile to the man with a neatly trimmed black mustache, his face otherwise clean-shaven. A few minutes of amiable conversation ensued—him discussing the heavy snowfall of the winter and you assuring him you managed the harsh season. He took a more meaningful tone when he inquired about living on your own, if you had a means to protect yourself, and if you happened upon any unfriendly-looking persons. You knew well how dangerous it was for a woman to live by herself, in the wilderness or otherwise, regardless of the presence of your father’s old hunting rifle mounted above the fireplace. His concern was not unwarranted, after all you supposed it was his job to keep the town and the people in it safe. Knowing that someone in the world was watching out for you was a small relief you welcomed, but you wished you peered past the cloak of concern to unveil the underlying intention behind his appraisal of your competence before it was too late.

He visited weekly. Oftentimes he brought a bundle of wildflowers he had collected on his journey over; bluebells, because they were his late wife’s favorite. And no shortage of compliments accompanied him, either. Both you accepted awkwardly, not used to receiving this sort of attention as you handled the uprooted, bent stalks with the utmost care. He was on his way with a tip of his Stetson before long, and you pushed all thoughts of men far from the forefront of your mind as his horse’s hooves thumped off into the waning afternoon.

You wished you paid more attention when the Sheriff spoke of his wife’s passing and tried to relate his grief to yours. He loved her, and the naïve part of your mind believed the love in his heart would remain and never dwindle, because the love you held for your family endured despite the tragedies. He made you laugh on occasion, made you look forward to his visits, and worst of all, he got you to trust him. But he began to ask things of you, about you. Questions too personal. Would you be looking to get married since you were of age? Were you sweet on anyone? Questions that made you stammer in a way he mistook for something other than being flustered.

For as long as you dreamed, you dreamt of what falling in love would be like. It was the momentous landmark you looked forward to reaching the most in life. Something worth treading the painful slopes and crumbling scree of loss. To disclose that dream to him would be to give the wrong person the right piece of yourself, so you guarded your answers to his intrusive questions with ambiguity. He would huff, thwarted, but somehow, in some inadvertent way, he took it as encouragement to think his forwardness was welcome, because maybe he never would have come to you that night.

An invincible storm had rolled in. Rain poured wild and cold against the windows in veins of silver mined from the ore of thunderclouds, battering the panes and drumming the roof. Dark through the wilderness shone the sheer slanting waves of the downpour, lashing against the trees until their branches bowed in submission, moonlight devoid throughout. Flows of water sluiced through the baskets of geraniums hanging in the eaves and ran off the shingles, splashing down upon the ground in rippling puddles that danced with each new drop. Droplets and branches tapped against the other side of the cool glass against your hand, meanwhile, at your back, your dinner popped and hissed in its pot. You turned and drifted away from the window pane at length, and let the lacy curtain fall back in place.  

After supping, you draped a knitted throw around your shoulders and settled near the fire at last, to doze and drift in the peace of falling rain while tucked inside, safe and warm. As logs of cedar and birch snapped, sadness tapped against the window of your mind, as it often did, and your gaze was lost to the flames in rumination, the book in your lap forgotten as you reckoned with your circumstances. You were as content as you were able to be without the ones you had lost, but in the hollow of your heart your grief was a wound that never healed and yawned at times. Your grandmother’s perfume of heavy, dark red roses still clung to the soft weft of the blanket you held close—a smell that made you tender towards the past. So many traces of their life upon the Earth remained. 

A horse’s whinny broke your reverie. Your book fell as you jolted from the chair, seeking out your gun on the table before investigating the disturbance. Willa was situated in the small stable, and if someone was outside—

Rigorous knocking rumbled through your door frame, followed by a familiar voice, pleading.

You set the gun down and yanked open the storm-pelted door. At the same time, a boulder of thunder rolled through the night. Across the land lightning flashed through the sky to illuminate the weathered face standing at your threshold.

“Sheriff? What on Earth—“

He barged past you without invitation, shotgun ready in hand. For all of an instant you stood frozen in bewilderment, until the gusts of wind billowing in prompted you to shut the door and your gaping mouth. He was on a mission, it appeared, because he ignored your protestations.

The Sheriff blustered his way through your tranquil home in a whirring of spurs and a splatter of muck. Dirt ankle-deep caked his riding boots, his feet muddier than a pig’s hooves as he searched about the main room in a frenzy, yanking open doors and shoving aside furniture. Each of his intrusive footsteps quaked the floors, shaking the fine dishware in its special cabinet, the copper pots hanging above the dry sink, and the shelves of jarred fruits and jams. He carried rainwater and the look of a storm in his wake, shattering the peace you found earlier this evening completely. From his ebony gun belt a hunting knife and a freshly-oiled Schofield hung prepared beside his Sheriff’s star.

You stood waiting, arms folded, for an explanation.

When the last place for him to search were the floorboards you stood upon, he sagged and sighed with relief, deflated. He removed his hat, his face no longer obscured to reveal the grim line of his mouth and a hard determination simmering in the umber of his eyes. At last, he explained himself.

He said he came as soon as he heard to make sure you were safe. Safe from what? you asked. Bad men were about, he stated. Outlaws, murderous train robbers and thieves wanted across two state lines. Men devoid of a human conscience. The words sunk in with a weighty silence of understanding, silence in which the rain filled and your imagination could wander to gruesome places. Strangers seldom passed through here, let alone outlaws, you commented.

“Now you understand my lack of decorum. I hope you can forgive my negligent manners.”

Solemnly, you nodded. The hairs along your arm had risen, skin prickled, and you sought the ring hanging from your neck out of habit. To hold it against your heart and trace its comforting shape kept you grounded in moments of uncertainty.

In his hands he fiddled with the brim of his hat. A puddle formed on the floor where he stood.

“You must be chilled to the bone,” you ventured. “I’ll pour you some whiskey.”

“That’d be mighty fine of you, miss.”

Your hospitality indicated a hesitant welcome, but the Sheriff was clueless to your apprehension. The rain subsided to a light tapping on the roof and window panes; he could have his drink and be on his way momentarily. You turned to busy yourself with finding a glass. Meanwhile, the click of his spurs trailed over to the wall hook. Fabric rustled as he hung up his Stetson and shed his dripping coat.

With no electricity, you relied on oil lamps to keep your cottage illuminated. The steady, amber glow cast from the etched glass sconces always imbued the acorn brown stain of the woodwork with warmth and charm. However, the Sheriff’s presence in your home inverted all the comfort you found within it. The dried herbs hanging in the rafters offered no rich and earthy smell, the bowl of fruit on the counter promised no sweet taste in the gleam of their ripe skins. But you ignored all of these perceptions and the insect crawl of wariness creeping along your spine and retrieved the bottle of rye whiskey you kept for medicinal purposes.

You kept your back to the Sheriff as you perused your selection of glassware for a suitable tumbler. Touch skipping lightly along the wood, dust coated your fingertips as you drew from the top shelf. In the pit of your stomach dread curdled. Outside, the storm had lessened, but another one of unease was brewing inwardly. Through the reflection of the cabinet doors you caught the Sheriff’s stare as you shut them, latched to your form. The shameless indulgence in his gaze provoked a flare of ire through you and you cleared your throat with an air of reproach.

“Where was this gang of Dutch van der Linde’s spotted?” You turned to him, shoulders and chin raised in an effort to appear untroubled. The question hung for a moment as the Sheriff considered where to place his undue shotgun. The stock settled against the table leg and he straightened at your approach, smoothing a hand over the broom of his mustache.

“Near Taylor Ranch,” he answered.

You blinked. Without a hat, shadows no longer concealed his pockmarked cheeks and the bushy, ungroomed lintels of his eyebrows. His shirt was wrinkled and damp from riding in the storm, clinging to his skin. The top two buttons were uncharacteristically undone, peeking wiry chest hair.

You had paused, but not because of his unkempt appearance. The whiskey shivered in tones of gold and brass as you set it on the table absently, along with the glass. Light from a lone, flickering candle caught the ginger liquid like a brazier.

“That’s only two miles from here.”

A log fell in the fireplace, spent, embers spitting.

“Indeed.”

He thumbed the curling petal of one of his bluebells, a faint smile dangling on the corner of his mouth. You had arranged the latest cluster of his in a porcelain pitcher set on your table. Below, your eyes dropped to where a few of the flowers had withered and fallen upon the table runner. 

Pondering, wood creaked as you retreated to the fireplace, leaving him to his drink and odd fascinations. Meanwhile your fingers worried with your cuffs, twisted in your skirt as you swirled in the eddy of your thoughts. The Taylors. Closing your eyes you remembered the smell of their home: fresh baked bread and strawberries. All of your visits had the flavor of berries and apples. A cross-stitched picture of a goose wearing a bonnet hung in their window and welcomed any who knocked on their door, which Mrs. Taylor would swing open with a smile and a gingham apron around her waist. 

Though she had a square jaw and chapped lips, crow’s feet and a stern demeanor, her hugs were the warmest and most welcoming. No one was a stranger at her doorstep for long, for she was quick to invite them in and fuss over a pot of tea and offer her finest plate stacked with shortbreads. Her motherly hospitality and friendliness of heart healed a wound your parents' loss opened. Taylor Ranch was a place you sought in the hours you yearned for solitude and contemplation, amity and freedom. Within their prized orchards resided plentiful avenues for you to explore in the summer and stroll through in the rustling Octobers, twisting from the trees the honey-sweet pendants of autumn to bake into pies. 

Marveling at the filigree of branches through which the sun cast its lemony light, it was in this enchanting place you first met the Taylors’ youngest son, Gideon. And what a meeting it was, all those years ago: he fell for you, literally—off an orchard ladder to a ground strewn with windfall apples, his collarbone snapping in the process. 

In a rush you swept to his side, apples thudding to the leafy ground. The boy roiled in pain, his face contorting, and you rose to action. His family came running when you called for help, and you did your best to haul him back to the house until his older brother retrieved him from where he leaned against your shoulder. Together you gingerly delivered him to the sofa in the sitting room and his father galloped to fetch the town doctor. 

You stayed at his side, this strange boy, noticed the dimples set in his pale cheeks and his russet hair—the rings of which his mother swept aside soothingly. Such soft features garnered an unfamiliar attention from within you. You had stared. 

The doctor arrived and set the bone, the grimacing sound and sight of which you closed your eyes against. Standing aside uselessly, you fidgeted with your mother’s ring for lack of occupation. Mrs. Taylor registered your worry and assured you that you were blameless for his injury. 

For days you thought of him. Though no words had passed between you, the glance you first shared with each other stilled time and lingered in a meadow of memory. Curiosity was all it was—towards a feeling, an interest in another. Gideon was the first boy to capture your attention in such a way. 

At the end of that week you returned to the ranch bearing a basket of sourdough biscuits. Slathered in honey, warm from the oven, your recipe yielded the fluffiest batch perfect for sharing. When she answered the door Mrs. Taylor had the most knowing smile on her face before calling over her shoulder. Gideon appeared a few moments later, a sling around his arm and a thumb hooked in his suspender. He had a hard time meeting your eyes and shifted on his feet when you offered to lunch with him. You sat on the porch together, enjoying the sight of chickens scratching at the fenced-off squares of dirt, of barn cats lazing in the sun, observing the last of autumn’s spell fading in the air. 

You visited him while he recovered, kindling something pure and sweet with him. He admired you a great deal. But afterwards, when he was well again and you had no excuse to see him other than the obvious, a kiss was sealed. How peculiar and unexpected it was, the moment he leaned towards you. Sitting beneath a giant oak tree while acorns dug into your hands, you found you dreaded it: the nearness of him. In your mind a kiss was a lucent dream of falling blossoms and a soft blue haze of light, like the very action were a twist of a key, unlocking your soul to another. At least, that was what you had wanted it to be, had always imagined it.  

When Gideon the boy kissed you it was a wet slide of his mouth—hungry, rushing, pressing hard and then sucking while his hands groped, seeking parts of your body you had yet to grow into. You sat frozen, eyes wide, not knowing how to move as his tongue roamed. So you took it. Afterwards, you wiped the ring of spittle around your mouth with your sleeve. He had smirked as he leaned away, and you no longer admired the dimples in his cheeks. You made an excuse to leave and when you returned home your grandmother asked if something was wrong, but you never overcame the shame of it to tell her. 

A revulsion built and simmered within you for the next few weeks. In town—for you had ceased to visit the ranch—he would press you against the clapboard behind the general store and beg for your lips and your hand to hold as he humped your hips, and he would tell you what he wanted you to wear when he next saw you. He was a foolish, over-eager boy, and he had no notion of romance or how to properly treat the one he was fond of. He knew so little about you and what your heart wanted, and you were disinclined to share any more of yourself with him. Unable to bear it any longer, you broke his heart, and he blamed you for every unhappiness henceforth. 

Throughout the passage of ten years his face and the unwelcome manner of his caresses remained unbearable to picture. No longer a boy, Gideon had grown from a clingy and imprudent child into a snobby and spiteful specimen of a man; an arrogant prig who filled his role of deputy at the Sheriff’s office exceptionally. You had long cast him from the forefront of your mind, but the Sheriff’s mentioning of the Taylor’s home and the threat posed to it brought the unpleasant recollections rushing back, and it took a moment before you recovered your composure. 

The heat of the fireplace fanned across your cheeks. In the night thunder cracked, calling you back into the atmosphere of the room, where you knelt at a stone hearth, ash on your sleeves. Wood gathered, logs clunked in the grate and scattered sparks as you tossed them in. Your thoughts of the past reached a conclusion at the glug of liquor filling a glass; with your back to your guest you broke the long lasting silence. 

“You should be checking on them, not me. Are you rounding up a posse?” 

A pouring of liquid answered. His eager lips approached the brim of the glass and swallowed it as if it were a fount of water in a desert. You turned to him as he filled it again. 

“I can’t do anything in this storm, and neither can those reprobates,” he pulled out a chair at the table, settling into it as happily as a worm in an apple. “‘Sides, Ned has hired guns and four strong boys to protect his property, whereas you‘re all alone out here—” A cough interrupted him. He blew an appreciative whistle once his throat was clear, sniffing the bottle. “This is some strong stuff you got here.”

Irritation flared within you at his blatant display of indecorum, evident by the propping up of his booted feet on your table. With his bandana pulled down low, the V of his throat gleamed with sweat as he tipped the full glass back. His Adam's apple bobbed, big as a turkey egg.

“Sheriff, while I am grateful for the trouble you’ve…” A drop of mud splattered on the table from his boot. You blinked at it. “—taken on my behalf, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.” Not bothering to hide your annoyance you poked and prodded the logs in the grate with a fire poker, leveling his gaze afterwards. His expression held not a drop of seriousness or concern.  

“I can see that,” he chuckled. The key of his voice rang clear with condescension. With a great sigh you hung the poker back on its stand and dusted off your hands, looking about the room with a curled lip. His earlier theatrics had displaced much of your furniture. 

Your throw blanket laid in a soft puddle on the floor. You bent and folded it in a neat square, draping it over the back of your armchair, and setting that straight, too.  

“You don’t need to worry. I’ll make sure those men don’t come near here. By high-noon tomorrow, they’ll be human fruit for the buzzards.” Trouble must have lined your expression, for the aura of pride radiating from his demeanor softened, and you found his gaze fixed moonily upon you. His words painted a grisly image of the scaffold in your mind, which dispelled with a shake of your head. 

“What are they looking for, do you think? There’s nothing for men like that out here.”  

You wandered over to the window. Behind you, the Sheriff capped the whiskey. 

“The law is after them. They pulled a heist near Salt Lake and now they’re on the run with some big score, looking for a place to hide and wait for the heat to die down. But they’re fools,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “And get this, they apparently give their money back to poor folk, like some sort of Robin Hood gang. They think they’re hero outlaws doing good deeds.”

You had no idea what to think of that. The clock on the wall ticked. Some minutes had passed since the last rumble of thunder, and your hand had naturally sought the ring hanging around your neck in the course of staring off into the night; the rain only pattered, no longer drumming hard on the roof. 

“The rain is stopping,” you said. 

Chair legs scuffed across the floor. “I suppose I’ve worn out my welcome?” 

Turning, you rallied a tepid smile. He had risen to his full height, his clothes still damp and wrinkled. Looking at you, he passed a knuckle across his lips, the hairs of his mustache scritching and the gold of his wedding band flashing. Across the room dark eyes descended from your face, fixing on the hand near your breast. You dropped it and squared your shoulders. To bring his attention back to your face, you called out his name in question.

After all of these years, you wished you could have forgotten it. It would have been a small mercy to your memory.

“I’m sorry, I forget myself sometimes. It’s just…you’re so pretty, standing there in the firelight like that.” 

His voice was but a murmur. It was so strange—hearing those words from him. They were supposed to be soft, and from any other man they could be, but his brash voice and hungry stare ruined anything gentle about them. Like putting lace gloves on a fishmonger, they were all wrong and unsuitable for him. They prickled the cold kind of goosebumps down your arms, making you shiver like a rabbit caught in a trap.

At your speechlessness, he took a step in your direction.

“Sheriff,” you started, putting your hand up. Pressing on, you measured the tone of your voice to be as low and as serious as you could muster. “I think you’ve had a drop too many.”

He smirked at you, hooking his thumbs in his belt, beside his badge and his gun. One of his eyes crinkled and the crooked slant of his mouth revealed the stains of tobacco on his teeth. 

“No,” he continued on. His steps, as they advanced, grew more condemning than the ones before it, maintaining his slow and leisurely gait. “I’ve noticed it before. I’ve noticed for a long time.” 

The truth. So plain before you; it dawned dreadfully like a blood-red sun at sea, shone clear like coins in the murk of a well. The authenticity behind his hebdomadal visits and floral offerings rippled into clarity with those few words: for a long time. How could your eyes have looked everywhere but at the black heart of him? That moment, too, was no exception. You sought salvation from the sight of him by glancing around the room, meanwhile chiding yourself for not being more distrustful and vigilant and for overlooking his true intentions. 

Graciously, his foot knocked against something. You caught your breath. For a moment, you had the chance to scope out your options, and put some distance between you and him. 

The Sheriff picked up the object impeding his path. Your book—the one you had been trying to read before his fists pummeled your door. The embossed title flashed beneath his passing thumb. 

Wuthering Heights. 

Long ago the thundering storm and crackle of flame ebbed away, especially within those pages. Branches captured in the sway of a breeze adorned the cover modestly for such a tale of the nature of love and bitterness. 

“You’re lonelier than I thought,” he said, quiet and drifting like an afterthought. You tensed. “There’s another reason why I came here tonight.”

He set the book aside and stood. The sideboard rattled as your back bumped against it. 

“I think you should leave.”

“Leave? Is that what you really want?” 

In one devastating blink, he was before you, so close the thin and pale violet skin beneath his eyes was visible. The fumes of alcohol on his breath stung your nostrils and you wrinkled away as he tipped the sharp beak of his nose to sniff the crown of your head. 

You could not help the sharp breath you took at his sordid deeds, the sound of which only pulled his gaze to your quivering bodice and your knuckles, tightened on the edge of the sideboard. He had you blocked in, like a beetle trapped in a matchbox, skittering from corner to hopeless corner. He licked his lips. 

“How long are you going to play at this?” A touch meant to be soft and reassuring singed your wrist. “Always looking so pretty and proper, the picture of a perfect wife,” the touch of his hand turned into a vice grip, so total and absolute your fingers could not move. A numb feeling overtook your limbs, your senses held hostage by fear. “Then actin’ all innocent as if you don’t want me too.” 

Another touch, this time seizing your cheek coldly as the statue that you wish you were not. At the imminence of his hot, wet mouth seeking to devour yours you found it within yourself to move. A wave of urgency swelled up and carried you away, towards the door, but he had you in his grasp before any hopeful seed of escape could be planted. 

The kitchen table with its cheerful lace runner and softly burning candle jostled as your front was bent over it, knocking the pitcher of bluebells to the floor. Porcelain cracked and you watched the water pool, petals floating, darkening the wood, and you wished the night that passed would fall apart into similar pieces, to leave the memories scattered and unstrung like the beads of a broken necklace across a floor. 

“What’s it going to take with you,” he had hissed in your ear, his spittled words dripping black, wicked and vile. Metal jingled. Fabric lifted. Cold air met your legs. Buttons freed their hold.

Stop. 

“I always knew you were a—”

Stop remembering. 

“—pretty thing.”

Absorbed in his vice, he little cared for his actions, entranced by his insidious deed. Foul words and heavy breaths hissed through his teeth and echoed for years after. 

Your mind left your body. But you remembered all of it. 

And you were so tired of remembering. You hated how easy it was for him to take everything from you. You hated the lust that drove him, your body for being an object of his desire, and yourself for being unable to stop any of it from happening.

The ringing report of rifle fire split the night, and it was the only thing that made him stop. But the damage was done. He tucked his shirttail in, buckled his belt. Left; a promise to return the next evening finalized by a vulgar squeeze to your backside, stinging your flesh. 

Wood scraped along your nails as you slid to the floor, clutching the table leg, trembling. At once, with an empty stare and shaking limbs, tears blurred your sight as all of your remaining strength relinquished. You curled into your body, disconsolate. Hugged your knees. Sobs, sobs, sobs wrenched your jaw apart in mourning what was lost and what was done to you.

It would follow your every other thought, that scene of despair in the lonely dark of night. You were cold for so long afterwards; for months, in a way no blanket or bowl of soup could remedy. The misery nested so deep within you. Further than the marrow of your bones. 

Every day for the rest of your life you would remember his hands. On you, squeezing, guided and distorted by depraved intent. Darker and drearer fell the night, and the full tide of your thoughts consumed you in a bitter, burning woe. 

Until dawn there was nothing but the pale, dead gold of the moon. You saw nothing. You felt nothing. Your mind only replayed it all, over and over. 

The violent tint of dawn crept in between the curtains. On the end of your lashes the last of your tears hung, and as the light came upon you, so softly bright, the deep-welling sorrow that sunk your heart yawned into something else. An emotion that braced your hands against the wood floor, collected you to your knees, and drove you shuffling forward. Shame. 

In your bedroom you gathered soap and new clothes into a basket before stepping foot outside. A glorious morning announced itself in every sound, from the sweetest music filling the trees, to the wind that gently stirred their nascent leaves. But it all fell on deaf ears. Your senses were lost to grim contemplation. 

Along a forest path rippling waters wandered. To their source they led, and alongside its flow you followed. 

Ties loosened, you dropped your skirts to your feet at the riverbank. All over, your skin spidered with memories of how he had touched you. The fastenings of your clothes came undone mechanically. You pretzeled arms behind your back to yank at your shirt buttons until all of your body was bare to the misty morning. Silver water whispered its coldness between your toes as you stepped forward onto the pebbled, silty shore, walking without seeing, feeling nothing but the cold encasing your ankles, your knees, rising up until the river embraced your shoulders in a purging chill. With a breath you dipped under. In a blink you escaped. 

Beneath the surface, the feelings and the memories dimmed. Slippery rocks brushed your feet and you grasped a slimy branch to sink farther. Little white bubbles floated up as you let the wintry temperature of the water numb your mind into blessed silence. The sensation calmed you, and that was all you wanted; the only thing you could seek within your tremorous reach. Quiet, and a state of unfeeling. Until that moment all of your thoughts were a repetition of the same statement of instability and unease: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Teeth chattering; every pore over your body squirmed with the taint of his violation every step of the way to the river. Only beneath the current had it stopped. At last you ceased to think. 

Your heart seized and your lungs begged for air. And again, something brought you up. From the kitchen floor, from the bed of the river. With a gasp you broke the surface and your eyes fixed upon the sky. The great blue bowl of it was ringed with treetops, eagles circling—the world around you, going on as it should while droplets trickled down your spine. Clouds of river foam gathered around the stagnant driftwood you stepped over while treading to the bank. Taking a seat upon a rock, you scoured your limbs with soap until the skin squeaked and your fingers pruned, the bubbles drifting downstream. From your hand, ice cold, help deep in the river, the water fell over your knees and your shins, down your shoulders and in the hollow of your back, cleansing and numbing. With the print of the Sheriff’s fingers no longer pressed into your skin, you dried and dressed, ready to face the scene inside the cottage once again. 

Too often in this world girls become women before they are ready, before they are strong enough, before they know enough to endure all of the trials womanhood entails. Losing your family to sickness so young, being on your own completely, you thought your world was as bleak as it could be. Until the night that passed—when the universe peeled back another layer of darkness to descend over your life.

Upon approaching the front gate of the only home you had ever known, something changed. The familiar consolation of its shelter was absent. No smile tugged your lips at the dance of dragonflies in the air, at the tulip bulbs in your garden plot sprouting toothy stalks from the dirt. 

Within each season resided a singular wealth unique to the forest, the remembrances of which carved fond grooves in your mind to touch over in times you sought comfort, the niches imbued with a sense of belonging and safety. You reached inwards for them. 

For the trinkets of winter, silver, blue, and white—the sugaring of snow, the glittering of frost, the river’s music silenced by ice. Leading to the light of the sun warming once again, stout icicles dripping onto emerald moss, coaxing the golden crocus from the thaw. How, slowly, the days grow longer, April rain moistening the lichen on the roof tiles, darkening the soil, spawning the green scent of an Earth renewed. 

It was as if every page of memory were ripped from the book of your life, leaving an empty tome. There was no story left for you here. 

The door threw a trapezoid of light when you opened it. Standing in the threshold, a five-leaf cluster wandered down from the sky and landed on the floorboard, dotted damply with the night’s rain. Inside, everything was the same, yet changed, like some place in a dream. The house was as dark as a tomb, haunted with the echoes and dust of people taken from you, and someone who took from you. Nothing but a vacant chair welcomed you.  

On the mantle rested trinkets from your parents. A pocket mirror of your mother’s, silver and elegant, and a rosewood pipe of your father’s, smooth and genteel. To hold them in your palm, curl your fingers over their edges and clasp them to your skin as if wringing out the last ghosts of their touch, as you so often did, would only bring you to your knees. You needed to move forward and leave it all behind. You needed—

A chip crunched beneath your foot. You stepped away, revealing the obliterated piece of vase. What a helpless, fragile vessel. Admired throughout its lifetime, only to be thrust into ruin. Your hands shook beside you, the bones of your fingers tingling with riotous nerves all the while anguish swelled in your chest to a volcanic boiling point. 

A wrenching, piercing roar split your throat apart. 

In a rush the desecrated table toppled over. Screaming, you kicked it harder and harder until your toenails bled and the whole thing scudded ten feet across the floor. Your arms swung wildly about with each effort, fighting the images of yourself bent over it, helpless and frozen, and unable to beat them back. More and more you screamed with outrage, but it was not enough. You were not strong enough. Your limbs alone could not prevail. 

No man would ever know of the darkness their touch leaves behind. Meanwhile you would carry it forever.

It was not fair. 

Your rage conducted you outside, sustained you in the search of some outlet, some tool to deliver greater destruction than your feeble body could convey. Leaving the table behind, pools of last night’s rain splashed beneath your blazing step on the path to the shed where you kept your father’s axe. Jabbering cardinals flurried away to the trees at your storming approach and the sun graced your forehead through the lacings of the leaves they found shelter in. 

Ordinarily, the sight of so much emergent green abounding after one rainfall would stoke wonder in you. In one place, in one wind, the new leaves sang wavily while a cloud passed over the glare of the sun, bringing a cooler depth to the shades of the earth until all brightened and warmed again once the cloud melted away. After the longest winter, it was what your soul needed to fill the holes in your heart. Grief was becoming a part of your landscape, however. You stopped short on the path.

A wind-cloven branch warped the roof of the shed. It must have fallen in the night. The severed limb was great and heavy, and in the place where it was once joined to its life force the splintered wood was a tender, meaty white, darker in its center. Bugs skittered along the scales of lichen patching their once steady home; in days the leaves would wither and wilt.

With gravity and a few tugs the branch came down. As it lay upon the stone path, uprooted, your simmering rage found its outlet. This was something you could destroy. You reached inside the shed, and with it in your hand, the axe dragged across the ground. The curved edge shone sharp in the sun as it scraped along stone.  

Raising it above your shoulder, your limbs quaked before you released it all at last. Swing after swing, hack after hack, again and again you heaved the hatchet into the log, pieces splintering as memories of him came free as well. Him, his voice. How his acts of kindness were all a lie—a ploy to get you where he wanted you. Bent over a table. 

Crack. 

Alone. No one to help you. First Gideon with his groping hands, then the Sheriff with the smoldering fire in his eyes. 

A split. 

You braced your foot against the branch and twisted the hatchet free. Deeper and deeper down into the wood you burrowed, gathering venom with each reflection. As the branch fell apart and wood chunks flew your resolve stitched itself together. 

He.

 Swing. Your skin is so soft here.

Had.

  Breathe in. Forget his words.

No.

 Bury them. 

Right.

With a momentous strike the tree limb cracked asunder. A final scream tore your throat raw. The birds split free from the sunlit canopy, and the forest was still as your shriek petered to a shriveling wail, then nothing. 

The line of thought looping through your head quieted too. The uncertainty and fear of not knowing what to do, how to move forward from this, was gone. While the thread of anger and veins of sadness and shame still pulsed within, it all flowed together, steady and purposeful. The axe hung from your hand, dangled a scant inch from the ground, and your breathing relaxed as the sweat dried cool on your brow. 

Lightning had struck this tree twice before. Each fracture diminished its once formidable heights, an august maple which sheltered your childhood in the sweltering summers and cast familiar shadows in your room at bleary midnights. But every spring it flourished in a robe of green, the ruptures healing, new branches broadening their offshoots, and marched onwards to the grand vault of the heavens. However lightning-struck, it lived on, not dying of ruined hopes alone. 

The time to dwell had passed. You were done crying. You were done blaming yourself. And you were done with asking yourself why. What you were ready to do was protect yourself from ever getting hurt again. You could not let the pain stop you. So you finished chopping up the tree to break down into firewood later. 

A whicker sounded from the stable. Willa, your sweet, gentle mare. Until that moment you had forgotten her. Putting the axe aside, in a dash the door clanged open at your hand and you found her thoughtful eyes in the slanting ribbon of daylight. You sighed in relief. Safe and sound, your only friend left in the world shuffled in her stall, the space smelling of wood and hay. You approached her with an open palm, smoothing it over her black and white coat.

“Hey, sweetie.”

Animals could be so intelligent and perceptive at times. Willa nudged your shoulder, sensing the sorrow molding your heart, and you pressed your cheek to her warm neck. Smelling sweetly of grass and hay, her black mane slipped through the comb of your fingers like a shadow melting back into shade. You drew it away to uncover the white star on the center of her forehead. Her long lashes dipped somberly. You took a comb from its niche behind a joist and brushed along her coat for a long while. Without words, you found a way to speak to her of the events that unfolded the night before, thinking of them deeply and shutting your eyes as she remained close. 

In the evening he would return. And the next, and the one after. On and on it would go, and you could live a whole lifetime in fear and hatred and pain, unless you stopped it. He said you were the picture of a perfect wife. No man would have you now. A word from him and the whole town would condemn you if you refused his wants. Deviously, he had made sure it was impossible for you to say no to him and once again you were backed into a corner, that beetle trapped in a matchbox with no way out. 

You needed a place to think. After scooping Willa some oats you donned a hat and your father’s old hunting jacket, a garment fashioned from a durable brown suede with deep front pockets and elk horn buttons. It was familiar and warm, and a comfort. 

You hefted your horse’s saddle off the hook and over her back, commenced cinching the straps and adjusting the stirrups, and led her outside. Fetching your gun belt and a waterskin from the cottage, you mounted up and loped down the forest path. 

Deep in the woods, where the mountain air of spring violets and dew-spangled moss came sweet upon the senses, Nymph Lake rested like a jewel in a chest lined with evergreen velvet, a treasure to the eyes and ears. A glassy calm transfixed the sleeping waters, an aquatic scent lingering. Lily-pads shouldered its reeded edges, rocks shone brown beneath the changeful sheen of the serene ripples, and minnows balanced themselves among the underwater grasses which wavered and streamed in the natural flow of the pond. All around, the timberline hemmed the lone mountain lake in, with the sun scarcely streaking the treetops at the early morning hour. A woodpecker clung to the knot of a treebole and drilled for insects, and along the water a frog added its voice to the song of the wilderness. 

Thompson’s Peak rose up in the azure of the sky like the spires of an Arthurian castle. Seams of snow dwelled in the vast fissures of the mountainside and thrived in the shadows of the rock, a granite tapestry striated with the grays of smoke and storm clouds with canals of rust between. Willa’s hooves sunk into the soggy ground as she shifted on her feet. You swayed in the saddle, giving her some rein and leaning back as she began to climb uphill past a pile of rocks, out of the tree line and towards the sunny side of the bouldered mountain trail. 

For all of its sentimental worth to you, and as safe as any place you could find, Nymph Lake was not the refuge you sought. The times ahead and the path you were about to embark on was uncharted and uncertain territory. The trusting, pure chapter of your life would have to be left in shadow. 

Through the notch between Willa’s ebony ears, you aimed yourself towards the rugged slopes and mounds of the Sawtooths, the earth coarse, shifting with detritus and scree, with few and far pine trees taking root between. Long, bare logs and trunks of trees, parched and decaying, strewed the land, slowly sliding away and downwards, the old bending back into the earth as the new prospers, rising up in the form of saplings. 

Your grandmother’s words came to mind. Always do what your heart tells you. In the bare wind you listened; for one, for the other. The world to you once, the presiding presence of Thompson’s Peak filled your vision, steady as a lighthouse. 

If it were any other man, you could go to the law and report his crime. If you did nothing, you would crumble into a shell of yourself, something brittle and hollow for the wind to sweep away like the exoskeletons of summertime cicadas. If not you, it would be another. Picturing him luring and coercing another unwise girl, grinning at the prospect of her ruination, was enough to temper your insides to steel, your heart to adamant. 

You pulled Willa to a stop and dismounted on the gravel trail, unlimbering your gun. Six bullets occupied the cylinders in the loading chamber and you traced the notch in each one, twisting the mechanism around and around, acknowledging its life-altering clicks, small and clear. Your finger brushed the cool, curved steel trigger. For your protection, grandmother once said. In case you’re in the forest, lost in your foraging, and maybe you’re not watching your step, and you unwittingly stumble upon the hunting grounds of a predator. A beam of sunlight glinted along the barrel like a blinding star. I would have more peace of mind knowing you have some way to protect yourself and how to use it. I’m getting old, you know. 

Amidst the painful contemplation of your fate, fighting your last fight for the principles of your youth on that crumbling mountainside, Willa nosed a cluster of plants growing alongside the trail and set her teeth over their leaves, intending to munch, and everything stopped, suddenly sharpened. In a blink you tsked her away, and as you snapped the revolver chamber back into the loading gate, it all clicked into place, the sound like that of a key sliding in the lock of Death’s door. 

From memory, the page from one of your field guides on plants emerged in your mind’s eye. Death Camas was a member of the Liliaceae plant family, discernible for its grass-like leaves from which sprouted a raceme of white flowers with yellow anthers, as well as its distinctive onion scent. Fifteen different species thrived throughout North America, inhabiting mountain valleys, grassy plains, forests, and dry land alike, all of which grew from a white bulb with a fibrous root system. An unknowing passerby could easily mistake them for wild onions. A mere bite of one would invariably cause weakness and convulsions, vomiting and difficulty breathing, impair their muscles and nerves. A meal of them would stop their heart altogether. 

You crouched to the ground, stones grating underfoot, and your shadow fell over the colony of unassuming plants as you idled over them. Hands gloved, you grasped the base of the stems and pulled firmly. There was a snap as the pearly bulb relinquished its hold in the dirt and emerged in the light of day. One after another, dozens more ripped free without protest, clods of dirt clinging to the Camas’ stringy, tenuous roots. 

Indomitable and unwavering, as you reaped your bounty your resolve cemented to the same rock-hardness of the impassive mountain you stood upon. A mountain formed ages ago from the molten caverns of the Earth, transmuted through pressure and fire; a voyage that began with a roar, a rupture, a rock rending itself from an Archean mountainside which hurdled, crashing, into a valley to be carried down, down into the depths of the sea to slip beneath the subterraneous folds on the ocean floor, only for the process to begin again. 

This journey of tumult and upheaval was a natural cycle, one whose path was familiar to your tread through grief, and, newly, violation. The decision was final as you straightened to your full height.

You were not going to live with fear. You were going to live with guilt. 

He had you helpless, flat on your stomach with a rope of terror binding you in place. You would have him the same, and he would learn an inkling of the measure of pain you would forever carry throughout your life while he realized the end of his. 

I hate leaving it off here and the next part is so so close to being finished, but I was about to lose my mind if I didn’t post something I’ve written. I also thought it would be better to break it off here instead of part one being 22k words. 

I've worked so hard on this, drawing from my own well of pain, and I know this game came out in 2018 and fandom traffic has died down considerably, so if any part of this story sticks out to you I would love to hear your thoughts <3

Also a big fat thank you to every person who has encouraged me to keep writing. Y’all have no idea how many times you have saved my life. My betas, Jessica and Sara, as well my other mutuals on here 💗 Thank you. More than I can say. 

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Shun the Light - Ch 16 - Claws

Slow Burn | Refuge | Decision | Mend | Hunger | Thin Mints | The Garden | Philip | Moments | Full Moon pt 1 | Full Moon pt 2 | Tend | Absolution | The Talk | Scars | The Bunker |

Author's Notes: Another full moon? You betcha!

I hope things aren't moving too fast...I really want to get to the Big story moments, but I also worry I'm going too fast and missing some of those little day-to-day moments. But those also don't make for good chapters on their own so I try to slip them in with other things. That said if anyone has any questions about anything that might happened in between, feel free to message or ask!

Content Warnings: werewolf whumpee, painful transformation, imprisoned (voluntarily), self loathing, hand/finger/nail whump, blood, bruising, headache, angst

----

Dante shuts and bolts the bunker door with Matteo inside. As an additional precaution, at Matteo's request, he barricades it with a heavy desk he dragged from upstairs.

It feels wrong to trap him like this. The space is small and bare, no windows, nothing but concrete and metal. Even someone who isn't particularly claustrophobic would find it stifling.

But there's no point questioning the plan now. The full moon is minutes away, and Matteo insisted he wanted to do this. Now all Dante can do is wait.

-

The hours pass slowly and nothing Dante does to try to distract himself is enough. He pauses every so often to listen for sounds from downstairs, but is met only with eerie silence.

That shouldn't be a bad thing - the whole point is to keep the wolf contained - but regardless, Dante is restless and uneasy all night. The old house feels too much like it used to and he is forced to admit to himself that he enjoys Matteo's presence.

-

At dawn he is waiting, sitting on the desk in front of the door. This should be his bedtime, and even with all the curtains drawn getting to bed might be tricky, but he has to let Matteo out. When the warm glow of morning finally peeks under the door at the top of the stairs he is quick to jump down and shove the desk away, unbolt the door and fling it wide open.

Immediately his gaze falls on the figure collapsed face-down on one of the bare metal bedframes. Matteo is naked, having insisted that clothes were pointless and would just be destroyed. He is bruised, shaking, and Dante smells blood.

He sits at the edge of the bed and lays a hand on Matteo's back. To Dante's surprise, his skin is as warm as if he'd been laying in the sun for hours.

Matteo startles at Dante's cold touch. He opens his eyes and looks around blearily.

"Wh...where 'm I?"

"You're in the house, in the fallout shelter. You're safe."

Matteo closes his eyes and groans. "Ow..."

"What hurts?"

"Everything," Matteo chokes out, his emotions bubbling over as he wakes more and his pain comes into sharper focus. "M-my head, m-my whole - whole body - "

Matteo's head ends up in Dante's lap, face pressed against his stomach as he sobs. Dante's fingers end up in his hair like they belong there. He combs through the messy curls and scratches at his scalp with tenderness he didn't know he still possessed.

"You're safe," he repeats, "you're safe."

Matteo gradually calms. After a moment he lifts his head and tries to sit up.

"We should have - ah - left the mattresses on," he mumbles, rubbing at an indent where part of the metal frame dug into his bare skin. "That's worse than the forest floor."

Dante barely hears him.

"Your hands..."

"Huh? O-oh - "

Dante cradles Matteo's trembling hands in his own. His fingertips are torn and bleeding; some nails are cracked and others missing entirely.

Matteo whimpers, looking like he might break down again at any moment. He looks around the room and Dante follows his gaze across the walls, covered in bloody claw marks.

Dante's heart sinks. He really believed that Matteo would be safe here. What he didn't consider was that a trapped animal will gnaw off its own leg to escape. The wolf had tried to claw its way out, and when that didn't work, it had rammed the door several times, leaving Matteo with bruising across his back and shoulder.

"Dante," he pleads, and he doesn't need to say another word. Dante sinks his fangs into Matteo's wrist and gives him just enough to ease the pain. When Matteo starts to droop against him he stops, getting an arm around him and hauling him to his feet.

"Let's get you upstairs."

-

Matteo is silent while Dante cleans and bandages each of his fingers. He stares at the ceiling and tries to focus on breathing. He aches all over, his head hurts, he's hungry and thirsty...all the old familiar feelings he's had to begrudgingly accept.

But there are new feelings, too. A couch is so much better than the ground, the dim lighting so much easier on his pounding head than sunlight, he's covered in a soft blanket...and he's not alone.

"There. How's that?"

Matteo holds his hands up above his face. He bends and unbends his fingers and the bandages hold. The pain has dulled significantly.

"Good," he whispers. "Thank you..."

"What else do you need?"

Matteo sighs and lets his hands drop to his stomach. He tries to muster up a smile for Dante but falls short.

"To be put down, probably," he replies. "That's what people do with suffering animals."

Dante frowns. "You're not an animal and I'm not a people - I mean, a person. You know what I mean."

That gets a chuckle out of him. "Of course you're a person."

"Well then so are you."

Matteo gives in. "I guess...I'm pretty hungry. I got some stuff at the store last week, it's in the - the kitchen..."

He starts to sit up but Dante eases him back down by his shoulders. Before Matteo can argue a pair of shining silver eyes meet his.

"Rest," is the gentle command. "I'll get it."

Matteo has no choice but to lie back and be cared for. It's all he ever wanted on those mornings he woke up hurting and alone after a full moon. Dante, though shy and uncertain, is a calm and steadfast presence. He never complains, not even when he is visibly thirsty and tired himself. Guilt begins to gnaw at Matteo's heart, and with it, a question he has been afraid to ask:

Am I taking advantage of him?

[goodolddumbbanana]

BE A MIRROR [3]

An Au when Sun is dead (by Nexus), Dark Sun pretends to be Sun while trying to find some way to revive him in secret. Nexus is having a mental breakdown, maybe get some redemption later. Everyone is not having a good time except Sun, that poor boy only when he is dead (temporarily) can get some rest.

Summary: In this AU, This is the time when Sun and Dark Sun start gradually becoming quite closer. They were still very wary of each other, but more or less, it was less tense than before.

Moon is busy planning to find the Nexus, and Dark Sun is still keeping a low profile.

Dark Sun still approaches Moon with annoying metaphorical warnings, but before that, he still hangs out with Sun. And although Moon was aware of Dark Sun's appearance, he did not know that Dark Sun and Sun were hanging out together behind his back like that.

Below is a typical day out for Sun and Dark Sun, the reason why they started this habit of going out, honestly no one remembers. Just on a sad day when Sun was drinking, Dark Sun appeared looking for Moon. They argued, mocked each other and like breaking ice, Dark Sun grabbed the bottle of wine that Sun threw at him and the rest is history.

I am really bad at writing, and maybe I will rewrite it again when I think more about it.

—----------------------------------------------------

What is the value of a life? If a human life is priceless, then how much pain and suffering does Sun have to pay for his sins so he can wash all the blood off his hands?

Technically, he has never killed anyone. It's always Moon, or Eclipse, or Bloodmoon. Sun is always an 'innocent' one in everything.

And isn't it ironic that Sun, after everything, is still at the center of all the destruction, like a curse that brings death?

The reason why he used so much detergent to clean himself and everything in daycare. Or how sometimes Sun would see a red color at the edges of his eyes that wasn't there, or feel a sickly dirt like mud stuck to his metal shell.

It feels like a sign that his subconscious is trying to say something is wrong that Sun actively ignores.

"Are you always this dazed when playing games or do I myself have a special honor to see it?"

An annoying voice rang in Sun's ear, something Sun had been trying to ignore for the past 15 minutes or so but failing miserably.

Sun never thought hearing his own voice could be so unpleasant. He always felt a little bit self conscious about his voice because his voice was quite high, but being the one to hear it directly, made him feel sorry for his listeners because he used to speak very loudly in the past.

A face identical to his, with a bland smile that never reached the bottom of their eyes and empty red eyes that seemed to have given up on the world, this annoying visitor often appeared at random times and only left when they wanted.

"Why did you keep breaking into my house here? Do you have anything to do? Moon is busy in his lab, just go and put your creepy show on him." Sun asked weakly. He didn't really expect an answer, knowing that it would only lead to a metaphorical can of worms that he never wanted to open.

After the appearance of M–Nexus… Dark Sun became Moon's lower threat enemy. The priority one is Nexus. His brother was busy in the lab with Ruin and Puppet, tracking Nexus's whereabouts.

Moon invited him to go, but honestly, he couldn't help, with all the complicated AI and quantum physics theories that both Ruin and Moon knew so well… It would be better for Sun if he just stayed home.

And for some reason, both Moon and Puppet's machines can rarely see the Dark Sun. He is like a ghost in the eyes of the “All-Seeing One” and these geniuses, and Dark Sun shows up only to signal something is troubling, again.

"Can't I come see what I'm doing?" Dark Sun hummed, he looked at Sun and up at the television screen playing "Cult of the Lamb" in what, if Sun didn't know better, he would have considered a look of disgust but nostalgia.

"Don't make me laugh, you always want something, mister 'I don't care about anything unless it benefits me somehow'.”

Sun focused on the final boss, his hoarse voice box echoing a dull rhythm. There was no response, just a slight movement that shook the soft sofa he was sitting on. A bright yellow body chose a comfortable position right in the center of the chair, blatantly, something Sun himself would never be comfortable enough to do so. Too much open space, too few grip points. There is a feeling of being exposed and naked shaking Sun’s inexistent skin, causing Sun's system to always flash an unpleasant red warning.

Why even though the Creator hates them so much, he's still so invested in a delicate area like emotions?

What does a robot need emotions for?

Just to feel dead in the feet and hope tomorrow will not be worse than today?

There was a brief moment of depression as he thought about his hated father, before hearing a solid sound with a slight accent, almost like that British Ruin loved to show off himself with.

Is it self-awareness because Dark Sun feels like he shouldn't be too similar to Sun so he behaves more like Ruin?

Sun's AI brain weaves its way through logical thoughts, morphing and dancing in the form of 1s and 0s.

The bright light on the screen was almost a hypnotic drug, making Sun reduce the stress he felt that had been present since Dark Sun arrived.

“There's still a bit of time… I've played this game before too… Too much management and responsibility, not my taste.”

Sun suppressed his bites. 'If that's the case, why don't you just leave me alone?', but he was too tired, he no longer had the strength to care or even respond.

The space sank into silence again, with bustling electronic noise, almost like white noise, lulling Sun into a feeling of sleepiness.

“Orange juice?”

"Right?" Sun nodded confusedly. On the table top of them are just a glass of orange juice, and it's always been orange juice for the past few weeks, nothing has changed. Why does Dark Sun act like it's odd?

“Hmm.” Dark Sun hummed. “No more wine?”

"I do not drink alcohol anymore." Sun replied defensively, feeling as if he was ruffling feathers. He was so tired of these jokes from Monty and Puppet or those concerns from Earth that he is drinking too much or he is an alcoholic, he didn't need any more words from that guy.

“The other day it seemed like it was a lie.”

Things start to become awkward.

No one said anything next, neither Sun nor Dark Sun wanted to rekindle the event that caused the annual stormy evenings where Dark Sun appeared unusually with lies like this, just to hang out with Sun.

Something about Dark Sun always comes on cloudy days.

It wasn't exactly raining, as it seemed stormy and the water here almost never reached the island.

No, it was the kind of weather where the stifling oppressive heat of the sun turned everything gray, of the wind being quiet and the sunset melting on the edge of sand crumbs torn apart by the tide.

Perhaps it was dramatic, as the nature of every Sun and Moon had always been inherited from their 'dear father' in every line of code. To choose to always appear in those moments when gray shards as smooth as egg whites are whipped to the edge of the sky, like a novice chef's masterpiece blend with a child trying to beat the paper with paint. Sun just hides it better than Moon, and at the same time he has too much anxiety and lacks energy to be able to continue that ‘dramatic role’ for long.

Dark Sun appears, it's almost like looking into a distorted mirror, that never allows you to see your true self form but always in some deformed variation.

Sun's stupid thought was that Dark Sun always appeared at this time because he wanted to match the name they gave him.

“I don't really care if you drink or not.” Dark Sun hummed, stood up and casually walked into the kitchen as if he owned the place, taking out two shiny bottles of wine. Dark Sun's rays of light twisted and moved with each step of Dark Sun like the way a cat wags its tail when something stimulates its curiosity.

“But isn't trying to think about other people's words very tiring?”

The reddish brown color ripples in the glass bottle, like the enticement of the snake in the Garden of Eden. Annoyed at the way he was being read so clearly, Sun grabbed the bottle from Dark Sun's hand and gulped it down.

Then another sip.

One more sip.

And one more…

One more…

The smell of alcohol spread in the air and rippled in Sun's hands. The bell clanged against the side of the jar, perhaps a few drops of wine got on the red cloth wrapped around Sun's wrist.

“Hmm… How long has it been since you drank? And I'm not talking about 'last time'.” Dark Sun took a sip.

The person in front of him was indifferent, calmly took the controller in Sun's hand and chose to sacrifice instead of killing the boss like Sun was trying to do. That fucker even killed Sun's first apostle without hesitation.

“Weeks… Months? Before that Moo–n… Nexus… They, Earth didn't like me doing this very much. So I switched to soda.”

“But soda is horrible.”

“Yeah… It tastes really bad.” The alcohol made Sun laugh.

“I don't understand why they are so worried. Aren't we all robots?”

“That's exactly what I said, and the bottle, it's just this small…”

“It's not enough to make me dizzy anymore…”

Sun's voice sounded like he was shouting, he leaned back in his chair, wondering why everything seemed so normal.

Why did he let Dark Sun in, why did he only warn Moon about Dark Sun's appearance, but never about the moments when they sat down to play games and drink together.

A song and dance Sun and Dark Sun, forcefully have played with each other so damn countless times, with Dark Sun’s words always lurking menace behind them, and his clichés about tentative plans for an uncertain future, entangled in the webs of lies like the strings of a puppeteer, that Sun cannot understand and does not want to understand.

As always, Dark Sun will appear suddenly when Sun is alone, asking random questions about someone who is not there as if hoping that Sun has the answer before they both sit down and play games or just drink together.

How did their relationship become like this? Sun really didn't know.

About how it started or why it continued, even though he knew Dark Sun had a hidden agenda and was only taking advantage of him, even though both of them know they can never be friends, when Dark Sun is still actively a threat to Sun's family.

Perhaps it was the feeling of being understood without being wanted that drew them together. Both are like two sides of the same coin, over time they have been destroyed in different ways that cannot be repaired or came back.

Like trying to pour water into a broken vase, a meaningless action that only crazy people and idiots would continue to do.

If Sun fills that void in his chest with family, with cleaning, with giving himself a purpose to live for. Then Dark Sun just tries by himself to escape from everything. He surrounds himself with a layer of armor full of spikes, blocking anyone who wants to enter, numbing all his feelings until the days they become too hard to crack.

It was a strange thing that Sun wanted to say he understood that feeling, and sometimes, sometimes, he longed for it.

Not like M-New Old Moon, Nexus tearing down and throwing away everything, heading down a path of destruction without even caring how much it affects everyone. A liar, a liar, a liar. Words mumbling in Sun’s head like there is still someone in there. A bitter and sick to his stomach whenever Sun thinks about this... brother.

No, what Sun wants to talk about here is about just being alone and normal, where you just live and don’t have to care or need to care about anyone.

Why did Sun say that? Such ungrateful things about his family, who care deeply about him?

Maybe because that love and care that his family gave Sun sometimes felt like a burning fire, that made him burn when he touched.

Maybe because he just wants to look and care from afar, but doesn't want to touch or be close to them?

Sun loved Earth, she was the best sister he could ask for.

Sun also cherishes Lunar, his mischievous, sometimes crazy younger brother, who acts innocent and childish but actually a cold stone brat from the inside due to the trauma and manipulation that Eclipse caused, sometimes make Sun feels like looking at a twisted combination of him and Moon with sharp words and intelligence hidden in Lunar’s starry eyes.

Despite all the miserable things his brothers put him through and even now, despite the smoldering bitterness still gnawing at his heart, Sun also loves Moon with all his heart, both old and new.

But sometimes, Sun just wants to stay away. It's confusing to say, but Sun is fine with the occasional game together and these terrible jokes, but when stepping into the boundary of care and love, Sun just wants to stay away or cower like a maggot.

It is not worth it.

Sun is not worth it.

Sun doesn't deserve that love and attention.

Why are people always so close, so demanding, so caring to him?

Why does the way Moon tries to make amends, or Earth visits him more and more often, or Lunar gives him a touch or a knowing look, make him sicker than this evil version of himself sitting here? .

Dark Sun doesn't care. Dark Sun never cared. He was just using Sun as a distraction. Or a backup of a backup of a backup of some… he doesn't know, maybe some of his evil plans.

But strangely, Sun feels so comfortable. It's like breathing fresh air. A collar that has been taken out, making Sun easy to breathe. They are not even the same, with totally completely different personalities and intelligence. Heck, even Dark Sun doesn't like “Cult of the Lamb” or he is being too manipulative and indifferent to Sun's liking.

But their essence was still Sun, and even though Sun was stupid, he could still see the core features still there, behind the worn and distorted exterior of a person named Dark Sun. And isn't it disgusting, to feel more comfortable with a version so different and so similar to yourself than with your loved one?

Self-destruction is a curse. A realization lit up in Sun's head, realizing how in the way Eclipses all hated Moon but still wanted his approval, how Solar was scared of Moon but still supported him like a workaholic, how Ruin hated Moon’s guts so much but he still appreciated Moon’s intelligence.

Something about them all have things in common. They all hate, if not hate, then blatantly looking down at Sun, or consider Sun to be too dumb to consist as a threat.

Once may be a coincidence, but two or three people agree on the same opinion, then it’s not their fault, but him. Perhaps, it's just the truth that Sun hates himself so much that his code is passed on to others that are embedded in their subconscious hatred for Sun.

That's the hard truth. Sun just despises himself.

And Dark Sun even hated Sun, and his hatred and critics caused Sun more discomfort than others.

But surprisingly, it's also more comfortable…

Maybe it's because Dark Sun hates him, not because he's stupid or helpless.

Dark Sun hates him because he was once Sun, because he knows Sun can do better...

And because this hate is as familiar as an old blanket. A phantom pain, like the way his body twitched slightly and his fan ran a little too fast when he was in a closed space or he saw something red in the corner of Sun’s eyes.

Though, this hatred goes both in the same places.

Sun hates how Dark Sun can look straight in Sun’s soul to determine how much he is worth. He also hates how Dark Sun shows how bad Sun can become.

He also hated Dark Sun because actually he was just Sun, it was just circumstances that made that person change, that makes Dark Sun different. 

This is sick, disgusting even..

There must be something wrong that happened with Sun, which could cause Sun to have thoughts of sympathizing with this person's actions and thoughts, like Dark Sun deserves sympathy.

Their hate draws each other closer like a fragile chain, an unhealthy relationship, a deceitful friendship of one side covering their eyes and the other covering their ears.

“I wish if you hated me so much, you could just kill me instead of approaching me like this.”

It was dark outside. With only the buzzing sound of the game console and his cats in the basement.

“You… You guys… are all the same… Why can't I have a normal day…”

Sun didn't know if it was him talking or the bottle of wine talking. That's strange... Sun shouldn't be drunk, the bottle is really too small.

“Maybe if I close my eyes and then open them again, all this… crazy stuff will go away… I'll just be me, a regular Sun…”

“And you would die like that, right? It's so tiring, seeing every Sun just this… naive?”

A silence responded. Sun raised his eyes... Red electronic light flashed behind the milky white shell seemingly annoyed.

“Just keep chewing like that day after day. Crying and moaning like that, Sun, do you think it would solve anything?"

“I just don't know what to do…” Sun mumbled, his hand wrapped tightly around the bottle of wine, hugging it to his chest as if he wanted it to protect him.

“You will die soon in the future if you stay like this.”

The words were indifferent and cold, as if reflecting a truth, a truth that Sun had witnessed many times in different dimensions, and in the dimensions that Dark Sun showed Sun.

“Like I don't know.” Sun's shadow shines in front of the piece of glass, revealing a sad and exhausted face. The eyes, once bright blue, had turned white since the day Sun used magic to expel Eclipse from Sun's head.

A silence, nearly peaceful silence, between their two, like hands in hand in the drawing sea.

“Oh… Hmm… By the way, I accidentally killed Narinder.”

There was silence. And then the scream that followed almost alarmed the other side of the island.

“YOU SON OF B%TCH!!! WHY DID YOU KILL MY WIFE!!!”

[shining-gem34]

The Majesty of the Dragon Reascent 

Summary: What happened to Dan Heng during his transformation after Blade stabbed him. Inspired by DHIL Character Story I and Samudrartha.

Heavy steel pierces into his bones- cutting apart the chains of his disguise. 

The pain blooms and spreads, leaving him breathless and dizzy as he stumbles on his feet. 

Dan Heng struggles to keep his eyes open, the blurry figures of Yanqing and Blade are covered by black dots dancing in his vision. The blood pounding in his ears is too loud to hear their conversation except for one thing. 

The chains that once sealed away his power are coming undone. He can hear the metal snapping and rattling to the ground. He can hear the tides of the Ancient Sea rising; their hymns echoing in his ears. 

Finally, Dan Heng closes his eyes and lets the sea embrace him.

...

When Dan Heng opens his eyes, he raises a hand to block the sun's blinding light. A gasp escapes him once his eyes adjusts to the brightness.

It is not the Scalegorge Waterscape he is familiar with. No, he wasn't at Dragonprayer Terrace either.

A grand palace uprooted from the sea stands tall and proud. Their regal banners hangs from the palace walls. Branches of brightly-colored corals form a straight path to the gates. The luminescent bubbles float idly in the air, tempting visitors to touch their delicate shell.

"No. Something not right." Dan Heng whispers, turning around to find the exit.

Suddenly, his wrists are tugged back forcing him to stop. Turning his head, Dan Heng cannot make out the strangers who grabbed him. Their billowy sleeves dancing with the waves makes it difficult to see their faces. Between it all, he catches a glimpse of pointed ears and horns.

"Vidyadhara...?" Dan Heng questions, but gasps as the phantoms tug him again and guide him past the gates. He tries to wrench his wrist away from their grasps, "Let me go! I have to go back!"

Yinyue Jun has returned!

Our radiant pearl; the finest of white jade!

They ignore his demands and drag him to the stone stairs leading upwards.

Anxiety gnaws in his stomach. Dan Heng watches as the previously empty palace slowly return to life. More faceless phantoms appear with every step on the stairs, dressed in extravagant robes as they all turn in his direction. The only way he recognizes they are too Vidyadhara are their pointed ears and horns; High Elders.

His stomach sinks, nauseous at the realization these people were once High Elders of the Luofu Vidyadhdara. Now, they are ghosts of the past after returning to the cycle. The remnants of their identity becoming one with the Ancient Sea.

And just like the sea itself, they begin to move as one with a sweep of their arms and celebrate the return of [Yinyue Jun].

Yinyue Jun has returned to us!

Our moon to our seas; the azure dragon legacy!

"I'm not him! Now unhand me this instant!" Dan Heng shouts again, pulling his hand free only for them to grab it again. He winces at the bone-crushing grip. They drag him harder to the point he almost stumbled on the stairs.

The brief pause is enough for him to glance at his reflection in the waterfall surface next to him. His eyes widened in horror seeing himself with pointed ears and a pair of azure-colored horns atop of his head.

"No...NoNoNo. This isn't me! This is NOT who I am...!"

His struggles are drowned by the phantoms raising their voices. The same hymns Dan Heng heard before is being sung. Their pitches becoming higher like the waves steadily rising and transforming into storms. Soon, the might of the ocean will come crashing down to him.

Already, Dan Heng feels overwhelmed as if he's sinking deeper underwater and cannot breathe.

Yinyue Jun has returned to us- Their sacred home!

Our guardian, who quelled the [tainted giant tree], and protected our roots!

Why have you forsaken your duty and abandoned us?

"That wasn't me!" Dan Heng screams at the top of his lungs, panting to catch his breath. He repeats, shaking his head furiously, "That's not me. He is gone; dead. His sins are not mine to bear. I am...I am..."

The singing stopped abruptly. The grip on his wrist is gone. The phantoms are all gone except one.

It was easier to run away; to leave and never look back. This man sins has nothing to do with him. Why should he be the one to bear his punishment?

Yet Dan Heng, numb and tired, forced his legs to move forward until he reached the top of the stairs.

He arrives at a sacrificial altar and above him are dragon-shape roots. Their gaze intimidating, impassive, and so cold-

You, who have reached this place, have you finally decided to accept us?

Just like the phantom a few feet away, appearing too similar to that man, and silently observing him.

"You." Dan Heng hisses darkly, glaring at the ghost as he said bluntly, "I hate you."

The phantom cocks his head, making it hard to discern if he's surprised or confused by his response. But Dan Heng continues to speak.

"My answer remains the same as always: No. No, I will not accept you. I don't care if you're real or not. But, I am not you, Dan Feng. I will not become you nor will I be associated you, a monster who hurt many in your arrogance."

Dan Heng watches the ghost cross his arms. He appears thoughtful, pondering over his response. He's still isn't sure if this is Dan Feng or not, but again what did it matter? Real or not, he loathed this thing for every wrong he did affecting everyone around him to this day.

Yet you cannot change who you are, what we are, for the crown you wear is proof of your lineage even if it's stained his my crimes: It is yours now.

His hands automatically reached for his head. The smoothness of the horns doesn't bring him comfort. Instead, it drives him mad for it's existence is a reminder of who he is behind his disguise. A broken dragon forced to bear the crimes of a sinner of a past life that is no longer his.

Determination fuels his next course of action.

Grabbing his horns, Dan Heng pulls them as hard as he can. His eyes shut tight in concentration, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pressure on his head. When he hears the ghost make a sound of dissent, he retorts sharply:

"If this crown is so important to ascertain my identity, then to hell with it! I don't need this to define who I am!" Dan Heng gasps at the pain, ignoring the blood trailing down his forehead. He glares hatefully at the ghost and tells him.

"I am not Dan Feng or Yinyue Jun- I am Dan Heng!"

The horns crack at the base, but at the same time he feels something else break inside him.

The chains that once sealed away his power are coming undone. He can hear the metal snapping and rattling to the ground. He can hear the tides of the Ancient Sea rising; their hymns echoing in his ears. 

Finally, Dan Heng closes his eyes and sees himself transforming into a brilliant azure dragon. The mirages of the past High Elder returns and parts a path like the sea itself split open. They welcome the birth of a new dragon, witnessing his ascension as he soared through the starry-filled skies with a tempest roar.

At the altar, the ghost watching this grandiose recalled his determination moments earlier. As this dream starts to fade away, he thinks with both fondness and sadness.

You have decided your path, but alas no matter where you go- This power, this lineage, and this past [sins] will always be a part of you.

[god-complex-12]

Can i request, "No just...I can't believe you're wearing my clothes." And "You are my love" with Marc from Moonknight.

My Love

— Paring; Marc Spector x male reader. Fandom; Marvel/Moon Knight.

Prompt; “No, I just… I can’t believe you’re wearing my clothes.” & “You are my love.”

Description; Marc has no place to stay so he calls up the only person he truly trusts. Disclaimer; Reader and Marc are not dating. Talks of pain. Confession.

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

A/N: I changed my layout, is this better or worse? Also, I took the prompts and morphed it into a little confession story. Thank you for your request and thank you for using two of my prompts.

Y/N tiredly slumped in his office chair. His head and gaze descended to the side; looking out the floor to roof windows that took up the wall to his right. He mindlessly watched the birds flee from one rooftop to another. The sun was setting, so he couldn’t see too much. He purposely let his mind drift; trying to find any excuse to not do the pile of work on his wooden desk. His hand ached for a break, and he was gonna give it that.

Y/N zoned out at a nearby apartment balcony. The railing was laced with vines and various plants dripping down the side. A cat walked along the metal pole. He, from what he could see from the distance he was at, assumed it was a Japanese Bobtail.

Y/N’s attention was urged to his screaming phone on the desk. It rang throughout the quiet room; loudly vibrating against the desk. Y/N looked at the name: “Marcus”.

Y/N subconsciously smiled. His hand raced to the phone — answering it, and putting it to his ear. He straightened up his posture — his mood immediately brightened.

“Hey, Marcus. What do you need?” He asked cheerfully.

He heard a groan of annoyance on the other line. “It’s Marc. Not Marc as in short for Marcus: Marc as in just Marc. Stop calling me that.”

Y/N chuckled. “What do you need, Marc?” He corrected himself.

He heard the merc hesitate. “Would it be okay if I stayed at your place for tonight?” He asked.

Y/N hastily nodded. He felt stupid when he realized Marc couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I’m not home right now, but I will be. That pad code is 7294.” Y/N said.

“Thank you.” Marc thoughtfully spoke.

Y/N hummed in agreement. “Text me when you get there safe.”

“I will.” The call ended, and Y/N happily placed his phone back on his desk.

Y/N was more than motivated to get back to work now; wanting to get home as soon as possible. He wrote for another 40 minutes before the pain in his hand became unbearable. He made a notice of his leave before rushing out the building door.

—

Y/N entered his dimly lit home. The light from the lamp illuminated the main room; the yellow luminescence gave the room a warm feel. It was night time, but it wasn’t late.

“Marc?” Y/N called out. He was met with no response.

He stalked through the house, making his way to his cracked open door. He peeked into the room and saw Marc laying in his bed. Y/N pillow was enveloped in the merc’s arms. Y/N laughed quietly before heading off to the kitchen.

At the thought of food, Y/N’s stomach grumbled. He didn’t notice how hungry he actually was until now. He scourged through the cabinets for ingredients. He thought long and hard about what his guest would like. He didn’t want to cook a meal and Marc not like it.

He quickly decided, prepping the stove and utensils. He mindlessly began cooking. As he worked, he felt that growing pain circulate in his palm. He ignored it to the best of his abilities.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for Y/N to finish cooking. He heard light footsteps behind him, and a quiet sigh.

“What’re you cooking?” The Chicago laced accent made Y/N smile.

“Hope you like hamburgers.” Y/N called out. “I don’t know what you like, so I chose a classic and hoped for the best.” He then turned to face Marc.

“Good strategy.”

Y/N’s eyes were widened in shock. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth slightly stuttered, opening and shutting in hesitation as he took in Marc’s appearance.

“What?” Marc asked the gawking man.

Y/N gestured to the man’s whole body. Marc instinctively looked at himself, and it all clicked. He was in Y/N’s clothes. Slight embarrassment flooded him as he stammered to explain himself.

“Oh, yeah, I really needed to take a shower and I didn’t have any clean clothes. I can take it off if you want.” Marc tried to reason.

“No, I just… I can’t believe you’re wearing my clothes.” Y/N said. An awkward silence enveloped the room. “Not- not in, like, a weird way, it’s just- I’m gonna shut up. What do you like on your burgers?”

“Whatever you have to offer.” Marc said hastily. He quickly sat at the kitchen island while Y/N went back to work.

When Y/N was finished, he slid both of their plates to where Marc was seated. Y/N cringed at the pain in his hand again.

“This is a big ass burger.” Marc said.

Y/N chuckled, getting both of them water. “I was hungry.” He explained. He picked up both of the glasses, and Y/N’s entire hand was overcome with pain. He dropped the glass in his dominant hand and then the class in his other to comfort his weeping hand. Both glasses shattered against the ground; shards and water painted the floor.

“Shit.” He cursed. “I’m so sorry.” He apologized

“Are you okay?” Marc asked, shooting up from his seat to assist the hurting man.

“Yeah, it’s my hand.” Y/N tried to explain.

Marc grabbed Y/N’s, hand pulling it closer to look at it. “Is it cramping?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine.” Y/N tried to take his hand back, but Marc’s hold stopped him.

“Let me help.” He began gently kneading the man’s palm.

Y/N got slightly lost in the sinsation. He wasn’t used to Marc being this close, let alone, touching him in such a caring way. He memorized the feeling. His hands were comfortingly warm but rough. His hands have been worn down.

“How does that feel?” Y/N didn’t comprehend the words. His mind was focused on the two hands clasped around his.

“Y/N?” Y/N met Marc’s eyes. He said nothing. His gaze was soft and thoughtless.

Marc’s held confusion and comfort, wondering why there wasn’t a single thought behind the man’s eyes. Marc’s hands stopped, now only holding the other’s hand. “Is your hand feeling better?”

Y/N snapped out whatever trance had a grasp on his conscience, and frantically nodded his head. “Yes, yeah. Thank you.” He pulled his hand away, stretching his hand for any pain. “That’s great. Painless. No pain. Awesome. Thank you.” He nervously rambled.

Y/N looked at the mess at his feet. “I’ll clean this up and get you a new glass.”

“I can get the drinks.” He followed where he had watched Y/N get the drinks.

“Thank you.” Y/N awkwardly mumbled as he scurried off to get the broom.

Marc carefully prepared the drinks while Y/N cleaned up his mess. He threw away all the broken pieces and sat down next to Marc.

“So why did you choose me?” Y/N asked.

“Hm?”

“Like why did you choose to stay with me? Why not a lover?”

“A lover?” Marc questioned.

“Yeah. Don’t you have a lover?”

“Y/N, you are my love. You’re everything I got. I needed a place to stay, I can’t go home just yet.” Marc explained.

“I’m sorry. What was that first part?” Y/N questioned.

“‘You are my love’?”

Y/N grinned. “Marcus, you dog. Are you confessing to me?”

Marc gave Y/N a shocked look. “I thought I made it obvious! I don’t just massage random people’s hands.”

“You’re not very good at showing it. Marc, you do realize, you’re a very closed off person. Via physical and mental emotions. It’s hard for people to read you, which, granted, could be a good thing if I were your enemy.” Y/N said with a chuckle.

Marc chuckled along with him. “Yeah. I guess, I didn’t think about that.” Marc stopped for a moment. “So did I just out myself?”

“Yeah, a little bit, but that's okay because, in the great words of you, ‘you are my love’ too.” Y/N said. “I don’t just let any random person massage my hand.” He joked.

Marc chuckled. “Well, what does that make of us?”

“How about we go on a few dates and then we decide?”

Marc nodded. “Can this be the first one?”

“If you want.”

“Do you think we could end this date with a kiss?”

Y/N chuckled. “I’ve never seen you act like this.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

Y/N’s hand grabbed the side of Marc’s neck, making him look at him. Y/N shook his head before pulling Marc for a kiss.

“I could never say ‘no’ to that.”

—