#//no need to cut subsequent replies

[ghoulsgraveyard]

Animal Instincts

a/n: this gets freaky y'all. I wrote this when I was higher than a mf. so if it's written weird, that's why. content warnings: PISS KINK (it's the basis of this fic. it is unavoidable), daddy kink, claiming/marking, possessive dialogue, kind of ownership kink. no y/n because I don't like it. Reader has a vagina but is completely gender neutral. word count: 2k

“Animal instincts are so weird” It was a lazy Saturday morning, neither of you had work that day “Yeah I would imagine that, getting pissed when i'm eating and someone walks in or hating anyone who goes near my, like, mate? Or whatever?” You look him up and down “then again I don't have to imagine that one” Logan smiled and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Yeah the territorial one is absolutely real. Drives ya to some pretty wild ideas about that person” he winks “oh yeah? Like what?” you egg him on “like right now i'm thinking about how I need to ‘secure the nest’ and how I should piss on you to stake my claim, and how I should remain on lookout in case of predators” 

“Hold on, what did you just say?” you turn to face him “I should remain on lookout in case of predators” he replies “no, before that” Logan’s mouth cocks into a smirk “I need to secure the nest” you roll your eyes “after that”  he grins at his ability to irritate you “what about it?” you huff out an annoyed sigh “Logan, what did you say?” a short pause hangs in the air, “my current instinct is to piss on you.” he starts to move off the bed towards the bathroom, presumably to relieve himself “Why, you looking for some new ideas?” his voice lilts up playfully.

  You do not feel playful. You feel aroused? Your eyes dilate at the thought. On your knees, body bare to him as he stands towering over you, his impressive frame practically eclipsing your view marks you in such a- you cut off your own line of thought. It was disgusting, it was degrading, it was so. Fucking. Hot. 

“Hey, you spaced out for a second, you good?” you regained focus onto him, your face flushed with heat. You nod feeling breathless “yeah, yeah I’m fine” voice a little shaky. It was suddenly a lot harder to ignore the consequences of sleeping naked. Skin to skin contact was something you both craved, but subsequently often made it hard to get out of bed.

Logan raises his eyebrow at this, he caught a scent in the air at the same time he noticed your widened eyes, the conclusion he draws is one that shocks, pleases, and excites him; you are. His brow cocks as his mouth splits into a grin. “Something you’re thinking about” he pulls you closer to him you now feel his hardened cock rubbing onto you, he leans into your ear and whispers “something you’re wanting?” he rolls his hips against you. You stifle a moan at the feeling. “It doesn't seem like a horrible idea” you murmur, gaze averted in embarrassment. Logan growls upon hearing your confession, he wanted to push you a little more he decided. “What was that you said? Speak up honey I can’t hear you” he coos with condescension. “I just. I dunno, maybe it’s not such a bad idea” you pause, finally able to regain eye contact, but Logan looks at you expectantly, beckoning your expansion “you know, you doing that to-” he cuts you off “Doing what?” his eyes have darkened, he needs you to say the words. You flounder at the intensity, feeling shame at your desire.

 Logan cocks an eyebrow, you drop your gaze, and surprisingly he doesn't ask you to lift it, he allows you this reprieve in such a depraved request. “The, you and um you” you sputter trying to force the words out of your mouth “you peeing on me, marking your territory, it doesn’t uh, it doesn’t sound like a bad thing to try- to do, I mean.” you catch yourself “it doesn’t seem like a bad thing to do at all.” Logan's chest rumbles as he speaks “doesn’t seem too bad to me either” you both look at each other, eyes expecting and bodies awaiting. 

Logan grinds harder against your hip “I can't do that for you right now sweetheart, I’m too hard” he rocks his hips and chuckles at the pout that had formed on your face. “That’s okay though I’m sure we can think of some ways to fix that” he bites your lip and drags it out. You groan both at the feel of the liquid that was beginning to trickle down his tip and at his poor attempt at a joke. “Lo- Logan” you breathe out, he pinches your skin lightly “Daddy” you correct “you could fuck me” you suggest shyly “Logan smirks “that what you want?” you nod “you want daddy to fuck you till he cums, just so he can piss on you?” you mewl at his words, and tremble beneath him as you raise you slowly raise one knee up to his thigh. He grabs roughly at it and your other knee, moving to position your legs spread and presented for him. He pulls back to lean down and spit on your clit rubbing it in, the depraved action and animalistic intent flooded you with desire. 

He taps the uncut head of his cock against your clit, pulling back the skin to reveal a flushed deep red tip shiny with pre. He positioned himself and applied pressure to your hole, not enough force to give way to being filled with him. “You’re a filthy little slut” you practically sob from the teasing, your cunt clenches as if to pull him in. “But you’re my little slut” he pushed into you, you gasp sharply at the stretch, the burn stung. He pouted down at you with a light mock “what’s the matter baby?” you feel him slowly start to drag out “there’s, so much” he preened as he slowly inched back in, now a bit further “I know baby I know. Y’get stuffed too full.” he drags back once more “but you can take it right baby?” he forces another inch and rubs a tear from your face you hadn't noticed forming. You nodded slowly, drunk on touch you dropped into a whole new space. “Yeah. you can take it all” he buries his hips into you, bullying your insides into submission.you practically felt him in the back of your throat. He swirls his hips, wiry hairs rubbing on your clit. “Feels so good,” you moan. He grabs at your knees, pulling them up, he rubs right into the spot that makes your eyes cross. “So, what made you want this?” you breathe out “i’m not the only filthy slut here, you’re the one who started it” you teased,scratching his arms  he- ever the masochist- twitches at the pain “y’really wanna know?” you nod breathlessly 

“I want this because I want to own you” his hips snap “any other animal can smell it, can smell and know you’re mine” he lowers his head to lick and bite at your neck “I defile you like this and I own you, I spoil you for everyone else” he continues to pound into you, “everyone’ll know this is my chew toy, claimed’ em and everything” he mumbles working himself into a fit as he folds you into a mating press, one hand holding himself up while the other grips your chest. The wet clapping noise of his hips meeting yours filled the room. Your eyes roll back and you moan loudly “ya like that? You like daddy ruining you? Pissing all over you so no one else will take you? Treating you like an animal, like - fuck - like an object? I own you so I can do whatever I want, right?” you nod along “right?” his hips pick up speed “right! Yes! Please, feels so good. N I want it daddy, want it so bad. Need you to fuck me so hard, need you to fill me up claim my cunt for your own, then-” you’re cut off by the moan that rips through you “need you to piss on me. Treat me like a human object, your slut, your tool to pleasure. Corrupt me, ruin me, vandalize me with your claim” 

The repeated thumping of his wild hair at your clit leave you tightening around him “m’close daddy m’close” “I know, me too” “can we cum together” the plap of his balls meeting your ass gained intensity “y’want me to cum in you huh?” his hand moves to hold your neck “pissin on you aint enough you want some of me in ya too.” You keen and writhe around him “I can’t stop it” Logan licks a long wide stripe on your neck “Then don’t.” he digs his teeth into the spot where your shoulder met your neck. The pain caused the fireworks in your belly to go off, legs shaking and tears welling in your eyes. Your cunt clamps down on the wolverine’s cock he saws in three long hard thrusts and buries himself as deep into you as he can and releases rope after rope of  hot, thick, cum that floods your cunt. He gives a few slow thrusts, pushing himself in as far as he can. 

A few moments later he slides out of you, and rises to stand in front of you. Usually you’d whine about the loss of him inside you, but now you were humming with excitement.  He was a sight to behold; 6’2, broad shouldered, and about 300 pounds of pure muscle and metal, standing before your prone form. He lazily palms at his cock “y’sure you want this” “please” you whisper. Logan closes his eyes, and thanks god for finally getting that reward for all the shit he’s put up with for all these years, and he releases. The hot golden liquid lands across your chest, and you gasp at the sensation of it. “Y’like that baby?” he aims higher at your hairline “you like being showered in daddy’s piss? Fuck you’ll take anything I give you. So good.” he smiles, then aims to spray your cunt with his piss “two claims on that cute little pussy in one day, what a reward for you” he sighs, his stream dribbling off the a close. You were panting, exhausted and thoroughly satisfied. 

“That was. So good.” you pant out.  Logan smiles down at you, sweaty, disheveled, covered in pee and still the most beautiful creature he could even imagine. “glad it was good for you too bub, c’mon, lets go get cleaned up” You take Logan's hand and he guides you to the bathroom. you start the water in the shower, allowing it to heat up while Logan stripped the bed. 

When Logan joins you in the shower you have just finished rinsing out your hair. He drapes himself over your back, arms meeting each other in front of you, he kisses your neck. “How do you feel” you smile at how Logan always checks in on you as soon as he can “I feel like I just had the nastiest fuck this building has ever seen.” you say as you switch places so he is under the water “but for real, I feel great, a few aches, but regular aches.” You pause, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.  “You make me feel good Logan” you place a hand to his face, which he immediately presses into. His whole life he’s had to be rough, tender is a trait that will get you killed, he has only ever been a tool used to hurt and kill. He is learning how to be soft, he is practicing how to be gentle, sometimes he needs to hear that his hands have done good.

You wash him reverently, massaging soap into the wide expanse of his chest, following the hair down to groin. There was no sexual undertone to how you cleaned him, only a tender domestic intimacy.

After you had both dressed, you assessed the damage to the -frankly already sweat stained- mattress. Logan looks at you with faux solemnity “I think I just heard it wish for death.” You laugh at his joke, helping him move the bulky shape. 

You manage to bring in down to the ground where Logan then lifts the thing into the dumpster with ease. You smile as he returns to you “Do you know what this means?” he kisses you before telling you no, “it means we spend the whole day mattress shopping.” You kiss him with a smile. Logan groans in a false display of displeasure at the idea of a day with you building your home together. 

“Damm” tags: @mistyorchid @meiwes-eat-flesh

part 2

[hwaithie]

the withers and woes of my little fawn heart 𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚

“I’m always clinging onto you… and I depend on you quite a bit… don't you find it to be bothersome?” (I’m sorry if my love for you feels harrowing, unbearable, suffocating; I’m sorry the only way I know how to love is like a child.)

al haitham x f!reader ෆ sfw — hurt -> comfort · established relationship · 4k wc · repost from an old blog ﾉ reader is insecure about many things ﾉ haitham calls you habibti + baby + sweetheart ﾉ non - sexual nudity ( ie. you bathe together ) ﾉ selfship coded ^^;

All it takes you is a mere step past the front door for Al Haitham to realise you’re unhappy. 

When it comes as large as a raincloud hanging over the house, your sorrow is difficult to not take note of.

First, there’s a drizzle with the drag of your feet; steps that are normally light and fawn-like and struggling to catch up with his own long strides, a wee bit skittish and much more adorably clumsy than you’d like to admit, are now sluggish. Devoid of their usual urgency and purpose. 

Then, a deluge, as he hears you heave a sigh from beyond the pages of his manuscript. You’re burdened by something, he notices, as you scuff along the hardwood floor, let your bag—and subsequently your heart—tumble to the ground. 

“Welcome home.” Al Haitham rises from the daybed, coming to meet you in the foyer. “How... was work?” 

Something in his tone, the pause in his question and the uncharacteristic apprehension of it makes you want to wither and crumble. Quick as ever is he with his eyes—most especially when it comes to you. 

How you so wish in this moment that weren’t the case.

“Fine!” Your reply is light, “Just, I’m a bit tired… is it okay if we eat leftovers from last night for dinner? I’m really sorry…” When you smile up at him, it doesn’t meet your eyes, nor too do your eyes meet his own.

Lies—you’ve never been all that successful at convincing him of them, due in part to the guilt that you can’t keep hidden from your countenance, as well as the callowness of your voice that seems to render any falsity you utter ring with an air of untruth.

“It’s nothing to apologise for.” He says slowly, standing before you as he awaits the hug you always give him when you arrive home from work, the press of your ear over his heart. You up on the tips of your toes as you ask him for a kiss and to cut up a peach so you might feed them to each other as you sit on the windowsill facing village hills.

You do none of these, and Al Haitham wonders why.

Walking past you, he ruffles your hair and softly scratches your scalp. “Go wash up; I’ll set the table.”

You want to speak, say thank you, though you can find no words, a deep melancholy breaking over you like a hurricane. It terrifies you. But still you lift your head, look past his ear as you smile again to hide all the woe-rapture that festers within.

And this is all it takes for Al Haitham to resolve that he will do something about it.

The tahchin is bitter on your tongue today. 

Grains of rice pebbly between your teeth, chicken tasting far too much of chicken and not the blend of spices it had been marinated in. It’s near unpalatable. 

And just as it is unpalatable, it is a most arduous task to even lift your fork. The weight of your melancholy is clamped to your wrist and jaw—it makes eating all the more difficult than it need be, and a knot at the back of your throat that feeds the taste of bile into your mouth only serves to darken the shadow that your malaise casts over dinner.

How is it: your favourite dish losing its ability to console, its only purpose to be a vessel for sustenance. Yet, even at that, what sustenance does it provide you with when each bite makes you feel as though you might hurl?

“You’re not eating.” Al Haitham observes sharply, glancing at you out the corner of his eye. It’s a serious shortcoming in his mind, obviously, for someone who does so dearly enjoy her meals.

You shrug despondently and sigh, “Suppose I’m just not hungry.”

As much as he may want to, Al Haitham doesn’t push further—his hands hovering over the wires of what appears to be some ticking time bomb before deciding to leave them untouched in fear of what may arise from snipping the wrong one. 

And you’re grateful for it—that he doesn’t ask you what the matter is—and simply hums in acknowledgement before returning to his food.

(His silence casts a harsh stroke upon your heart.)

You’re grateful, truly, you are.

(You hear his voice in your head—‘are you alright, habibti?’, and quickly, you seize a grasp of your heart to stop the bleeding that threatens to reach your eyes.)

Now you’ve gone and worsened the spoil of your appetite.

Resting your fork on the worn wood table, you sigh yet again—this time around a soft wispy thing that does little to soothe the ache of your lungs, and turn your head to regard his profile. 

The relaxed ridge of his brows and the handsome slope of his nose, lidded teal eyes that are always analysing, never idling; he is just as a diamond is. All sharp edges that glimmer and glint, not only in body but also in mind.

Al Haitham is beautiful by way of his nurturing and guiding in a seemingly unorthodox manner. Generous with his intentions no matter how hard he may try to prove otherwise, clever and witty and always five steps ahead and so incredibly attractive in his self-assurance—oh, he is just perfect—as is the ground he walks upon and the air that floats over his head and each word that touches his lips. 

What is he like… winter fields blanketed by the sun and the tips of flower petals after a deluge, bubbles in wine, diamonds, diamonds, all diamonds. He is a brilliant blue diamond in your night sky.

And you, what are you like? 

Puerile at heart and loud with your love. A wee bit foolish and entirely silly, always fumbling and mumbling and messing up in spite of trying your best. 

If Al Haitham is as a diamond is, then perhaps you would best be suited to a pearl—with those little dewy globes resting on your lashes more often than not, a heart smooth to the touch and all the more fragile.

Which, yes, does sound rather precious when worded in such a way, but you can’t help but wonder, if for Al Haitham you are too much. 

Whether your whimsies are too fantastical, and your brain is too often in the clouds and not in your head where it belongs. Or whether the apple-sweet naivety that offers your heart up to anyone who shows you even a modicum of kindness, be it honest or corrupt, is too much of an annoyance to look after. You worry whether your love is too strong for someone like him who has grown so comfortable in his own company, like fire scorching his blood or the waves of the sea crashing along a cliff or the sticky residue of honey on fingertips that just won’t wash off.

These woes slather uncertainty over your spine, and before you can think, you’re already reaching over to clutch at Al Haitham’s sleeve. 

It’s an effort to command his attention, silently, for if you call him by his name instead, you fear the tears may fly out your eyes and the pathetic hiccups out your throat and you’d weep until the end of eternity. That’s how it feels, anyway.

“Yes, habibti?” Al Haitham wipes the corner of his lip with his thumb and lays down his fork just as you’ve done yours. He waits for your voice to fill the heavy air of the dining room, but when he notices the nervous nibble of your lip and the twiddles of your thumb, he sighs, pulls you in closer by the leg of your chair. “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid to tell me if anything’s troubling you. I’ll do my best to help however I can.”

His hand swallows your fist in a comforting embrace, plucking your fingers free one by one so that he can thread his between yours. It’s a challenge to not look his way when he behaves so darling, and in his eyes you see a certain pleading softness swimming round the edges of his pupils. 

It’d be hard to notice to an untrained eye, what with his acts of romance mostly always lacking the entirety of pomp and blare in the world, but you can tell—of course you can.

It holds you spellbound, compels you to give in, and so, you reach your trembling hands past your ribs and take hold of your burgeoning heart, pay little heed to the rose thorns that scrape and scar it as you tug it free of its cavity. Placing the lame organ in front of Al Haitham, you wince at all its clotted ugliness and self-serving insecurity.

“That’s exactly it… I cause a lot of trouble for you, don’t I.”

(Am I too much? Am I too overbearing?)

“I’m always clinging onto you… and I depend on you quite a bit… don’t you find it to be bothersome?”

(I’m sorry if my love for you feels harrowing, unbearable, suffocating; I’m sorry the only way I know how to love is like a child.)

“It’s just—” There’s a fracture in your voice and then a whimper that follows. 

You’re quick to avert your gaze from him and down to the worn wood table, at your grubby plate of food. The words, recited in your head over and over slip away from your tongue and leave it laid with only scribbled thoughts; they float up—up—up… and then your eyes squeeze shut and your fingertips press anxiously into the space between his knuckles and your shoulders shirk in on themselves.

As many a time have you weeped before him—over the loveliness of a perfectly sunny day or a particularly sweet and excellent bite into a zaytun peach, over all things nonsensical and silly and things that one ought not to be weeping at. But in this moment, you feel obliged to hide your tears from him.

You’d rather he didn’t see you cry, at least, not over something like this. 

Not over yourself.

“It’s just, I can’t help but feel as though you’d fare better off with someone more like you—someone more sound in mind and less chaotic at heart, perhaps. I dunno…” You pick idly at your food, the tooth of your fork accidentally sending a grain of rice flying to the floor under the pressure of its touch. How unfortunate. “I don’t know…”

(I wish I were more like you. Maybe then I’d feel like less of a liability at your side.)

In all your days of loving Al Haitham, you’ve only presented your heart to him as a dog would to its human, loyal and eager, but today you’re atoning. It’s near sacrificial—your laments and apologies for being too much, too little, not enough, whatever. 

Your heart waits anxiously before him: sliced down the precise centre, carmine, bleeding, beating.

And for the first time since you’ve come bounding into Al Haitham’s life, his house is silent, though, this silence seems to dislike being broken as he mulls yours words over—save for the sad hymns sung by the wind and the gauche scritches and scratches of your fork atop ceramic.

The tears begin to brim and froth behind your lash-line, like milk on the stove that boils and isn’t being kept a watchful eye over. Yet, even as your vision begins to blur, you know Al Haitham is glancing your way.

He takes your heart into his mouth and cradles it gently within his maw.

“Is this what’s been on your mind? Silly girl.” 

Your lover leans into your space and flicks your forehead gently, coaxing your gaze from your lap to his face. 

“Your heart is rather big.”

(You make it easy to adore you. And I like that. It saves me so much trouble making myself adore someone.)

“You both love and loathe it in equal parts.”

(You will always be so free and blithe, as you will always be naive and afraid. Such is the eternal nature of your heart—it will coddle and weather in its fragility until its last days. Won’t you trust it to me to make sure of? To care for?)

“Yes—you cry too often, and you forgive too easily, and you worry too much about those who aren’t deserving of your care, and you feel guilt too strongly over things you have no control over.”

(You are so precious, so pure, so full of infinite compassion for the world.)

“It’s easy for one’s heart to be trampled over if it’s held in their palms, for the world to see. Just as you hold out yours.”

(To me, your beauty lies heaviest within your fawn heart.)

Al Haitham’s words are veined with ice, and your lips freeze in their subtle pout—one that wobbles on the edge of a dejected frown, “It’s not like I mean for it to—” 

“But don’t you realise that’s why I’m here? Why I’ll continue to be here? To catch your heart before it has a chance to get trampled over, and to tend to it when it does?” The ice crackles through his words and they all break up, as if it were spring again. “Don’t you realise this is what I admire most about you?”

(I love you.)

For a moment, your heart flutters queerly. The veil shrouding your thoughts lifts and you’re left to be shaken and pierced by Al Haitham’s tender tone.

“It sounds as though you wish you were more like me…” Your lover takes the fork from your hand and raises with his fingers your chin, so that you may properly meet his eyes for the first time this evening. “But when we love someone, we love them entirely for themselves, not whatever thing we’ve twisted them into to fit our own image. If that were the case—we’d only be loving the reflection of ourselves we find in them. Is this not what you once told me, sweetheart?”

(I love you, in all your adorably jejune whimsies and nonsensical musings and humble tidings. I love the darling tears that cling to the round of your cheek and your great excitability and childish curiosity—all things I lack. And of all things I love your mad, devout love; so… please, please continue to love me as you do without fear of abandonment.)

Perhaps, after all, it is okay that you are nothing like him and he is nothing like you. That you are diametric antitheses, like earth and air or diamond and pearl. Your eyes falter under his gaze, body rigid in his arms as he manoeuvres you into his lap and presses his palms to your hot cheeks. 

“Please, I…” You weaken and he smiles and then you tremble and soften and melt and the tears finally bubble onto your face just as a white rose slips past its sheath. 

Like a baby, you sob—free of guilt and shame, it’s the only thing you know how to do when you’ve already spoken the words in your mind.

You press a palm to his chest, fingers splayed out over his heart, head tilted down and hair hiding yourself from him. Though, he can still see; and you know he can, even if all that’s in your periphery are clouds and fuzz, wobbly pearls of dew that dribble down your face. He doesn’t ask you to look at him—he already knows why you weep. From catharsis or love or joy or heartache or gratitude… all of them at once or perhaps none of them at all.

“I-I’m really sorry for s-spoiling dinner!” Your voice is stuffy with sniffles and you hiccup in between your words, eyes squeezed shut awfully tight so that your nose crinkles. How sweet.

Al Haitham spares you a smile that twists your heart as he leans in to brush his lips against yours, exchanging breaths. “You haven’t spoiled anything. Now—” With one hand, he holds you by the dip of your waist to press you to his chest and uses the other to gather a bite of fragrant rice on his fork, “You need to eat.”

At the hands of your lover, the tahchin is savoury and full of life on your tongue, nowhere near as nauseating and boorish as earlier. “Isn’t it fascinating, Haitham?” You part your lips to take another bite and shrug your shoulders up to your ears childishly, enjoying the soothing pinpricks travelling along your spine as familiar spices settle on your tongue and flush your entire being with warmth. “How the tahchin tastes so much more delicious now that you’re feeding it to me?”

He watches on in awe as you chew on your food, tiny little hiccups from tears unshed that occasionally rack your chest and fluster you, the ones that have dried coming off your face as gossamer flakes. They’re angel tears, he’s certain of that much. 

“Must you look so cute when you eat?” Your lover takes the fat of your cheeks between his thumb and index finger as you chew, gently squeezing and marvelling at the suppleness of your skin. “I may be tempted to cut dinner short and whisk you to the bedroom… if you will have me show you just how precious you are. ” 

“Stop teasing…” You grasp his wrist gently, swallowing your food and sucking in your cheek to bite down on it bashfully, look the opposite way of prying eyes. They’re lidded and lazy and there’s a smirk that lifts them up at the edges—his eyes—but also his heart. Because you just make him feel like that: organs and limbs loose and relaxed and thumping with a calm pulse, vision framed by a glowy pink haze as though he were laying on marble under the sun by the sea. Everything sweet and wonderful in the world.

“Even after all the moments we’ve shared…” His smirk morphs into a smile, and he pinches your bottom lip to bring you in closer. “You’re still just as shy as though it were our first.”

You can't help but burst into a lovely little peal of giggles as he kisses you and pampers you, your toes dusting over the floor playfully and fingertips curling strands of his hair. Your cheeks are stuffed with warm food and your eyes burn with the crystalline that brims at your lower lashes when you swallow thickly, so you push back the tremble to your voice and bury it under his love stored in bite after bite of tahchin. 

And even after your plate has been emptied and love is about to burst past the seams of your heart and your tummy, and you lay half-asleep atop him in a growing pool of moonlight—even after much of your aches and pains have been put to rest, Al Haitham still has yet to be completely satisfied, awaiting to be placated by one final thing.

“Come, you must be tired,” He ties your hair for you, takes you by your hand, offers to wash the lingering fogs out of your soul. “Why don’t we bathe together before we sleep? I’m sure it’ll soothe your mind.”

Al Haitham’s touch is soft as he strips you of your clothing, kisses downwards of your clavicle after he removes your necklace—your wrist, your rib, your belly, your thigh. He knows just how you like your baths: window propped wide open to waft in the fragrance from blossoming peach trees and the sweet lulls of nightly birdsong, padisarah petals coasting across the water.

He prepares the room for you as such, swathing your frame between his long, broad limbs in the tub, too tiny for two—yet, he finds it to be a simple task to ignore the annoyance of the ledge digging into his spine when your body curls up against him like this, cheek pillowed by the plush of his chest and your arms draped around his waist.

“You like holding me close, sweetheart?” 

It’s a fun little poke at just how tight you cling to him, but truthfully, Al Haitham is all the same. A hand on the small of your back or warm fingers massaging your chilly nape—he finds the utmost comfort in feeling your skin on his, familiarity in the clouds of chantilly cream and sumeru rose that seem to linger about in the air around you. 

Perhaps, he is just as clingy as you are, in how he cuddles you close to his chest and takes a book from the stool next to the bathtub, preparing to read to you from it.

And you listen intently—no matter how hard the throes of sleep try to whisk you away—to the flip of parchment, the birds keeping you company at the sill, the handsome cadence to your lover’s voice that makes your cheeks feel all bubbly, the beat of his heart dovetailing yours through your back.

He reads to you until the moon casts her light over the water through the window and your fingers are pruned—short fairytales about butterflies dancing on honey cups, maidens falling in love with talking roses—all from a certain emerald-covered book handed down to him from the only person to show him the same tender care you do.

The tension is dispelled from your shoulders, the barely there coil of anguish around you fully snapping and resolving into something lighter, entirely less murky. And as you sit there in his embrace, you feel your nose twitch and the backs of your eyes sting. 

Again! Again, you cry! How lame you are in love, indeed, silly girl.

Because Al Haitham is romantic in the way he silently cares for you like this, looks at you as though you’re extraordinarily lovely, the greatest bit of knowledge he’d ever be able to wrap his head around; touches you as if you were the most delicate of flowers. 

Which, you are, because how can you not blossom under his affection and grow a little love-struck?

“H-Haitham?”

The words halt in his throat and he looks down at your face, or as much of it as he can make out when you’ve near buried it entirely into his neck. Humming sweetly, he coaxes you on with lithe fingers slipping beneath the water’s surface to rub shapes into your doughy hip. “Yes?”

“I love you…” You pick mindlessly at the emerald on his chest, let the words flow freely from the blubbering mess that has become of your voice— “I really love you, a whole lot.”—look up at him and smile toothily, plainly, eyes all watery and full of hope, promise, just like the child in you. “You love me a whole lot, too, don’t you?”

And what can he do but mirror your smile. Because from it a picture of reassurance has been born, flooding and twisting and seizing his entire being. Sometimes, most times, he doesn’t know how to behave when this thing, this wild love so eagerly breaks his body and pours without end into the hollow of his heart. 

But it is a nice feeling, a sweet feeling: when you look at him like this and he thinks, perhaps, he could learn to love as freely as this too. All he has to do is look. It won’t be hard. 

After all, everything he sees holds your darling smile within it.

thank you for reading ! ! ٩(^‿^)۶ if you liked what you read & wanted to show your appreciation — you can do so by donating to a vetted fundraiser to aid palestinians in the gaza genocide 🍉

[a-small-safe-place]

His Haven Pt. 2

Homelander x Psychiatrist!Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

As the weeks passed, Homelander continued to integrate himself into your life, blurring the lines between patient and "friend." One evening, after a particularly intense session, Homelander broached the subject of spending more time together outside of the therapy room. "I was thinking," he began, his blue eyes searching yours, "maybe we could grab a bite sometime. You know, outside of this place." Your heart sank, torn between the genuine connection you felt with Homelander and the professional boundaries you knew you needed to maintain. With all your other patients, you had discussed boundaries, but not with the members of The Seven. The Deep, A-Train, and Queen Maeve viewed these sessions as a waste of time. Starlight and Black Noir had kept a very professional relationship. You weren't totally sure why Black Noir still came to the sessions since his sessions were spent in silence, usually with him drawing pictures of Buster Beaver and his little buddies. Starlight was the only one that used the sessions for what they were meant for.

You had not thought you needed to set boundaries with them, and that, since these were America's greatest heroes, the boundaries were obvious and unspoken. Oh, how that had bitten you in the ass now, having to turn down the offer. You let those boundaries slip by allowing Homelander to come to your house, but in that situation, there was not a lot you could do to stop him.

"I appreciate the offer, Homelander, but it's important to keep our relationship within the confines of our sessions," you replied carefully, trying to hide the conflict in your eyes, unaware that he could hear your heartbeat and smell your nervousness. Homelander's expression shifted from hopeful anticipation to a subtle disappointment that cut through you. "Right, professional boundaries," he said, a forced smile tugging at his lips. It is the kind of smile that does not reach his eyes. "I get it." You could not let his dangerous expression get to you.

The following sessions became strained. Homelander seemed distant, his usually confident demeanor replaced by an air of vulnerability and irritation. You should be thanking him that he is interested in you. He attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were stilted. It was clear that your rejection had affected him more than either of you anticipated. Homelander was not willing to give up. You just needed a chance to come around.

One day, after a difficult session, Homelander lingered in your office. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked, his tone a mixture of frustration and hurt. Homelander knew you did not have a partner in your life. He had stopped by to do a thorough search of your home while you were out, and there was no evidence of you dating someone, not even the smell of a casual hookup still lingering on your skin. You sighed, maintaining the professionalism that defined your role. "It's not that I don't value our sessions, Homelander. But crossing the boundaries of a therapeutic relationship can be detrimental for both of us," you explained, your words hanging heavily in the air. "I want what's best for you, and sometimes that means maintaining a professional distance."

Homelander's jaw tensed, and he stood abruptly. "So, I'm just another patient to you, is that it?" His eyes bore into yours, searching for a hint of vulnerability that matched his own. "No, Homelander, you're not just another patient," you replied softly, your heart aching at the pain evident in his eyes. "But I have a responsibility to ensure that our interactions remain focused on your well-being." He stormed out of your office without another word, leaving you with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Homelander is a dangerous and unpredictable man. The once-promising therapeutic alliance had crumbled, replaced by an unspoken tension that hung in the air during each subsequent session.

Days turned into weeks, and the divide between you and Homelander deepened. He attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were strained and unproductive. Of course, for Homelander, he still had his time with you even if you were oblivious to it. Though, he would much rather be in your arms than jacking off on the building next to yours while you participated in a similar activity in the warmth of your bed. 

One evening, after a silent session, Homelander was particularly grumpy in this session. He had expressed that he had a bad day. Homelander lingered at the door. "You should be fucking thanking me,” He pauses. “I am giving you the opportunity of a lifetime, and you're fucking throwing it away. Do you know how many people would leave their whole families just for one glance from me?”

The weight of his words settled heavily on your shoulders as he walked away, leaving you alone in the empty office. It made you wonder how dangerous Homelander really was and how desperate he would become if you continued to deny him. The once-promising connection had fractured irreparably, and the professional boundaries you fought so hard to maintain had come at the cost of a genuine connection with Homelander.

The weeks passed with a lingering tension between you and Homelander. The once-promising therapeutic alliance had crumbled, leaving behind an unspoken rift that seemed insurmountable. Homelander attended sessions less frequently, and when he did, the conversations were strained, devoid of the genuine connection that had defined your earlier interactions. It became evident that your rejection had affected him more deeply than either of you anticipated. Homelander, usually the embodiment of confidence, now wore an air of vulnerability and loneliness that tugged at your conscience. The sessions were marked by long pauses, resentful glances, and a palpable discomfort that neither of you could ignore. You couldn't shake the feeling of regret that lingered each time you saw him. The haunting realization that you had sacrificed something meaningful for the sake of professional decorum weighed heavily on your conscience. Late one evening, a knock echoed through your home. Homelander stood at the doorway, his usual confidence replaced by a vulnerability that mirrored the man you had glimpsed in the early days of your sessions. "I need someone to talk to," he admitted, his voice a whisper.

[siriuslystyle1989]

The Only Exception

Lucien Vanserra x Fem!reader

Summary: When Your husband, Lucien finds out Elain is his mate, you decide to give him an ultimatum.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, Lucien being the best

masterlist

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In a slight daze, Y/n lounged on the couch, her left hand grasping a mug of tea and her right hand clutching her latest read.

Lucien was in the night court helping their mutual friend, Feyre. Leaving Y/n alone with only her book as company.

But she was bored now. She wanted Lucien. She wanted him to walk into their shared home, scoop her up, let her nuzzle herself into his neck, kiss him.

Letting out an almost exasperated sigh, she looked at the clock and subsequently realised her husband was due home any moment.

Still, she remained reading hoping that time would somehow speed up if she was occupied.

"Y/n?" Lucien's voice travelled through the air causing the girl to jump and move to the entrance of their home.

'Luc!" She smiled, moving to hug the man who kissed her hair as he wrapped his arms around her smaller frame.

"What's wrong?" Y/n spoke suddenly, sensing something was amis with her lover.

"Nothings wrong baby, let's move to the living room." Lucien reassured her, guiding her back inside the house.

Y/n sat down, looking up at Lucien who ran a hand through his long auburn hair.

Her brows furrowed as she spoke "Luc, what's happened?" hesitance lacing her tone.

"I need to tell you something." He replied, getting on his knees in front of her, placing a hand on each of her legs.

Y/n nodded, anxiety bubbling up in her stomach.

Lucien sucked in a deep breath of air.

"Y/n."

A pause.

"I've found my mate."

Y/n shook her head slightly in disbelief, she could feel tears welling up in her eyes as her world came crashing down.

'But-" Lucien tried to speak as she cut him off.

"Wh- who?" Y/n asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Elain. Elain Archeron."

"Feyre's sister?"

Lucien nodded, looking into his wife's eyes.

"But Y/n-"

"If you want to be with her I understand, but tell me now. I don't want to be told in a few years if you suddenly decide that she's all you want-

"Y/n that's the thing-"

" -and I promise I won't be mad at you, we can still be friends. It's completely fine-" Y/n rambled, half for Lucien half for herself.

Tears now freely spilling down her cheeks, Y/n continued speaking.

"-But really if you want to be with Elain I understand, she's beautiful and really-"

"Y/n!" Lucien shouted louder, attempting to calm the girls incessant chatter.

"Sweetheart. What I was trying to tell you was that I've already rejected the bond.

"You- what?" Y/n uttered looking into her husband's eyes.

"Of course I did you silly girl." He smiled, moving a hand to her face to wipe away her tears.

"You're all I want my love. Cauldron be damned."

At this, Y/n flung her arms around Lucien, holding him as tight as possible, still sniffling.

"I love you." she mumbled into his neck.

Lucien ran his fingers through her hair as he forced her to look at him. He began gently kissing away her tears.

"I love you more than you'll ever know, my sweet girl."

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A/N: I'm back!!!

Can you guys tell that i'm obsessed with Lucien?

[marzipanandminutiae]

god I need to stop reading the notes on that "you don't owe anybody your downtime post that goes downhill in the notes

I got a bit hyperbolic in the tags but I still feel like my point was valid: you cannot just shoot down good-faith attempts at compromise between conflicting mental illness with "sorry I don't have the energy to do that :) :) :)" and then keep telling the person on the other side that they need to work on their issues. it cannot be all give on one side and all take on the other

for clarity, the original post said "people can't always respond right away and that's okay!" (which I agree with!). but then someone in the notes was like "could you maybe tell me if you don't feel up to talking when I reach out to you?" and OP and a few other people were like "so, no, because if I had the energy to do that, I'd have the energy to conduct a conversation. sorry! anyway work more on your own stuff thanks!"

and this pissed me off because like. people with mental issues that can make us annoying/clingy/insecure about people's love or friendship? we never seem to get grace. we are ALWAYS the ones being told that we need to be better- which we definitely do! I'm not arguing that! -amidst all the posts telling you that you don't owe your friends anything ever and if someone ever gets annoyed or concerned by a lack of a response, that's on them. nobody EVER seems to get told "well, maybe work on being able to say 'hey, not feeling up to it; talk later!'"

and obviously there are degrees of this. getting worried and spam texting after two hours with no reply to a non-time-sensitive message is an issue; getting annoyed when someone ignores you for months is understandable. not texting someone back immediately is fine; not texting them back ever and then expecting them to still be there for you is not. but I feel like both extremes are issues to be worked on, and only one gets negative attention here on Tumblr

seriously you don't want to know where I started with all this. it was Bad. passive-aggressive, "manipulating people without realizing I was doing anything wrong" Bad. I have worked on it and continue to work on it. I used to tie myself in knots when I saw that little green dot and they didn't message back right away, or if they hadn't messaged first in a while. and subsequently take that out on my loved ones, intentionally or not. it wasn't fun for me, it certainly wasn't fun for them, and I've struggled to get out of that place and not go back there

but. I and people with similar abandonment/insecurity issues can't do it all. it's not meeting halfway when only one side is expected to move

and to see a post being like "well some people are just never going to listen to reason and I have to ~let myself accept that~ UwU" when all I said was "we can't be the only ones trying, and it's not fair that we're often expected to be" is just. hnnnng

I need to go aggressively cut plastic bits off gold braid trim

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 4 - Pick me up

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Brief mention to reader’s (small) injury, references to past motorcycle accident and life changing injury.

Thanks so much for the response to this story so far, I'm aiming to update at least once a week - hopefully more some weeks - but life is quite busy at the moment. All your reblogs and comments are so appreciated, thank-you!

You sat awkwardly on a rickety old desk in the backroom as Bucky carefully pulled the tiny shards of glass from your arm with a tweezer. He’d already checked out your head injury, which was barely an injury at all really, a mere scratch and small bump. After a few tests he seemed satisfied you weren’t concussed, so he’d moved on to the glass wound.

He still seemed mad, so you kept quiet, trying not to concentrate on his proximity. His fingers moved agilely and delicately despite his hefty frame, but you supposed it made sense that someone who worked on cars and motorcycles most of the day would be good with their hands.

Your mouth pulled into a grimace as he pulled another shard out and then quickly cleaned the area with antiseptic, causing you to hiss.

“Almost done…” he said monotonously.

“Thanks” you replied.

Your tone was sheepish, you felt a little embarrassed that he was now patching you up after you’d clapped back at him. Your mouth sometimes got ahead of you like that. But it was hard not to feel aggrieved when he was also making you feel like a kid who’d been sent to the principal’s office.

“Hold still…” he scolded.

Yeah…just like that.

“I am still”.

“No…you’re moving. Cut it out”.

“You cut it out!”

He sighed heavily. “Whatever…”

The two of you stewed in silence for a few more minutes until he pulled the final piece out and cleaned and bandaged the wound, then meticulously packed everything back into his medical kit. You thanked him and kept your head down, running your fingers across the bandage as you wondered what to say. You didn’t normally feel shy around Bucky, but the incident with the customer and your subsequent squabbling had thrown you off. Your general feelings towards him seemed to oscillate between sheer lust and intense annoyance.

“So…I guess you’ll be quitting then” he said glumly as he turned around and put the kit back into a desk drawer.

You looked up, surprised. “Huh?”

“After this, I mean” he cleared his throat. “I guess you’ll be quitting the job”.

“Why?”

He turned towards you; confusion and annoyance evident on his face. “…Because you got assaulted by a customer and I didn’t stop it?”

You tilted your head in sudden understanding. “That’s why you’re being so pissy? You think I’m going to quit?”

He frowned; his tone clipped. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t need this shit on top of all your house stuff”.

Well…he was sort of right. You didn’t really need the money (although it helped), and you really didn’t need to be dealing with drunk guys trying to bottle you…but…in all honesty? You’d dealt with worse over the years. A drunk guy with bad aim wasn’t pleasant, but you liked this job – you liked the MC, you liked the regulars, you liked that it gave you something to do in the evenings rather than aimlessly wander Granny’s house, you liked…Bucky.

“I’m not quitting, Bucky” you told him defiantly.

He looked genuinely surprised, his blue eyes narrowing. “What? Look…I’d understand, we fucked up – we should’ve been there to protect you and we were fuckin’ around playing pool”.

You frowned. “Look…don’t feel guilty. I should’ve called you over and not tried to manage him by myself when he started getting rowdy…I guess I just, didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it…” you told him quietly.

He chuckled fondly. “Sugar…I know full well you can handle it. I’ve seen the way you can handle yourself. But drunks can be unpredictable. You need to tell one of us if things get ugly, okay? That’s why we’re here”.

You nodded. “Alright”.

“Promise me you’ll call me or one of the others over if someone so much as raises their voice to you”. His tone was stern, he was clearly very serious about this.

“Scout’s honour” you replied sunnily as you held up your fingers in a mock salute, trying to ease some of the strange tension that was in the air.

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer, but the stern look on his face was still there.

“And you’re really staying? Because if you wanted to quit..”

“No…Bucky, I’m staying”.

The silence hung awkwardly between you until you cleared your throat, looking over at the cabinet where he’d put away the kit.

“So uh…I didn’t think you’d have First Aid training”.

“You learn a few things after you come off your bike a couple of times” he sighed gruffly.

You nodded silently in response, but he caught your eyes briefly darting to look over at his metal arm.

“Yes…” he wiggled his metal fingers. “That was one of those times…can’t fix that with our First Aid box though” he muttered.

“Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” he softened. “I don’t mind talking about it. Really. Long time ago now. Got knocked off my bike by a truck and got pretty badly mangled. They couldn’t save it…”

“Jesus, Bucky, I’m SO sorry. I had no idea…”

“It’s fine,” he said pragmatically. “Accidents happen. Life goes on. Besides, got an upgrade out of it…” he smiled grimly and flexed the robotic arm.

“And you still get on your bike every day, even after all that?” you asked with disbelief.

He nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “It’s what I love. Nothing could stop me doing what I love. Yeah, I was a bit shaky at first. But you adapt. That’s what life is about, isn’t it?”

You smiled back at him. He was like regular Bucky again. You admired the way his face lit up when he spoke about his passion, quietly impressed by his determination to get back in the saddle. You wished you could be more like him in that way, rather than cowering in your indecision when things went south. You looked back over at his metal arm.

“I mean…it’s amazing. So intricate. I’ve never seen a prosthetic like it. How do you even go about getting a robot arm?”

“Friends in high places,” he tittered. “Tony Stark threw it in as part of a deal…”

Your eyes widened. “Tony Stark…the weapons magnate?”

Bucky just winked in response.

“Why would you and Tony Sta- No…you know what? I don’t need to know…”

“Yeah…probably for the best,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes, but you were secretly relieved that the tension between you both had eased. Back to dumb jokes and sassing each other.

He smiled back at you for a second, but it faded so quickly that it made your stomach flip. He looked over at you forcefully, his eyes dark. It was a look you hadn’t seen before.

“Bucky…what is it-”

“I’m sorry again…that you got hurt,” he said gravely. “I would never…if I’d known…” he sighed. “I just mean…the last thing I’d ever want is for you to be in harm’s way…”

You paused, struck by the sincerity in his voice. You stared back at him, nodding sluggishly as he moved closer to you, unable to tear your eyes away from him. Time seemed to slow as he leaned towards you. Your eyes widened as he tilted his head, his expression intense. He leaned in closer and closer, and you found yourself moving too, like a moth to a flame. As his lips met yours it was like a lightning bolt, your breath caught in your chest as you suppressed a gasp and let yourself melt into him. His tongue was in your mouth before you knew what was happening, and you reciprocated greedily. Suddenly his hands were on your thighs, moving up your hips, your waist. The heat of his touch searing. Your own fingers grabbed at his kutte, pulling him closer and closer but still never close enough as his mouth moved to your throat. You practically mewled as his lips met the flesh of your neck, you tilted your head back to allow him full access. Your eyes closed as you bit your lip, his mouth ghosted over your skin and-

The heavy knocking sent you crashing back down to earth with a cruel bump, a tiny gasp escaping you as he pushed you back down against the wood.

“Buck…” came the muffled voice from behind the door. “We need to go. Sorry. Does your best employee need a ride home?”

“What is it, Sam?” Bucky snarled as he stood and moved towards the door.

“Rumlow…he’s apparently making a move…”

Bucky exhaled, he turned to look at you for a second, opening his mouth to speak before shaking his head in silent apology. His eyes said more than his lips ever could. You nodded in return.

He swung the door open and Sam stood there. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed or awkward to interrupt, so he was either being polite enough not to mention it, or simply hadn’t picked up on the slight heaviness in your breathing, or the way you were somewhat splayed across the desk.

“Goddamn. Alright. Let’s go,” Bucky instructed. “Sugar…you need a ride?”

“N-no. I drove. All good” you stuttered as you regained your composure.

“Sam…have someone ride back with her. Just in case”.

“Bucky I’m fine I-”

He looked at you warningly, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright…” you sighed. “Give me the motorcycle escort”.

His hard expression softened for a split second; a hint of a smile sent your way. The beginnings of a sparkle in his baby blues.

And then he was gone.

[crisis-starter]

Hello

I did not expect to write Odile’s moment in less than half a day.

Stars, its twice as long as Mirabelle’s and that took me 2 or 3 days to do.

Well, anyways, I hope you enjoy!

)•{+}•<>+<>•{+}•(

Odile was by the staircase in the final room, waiting to talk with Siffrin. The entire trek through the house was filled to the brim with suspicious activity. Facial expressions, behaviors… it was all strange. And with the knowledge of Wish Craft and Time Craft… she had an idea of what was happening. Bonnie was seemingly thinking about something. She had never seen the child be so quiet before. And Isabeau was looking right at her. Siffrin was chatting with Mirabelle, so she awaited them. Soon they will have to talk to her, she could feel it.

Then she felt the slight twinge of Craft. Isabeau wasn’t looking at her anymore, instead performing an odd kind of craft, if his hand was any indication. And then she heard his voice in her head:

‘M’dame Odile. Please. Whatever you are planning to do right now? At least be gentle.’

Odile copied the hand signal she saw Isabeau making before replying, “He’s trapped himself, and subsequently the entirety of Vaugarde in time! Perhaps even worse than the King! And you don’t want me to say my piece?”

‘I am not saying that you shouldn’t say something. I’m saying that, if you are, please don’t push him. He is already that close to the edge.’

Odile was silent. Skeptical. She had an idea of Isabeau’s stance, but this really couldn’t go unsaid. Siffrin was hiding something that clearly felt like common knowledge to everyone except her. And Isabeau had this… worry in his voice. Like he knew something she didn’t.

‘M’dame. I… I can’t tell you right now. Because we’re on a time limit. But I will tell you what I remember seeing once we get back. Here’s to hoping you remember what happens next.’

Isabeau cut the connection there. Odile looked at Siffrin, and realized why. The rogue had finished talking with Mirabelle. She put her hand down and returned to reading through the notes of her investigation. Siffrin approached her, a seemingly disinterested expression on his face. The two glanced at each other before Odile started talking, “Ah. Woop woop, we did it, we won, etc.”

She wanted to start soft, somewhat. So why not comment on how she feels after the fight with the King? She continued, “Urgh. Whatever. This was… quite a workout. My entire body is screaming.” Odile rolled her shoulders a little. She did feel somewhat sore, “Savior of Vaugarde, huh? That’s something to add to my list of accomplishments.”

Maybe mulling over any future plans may help a smoother transition? She didn’t know. She never said she was… good at this, “But now, I can finally go back to traveling. I’d be curious to visit more Vaugardian cities and hear what they have to say about an event like this. It’ll be weird to travel alone now, but I’ll get used to it again. Or I could just go home to Ka Bue… Hm…” Maybe she could convince the others to travel with her? Not right now, that would be too… embarrassing. Everyone here has their own life. She didn’t want them to put it aside so easily over a grown woman not wanting to leave without a proper goodbye and happy, stress-free memories to take with her.

Siffrin hid in their collar as they spoke, “To do your fake research?” There it was. Another suspicious detail. How they knew her research was fake was a bit of a mystery but she needed to say something, “…Yes. My fake research…” She probably looked a bit… frustrated there. She quickly fixed her expression, “Don’t tell anyone. I’d like to see Isabeau try to figure it out for a little longer. Very excited to hear what he comes up with next. Spoonology? Bananalogy?” Siffrin’s expression changed to that of an odd smile. A fabricated one. Concern began to blossom in her heart.

Maybe Isabeau was right.

Siffrin joked, “Bananalogy would be quite aPEELing.” Odile didn’t find it funny. But… at least fake something, “Hah… Yes.” Her face softened, “Ha… I’ll miss you, Siffrin. You’re a little strange, but you’re a good kid. Maybe try letting down your walls every once in a while, huh?” The researcher felt a smile sneak onto her face, “And come to Ka Bue anytime. Maybe we’ll meet again during your travels.” Odile really hoped so. Siffrin forced himself to smile. Wait.

Odile looked at Siffrin, concern fueling her entire being, “…Siffrin, is everything-“ Siffrin’s expression flashed into something akin to confusion for a second. Odile looked around. Bonnie, Mirabelle, and Isabeau were looking at her, worried. Great. She had spectators now. But… was she the main act? She sighed, hoping to brush off the added tension. She hoped that this would go smoothly. Odile asked, softly, “But really, is everything okay?” Siffrin is back to that fabricated smile, “What do you mean?”

Oh… Oh this is how things will have to go, huh. She continued, “I don’t know, Siffrin. You’ve felt off since yesterday. More withdrawn, mostly. Tell me what’s wrong.” Siffrin continued avoiding the question, “Nothing’s wrong!” This defiance… it was messing with Odile’s patience. But she was trying, “…it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, you know. I’ll find out eventually.” She probably already did. Maybe everyone did, and she doesn’t remember. Siffrin replied, hiding in their collar again, “But I’m not hiding anything.” And that was the final straw. All attention was on them both. She was starting to get a headache. Time to lay it all out, no matter how harsh it felt.

Odile looked at Siffrin, abandoning any kind of calm or leniency, “Is that so.” She made her frustration known, “Is that so? So Time Craft has nothing to do with you?” Siffrin dropped the facade and grew shocked, “No that’s-“ Odile will not let him deny it. She continued, noticing Isabeau trying to approach. No. She needed to say her piece, “And the fact that you knew how to read that book about Wish Craft… Knew how to wish correctly, when no one else did… It doesn’t mean anything, either?”

Siffrin gave that fake smile, only more shaky, “It’s not like that, I-“ She was cornering them. No more excuses, just continue, “And the way you’re acting, doing that stupid smile like nothing’s wrong… It doesn’t mean anything, either?!?” The smile was dropped. Siffrin was looking at Odile, shaken. Silent. There’s more evidence.

She looked away slightly, still stern, “I’m not stupid, Siffrin. If I find something strange, I can do nothing except give it my full attention.” She turned her attention back to Siffrin, “And you are acting strange.” Siffrin looked stressed. Staring at her with this need to run away, but being unable to. Her headache was getting worse. She’ll deal with it later.

It was at this point she made her anger known, “There were so many signs… I did not understand them, but now I do! You’ve been acting strange since you woke up from your nap, yesterday!” She started to ramble on about more evidence that came to mind, “When we talk to you, you act out of it, almost bored… And the way you reacted to the rocks falling… We all jumped, but you just looked at them fall, calmly.” Odile rose her voice again, “And there’s so many other things, the way you reacted to so many things throughout our entire journey through the House!” The researcher faltered a little, “And, and… How every time you found the keys we needed to proceed, you didn’t seem surprised, like you knew exactly where they were. Even that key in the classroom. Almost like…” Odile looked at Siffrin for answers, “…Like you had found them before, maybe?”

Siffrin started to grow panicked, “B-but that’d be impossible, though!” Isabeau was looking at the two of them, nervous yet willing to step in. Siffrin attempted to reason. To save themselves, “How could I have known where the keys were when it’s my first time here?!?” Odile, frustrated, asked, “I don’t know, Siffrin, why don’t you enlighten me?!” Siffrin’s breathing was escalating. Odile continued, “Don’t think I believed that whole ‘I wished croissants would disappear~’ thing, too. So, if you lied about your wish… What did you wish for, then? That’s it, isn’t it?” The researcher looked at her hands, “Did something happen? To you, to us? Did we die against the King, maybe?” Odile looked up, spotting Siffrin pulling at his hair. Oh no. She only had one thing left to say, then she could try to start calming Siffrin down. It’ll be okay. She finished by asking, “Is that why you’re repeating the same events, Siffrin?” She was about to maybe ask Siffrin to calm down and relax before it happened.

Siffrin snapped back, “SHUT UP!!!”

Everyone was startled by the outburst. Odile herself was shaken. Isabeau was right. She couldn’t be a bit softer, huh? And now, Siffrin was on the edge of a breakdown. The traveler continued, breath ragged and irregular, “Even if you figure it out, Odile… It’s too late! It’s too late! It’s always too late!!!” Siffrin looked right into Odile’s eyes as they spoke, a combination of panic and rage in his eyes, “Did you have to figure it all out now, when it’s all about to end? You can’t help me, Odile!!! No one can!!!”

Isabeau was stunned, muttering a quiet, “Sif, Odile…?” Bonnie was hidden behind Mirabelle, asking, “What’s happening? Why are you yelling?” …When did they get so close? Odile’s headache was getting worse. The air started to feel strange. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

Siffrin continued, erratic, “It’s too late!!! YOU CAN’T HELP ME!!!” Odile tried to get a word in, but couldn’t. So she continued to listen to Siffrin’s pleas, “And I think, weirdly, I don’t even want you to help me?” Siffrin gave a panicked smile, “Why don’t I want you to help me?”

Odile felt her hands shaking. What… was this her fault? Was she the final straw? All she could really do was try to ask them to calm down, “Siffrin-“ But she couldn’t even do that without being cut off, “Maybe because I know that if you help me, you’ll start hating me!!!”

What?

“Because I don’t know why this is all happening, but-“

Wait.

“It must be because of me, that we’re repeating the same events!!!”

Siffrin stop. Please, you’ll hurt-

“And if you knew that, you’d hate me-“

Mirabelle cried out, “Siffrin?!” Maybe to snap him out of it. The air tasted like sugar. A taste so strong, it was horrible. A terrible omen. Siffrin continued, “And I don’t want you to hate me. So, so, so-“

And everything stopped before everyone was sent back to their places. Odile was silent. She decided… to say something, “Siffrin, please. You don’t… have to talk to me. But I will find out somehow. What’s causing you… harm.” She already knew. But maybe it was more comforting to claim ignorance. Siffrin quickly fabricated a smile before cheerfully saying, “Maybe, teehee!”

That… that felt unsettling.

Bonnie, Mirabelle, and Isabeau looked at Odile, worried. Odile herself? She wanted to sit down. She felt faint. That was so much information to take in at once.

Just how… how deep has Siffrin buried himself?

Siffrin faced her, the same chilling smile on their face. Odile stated, “Alright, well, if that was all…” Siffrin took this as his cue to leave as Isabeau straightened his act up.

Once Siffrin was gone, Odile sat down on the stairs. Her headache was gone, but she felt guilty. She just sat there silently, internalizing information.

It seemed that her spacing out helped pass by sooner, because she soon found Isabeau by her side, trying to check if she was doing okay. She could barely hear him.

Her eyes were on Siffrin. They hesitated a little before trying to talk to the Head Housemaiden. Then they approached her. They happily told Euphrasie about something. She responded happily.

Then the pressure in the air grew. Something was wrong. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. The Head Housemaiden was dismayed. Siffrin pleaded with her.

She crouched down to Siffrin’s level, cupping the rogue’s cheeks with her hands. She made sure she was close to Siffrin as tears streamed down her face. Siffrin was stunned. He couldn’t move. The world grew darker. Something was happening. Something was oh so horribly wrong.

A lightless shade almost appeared to engulf everything. For a split second, Odile saw something. Hundreds of silhouettes. They all looked just like Siffrin. All looking at Euphrasie. And then…

She awoke and stumbled back, nearly crashing into the shelf behind her. Her heart was pounding. So she attempted to calm down. Then she heard someone enter the shop.

Isabeau was trying to catch his breath at the entrance. He looked at Odile, worried, “Are you alright, M’dame?” Odile just looked at him, shocked. Her hands were shaking again. Isabeau sighed, “So… you remember, hm?”

)•{+}•<>+<>•{+}•(

This was VERY fun to write.

So… those are the 4 “loop awakenings”.

I’ll compile them all in chronological order and post it to AO3 (which was the original plan but I felt like you folks would like it).

I hope you have a good day/night! Until next time!

[cryscendo]

Hi, how about an abrupt,  heated kiss during the middle of a fight for Klaine?

i bet you didn’t think i would ever respond to this!! well i will say that i kinda ran away with this plot a bit. does it fit the prompt? only vaguely. BUT it’s another thrilling installment to my angel/demon au with a bit more lore thrown in. dedicating it to you as well as @porcelainvino for their various art pieces for this au <3 hope you love it and sorry for the wait!!

Paring: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson

Word Count: 2030

Rating: T

AU: Angel/Demon AU

fic can be read under the cut <3

There were a lot of things that turned out to be just as unpleasant about falling, not including the actual falling part.

For one, he was weaker than he used to be. He did suspect that would happen, but it still hurt his ego a bit. He used to have so much power that he often didn’t even know what all to do with it. Not that he really could do much with it anyway; the big men upstairs never allowed much fun to be had. More time was spent existing as a militant entity than was spent actually basking in the alleged splendor that was heaven.

If given the option between going back to that or experiencing the pain of falling all over again, Kurt would choose to fall every damn day.

Besides, angels don’t get to play with humans like they’re Barbie dolls. And that’s way more fun.

The man before him, unsuspecting and ignorant, saw Kurt at a bar and thought he’d be an easy target. Kurt knew he perfectly looked the part of a young man getting his first drink at a bar as a twenty-one year old. Aging was such an earthly concept and Kurt was not burdened with it. But to an older man, the illusion of wide-eyed innocence was all too compelling.

Kurt claimed he ‘knew a spot’, which was just as cliché as it sounded, but it was effective nonetheless. Apparently intelligence didn’t always come with age.

It wasn’t long after he got the man to the abandoned storage facility that he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. Not soon enough, though, for Kurt had already made quick work of knocking the man out and handcuffing him to a chair. When he came to once more, it was in a fit of panic.

“Look, I didn’t sign up for this kind of crazy! So just let me go, okay?” The man pleaded with Kurt and it was charming if nothing else. Kurt leaned over him, one knee braced against the chair in a way that could be seen as provocative in any other circumstance.

“What, am I too old for you?” Kurt asked in a mocking whine. “I swear, I’m only twenty, maybe thirty centuries old!”

“Whatever game you’re playing here, kid, I’m not interested so just let me-”

“Let him go, Kurt,” a voice spoke up behind him. Kurt grinned as he straightened up. Of course he would show up. It was impossible for him to stay away. He made a bit of a show of turning around to face the new arrival — his favorite little angel.

He turned towards the voice, maintaining his flirty tone. “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”

“You could say that,” Blaine replied and that’s when Kurt saw it — the glint of a blade held discreetly in his palm. He recognized the weapon, as it was a piece from Heaven’s arsenal. See, a regular knife couldn’t kill Kurt.

But that one could.

Kurt’s grin dropped as he backed away from the man strapped to the chair, and subsequently also away from Blaine. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“You attract too much attention to yourself.”

“Well, I can’t help but pull focus,” Kurt responded in a rather clipped manner. The man in the chair began to panic even more upon being approached by Blaine.

“Listen, man,” the guy began quickly, “you don’t need to kill him or anything! Just let me go and I’ll be on my way!”

Blaine’s eyes flickered down to the stranger, eerily calm. “You don’t need to see this,” he said simply and before the man could even begin to reply, Blaine rested his palm to his forehead, immediately knocking him out. Putting a human to sleep rather than killing them; that was so painfully just like Blaine to do.

“Why do you have that thing?” Kurt interrogated the second that the man was unconscious.

Blaine turned the knife a bit in his hand as if observing it. “Come on, Kurt, you know exactly what this is.”

Kurt maintained a semi-safe distance. “Why do you need that thing to kill me? You’ve never needed that for a demon before.” It was true. Blaine could take down a demon easily. It made them cruelly unmatched. Blaine had never threatened to kill him before, but it would be undoubtedly easy for him to do so should he want to. For Blaine, a demon is an easy target. He was an easy target.

Unless…

Kurt’s grin returned. “You can’t kill me, can you?” He asked coyly.

Blaine remained serious, but Kurt could see a crack in his expression letting on that he was nervous. Kurt seemed to always have that effect on him. “Not at my rank, no,” he said simply, but Kurt knew what he meant. He wasn’t strong enough to take out Kurt. An ordinary demon, he’d have no problem. But as luck would have it, Kurt wasn’t an ordinary demon.

Kurt took a risk. He moved a few steps towards Blaine and the weapon he possessed. “You’re not going to kill me.”

“I could.”

A few more steps. “But you won’t.”

“I might.”

“But you won’t.” Kurt was directly in front of him now. He knew it was a dangerous game, but he had a point to prove. “Because if you were going to, you would’ve done it already. So tell me angel, was this a direct order from one of your bossmen, or are you just simply that obsessed with me?”

“Don’t push your luck, Kurt,” Blaine spoke, gravely serious.

“Or what?” Kurt challenged. He could feel Blaine’s steady breaths from just how close they were. Blaine’s gaze met his evenly. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it. I’m wide open.” Kurt tilted his head a fraction, his eyes alight with the rush that comes with toying with Blaine. His tone shifted into something devilishly flirtatious as he spoke again. “So, y’know, take me, I’m yours and all that.”

It was then that Blaine sprung into action. With quick work, he managed to securely grip onto the collar of Kurt’s shirt, using his strength over the other to force Kurt backwards. There was a time where Kurt may have been stronger than him. But Kurt gave all that up, and he still refused to regret it.

That didn’t mean he loved Blaine constantly using that fact against him.

Blaine got him against a wall with one particularly rough push. Kurt felt the brittle wall crack slightly behind him. Fuck, Blaine was strong.

Blaine was strong.

Once Blaine has Kurt pinned defenseless against the wall, he brings the blade down. Kurt doesn’t know whether it was thanks to adrenaline, or his own sense of speed in the face of self-preservation, but he reached up and circled his fingers around Blaine’s wrist before he could manage to connect the weapon.

The blade stilled, suspended in the air between them. Kurt imagined the scene was almost picturesque in a way — him pressed between Blaine’s firm body and the unforgiving wall, his long fingers locked around Blaine’s wrist. Angel and demon. Lovers. Enemies.

Blaine really was going to kill him.

Their shared breathing revealed the exhaustion that their overexertion had caused. Kurt knew, given his current position, he was fully at Blaine’s mercy. The mercy of an angel who just tried to kill him.

That gave Kurt little other choice. Slowly, he tugged at Blaine’s wrist until the blade was sitting just above his throat. He leveled Blaine with a steely look, deathly serious. “Well, go ahead, angel. Do what you gotta do.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Kurt,” Blaine clarified, but didn’t pull the blade away.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he bit out before he could even think to check his tone. This was, in large part, his own doing. He opened the door for Blaine to corner him, he really had no right to be upset about it actually occurring. Even in his current position, Kurt couldn’t refrain from looking down his nose at Blaine, hoping to properly demonstrate his distaste from his present circumstances. “I’m guessing you got assigned a job from one of the big men upstairs?”

“You’re lucky that it’s me and not someone else.”

“Oh yeah, I sure feel lucky.” Kurt’s fingers twitched around Blaine’s wrist as he continued to hold the blade close to Kurt’s throat. But hasn’t pressed in yet, and Kurt cannot fathom why. He has the perfect opportunity. Kurt is basically giving him a free pass, so why isn’t he going for it? “Well?”

Blaine’s grip on the weapon slacked just a bit. “Nothing is ever easy with you.”

“So why don’t you take care of the problem?”

Blaine said nothing, did nothing. He only stood and continued to watch Kurt in silence, and Kurt could practically see the flurry of thoughts swirl around in Blaine’s head. Kurt almost felt bad for the guy; he knew that he didn’t make Blaine’s job simple, and admittedly, does very little to combat that fact.

Eventually, though, Blaine shakes his head. “You’re right. I won’t do it.”

The sound of the metal blade clattering to the ground reverberated discordantly off the walls of the warehouse.

Kurt took no time to ponder Blaine’s decision to spare him. Instead, he kicked the weapon away from the two of them and then, in quick succession, flipped their two positions. Blaine didn’t put up any fight with being pushed up against the wall himself. He could break free if he really wanted to. He chose not to.

“Do you still love me, Blaine?” Kurt asked, not ready for the words to fall from his mouth before they did.

“Are demons even capable of love?”

Kurt wasn’t sure. Maybe demons who never experienced love aren’t. Love is formed from soul, grace, and humanity, of which demons have none.

But Kurt wasn’t always a demon, and he still didn’t really fit the mold of one. Fallen angels are different from regular demons. They still possess morality, at least to some extent. It was just like Kurt to never really fit in anywhere.

“Do you? Still love me?”

Honey colored eyes gazed at Kurt with something akin to sympathy, which would burn his blood if it weren’t for the fact that he so desperately needed a response.

Blaine nodded.

Kurt kissed him. He didn’t even hesitate. With Blaine pinned up against the wall, it was easy for him to leverage a searing, bruising kiss against soft lips. Blaine always tasted the same, like coffee, — such an earthly pleasure that he achieved no benefit from and only chose to indulge for its luxury — and something else a touch more divine. Kurt couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it tasted vaguely familiar from the holy kingdom that he was no longer welcome to.

Kurt pulled away with a sigh. Blaine panted quietly, a faintly pink blush forming under tanned skin. Kurt was right about one thing, Blaine was an angel — in every sense of the word.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to disappear for your own safety?” Blaine eventually asked.

Kurt smiled. “Not a chance in hell.”

Blaine nodded in understanding, as if he already anticipated Kurt’s response. “You always were stubborn to a fault.”

Blaine wasn’t wrong. And as much as he would love to stand here with Blaine forever, it wasn’t wise to hang around angels for too long — even if the angel in question was Blaine.

He finally stepped away from Blaine, allowing the man some space. Kurt glanced over to the man tied to the chair. He had forgotten that guy was here. He was simply a means to an end, afterall.

“You may want to wipe that guy’s mind, angel. Or else he’s going to be a real problem when he wakes up.”

Kurt headed towards the exit of the building, but not before Blaine called out to him. “Suddenly not so keen on sticking around?”

Kurt grinned, if not mostly to himself. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll find me again. And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually have it in you to kill me next time.”

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

restricting myself to only do 5 snippets lol i love them all so much

🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼 (OH!!!!!! @ that last snippet more pls)

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰(this one has me on the edge of my seat!)(i say as if the others dont lol)

📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖📖(its new so im requesting more :))

🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷🦷(this one i need a totally normal amount! diaz boys Talking ;-;)

🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨(i just love them so much)

You can do as many as you want! Tanis submits 800 million every week.

I'm gonna put Gentle On My Mind at the bottom bc the snippet is sort of smutty, so I'll hide it under the cut.

That being said, 30 for ➰:

Tagging @steadfastsaturnsrings

---

His fault. Sure. The naproxen? He shouldn’t have taken it from Rachel. That’s on him, too. Rachel’s kid cracking his skull open? Dumb bad luck. Not on him. But, fair enough… Three out of four. 

“That makes sense,” he tells Eddie weakly. 

“Why?” Eddie asks. 

“Just curious,” Buck mumbles. 

“Well, don’t worry,” Eddie replies. “Not like you’ve had to watch them, right?”

Yeah… He supposes that’s true…

“It doesn’t matter,” Buck says quickly. “Sorry.”

Something sad flashes across Eddie’s expression. He cups Buck’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. Buck allows it to happen, although he’s not sure he’s in the mood for their usual morning activities. 

“We should get going,” Buck says, breaking the kiss. “Don’t want to be late for kayaking today.”

Eddie nods. “Right. No. No, we don’t.”

---

45 for 📖:

---

“Hi,” the woman greets him with a nervous little wave. 

She’s beautiful, Buck thinks. Bright smile. Gorgeous eyes. Eddie is holding her hand.

Buck feels strange. He thought she was out of the picture. Are they back together?

“Shannon,” she adds. “My name is Shannon.” 

“Nice to meet you, Shannon.” Buck says, smiling. He feels a little muted and he doesn’t know why. 

“Nice to meet you, too, best librarian in the world.” 

They chat some more. She’s really nice. Buck can see Christopher in her. Whatever happened there, Buck resolves himself to be happy for the three of them. 

Not that it’s any of his business, anyway. 

vii. 

Life gets busy for a bit. He dates and subsequently breaks up with an interior designer named Ali. In Maddie’s life, there’s a stalking incident. A near kidnapping. Chimney gets hurt. Maddie’s ex ends up in jail. Buck lives in a state of shaky adrenaline for weeks. He takes some time off work to help his sister move apartments again and fight with her new landlord about breaking her lease. Even when he’s back, he doesn’t have as much energy for the job as usual. He feels bad about it, but he just can��t give his all. 

All this to say, he doesn’t get to know Shannon Diaz very well. Even though she’s the one picking Christopher up more and more these days. Even though she’s kind and talkative. Even though Chris lights up when he sees her and it’s clear having her back in his life has been good for him. 

It’s nothing against her, really. He’s just busy. He’s got a lot going on personally. He doesn’t have the same energy for the parents as he did six months ago. No other reason. 

But then… 

Well, then she dies. 

He only finds out about it through Carla. Christopher stops showing up to after school programming. One day. Two. By the third, Buck starts to worry. 

---

60 for 🦷 (YEAH TALKING!):

---

Eddie doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what he’s said wrong. 

“What about when you got back from Afghanistan and you were hurt?” Chris asks. He seems insistent. 

“Uh,” Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t think I had any ice cream then, Chris. I can’t remember.”

“No, comfort. Who comforted you?” 

Eddie’s chest feels tight. 

“I mean… I think your mom tried,” Eddie replies weakly. “She had, uh… She had a little kid to think about, though. You. And her mom was sick…”

“So no one?” Chris fills in.

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t try,” Eddie defends Shannon. 

“What about…” Christiopher’s eyes dart around. He’s upset. He’s upset and Eddie can’t tell why. “What about when you were shot?”

Eddie nods. Okay, yes. Yes, he can give a satisfactory answer. 

“Yeah, buddy. Buck was there for me. Comforted me all the time.”

“Just Buck?” Chris asks.

“I mean, other people were there. You were there. You being there helped.”

“What about Ana?” Chris asks. 

“Right, yes. Ana.”

Chris narrows his eyes. 

“What is this about?” Eddie asks. “Why all the interest in my own surgeries, Chris? Yours won’t be that bad, I promise.”

“It’s not that,” Christopher sighs. 

“Then what?” Eddie tries to temper the edge in his voice. He doesn’t know why he is getting frustrated, too. Maybe it’s just the confusion of it all. 

Christopher looks down at his tub of ice cream, then back up at Eddie. He looks like he’s going to cry. It makes Eddie want to cry. 

“I… I thought going to Texas would make me feel better,” Chris says. His voice is wavering. Like it’s about to crack. 

Eddie freezes. The ice cream is probably warmer than the blood in his veins right now. 

“I thought… I thought I’d feel better because you’d feel worse. I thought I’d feel better because I wouldn’t be in your way.”

---

45 for 🚨:

---

“So, uh… So, where is Christopher today?”

Eddie feels a little thrum of apprehension. 

“He’s at the zoo,” Eddie answers. “With his stepfather.”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever phrased it quite like this before. To anyone who doesn’t know Buck’s role in his life, Eddie might phrase it like… My partner. My boyfriend. Something like that. There’s a different sort of implication behind my son’s stepfather. A permanence. A finality. One Eddie knows is valid and true. But one that catches Ramon off guard, clearly, from the way he raises his eyebrows. 

“Stepfather?” Ramon asks. 

“Yes,” Eddie replies tightly. Maybe he’s testing him a little. “You saw him. At the funeral. Buck.”

Ramon nods. “My memory of the day is a little fuzzy.”

“Right,” Eddie replies. 

“You’ve been together a long time?” Ramon asks. 

“A year,” Eddie replies. “Friends for longer, before then. He’s a firefighter, too.”

“That’s good. It’s good to… Well, to really know a person.”

Something in his tone says he’s speaking from experience. Like maybe he hadn’t, so well. Or maybe he feels like he doesn’t anymore? 

Eddie nods. “We’re happy.”

He doesn’t know why he feels the need to say this. Perhaps because the implication, when he came out to them all those years ago, was that he could never really be. That he was taking his life in the wrong direction. Well… Here’s the truth. He did right by himself.

---

30 for 🔼:

⚠️NSFW CONTENT AHEAD READ WITH CAUTION⚠️

---

Eddie kisses Shannon as he undresses her. Her mouth. Her cheeks. Down her neck. Her collarbone. Kissing along a line of freckles he has memorized. He knows every inch of her. 

He removes her bra and moves his mouth to her breasts, brain short-circuiting at the fullness of them right now. 

“God, Shannon,” he mutters uselessly. He thinks she says something back but it’s muffled and a little incoherent. 

She’s so beautiful. She’s always been so beautiful. He’ll never stop being amazed by it. 

Her chest has always been sensitive. She’s always liked him kissing her here. Applying a bit of pressure. Today, she’s more sensitive than ever. He obviously understands why. But her reaction takes him by surprise. The volume of her gasping. The sharp digging on her fingernails into his back. It drives Eddie forward with confident resolve. 

He keeps moving. Kissing further and further down her body. Her sternum. He kisses the firm swell of her stomach. Peppers it with the affection he hasn’t been able to give. He kisses her thighs. Another freckle on her hip. He kisses her everywhere he can, and then he gives her exactly what she needs. 

[amywritesthings]

SILVER UNDERGROUND / deleted scene 04.

levi's pov #2. :: a deleted scene from flashback two. this is levi's pov of recruiting james to the gang.

happy silver underground friday! thank you for your patience as i write up ch20. i know many of you requested more levi pov content, so i give to you the initial recruitment (levi's version). this is unedited. 3.5k words / mentions of violence, angst, language, pining. :: please remember: this is additional deleted content, not tied to the current canon of the story.

Three years pass and she still won’t leave his goddamn brain.

The girl with the stale bread.

The girl with the kindness that’ll get her killed down here.

Maybe you're not even that kind — he’s seen how ferociously you take down kids double your size when he’s passing by with Furlan, keeping tabs that you’re still breathing week to week.

Not long after the one and only fight he’s had with you, Kenny disappeared. The son of bitch gave some shitty excuse — something about teaching him all he could — leaving Levi Ackerman in a deathly quiet room for the second time in his life.

Just happened to be alone this time, that’s all.

He almost came to you then, but thought better of it. Getting mixed up in that bitch’s affairs, the one you call Mother, wouldn’t do him any favors.

Maybe she’d up and ditch you the way Kenny ditched him.

Maybe fate would have it—

No.

Dreaming’s a waste of time.

He should keep his distance.

He should never try to speak to you—

“Hello?” 

Furlan waves a hand in front of his face, waking Levi from a dissociative state. His steel gray eyes flicker up to the other boy, expressionless.

“I’m listening,” he curtly replies.

“No you weren’t,” Furlan mumbles, before flopping down into a rickety wooden chair.

This house isn’t much, but it’s home. Better than living on the streets, that’s for damn sure. Somehow him and this kid made enough money to get by and then some — but that’s probably because they’ve found the literal Underground City jackpot.

Two idiot MPs from the surface.

Two sets of Omni-directional Mobility Gear.

(The steal would be much easier than others think. Making the story sound impossible meant other thugs in the area wouldn’t ever try their hand at it.)

Crime’s a hell of a lot easier when you can fly.

Only problem now is that the jobs — and subsequently the money — are harder to come by. Furlan’s insistent on expanding. Levi has no interest in banking on trust beyond Furlan.

Until that idea hit him like a static shock—

All when he realized you were still fighting.

Still, after all these years.

“If you’re still trying to convince me,” Levi boredly starts, “then I might have a name to throw in the ring.”

Furlan perks in his chair, scooting closer. “Well, damn, you coulda said it earlier.”

“I just think you won’t like who I suggest.”

“Huh? Why? One of our guys—”

“No,” Levi cuts off. “Not one of the shitheads we split scraps with. I’m talking about a third.”

“A third… in command?” Furlan slowly inquires. Levi nods once. “So who is it?”

“A girl I knew once,” the dark-haired boy suggests, arms crossed over her chest. When Furlan squints, he continues. “She’s in the fighting rings. Goes by James.”

“She’s a kid?”

“No. Knew her when she was, but now she’s in the adult circuits.”

“So how old is she?”

“Maybe fifteen? Fourteen?” Levi supplies. “Our age.”

“Huh.” Furlan pauses. “And you… think she’d be good? Like how good?’

“Probably the best option we have.”

“Levi Ackerman talking highly about someone else… now that doesn’t happen every day.”

Levi squints in annoyance. 

“Are you cool with me asking her, or not?”

Furlan makes a face. “Well— here’s the thing. If we just add her, chances are the guys we kinda fumble the numbers with will get jealous. We’d probably need to initiate her.”

Levi doesn’t mean to, but he glares right back. Furlan must realize right away that his partner is a fan of the idea — a reaction he’s never offered.

“Five people aren’t jumping her, Furlan,” Levi insists in a bite.

“I— three?”

Three.

He’s seen you take down people double your size and weight. He’s watched you put popular contenders on their backs in seconds. The kids they hire are just that — kids. 

As much as he doesn’t want to agree to it, there has to be a compromise.

You can handle five.

You can certainly handle three.

“Fine,” Levi murmurs. “Three. She has a fight tomorrow.”

“Damn, you’ve been scouting this one?”

Something like that.

.

.

.

.

.

And just as he suspected, you knock them square on their asses.

Truth be told, it’s an unfair fight.

Levi stakes his claim at the corner, in the shadows, and watches the beat down in real time. All goons looking to show off like they know what the hell they’re up against.

They don’t.

Levi does.

When you scramble down the alleyway to get to safety, he takes off into a casual stroll. Taps an unconscious moron or two in the head to make sure they’re seriously out.

(They’re out, alright. Like a snuffed light.)

And when Levi finally catches up to you, you’re swallowed whole by shadow. Your hands are assessing each part of your torso — smart — while your breath exits in a controlled wheeze.

He’s sorry.

He really is, for once.

“You look like shit,” he comments, watching you rip your gaze from your scratched hands towards his voice.

Like a feral, scared animal you watch him.

Blinking once. 

Blinking twice, three times, as if you’re trying to figure out who the hell he is.

Levi knows it’s not from the injuries. You were smart and protected your head as much as possible. He was banking on quick precision from your technique.

“Mind your fucking business,” you snap back at him, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling ear to ear.

(So that’s what you sound like.)

“How bad did they get you?” he casually asks, stepping forward with a boot.

You blink several times once again.

Yeah, you recognize him.

Just like he recognizes you.

“Why do you care?” you hiss, pushing away from the brick wall.

Levi stops moving to give you space. “I don’t.”

(But, fuck, he does. He really does.)

Breathe through the pain all you want, he catches the way you wrap your arm around your abdomen as if he’s going to try and take you on at your weakest.

Maybe those bastards did get a good hit or two in.

“I guess the answer is bad enough.”

“Fuck off.”

“Sure.”

Except he doesn’t want to.

If you let him, then he’ll stay.

“You can leave, you know,” you tell him, and he draws in a slow inhale. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine so long as those shitheads don’t get up.”

Your head whips behind you to see the alley as if Levi’s spotted anyone. 

No, they’re not actually coming. 

In fact, you knocked them out so thoroughly that it’s a little bit funny.

Then you turn, and his stomach clenches. “I can’t believe you’re still alive.”

“I get that a—”

“Whoa.”

His heart seizes when you stumble. Immediately he shoots to the other end of the wall, ignoring the hand that shoots out to stop him.

“Hold on. What the hell are you doing?” Your nostrils flare. “I said I’m fine.”

Damn it, James. Don’t be proud right now.

“Yeah, and I”m six-foot fucking three.”

And he steps closer.

Closer.

Until the expanse of his chest hovers right at your palm.

Well — you aren’t trying to beat the shit out of him. That’s a plus.

You really do remember me, that sad sack of shit you were nice to.

“Roxy’s is close,” Levi slowly states, hoping you’ll connect what he’s thinking about. That you’ll get to where he’s trying to go with this before he has to spell it out.

“I know.”

“They have back rooms with supplies.”

“I know.”

“So why not go?” he grunts, very much over the bravado he’s very much guilty of himself. “C’mon, dumbass.”

You squeak, but it’s too late — Levi breaks that illusion of distance with a smack of your outstretched hand so he can get to the part he’s been agonizing over all day.

Helping you.

Because he sure as hell isn’t going to let you go through this alone.

(Not when he’s practiced this pitch for a week straight.)

You don’t push him away when he touches you. Hell, you just stare — Levi’s worried he has something in his goddamn teeth.

Then you ask. “Why?”

Surely you know.

Surely by now, you must know the why of this.

Because I owe you.

Because you have left my fucking brain since the day you asked my name.

Levi answers. “Because.”

Cautious with every step, Levi lets you call the pace. You’re surprisingly mobile all things considered, and he just acts as your anchor as you make your way through the winding rounds of the Underground City.

“You have a key?”

He has to force himself not to snort. “No.”

The staff at Roxy’s will forgive him.

Or not — he doesn’t give a shit.

Gingerly placing you against the wall, he musters up the energy to use the strength of his short but mighty legs. Levi kicks the wooden door with gusto, waiting a moment for the noise to dissipate, before grabbing you again to continue on.

Eventually he places you on a nearby chair and brushes off his hands, coated with sweat.

What the hell, Ackerman? Get your shit together. Now’s not the time to get nervous.

Especially over you.

God, not when he’s almost got you.

You’re too busy staring at the disjointed door to notice his expression soften when he’s staring at your face.

It’s so… pretty.

Why is it—

Wait.

“Oi.”

He snaps, and you blink and turn your chin back to him. All the air whooshes clear from his lungs. 

You’re worried. He can tell. 

“Eyes on me. They aren’t coming.”

“What makes you so sure?”

(God, he’s such an asshole.)

Choosing to ignore the question, Levi keeps himself busy by searching the cabinets in the room for the med packs he knows they keep here. Way too many wayward souls pass through. They always got some—

Ah.

There.

Turning on a heel, he eagerly brings the med kit and unfurls it, holding it to you.

You stare back, not moving.

(You don’t have a concussion, do you?!)

“What do you want me to—”

“Hold it, idiot,” he snips in his own minor panic. “I can’t do everything.”

Please let me fix my own mistakes, James.

Your hands uncurl like a clam, waiting for the med kit. Levi carefully places it in your hands and takes what he needs.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “Why are you doing this?”

Taking a cloth, he douses it with antiseptic and presses it ever so gently on your skin. 

You don’t even flinch.

“Levi.”

Time freezes.

His gray eyes meet yours, and suddenly he forgets to breathe.

You remember.

He never told you, but —

He’s pretty sure Kenny may have said it back at this godforsaken fucking bar.

Should he tell you he remembers you, too?

(You never told him your name. He’ll show all of his cards in one fell swoop.)

“Does it matter?” he gruffly responds, pressing the cloth to your cheek.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s harder to help than to ignore.”

“Kind of like giving bread to a strange kid, right?” 

Shit.

Levi blurts before he can take it back.

This wasn’t how he thought this would go.

Banter here and there, maybe, but—

“I don’t know,” you finally answer. “I’m not a saint for giving you food.”

Of course you’re not.

Saint James, the patron deity that hasn’t left his mind since.

Levi’s nostrils flare as he dips lower, too afraid to touch your torso. “I could have killed you — broken?”

“Bruised,” you reply. “I’ve felt broken before.”

“Positive?” 

“Yes. And I was trying to kill you back then, too. It wasn’t our fault.”

Were you?

Trying to kill him?

Makes sense, with how hard you went at him. It was the only match he felt nervous in.

“I wasn’t trying to,” Levi woefully answers.

“But you could have.”

His fingers pause for a fraction of a second. “Yeah,” he laments. “I could have.”

Just like tonight.

And just like every night after this, if you tell him yes to his bullshit plans.

“I thought maybe something happened to you,” you begin. “I never saw you on the circuit again, so I thought—”

“That was the first and only time I fought in that nasty shit.”

He pushes back his own fears and tips your chin upward. You easily obey.

“...so you weren't sold into it?”

Shit, was she? Too preoccupied by the feeling of how soft your skin is, Levi shakes his head.

“I was your only fight?”

“Technically,” he says.

“So then why were you—”

“Practice, in case I ever met someone who needed to kill me for quick cash.”

“That's a morbid reason. You were just a kid.”

“So were you, but for some reason you’re still in it.”

Gritting his teeth, he knows his temper is getting the best of him. It’s better to stay neutral in these types of talks but you… you’re so nonchalant about something so dire.

You could die.

Hell, he’s spent week after week hoping to hear your name so he’d hear you’re still alive.

Choosing to let that go, he drops his hands away from your face and flexes his fingers.

“Good news: you look like shit, but you’re not in deep shit. I can’t do anything about your ribs, but your face should be fine. You have a bad habit of leaning into your hits.”

It’s true. It’s like she likes getting hurt, as if it fuels her own rage.

A strategy, sure, but a shit one at that.

“Excuse me?” you growl. “What do you mean, I have a bad habit?”

Levi can’t help but give you a look. “Did those shitheads make you hard of hearing, too?”

“No, shithead," you mock right back and it’s actually… impressive. You keep up. It does something weird and unenjoyable to his stomach. “I don't lean into them."

“Yes, you do.”

“What, so you’ve watched my fights?”

Ah, shit.

Found out, yet again.

(Great job, Ackerman.)

“I watch fights. Not just yours,” Levi quickly retorts. “You're not special, so get your head out of your ass.”

“Oh fuck you, man.”

Damn, you really do speak his language.

Don’t smile, don’t smile, don’t—

And you don’t give up, either. “Leaning into them makes an opponent feel like they have the upper hand. Let them hit, then you strike.”

“It’s a shit strategy.”

“I’m smaller than a lot of my opponents.”

“So?"

“So? Coming out to a fight like you own the place puts a target on your back.”

Right.

Self-preservation, a tactic often used by the pimps who bring these poor kids to the rings. It’s a loophole to make sure your fighters don’t know their own worth so they can’t wail on you.

Kenny told him that.

Levi wishes he could have told her, too.

“Did your Mom teach you that?” he flatly responds.

Your nostrils flare. “Maybe she did, but your Dad sure as hell forgot to teach you manners.”

He snaps faster than he means to. “He wasn’t my father.” 

A beat passes, and his shoulders slump. 

“And you’re a better fighter than that,” he softens, exasperated. “Making yourself look weak is a shitty strategy for someone who can't land a punch, let alone someone who can. You take the punches because you damn well know you're better than every opponent they match you with. If you didn’t play the theatrics, then those idiots would all be dead in minutes.”

When you don’t spit in his face, he gently takes a step forward. Then another.

“I met you three years ago. I thought by now you would've found a way out." 

But you need help. 

This is his return payment. This is all he can offer in this shitstain of a city.

“Do you want out?” Your eyes widen, like he’s told you he’s secretly the king of the Walls. His tongue gently darts between his dried lips. “...if I had a way to get you out, would you take it?”

“...I don’t have a way out.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” you croak, and it breaks his heart. “I’ve tried. You know people in the circuits—”

“You have a way out."

“Levi—”

“James.”

In defeat, he calls to you — your name, that name everyone else calls you.

All of his cards are on the table.

He can’t take this back. 

“This isn’t a charity hand out. We need a fighter.”

“Who the hell is we?”

“Furlan Church and myself.”

“Furlan fucking Church? That’s where you ended up after all this time, with that idiot?”

Levi blinks.

(Wait, what’s wrong with Furlan?)

Nevermind — he’ll ask later. He has a mission here.

“If you stay in the circuits, then you will die,” Levi finally states. “That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years. Do you really want her to win?”

Please say no.

Please listen to me.

Except you stagger backwards, and he’s terrified that somehow he’s botched this pitch. That somehow you wouldn’t be interested in a team—

“Wait — did you send those guys after me?”

Oh.

Shit.

“The three in the alleyway,” you continue. “They attacked me after the fight. It was really convenient of you to find me in the nick of time. So was that one of his initiation stunts?”

He wants to swear he was going to tell you, but that would sound like a cheap lie.

He wants to promise this wasn’t what he wanted, but that would sound like a patronizing lie.

“Dirty trick,” you growl and turn away, and worries seizes his heart.

“We need muscle for our next heist,” he quickly states, firming up his voice. “You would get a cut. You would have a permanent place to sleep. You would have routine meals, day and night."

You don’t turn to him. “I’d be selling myself for one contract to another.”

Levi shakes his head wildly, but you don’t see it. “You're free to leave whenever you want. If this doesn't work out in a week? Fine, then you can go. But if you do this, then you would never have to see that woman’s face again.”

“She’d find me.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he swears.

No, he wants to say. I’ll burn this city to the ground if she so much as tries it. I owe you.

“You would be protected with me.” 

But it isn’t just him.

You had a visceral reaction about Furlan. He has to be honest.

"With us."

Finally you turn back to him, and he’s woefully hopeful once more.

“Levi…”

The way you say his name…

Shit, he could hear you say his name like that every hour of every goddamn day if you’d just say yes to this deal he’s offering.

"You'll be paid,” he adds.

"I don't give a shit about pay,” you retort. “I have no money to my name as it is. Your... proposition just sounds too good to be true, that's all."

He needs more incentive.

He needs you to say yes.

"What do you need to be convinced?” he pleads, but it comes out monotone. “We sent our three best brawn and you cleared them in minutes. You can see why we'd want you."

"And if I say no?"

Fear seizes every cell of his body. You stare at him like he’s the enemy.

“Are you two going to keep sending people after me?”

(Would he finally stop searching for you?)

Swallowing, Levi knows he cannot keep you.

He barely knows you.

He just has a feeling he needs to.

“No,” he promises. “I'd let you live your life. This isn't an intimidation tactic. You would never hear from me again.”

And he means it.

He’ll give you anything for nothing.

It’s some kind of sickness he hasn’t quite recovered from since he was small.

Something about you has just infected his veins faster than the plague.

You turn your gaze to the door, and his face falls.

What can he do?

How can he convince you?

Your name exits his mouth in a fractured plea. “James—”

“I’m in.” 

Wait.

Did he hear that right?

You turn back to him with determination, chin lifted and shoulders squared. 

He can’t help but stare at you with a mixture of relief and admiration. 

Levi wonders if you notice. If you know, just how much you’ve been on his mind.

“I’m in,” you repeat. “I’ll go where you go.”

(And we'll never look back.)

[bloodyinkandquill]

Rocket x reporter Reader

i am working on this multiple hours after i meant to because i accidentally took an afternoon nap, so apologies for it being late!

- I imagine you met Rocket while doing your job, maybe some sort of event like a crime or an accident happened by Da Shop so you went to speak to the owner of Da Shop and subsequently his son, Rocket

- Before doing the report you talk to him a little longer than you probably should have, after you finish filming the segment to be sent off to the station you figure that was the last job of the day and to back to chatting with him, eventually you have to part ways but he lingers in your mind

- Next time you do a report in that area you go and chat with him again, and the next time, and the next time till you two begin hanging out outside of when you’re nearby Zuka’s shop, finally you both realize you caught feelings and get together

- Zuka was the first to know Rocket liked you, before Rocket even knew himself he could tell his son had fallen for you, Rocket might not have even realized if Zuka didn’t point it out for him, he can be a bit obvious

- Zuka also definitely approves of you guys, especially since you don’t phight, he hopes you might rub off on his son because deities know he does not like his son participating in phights

- As a joke you guys mock interview each other with random nearly objects that could be used as a fake microphone, leading to some very funny situations and shenanigans, a few objects used include; Rocket’s bionic arm, a sandwich, Sword’s sword, just to name a few of the most memorable ones

- If you ever need to do an interview with him for your job and you start with ‘How are you doing today?’ He will reply something to the affect of ‘Well, still got my remaining limbs!’ and you have to stop yourself from breaking while on air, he knows it too, he’s purposefully trying to get you to crack up

- If you’re a more well known reporter in Crossroads he’d for sure do something along the lines of if he ends up in the background of one of your reports or maybe you’re conducting short quick interviews with people who participated in a phight he’d jokingly mime the ‘call me’ thing making you have to take a moment to make sure you don’t say anything before continuing with your job, which definitely goes noticed by the masses

- You join Rocket in hanging out with Sword sometimes, usually when they aren’t going to train since you aren’t cut out for combat, your gear is not built for fighting or phighting, but they both understand that and respect that you don’t want to phight anyways, it’s not for everyone

- If he gets injured in a phight you fully mother hen him, it’s never a serious injury but it does make you worried, maybe you can understand where Zuka is coming from when he doesn’t want Rocket going to phights

apologies if these aren’t good, i tried but sometimes my brain goes ‘heeeeeeh pffttttt’ and i blank on any ideas, again like states with previous ones, let me know if you want general rocket dating hcs and if i think of anything else ill add it!

[laelior]

Husk

The automated distress beacon from a private archaeological dig on Palea in the Messorum system had seemed routine at first. It wasn’t until Shepard and her team found the remains of the archaeological team and the artifact they uncovered in a blind cavern that the mission went from bland reconnaissance to stay-the-fuck-alive-somehow.

“You know how to pick all the galaxy’s shittiest vacation spots, huh, Shepard?” Jack grunted, flinging a biotic shockwave toward the wall of oncoming husks. 

“Just trying to show you a good time, Jack.” Shepard responded around a grim smile. She ejected a smoking thermal clip from her shotgun and quickly reloaded in one smooth motion before immediately unloading on the shambling corpses that approached her, arms outstretched and mouth agape in a hideous imitation of a scream.

“Fuck you, Shepard,” was Jack’s reply almost by default. But there was just the faintest trace of a feral grin on her face as a wall of blue light erupted from her, bowling over the nearby husks. She was utterly in her element in the whirlwind of violence at the center of the cavern, venting her pent-up rage on the walking corpses without remorse. A husk flew past her, surrounded in the angry, crackling energy that was Jack’s biotic signature, and slammed into the far wall

“Yeah! Right on your ass!” Grunt’s voice boomed next to her, followed by the roar of his shotgun scattering the broken pieces of a husk in every direction. He was enjoying himself, too.

But the husks simply wouldn’t stop coming. They came in waves, stumbling with a single-minded, blind ferocity that didn’t falter even as they clambered over the mangled corpses of the previous wave. The last time she’d seen this many had been…well, Horizon.

A knot formed in her stomach immediately on the heels of that thought.

Fuck Horizon. And fuck Kaidan, too.

A snarl formed on her lips. As usual, the need to punch something rose up within her whenever the memory of Kaidan’s angry parting words echoed in her thoughts. Fortunately, a nearby husk that managed to evade her shotgun blasts was an obliging target.

The husk lifted with the force of her punch, sailing up and over her shoulder with the limp energy of a tattered ragdoll. It landed behind her, its arms stuttering weakly in an attempt to push itself up in its single-minded focus on destroying her. Husks were almost worse than mechs that way. Even simple LOKI mechs had programming contingencies, parameters that allowed them to evaluate targets and react to changing circumstances. Husks didn’t. Once they were set loose they merely followed their single directive to destroy until they were destroyed.

She spun on her heel, gathering biotic dark energy as she moved, and sank to one knee as she brought her gauntleted fist down on the husk’s chest with a flare of blue light and accompanied by a satisfying dry crack as the husk’s chest cavity gave way. 

The subsequent lull in the wave of husks let her wipe the husk's ichor from her gauntlet on the front of her armor. The clink of something metal hitting the ground caught her attention, to where an ichor-covered pin lay at her feet. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over in her hand.

Dr. Christine Napier, Lead Archaeologist was engraved on the pin.

She snapped her gaze to the husk, to where the blue lights in its eyes and beneath its cracked, darkened skin were already dimming.

“Shepard! What the fuck are you doing?” Jack’s voice cut across her thoughts, and the sudden chaotic din of the battle rushed back in toward her as another wave of husks approached with the staccato pulse of a shockwave that heralded a scion.

Because of fucking course there was a scion.

The rest of the battle was a blur, but at the end she, Jack, and Grunt remained standing in the middle of a pile of huskified corpses and spent thermal clips. The acrid smell of eezo permeated the cavern, and all three of them were only too happy to leave it behind them once the shuttle arrived to pick them up.

------------------------------------------------------

The blue-black ichor clung to her long after the fight was over. 

Ever since that first encounter with the walking corpses on Eden Prime, she’d found that the thick, dark, sludge in their veins was hard to scrub out of the joints and servos of her armor. It soaked into her hair and skin and would only come out with a harsh soap and vigorous scrubbing. Back on Eden Prime, husks had been a walking horror show, the first testament to the hideous efficiency of the Reapers in recycling the dead of the conquered. Since then, they’d become so routine that the quartermaster always kept a stock of the harsher soaps and solvents required to remove their ichor on hand. It was easy to forget that the ichor had once been the red blood of living beings.

She’d never been more grateful for the private shower in the SR-2 than after Palea.

Once the scrubbing was done, she let the warm, clean water in the shower take the last of the ichor off and watched it circle the drain near her feet. It didn’t take long before it became clear as the shower washed away everything but her thoughts.

She had a name. Napier. Dr. Christine Napier. 

When she looked in the mirror, would she see her own green eyes or the flickering orange-red lights that still stared at her through her reflection? Would she see the cracked, glowing scars that crackled along her skin like fault lines?

What had Dr. Christine Napier seen when she looked in the mirror before the artifact ate the remains of her humanity? Or any of the other walking corpses back on Palea?

What had Kaidan seen when he’d looked at her, back on Horizon?

The showerhead beeped, signaling that the water would automatically shut off in one minute. She quickly hit the shut-off button and waited until the last of the water circled down the drain before wrapping herself in a towel. She side-stepped the mirror on her way out of the head and hastily threw on her uniform to paper over the jagged scars that haunted her skin.

Christine Napier hadn’t asked for this.

Shepard hadn’t, either.

[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 2 Part 1: Mistakes and Backtalk

⚠️CW: Slave Whump, Dehumanization, Angst, Defiant Whumpee, Mention of Minor Whump (barely). If I missed anything, let me know, please!

@3-2-whump's official rating: ‘Dasa’s gonna have a real bad time, as if he wasn’t having a bad time already’

✨️A special thanks to my Beta Readers! I couldn't write a coherent sentence, much less a story without them! @3-2-whump, @generic-whumperz, @aloafofbreadwithanxiety. If you like my work, go check theirs out!

Masterlist

⏮️ Previous

Story under the cut.

Balor gritted his teeth, watching the great, noble Corvius, his father, go out, down the dirt path, to the slave building yet again to check on that idiot slave he called Boy. His concern for those beasts was humiliating. It was as if the man cared more about those damn slaves than him.

Watching his father preen over the slave made him wish the Drar had actually died, it was sickening. ‘And so what if Boy had died? If four days without food killed him, he deserved death. It certainly wasn't his fault Drar burned through food faster than other races,’ he thought with vitriol.

 That aside, don’t even get him started on that creepy runt he called Dog, the one being taught to consume poisons. Balor did not understand his father’s fascination with that one at all. That slave had more one on one time with his dear father than Balor ever had in his 19 years alive. It was disgusting.

Though, he wasn’t that different he supposed, recalling fondly the first time he’d injured that filthy Mongrel. The sight of the slave struggling against the pain to obey Balor’s own orders not to move, the image filled him with a feeling of absolute power. Power was not something he had obtained yet, despite his privileged birth. Thus having such a complete amount of it over The Dog was intoxicating. It was a small taste of what he hunkered for.

Balor huffed back to his room to get dressed and ready for the day. He put on his usual ruffled shirt, white today, and a pair of trousers. In the mirror he swept his short sandy blonde hair to the side of his round face. After wiping his pale, blue tinged skin, a trait inherent to his race, with a wash rag he met his own cold navy-blue eyes in the mirror. He frowned, seeing how his pudge made the fabric of his shirt strain slightly. His silhouette had been a source of great displeasure lately but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. He pulled on his brown, gold trimmed boots, tightening the laces. Shaking off the depression, he headed out to meet up with his father.

Not finding him in the shabby, filthy, slave house off at the side of the building, Balor went out to the fields a little trek off from the main house. He shifted his blue speckled white wings in annoyance. He hated going out this far, it wasn’t worth the massive energy to fly, but walking the path was drudgery. It was far too much work when he could normally just have a slave bring him everything he needed without ever needing to leave the mansion.

The fields were at harvesting. Theirs were mostly made up of fruit orchards. The yellow-skinned lel fruit dotted the nearest trees. Beyond the lel trees there were rows of grapes climbing up ornate walls built to support the vines.

“You miscounted your yield yesterday!” He heard his father, yell at one of the slaves. The voice came from the grape fields.

He was still too far off to hear the slave’s pathetic reply. He sure as hell heard the subsequent slap though.

“Because of you I now need to go all the way to Xonia to clear up this mess!” Corvius exclaimed, slapping the slave again.

Balor watched the older man storm up the hill towards him and the back entrance of the mansion behind him.

“What happened Father?” Balor asked, trying to keep the glee out of his voice. It was satisfying to watch his father get worked up over some dumb slave.

“Zan, the slave we were brought to train for old man Banks has been messing up his count for months,” Corvius answered with a scowl on his face as he began walking them back towards the mansion. “I now have to go all the way to Xonia to get this straightened out with the merchant there. That means you will be in charge here. Can I trust you not to kill any slaves while I’m gone?”

Balor hid an eye roll, “Of course Father, you can count on me.” He was certain these next few days were going be a drag. The thought of that amount of responsibility made him tired just thinking about it.

Corvius paused walking. “I’m trusting you to run things, you best not disappoint me.”

Balor was certain his father had read his thoughts. He could feel the intrusion. The sensation made him more annoyed. It was considered rude for Tallisians to read each other’s or even Valtens’ thoughts. It added an additional layer of insult knowing his father rarely even intruded on the slaves in this manner. “I can assure you, I won’t,” he mumbled, “You don’t have to treat me like a child, I’m 19 now.”

“If you are no longer a child, why is it you perpetually still act like one?” Balor’s father sighed and shook his head. “This is an opportunity to prove yourself, you shouldn’t look so gloom. I’m leaving Zan’s discipline to you, if you do well discipline will be yours permanently.”

This got Balor’s attention, he finally met the old man’s gaze for the first time since they started talking this morning. He studied his pale blue tinged skin and weathered features. Perhaps he was looking for a hint of approval in those stern features, in which he found none of course. His thoughts turned back to fantasizing, maybe, just maybe, these next few days wouldn’t be such a drag after all.

“You’re engaged to the Crown Princess, it’s high time you start learning leadership and responsibility instead of loafing about.”

His father continued to lecture him, but Balor was hardly paying attention anymore. Instead, his mind was fantasizing about how best to make Zan suffer.

‘I could make him count lashes…. Nah, too simple. A stress position on the frame maybe? That had nothing to do with the infraction though….Forced silence, that would be a good start, I just need to decide how, and what I want to follow that up with…’ Balor’s thoughts continued to spin, musing on the possibilities.

He'd prefer his father’s favorite, The Mutt, the one he’s lived in the shadow of his whole life. Oh, how he’d love to take full control of that dog, that useless object of his father’s attention. Zan would have to do however, at least for now.

“Mongrel!” Corvius yelled as soon as they entered the mansion. A slight echo reverberated off the polished stone of the greeting room.

The Mutt seemed to materialize from shadows, the mask of void Corvius preferred firmly plastered on its face. ‘Creepy beast, it barely counts as a living thing,’ Balor thought as the slave knelt, pressing its forehead on the floor.

“Get my bags packed for five days,” Corvius ordered, barely glancing down at it.

“Yes Master,” The Mutt replied and disappeared up the stairs.

Corvius led his son into the parlor and sat him down. “Now before I go I need to give you some instructions. First, you are not allowed to maim, kill or permanently injured Zan in any way. Second, you will be giving The Mongrel its poison doses every day.”

This further interested Balor. He loved slipping the slave some Divinity’s Downfall for the entertainment of his friends. He was owed that much from it.

“Understood Father,” Balor replied, barely containing his excitement.

“You may have friends over and do as you please, but so help me if I come back to a wreck, you will be paying for it. You need to prove to me that you can manage these slaves. Show me that you can be King, consider this practice.”

His father’s tone was serious. The younger Tallisian knew he meant what he said and shuddered to think what ‘paying for it’ would look like.

“Everything will be in perfect order when you return,” Balor tried to sound confident despite the nerves.

It wasn’t long after the two had fallen into silence when The Dog returned with the packed bags for his Master.

“Everything is there?” Corvius asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Master,” The Mongrel bowed.

“Very well, don’t just stand there, take them to the carriage,” the Master snapped. “Oh, and Balor, I’ll be taking Ruby and Boy with me,” he added as the three of them began to walk out the front door.

Outside Balor saw that the two slaves had already been harnessed up and ready. He had been a little surprised when his father said he was taking those two, but saw now saw how similar in size the two were, Boy was growing fast.

Once he saw his father off, Balor was finally free. The first thing he wanted to do was to deal with Zan.

“Mutt, go fetch Zan,” Balor ordered.

Masterlist

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**additionally, this is a chapter set to have extra NSFW scenes. If you want the on extended edition taglist, please let me know.

[catmomjudy]

(Gif: @bicepsie)

And Chimney replies: “You’re not his elder Buck.”

Except, maybe he is. Or, Eddie is all of a few months older.

Because retcon is a thing, and we got info in season 6 that placed them both as being born around 1992.

Eddie’s birthday has to be before 9/1/92 so his Army training and deployment match up to Chris’s birth year of 2011 (he needed to start kindergarten in September 1997 to graduate in May 2010). He could have been born as early as September 1991 for the same reason (TX has a kindergarten cut-off of September 1st). That puts him at 31 somewhere around the first half of 2023. (We’ll just assume Shannon moved to El Paso at some point from a state with a Dec 31 kindergarten cut-off).

Buck’s 31st birthday has to be after whatever month s6e10 took place (he’s 30 then, so would have turned 31 later in 2023). His age of 26 given in season 1 supports this, as well (26 + 5 = 31).

Personally, I really like the parallel (and subsequent contrast) set up by Eddie and Buck being almost exactly the same age. It creates a unique comparison between the two characters when you look at life experience. They both have vast life experiences, but it’s a dichotomy. What Buck has, Eddie does not; and what Eddie has, Buck does not.

🤔

[the7thcrow]

Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 09

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Nine: indignation, drasilisks, and a nail in the coffin.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)

summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

wc: 14.0k

extra chapter warnings: n/a

chapter summary:

“Maybe we should take a step back and-” you start, but Woo cuts you off.

“Butt out, Libaiyan,” Woo says immediately, even if he does not look at you. “This isn’t your business.”

“It is her business,” San replies. “She’s just as wrapped up in this as the rest of us are.”

a/n: surprise! i'm still on semi-hiatus until the end of the school year, but i’m currently on my reading week break so i had a bit of down time. really been missing this story and these characters. hope you all enjoy! <3

Seonghwa and Woo will neither speak nor look at you, although considering everything both their eyes and lips could say, you should be more grateful than saddened by that fact.

The four of you walk in silence along the mountain pass, just as you have for the last couple hours. Although there’s been no more than a few words exchanged between the men of your party, none of them have been with you. In fact, you don’t believe your existence has been acknowledged since yesterday morning.

Woo takes charge up front, Seonghwa a few metres behind him, you following suit with the same after himself. San takes up the rear, singular horse in tow behind him.

You had to sell the other horse to the inn as payment for the damages caused by the fight, as well as in return for the supplies and luggage that they’d confiscated from your room. Woo tried to argue with the inn-keeper that Yeosang had attacked him first, but the bounty hunters had long-since left and the inn’s damage needed to be repaired. It was just business, but you could tell she felt a little bad when the boys dejectedly left the horse in the stable.

The result is the remaining horse being unrideable. The animal carries the luggage you’d previously split across the two of them, and wouldn’t be able to handle the extra weight. It’s left you with a far slower journey, time practically standing still between your walking pace and the thick tension hanging in the air.

You feel awful.

You've hardly slept since they’d found out the truth. One night having been spent in endless tears, with your knees planted in the fallen rain and mud. The other in your own tent, although the cold quietness of it served as a reminder of Seonghwa’s absence, and subsequently of your lies.

You managed to convince them to take you on the rest of the journey, less for your own sake and more for theirs. You’re almost through the Burovian Mountains, the minor kingdom of Bebbanburg being your last city before Kuroku. Even if the navigation would be a little difficult, you likely could have managed it yourself.

However, you know that reaching Kuroku alone would feel hollow, considering you’d leave them with nothing but San’s practical death sentence. You couldn’t just abandon them in such utter shambles, even if ultimately that would prove the easiest point of action for yourself. No promises to keep, nor extra strings attached to your arrival at the Kuroken castle.

You’ve grown too attached to these men, you know that.

They’ve become a weakness of the most dangerous kind. The type that you’re aware of is a fault, but rather than overcoming it, you continue to feed into its fragility. You came back for them, and you’re willing to deal with the ridicule and liability that may encompass.

You’ll do what it takes to make this up to them, even if you’ve tarnished every bit of trust you’ve built, and inevitably you’ll be leaving them for good no matter the outcome.

A weakness they are indeed, and feed into that fragility you will.

Fortunately, not every bit of hope is lost for your retribution. You told them of your situation, of your plan to ask the royal family if they will follow through with the betrothal. You’ve also sworn to beg them for the money regardless of whether or not they accept.

After all, Seonghwa had made the conditions of your return very clear: If you have a way to get them the money, come back. If you don’t, then don’t even bother.

“I know it’s not what we agreed upon. Not even close,” you had said, voice raspy and face puffy from having spent the night crying. “But there’s a chance, and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if we didn’t at least try.”

“You shouldn’t forgive yourself anyway,” Woo muttered, before standing up from his seat at the fire and shouldering his way past you. Pulling back the tent-flap he slipped under without another word. They only set up one tent.

You glanced at Seonghwa, whose gaze wandered away at the mention of your betrothal. You weren’t sure if he was hurt by the marriage itself, or angry that you hid it from him. Likely a little bit of both. He wouldn’t meet your eye.

“Alright,” a voice said from your right. San stood by the horse, packing up the dry nuts and coffee from their breakfast that morning. He gave you a small, weak smile. “We’ll try.”

So you’re trying, although not everyone seems equally as enthused by your plan. While neither have said anything out loud, you know that Seonghwa and Woo aren’t happy with the arrangement, and would choose to head home if they were given the choice. But it’s not their decision, it’s San’s. He’s the one who needs the money, therefore it’s his choice whether to give you a second chance.

For some reason, he has. In fact, he didn’t even seem to contemplate it much, agreeing to continue the journey with no arm-twisting needed. While Seonghwa and Woo’s sense of betrayal reads blatantly in both their expression and behaviour, San's is far less obvious.

You cast a glance over your shoulder at the swordsman, who meets your eyes almost immediately. He gives you a tight-lipped smile.

You’re having a hard time understanding him. He has plenty of reason to hate you - the most reason, debatably, considering it’s his money on the line - and yet, he’s not treating you with any sort of animosity.

He doesn’t appear happy by any means, gaze a little vacant and demeanor overall quiet as you continue to trudge along, but he doesn’t appear crushed. You’d like to talk to him about it, to understand where his head is at, but you don’t feel as if you have the right. You have lost the privilege of having any of these men confide in you.

If he wishes to speak about it, then he will approach you. Let him decide that on his own terms, rather than your pestering curiosity.

Up ahead, Woo takes a sharp turn off the main path, causing Seonghwa to halt and jog after him.

“Woo?” Seonghwa calls. “This isn’t the right way.”

“Shortcut,” Woo replies plainly, not even bothering to slow down.

“Are you sure?” Seonghwa asks. “Because this trail doesn’t look very worn-”

“It’s heading South down the mountain, which is exactly where we need to go,” Woo interrupts, finally pausing as he points at how the trail descends. It’s narrower than the main path, as well as more twisted and steep. “It’ll save us some time, now that we’re reduced to finishing this on foot.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, but the annoyance in his tone shows it’s quite blatantly a shot at you.

You don’t want to quip back, having no interest in starting an argument, but the trail ahead appears less than ideal. Almost frightening, as it begins to darken with the shadows of bushy, low-hanging trees. Its descent is steep, not enough to cause you trouble, but likely some for the horse. It’s a gamble, and one you aren’t certain is wise to take.

“Are you sure that it’s safe?” You ask, trying to keep your voice level but also gentle, non-accusatory. “Or that it’s actually going to bring us closer to Bebbanburg?”

Woo starts walking again without answering you, and you don’t miss the way the ground cracks beneath his boot, fist clenched at his side. It tears through the trail, forming a foot-long divide between you and the two men in front of you. If Woo notices what he’s created, he doesn’t show it, simply keeps storming down the mountain.

Looks like there isn’t much of a discussion to be had. You cast a wary glance over at San. He shrugs, grip tightening on the horse’s reign as he too moves forward, although you note the way his jaw sets firm. He’s aware it’s not the best idea, but he’s also not about to contest Woo right now, especially not in an act of defiance against you.

You sigh, although you put up no form of protest. This is who you are to them now. A ghost, your voice a whisper in the wind. You are there to get them the money, just as you were prior, only now all the bridges of understanding you’d built have crumbled.

Swallowing your worry, you step over the divide before trailing after them. So be it, this is what you deserve.

“Woo, we should turn back,” Seonghwa says, the fourth time he’s voiced his concern in the last hour.

This time, Woo answers him with a grunt rather than any assurance or rebuttal. He likely doesn’t feel inclined to try and convince Seonghwa that the trail is safe - again - or perhaps it’s finally dawning on him that this wasn’t a good idea.

The trail has become even more narrow and steep, and San fights to keep the horse at bay behind you, gravel slipping and sliding beneath the animal's hooves as it whinnies in protest.

Hours have passed since you first began your descent, and the sun has become a simmering ember over the horizon, darkness falling heavy around you. The tree’s are barren with blackened bark, twisting and curling around the trail. The wind blows between them sharply, a high whistling noise in contrast to the peaceful rustle of leaves along the main path.

Night is falling, and with the trail’s steep incline and the wind’s unyielding chill, there is no option to set up camp. You either continue to trudge on through the darkness and further into the unknown, or waste a few hours heading back towards comfortable safety. You believe it’s obvious which option is more wise.

The horse slides down behind you, letting out a high-pitched whine as the rocks slide around its hooves. “Shit,” San mutters, clutching onto its reins to try and hold the animal in place, despite it weighing almost a ton and having the ability to crush him.

This isn’t going to work. Should you even make it to Bebbanburg by morning, you’ll be exhausted from the night-long journey and forced to waste the day with rest. If you’re bound to waste time anyway, there’s no sense in risking the loss of another horse and having San crushed in the process.

“Woo, we need to turn around,” you say. It’s the second time you’ve spoken all day, and your voice is a bit raspy from lack of use. When Woo doesn’t respond, you clear your throat. “This isn’t a good trail. San’s about to get crushed by the horse and there’s nowhere to set up camp for the night. We don’t even know for sure if this is taking us to Bebbanburg, let’s just go back to the main path.”

“You don’t get a say, Libaiyan,” he replies, ignoring both you and your reasoning as he does not even bother to cast a glance over his shoulder.

Frustration settles within your chest and you swallow down a haughty response. He’s being stubborn, but not only that, he’s being stupid. Woo has to know by now that this wasn’t a good idea, but if it means agreeing with you on anything, he’ll let his pride drive the lot of you into the ground.

“This has nothing to do with me, it’s common sense,” you reply. You’re aware that picking a fight is not the best course of action, but you also have no interest in wandering in this cold and barren forest all night due to an elemental’s pride. “Don’t make everyone suffer because of your hatred for me.”

“Right, because I am the one making everyone suffer. That’s rich,” Woo spits, finally stopping in his pursuit down the mountain, turning to face you. His eyes scream bloody murder.

“That’s not what I meant,” you sigh. “What I was saying was-”

“What you were saying was that you think you still have any sort of influence here,” Woo cuts you off, taking a few steps up the trail, gravel sliding beneath his boots as he places himself in front of you. When he speaks he presses a finger to your chest, accusatory. “Let me make this clear. We are delivering you, we are getting our money, and then we are done. You aren’t a person, you aren’t a part of our party. You are cargo, you are baggage, you are a burden. You have no say.”

“Fine,” you say through gritted teeth, fist clenched at your side as you swallow down your pride. You remind yourself that he is hurt, that he is also the man who bore his soul to you at the fire only days ago. It’s hard to do this when he looks at you as if you are something vile stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Then at least listen to Seonghwa when he tells you the exact same thing.”

Woo scowls, huffing as he turns to face Seonghwa. When he speaks his tone isn’t angry, but it’s certainly frustrated. “You really want to go back?”

Seonghwa's eyes widen, only slightly, as his gaze flickers between yours and Woo’s. It’s the first time he’s met your eye over the last two days, and it almost immediately darts away. He swallows hard.

“No. We can keep going,” Seonghwa answers, and amidst your internal groaning of annoyance, there is also hurt. Seonghwa wants to go back, he knows it’s the better option, and yet he only agrees with Woo because he cannot bear doing so with you.

Woo blinks at him, surprised, before nodding. “Alright then,” he says, turning back towards the trail. “We keep moving.”

“No,” a voice protests, and this time it is neither Seonghwa or yourself, but San. One of his hands grips the horse’s reins tightly, while the other is wrapped around the animal's neck, still trying to prevent it from slipping. “Don’t be petty. She’s right, we’re going back.”

Woo’s gaze darkens, and you aren’t sure if it’s from San calling him petty, or stating that you’re right. Likely both.

“We’re not being petty,” he argues, spitting the word out like a curse. “I think we have fair reason not to trust her judgement.”

“Then trust mine,” San says lowly. Getting a better look at him, he appears worn. A dark circle of tiredness having creeped beneath his eye, he breathes heavily, grip shaking around the reins in his hand. He’s been at this for hours, and it appears his patience has begun to waver. “You’re being a fool, and this is ridiculous. It’s my money on the line here, I think you should remember that.”

“Of course we’re aware of that, but-” Woo starts.

“Then don’t make the journey harder than it needs to be,” San cuts him off, tone cold. “Don’t make borderline moronic decisions that have me carrying a horse down a mountain, or that would have us stranded for the night. This isn’t your battle to fight.”

“You aren’t the only one she hurt. You think Seonghwa doesn’t feel-”

“I wasn’t talking to Seonghwa.”

The silence that hangs in the air is glacial. Frozen in time as the seconds tick by, unmoving as neither of the two men budge. Woo’s jaw is set firm, twitching as if he wants to say something, but does not permit himself to let the words out.

It dawns on you that San does not know how deeply you hurt Woo. He does not know the depths of his past, the horrors of orphanage. Woo had made you swear not to tell him.

It’s immediate, how the guilt settles in your gut, and you try to remedy the situation.

“Maybe we should take a step back and-” you start, but Woo cuts you off.

“Butt out, Libaiyan,” Woo says immediately, even if he does not look at you. “This isn’t your business.”

“It is her business,” San replies. “She’s just as wrapped up in this as the rest of us are.”

At this Woo’s gaze finally does shift, into a look of complete and utter bewilderment. He baulks at the swordsman, eyebrows drawing together in disbelief as his mouth drops open, stunned. “Are you actually defending her right now?”

“I’m not defending her, I’m just saying you aren’t thinking clearly about this-”

“Oh, of course. I’m not thinking clearly! Me, not the guy who’s taking the side of a woman who scammed him out of a fortune. Naturally, I’m the problem-”

“You guys…” Seonghwa starts, too quiet to be heard over their arguing, as both Woo and San’s voice begins to raise louder.

“It was my fortune to be scammed out of,” San cuts back, rolling his good eye as he lets out a groan of frustration. You aren’t sure if you’ve ever seen San lose his temper like this, but the height of his voice matches Woo’s, as does his ferocity. “For the sake of the god’s Woo, if I - the one with his life on the line - can put my feelings aside to finish the journey, you think you’d be able to.”

Woo laughs at this, a cold sound. “I think you aren’t putting your feelings aside, and that’s the problem. Being a little blinded, are we?”

San scowls at this, giving him an incredulous stare. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You guys,” Seonghwa starts again, and this time his voice is louder. Hand falling to his side, you notice his fingers grip around the knife on his belt, and you frown. However, his words go ignored.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” Woo answers, tone dripping with annoyance. “You think I didn’t notice the longing, puppy-dog glances in her direction since the sand village? Then she betrays us and you’re smiling at her, San. Honestly.”

San’s eye widens as his jaw drops open, stupefied. “For fucks sake Woo, you’re being jealous? Right now? Are you kidding me?”

“Right, because I’m the one who’s delusional-”

“You guys!” Seonghwa finally shouts, and the two men momentarily break out of their argument. Seonghwa pulls the knife from his belt, sinking down to crouch lower onto his knees, eyes darting between the trees above you.

Sensing the urgency in Seonghwa’s demeanor, both Woo and San silence themselves, matching the empath as they crouch downward. You follow suit, an eerie chill passing through you as Seonghwa presses a finger to his lips. The forest is quiet, as the only sound is the wind as it blows between the trees and their blackened bark.

“What is it, Hwa?” San asks quietly, casting him a wary glance. His hand extends up to reach his blade fastened along his back, fingers clutched around the hilt.

“Do you hear that?” Seonghwa whispers, and you tune your ears into the forest’s sound, listening closer. A few minutes pass by in silence, when you admit to yourself that no, you don’t hear anything.

You’re about to tell this to Seonghwa when you still do not hear it, but rather see it. Something big, black, and scaly slithering along the tree a few paces to your left, blending into the bark so that if you weren’t on guard, you never would have seen it.

It looks almost exactly like a branch blowing in the wind, as it ripples along the barren wood, a shadow in the night’s darkness. Creeping its way up along the trunk, it extends itself to reach another tree, traveling between them. It’s only now that you see it that you can hear what Seonghwa had noticed, the slick noise of the beast traveling, scratchy against the wood.

Out of the corner of your eye, another branch moves.

Twisting to face it, you watch as another one of the monsters creeps along the trees. You cannot see its eyes nor its fangs, but it’s clearly some sort of serpent. A few feet long and thick as rope.

You swallow the frightened gasp that settles itself in your throat as another branch to your right moves. Then to your left, and another beside it. They’re everywhere.

When you bring your gaze down, you don’t realize what you’re searching for until you meet Seonghwa’s eyes. This time he does not look away from you, swallowing hard as he holds your gaze. His lips purse together. He’s afraid.

“We’re being hunted,” he whispers, and Woo nods, looking up and around just as you had. Gaze darting back and forth, he’s tallying them, you realize.

“Eight of them, by my count,” the elemental says, keeping his voice low. “What are they?”

“Basilisks,” San answers, followed by an unsteady breath.

Woo shakes his head. “They’re too small.”

“Children. That's why there’s so many of them.”

Woo nods, jaw tense as he flexes his fists in and out, quelching the small flames that continue to reappear within his palms. You don’t think he can help it.

“What do we do?” Seonghwa asks, and San considers the question for a long moment before responding.

“If they’re Basilisks that means they’re also blind,” he whispers, nodding to himself as he speaks. “If we’re quiet enough, we should be able to flee.”

Sharing a glance between the four of you, one that shares a mutual understanding of caution, Seonghwa takes a step forward. The rocks within the gravel of the trail protest, a crunching noise echoing from beneath his boot. The Basilisks begin to slither a little faster, and Seonghwa winces.

He corrects his next step, the crunch of the gravel much softer as he makes his way down the trail. To go up now is futile, as attempting to maintain silence will be much harder if fighting against the falling rocks.

Woo takes a step after him, light on his feet, with you following suit. You extend a hand out to San, who accepts it, his other still gripping the horse’s reins.

Turning his attention to the horse, he bows his head, ushering it to follow him. However, without an audible order, the animal doesn’t understand the command, huffing in annoyance at its reins being tugged.

San winces at the loudness of the noise, looking over his shoulder at both Woo and San. “Do we leave him?” He asks, voice so hushed it’s barely audible.

After a moment they nod. San drops the reins, and the group of you tread slowly down the hill. The swordsman keeps his hand out-stretched to calm the horse, hoping it won’t make another noise.

Fortunately, it doesn’t.

Unfortunately, it follows instead.

The rocks of the trail crunching loudly beneath its hooves, it follows after you, before beginning to lose its footing as the gravel slides. The horse lets out a loud sort of squealing noise, before slipping down the trail.

It would have crushed you, if it weren’t for the three black blurs that came darting from the forest’s thicket. Each of them lodging itself within the horse - one in its neck and the other two within its torso - the animal goes stumbling into the bush, letting out a loud whine of pain that makes your gut clench.

It’s quickly quelled by fear, however, as loud hissing noises emit from all around you, the trees shaking as all of the snakes begin to move. Alerted by the noise, you watch as many of their tails stick up, a rattling motion.

You don’t know much about snakes, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that that can’t be a good sign.

San and Seonghwa both immediately begin to run, instinct taking over where yours appear to be lacking. Woo swears beneath his breath. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, reaching out to grab your arm, grip firm. “Run!”

Pulling you after him, you both take off down the trail, the sound of slithering following close behind. A black dart flies over your shoulder, and you can feel the air rush passed as the beast narrowly misses your ear.

“They can pounce!” You yell, dread curling within your stomach. “We can’t outrun them!”

None of the men respond, but Woo does look over his shoulder, before releasing your arm and holding his own out steady behind him. Maintaining his pace, he summons a ball of flame before throwing it at one of the Basilisks, which appears to be nothing more than a black line zig-zagging across the trail.

However, instead of hitting the monster, Woo’s ball of fire is cut off.

By the beast's own flame.

The snake’s jaw falls open, sharp fangs glinting even in the darkness, and from its gaping mouth comes a large stream of burning orange heat. The flames collide with Woo’s own, diminishing it.

“Oh, shit,” Woo says, eyes wide. He turns forward again, shouting towards Seonghwa and San. “They may be blind, but they sure as hell aren’t Basilisks!”

San casts a glance over his shoulder to see what Woo is talking about, letting out a gasp as the beast begins to spit another stream of flame towards you. Woo blows it back in the opposite direction with a gust of wind, but the snake merely slithers through the flame, letting out an agitated hiss as it remains unscathed.

“Fuck, they’re fire-proof too!” Woo observes, quickening his pace as his adrenaline sparks higher. There appears to be fear in his eyes, genuine, an emotion you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen on him. “What should we do?”

“She’s right, we can’t outrun them,” San answers, hand drifting to the hilt of his blade. His sprint suddenly settles into a jog, and you nearly crash into him, stumbling as you maneuver yourself around him. “We only have one choice.”

When San unsheathes his sword, he twists around with it. A blur of motion, one of the snakes pounces forward, flying towards him with its mouth open and long fangs on display. It moves at lightning speed, like a black shadow whirling through the air.

San slices it clean in half.

The snake falls into two separate pieces on both sides of him, a thick black liquid oozing from where its body had been severed. It smells rancid, like something rotten as it spreads across the forest floor, acidic as the pebbles begin to sizzle and melt.

The other snakes chasing you begin to slow, as they dart themselves into the forest. You can still see them, as none of the bushes or trees have leaves to hide them. The blackened bark suddenly makes sense, the area over-run by the fire-breathing monsters.

You’d think it would have been nice for someone to have put a sign before the trail, warning of a flame-spitting-snake-monster breeding ground. Then again, perhaps nobody has survived to make note of one. Your stomach sinks at the thought.

A large stream of fire flies towards San, and the swordsman narrowly dodges it by twisting it to the left. Another blast of flame shoots out at him, and San ducks, the flames an inch away from searing his scalp.

San grits his teeth in annoyance, gaze darting around at the many snakes surrounding you. “Woo, can you ensure their flames won’t hit me?”

“But there’s so many of them-” Woo protests, although he’s quickly silenced by San casting him a glare, one that says: “I wasn’t asking if it would be easy.”

The elemental sighs, before shaking out his hands and shoulders. “I can do it.”

“Good,” San states, before bending low on his knees, standing light on the balls of his feet. Battle stance. “Then let’s work.”

When San begins to move, all the praise that Seonghwa had been spewing about him is immediately proven wrong.

It never even came close to illustrating the man’s skill.

San moves with an uncontested quickness, traveling through the air as if he were a part of it. His sword swings and twists as if it were its own being, an object cursed with a vengeance to destroy anything within its path.

The snakes fly at San from every angle, attracted to the sound of gravel crunching beneath him as he moves and parries between their attacks.

A snake springs from behind him, and San twists to avoid it without even a glance backwards. Meanwhile, another comes at him from his left, and despite being in the middle of a complicated twisting maneuver away from the other, he manages to swing at the beast through the motion.

He slices yet another snake in half, as Woo preoccupies himself with preventing San from having to also worry about their flames. The elemental keeps his hands outstretched, eyes darting between the monsters, watching for when their jaws drop open. It’s at lightning speed, reflexes nearly cat-like as Woo redirects their fire away from San. The monsters hiss in displeasure.

The sound of hissing slowly dies out as both the elemental and the swordsman master the beasts. San takes them down one by one, the black corrosive liquid in replacement of blood oozing thick across the forest floor.

You simply watch. Seonghwa stands next to you, rendered equally as useless considering his bow and arrows were left with the horse. Besides, you imagine that shooting one of these beasts would be nearly impossible, anyway. You consider trying to help with your own sword, but you’d likely be getting more in San’s way than actually assisting him.

You cast Seonghwa a glance, although he doesn’t meet it. His eyes are focused on San, jaw dropped open ever so slightly, watching the swordsman fight in awe. He does not look away.

San slays the final snake, breathing heavily as the monster tumbles to the ground. It looks far less menacing now, immobile and coated in black ooze and dirt.

“Let’s go get our supplies,” San says quietly, holding no sort of pride or glory at the impossibility he accomplished. He just looks tired.

In silent agreement, the four of you begin to walk back up the path. Towards their horse, which is surely dead. Another gone, and although you feel for them, you’re at the very least glad that this time you are not at fault.

San stops.

Unprepared, you run into him, bumping your nose against his back. “What are you-” you start, but he hushes you, gaze flickering back into the forest.

“Are there more?” Woo asks, tone dreadful.

San doesn’t respond right away, he doesn’t have to. The sound of something moving, slithering through the forest is immediately apparent, rocks either being crushed or slipping down the hill.

You look around, searching for the beasts. You catch sight of movement, something black and massive twisting through the bush, before it disappears behind a tree-trunk. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot another, slithering within the ashen underbrush. They appear bigger than the last, far longer as you cannot see their full length, body a couple feet thicker in girth.

“How many are there?” You ask, trying to keep your voice low.

“Not many,” San answers, although for some reason he sounds more devastated than relieved by the fact. “Only one.”

You cast him a confused glance, prepared to point out the third beast you see slithering behind a rock.

“Fuck,” Woo whispers, the realization dawning on him just as it does you.

The first beast you saw that had crawled up the tree… it has also slithered itself around one of its branches, before connecting itself to the next one.

The second beast that slithered through the underbrush, its torso does not disappear behind a blackened bush, it continues past it. All the way to the third beast, its body twisted around a rock before curling up yet another tree stump.

There are not many beasts, but one. One massive snake that’s body has completely surrounded you. It hangs across the trees, trails through the underbrush, curls around rocks and stumps alike. Black scales slithering in the shadows, it’s everywhere.

“Where is its head?” Seonghwa asks, looking up into the trees, eyes full of worry.

The silence in response to his question is a testament to how nobody is sure of the answer. Woo crouches down, grabbing a large rock. He weighs it in his hand, as if to deem whether or not it is heavy enough, then brings his arm back and throws it down the trail.

It sails a solid distance away from you before falling back down. Skipping a few times, it loudly crashes against different small stones with each of its jumps.

Less than a few seconds after it settles, the rock is devoured whole.

The beast appears in a whirl of darkness and motion. Flying down from the tree-tops, its open mouth - which is a few feet long, by your estimate - contains massive fangs that drip with a white venom as it swallows the rock.

The monstrous snake hisses with satisfaction, pink and ribbed tongue flickering out in front of it. It lets out a breath, and the faintest hint of flames flare out from the monster’s nose. The beast's black tail continues to fall down from the tree’s, and you can hear it moving all around you. Tens, maybe even hundreds of feet long.

It begins to slither along the ground, making zig-zags along the trail as it surrounds the smaller snakes that San had slain. It stops in front of one, nudging its body with the tip of its nose, to which the smaller snake flops over lifelessly

“Shit,” San whispers, gaze flickering between the massive snake and the ones he’d discerned to be children. “That’s mom.”

The snake continues to hiss, becoming increasingly agitated as it lets out a strange, mangled growling noise. It’s of a higher-pitch, breaking slightly, and the beast lets out a blast of fire that scorches the area around it. It’s upset, and part of yourself - the tiny fraction that is not consumed by fear - feels almost guilty.

Then it turns to face you.

Its face is difficult to make out. Features indiscernible as its scales are the colour of midnight, a stark contrast to the bold pink of its gaping mouth. The white venom from its fangs continues to drip onto the soil, equally as corrosive as its blood.

What’s most terrifying however, are its eyes. Gleaming rubies glowing within the darkness, they shine a bright red. They’re also cloudy, like fogged windows, a testament to the monster’s blindness. Even though it looks in your direction, you know it cannot see you.

And yet, it doesn’t move. It’s face hovers a couple dozen feet before you, tongue flickering. It huffs once more, a bright orange flare puffing from its mouth.

“It must be some sort of Basilisk and Dragon hybrid. Both rare, both deadly,” San whispers, expression grim.

Woo nods to himself, lip briefly curving upwards. “A Drasilisk,” he offers.

San gives him a look of disbelief. “What is wrong with you?”

“Would both of you quit it,” Seonghwa says, voice a panicked whisper. His gaze flickers between them and the beast, before swallowing hard. “What are we going to do?”

“It’s blind. So if we don’t make any noise, it’ll leave eventually,” San answers, and Seonghwa nods. It seems plausible enough of a plan, reasonable enough to work. Besides, your content with nobody having to try and fight this thing, whether that be you or any of them.

The snake curls upwards from its place on the ground, coils forming around itself as it hovers in the air, looming tall. It lets out another broken whine, this time louder. Amplified by the mountains, it echoes all around you. It resembles a woman screaming.

The beast flares its nostrils, the action accompanied by a quiet puffing sound. It’s not the same as it had done before, accompanied by fire and annoyance. Instead, it sounds like an inhale rather than an exhale.

The beast continues to make the sound over and over again, nose outstretched as it twists back and forth, almost as if it’s… sniffing.

It begins to move towards you, slithering slowly, following your scent down the trail as it creeps closer.

“You think just standing here is a good idea now?” Woo asks, a ball of flame forming within his hand. It’s useless, considering the beast is fireproof, but perhaps it provides him comfort. A false sense of control.

“No,” San says plainly, rolling up his sleeves before unsheathing his sword. “Ready to go again?”

“You aren’t seriously thinking of fighting that thing are you?” You ask, because it sounds ridiculous. The smaller snakes in relation to this monster is like comparing a puppy to a wolf. It’s a death mission, suicide.

“Not much of a choice,” San breathes, before rushing towards the beast. Woo lets out a shout of panicked protest, and while his intentions may have been good, the beast perks up in acknowledgement of their presence.

It lets out a vicious, blood curdling roar - a sound you never thought could come from a snake - and with it comes a blast of fire. Like an avalanche of flame, red and orange flurries tumble down the trail. Even from a fair distance away you can feel its heat immediately, and San only manages to avoid the flame by diving out into the bush.

Even so, it catches his ankle, the flames alighting his trousers. He extinguishes them with a handful of dirt, casting an annoyed glare in Woo’s direction. “Thanks a lot,” he says, both in relation to the elemental having alerted the beast and failing to redirect its flame.

Woo doesn’t apologize, but he does raise his hands in front of himself, prepared for the beast's next blast of fire.

San rushes towards the monster once more, the necessity for speed obvious, as its gaping mouth extends to where he’d just been standing. The beast instead collides with the ground, venom squirting into where its fangs sink into the soil.

San’s good eye widens, as if realizing how close he’s dancing on death’s doorstep.

While his attention is preoccupied, the beast's long torso swings towards him. The monster commands its body like a whip, extending itself to meet the swordsman with an alarming amount of force. From the sheer power of the strike, you fear he may fall.

However, when it pulls its body back, San isn’t on the ground. He’s not standing either. In fact, he’s not anywhere.

Your brows furrow into confusion. Focusing your gaze, you search for San amongst the darkness, unable to find him where he’d previously stood. As if he’d been wiped from existence.

Then you notice a flash of colour amidst the beast's jet-black body.

San clings to the monster as it raises itself into the air. Arms held around its torso, he holds onto it with sheer core-strength, face twisted with the necessary effort.

He caught it. Somehow, he managed to catch the three-foot wide whip hurtling towards him.

Seonghwa cheers in a rally of support, and you nearly clap in amazement, as well as disbelief.

San pulls himself up so that he is sitting on top of the beast, legs wrapped around its torso as if he were riding it. With a hand clutching onto one of its scales, he uses the other to lift his sword into the air. The sword gleams in the moonlight as he raises it high, like a knight from a storybook as he brings it down, triumphant and glorious.

The sword bounces off of the beast's scales.

San’s brows furrows, and instead of a plunging motion, he attempts to slice the beast as he had the smaller ones. Once again, the sword merely rebounds off of the monster, useless.

The snake lets out a roar of annoyance, becoming aware of the nuisance that has attached himself to its back. It launches itself upwards, before immediately descending down, the rest of its body following in a peristaltic motion. The ripple ascends towards San like a massive wave, and the swordsman’s face settles into an expression that says nothing less than “Fuck me”.

When the snake’s body launches upward beneath him, San attempts to hold on, but the effort is futile. The scale beneath his hand rips off, and he is sent flying. Losing the grip on his sword, it goes soaring out into the forest, disappearing into the underbrush.

If there is any sort of optimism to be found in the situation, it’s in that at least San is sent hurtling towards you rather than in the opposite direction. He crashes into the ground, catching himself on his forearms, bare skin shredded as he slides along the trail’s rocks and gravel.

Wincing, he does not allow himself to dwell on the pain, as he shakily pushes himself back up and unto his feet. His arms are stained pure red, the layer of flesh wiped clean off. He swears beneath his breath, before yanking both of his sleeves down as if he cannot stand to look at it.

“Well,” Woo says, a look of disgust on his face as blood begins to soak through the fabric of San’s tunic. “Are you done?”

“I’m done,” San hisses through gritted teeth.

Woo nods. “We run then?”

San looks over to the snake, who lets out a loud hissing noise as more fire sparks from its nose. “Yeah,” he breathes. “We run.”

The four of you take off down the trail. Keeping one eye over your shoulder, the beast turns to face you all, letting out a violent roar that shakes the ground. It opens its mouth, another avalanche of flame tumbling down the trail.

Woo twists around, running backwards as he redirects the flames into the forest. Sweat has begun to bead on his brow, and you believe it has little to do with the actual warmth of the fire, but instead the effort required in combating it.

This isn’t going to work. You can’t outrun this monster, just as San can’t slay it and Woo cannot hold off its flames forever.

You’re going to die.

The realization is not as startling as it should be. After all, the brink of death is a place you’ve found yourself numerous times the last few weeks. Beginning at outrunning the black-clad men in your castle, followed by about a dozen more deadly challenges since.

Which means there must be a way to maneuver your way out of this one too. What you need is a change in perspective, in strategy.

You cast another glance over your shoulder, the snake only a dozen feet from you now, long body winding back and forth behind it.

“We need to split up!” You shout, to which Woo shoots you an incredulous glance.

“So it can pick us off one by one?” He retorts, appalled by the idea. You shake your head.

“It can’t see us,” you say, words tumbling immediately from your lips as you think of them. “If noise starts coming from different directions, we may be able to confuse it.”

He opens his mouth, prepared to shut down the idea, but pauses. His eyes light up in realization that it actually might work, before filling with annoyance at remembering that the idea is also yours.

“Dammit, Libaiyan,” Woo mutters, turning around once again to redirect the monster’s flames. He groans in frustration. “Fine. We split up.”

“We all run into the forest on the count of three,” San chimes in. He casts a glance at each of you in turn. You, Woo, and Seonghwa all give a nod of affirmation, and San swallows hard, breathing heavy as he speaks.

“Three…two…one!”

The four of you split off from one another. You and Woo both sprint to your right, while San and Seonghwa turn left. You run through the forest, no trails to be found, narrowly avoiding the sharp branches of the ashen trees.

You can hear the snake behind you, the beast also having chosen to go right rather than left.“Great,” you think pleasantly, taking a sharp twist westward as the hissing grows louder behind you. “Just my luck.”

Another blast of fire erupts from its mouth, and you dart behind a tree to avoid being swallowed by its flames. The large glowing blaze emerges from both sides of you, and the heat is scolding against your skin, burning even if not directly touching you.

The monster appears beside you, lightning-fast as it continues in the direction you had been running. It passes right by you, continuing down further into the forest.

You let out a sigh of relief, as the beast continues to move further and further away, its head becoming a small - well, smaller - shadow in the distance. Its body continues to move beside you, the hundreds of feet winding down like the string of a fishing pole. Careful to keep your footsteps quiet as you walk, you tread with caution back towards the trail.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Woo doing the same a few trees away. You catch his eye, and he gives a curt nod, before heading over to you.

“Is it really gone… Just like that?” You ask, astounded by the ease of your escape.

“Looks like it,” Woo replies, although the unease in his tone sounds like he’s not quite convinced himself.

However, he does continue moving forward, and you jog to catch up behind him. You don’t say anything, not wanting to push your luck. It appears that at least for the moment, he’s forgotten to be hostile towards you, and you’re more than willing to soak in a rare fraction of peace in the man’s presence.

It’s after less than a minute of walking - the trail appearing just a few metres in front of you - that Woo stops. You come to a halt, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t notice, gaze fixated on the tail that continues to wind down.

“Is it just me,” he starts, before swallowing hard. “Or is it moving faster?”

You narrow your eyes, as it’s a bit difficult to tell. The scales create almost an illusion against the blackness of the ash, making it hard to notice that it’s moving at all, but you think he’s right. It is moving faster, which is strange considering there isn’t actually anything for it to be chasing, so why speed up?

The answer becomes obvious when both you and Woo look back into the shadows of the forest, only to see a dark, twisted silhouette reappearing in the distance.

The beast let’s out another harrowing roar, fire once again exploding out from its gaping mouth. The trees there are not as barren as the ones closest to the trail, and you watch as the leaves catch fire around it, casting a smouldering glow that expands as more begin to burn. It’s ominous, like hundreds of small candles being lit all at once, and your breath dies in your throat.

You feel a hand wrap around your forearm, yanking you sideways. You stumble as Woo pulls you into him, his back pressed against the bark of a tree, hiding the both of you. His eyes are wide, but surprisingly calm. Alert but poised, as he listens as the sound of the beast’s hissing becomes closer.

Terror seizes within your chest. At least when you were running you had something to focus on, to keep your mind busy. Sitting here as the beast moves closer makes you feel helpless, like predator and prey.

Woo suddenly places his hand over your mouth, and you realize that your breathing has become heavy. Not out of tiredness, but panic. You glance up at him, although he does not meet your eyes, his own gaze trained forward. Avoidant as his jaw is set firm in annoyance.

He detests you, and yet here you are, pressed against his chest with his fingers settled on your lips. He wants you dead, and yet it appears a part of him will not let it happen so easily.

Even now, Woo is not as cruel as he believes himself to be, and you feel almost sorry for him.

The monster roars once more, and this time sparks billow to your left, the two of you finally within the beast’s reach. The sound of its scales sliding through the dirt becomes softer, as the monster begins to slow down in its pursuit. You note the familiar noise of puffing air, as the beast catches a whiff of your scent.

Woo’s eyes fall shut and his grip on your arm tightens, as if he needs something to hold onto.

For that something to be you, this really may be the end.

Your eyes still do not leave Woo’s own, even if his are not open to meet yours. When you speak you keep your voice low, so quiet that rather than hearing your words, he can likely better feel them with his fingers against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Woo’s eyes open at this, meeting your own. He does not smile. He neither nods nor whispers any form of acceptance.

Yet, he also does not deny them. At the very least, you know that he heard you in your sincerity, and perhaps that is the most that you can ask for.

Closing your eyes, you place your hand on his tunic, fingers clutching onto its fabric. The beast’s sniffing has become louder, only a dozen feet off by your estimate.

“Hey!” A voice suddenly shouts. It’s far off, much deeper into the forest. When he shouts again, you can tell that it’s San. “Hey! Over here!”

The beast lets out a loud roar and fire engulfs the tree you’re hiding behind, flames rolling out on both sides of you. Woo pulls you further into him, away from the heat that nips at your exposed flesh, causing you to wince.

Then the monster takes off, deeper down into the forest, leaving the two of you behind. Woo removes his hand from your lips, and the two of you take a moment to breathe, heavy and relieved.

This relief is short-lived, however, as Woo’s eyes widen. Realization dawning on him.

He scowls, shoving you off of him. “That dumbass,” he spits, before taking off into the forest, following the monster that has now shifted its pursuit onto San. Chasing after him, you follow the monster's tail as it winds and twists through the trees, moving at rapid speed.

When you finally catch up to them all, the forest has been replaced by some sort of clearing, the wind fierce and ground coated in jagged rock rather than dirt. Looking ahead, you can see that past the monster pursuing both San and Seonghwa is… nothing.

The rocky landscape cuts off, and past it all you can see is empty space, followed by the next mountain over in the distance. A cliff. Your heart pounds faster.

Woo appears to notice the sudden drop the same time you do, his pace quickening as he summons a ball of fire in his hand, throwing it towards the beast. It does nothing, of course, merely bouncing off of its scales. It doesn’t even grab the monster’s attention, its focus trained solely on the two men in front of it, not even noticing that you and Woo have nearly closed the distance.

Seonghwa’s hand slips into San’s, and both he and the swordsman share a look. Nothing is said, but as they both nod, there seems to be some sort of understanding made between them.

Together they run off the edge of the cliff.

“No!” Woo shouts, although it’s more of a horrified shriek than anything else. The monster twists away from the cliff’s edge, not interested in following suit in their plummet.

It all happens in the split of a second, as Woo grabs your hand and drags you with him. He makes massive leaps and bounds, desperate as he pulls the two of you past the beast.

Not only past the beast, but down the make-shift pathway created by its absence and over the cliff’s edge.

The moment your feet leave the comfortable firmness of the ground, dangling in the weightless state of limbo between the earth and sky, you decide that this is a feeling that you never want to experience again. Fortunately, it appears you won’t have to worry about this, considering you won’t be living much longer.

Your stomach plummets as you do, tunic billowing out behind you as you fall through the air. Looking down, your eyes sting from the wind blowing upwards, although you force yourself to keep them open.

You see San and Seonghwa falling beneath you, a solid distance away but also not yet having splattered against the ground.

Or…not ground…water.

Water.

A massive lake expanding from the cliff's edge all the way to the next mountain. A beautiful blue lake, reflecting the light of the moon against the night sky, glassy in its stillness.

It’s not ground beneath you, it’s water.

Despite yourself, you laugh. A joyous, disbelieving laugh at the sheer luck of it.

What are the odds that out of all the cliff’s you could have thrown yourself off of, it would have been one with a deep and expansive stash of water beneath it? Next to none, and you can’t help but smile.

Woo drops your hand, extending both of his own out in front of him and down towards the lake. Clenching both of his hands into fists, you watch as the lake breaks its stillness by beginning to ripple. Good, otherwise you may as well be falling onto cement. He then pulls his arms upward, and the water rapidly rises, minimizing the fall by at least fifty extra feet.

Woo manages the maneuver just in time, as both San and Seonghwa crash into the lake a mere second before yourselves.

The water is a blast of cold, engulfing you as its chill settles deep within your bones. You made sure to land feet-first with your body tight. You remember years ago Mingi telling you that was the right way to land, the only way, if you had hope of not compressing your spine or breaking any bones. This was after he’d had water training during his earlier years in the kingdom guard. He’d been gone for a week near Dildysus’ shores, coming back tanned and with a dozen stories to tell. At the time you were envious of not being able to go with him, pettily treating him with a cold shoulder and avoidant gaze. Now you’re just eternally grateful he took the time to share with you some of what he’d learnt.

You open your eyes and are greeted with what is mostly darkness, although you can make out the bubbles of your breath and a few dark blurs that you sincerely hope are the boys. Kicking upwards, the bottoms of your feet burn, ankle aching in a way that you’re sure it’s at least minorly fractured.

With the severity you could have had in your injuries, you can’t bring yourself to fret over it.

Face breaking past the surface, you take in a massive gulp of air, the wind having been completely knocked from your lungs upon impact. San and Seonghwa both turn to face you, Woo popping up soon afterwards. None of you speak right away, taking a moment to catch your breath, to take in the inconceivable fact that you all are still alive.

Eventually, San speaks, motioning behind you. “Make our way over there?”

None of you respond, it’s not necessary. Instead you simply set in motion towards the shoreline, to safety at last.

When you reach the shore, it’s on your stomach compared to your feet. Dragging yourself up onto the beach - which is more dirt than sand - you pull the rest of your body up by your elbows.

The couple of miles you had to swim felt a lot longer than it looked, even with Woo creating a current to help carry you the length of the distance.

San is a little ways ahead of you, pulling himself up into a seated position before flopping down onto his back, chest heaving as he looks up at the stars.

You hear Seonghwa cough from behind, wet and hoarse in a way that you can tell he’s choking on water that he swallowed. You cast him a glance, the empath sitting slumped on his knees, Woo giving him a firm slap to the back that causes him to cough up even more water.

You lay down, sand embedding itself in your hair and rough along your cheek, but you can’t hold yourself up any longer.

What a sorry bunch the lot of you are.

“All our supplies,” Woo says eventually, defeated as he lets out a guttural cough before continuing. “It’s all gone. Our tents, our horse, our food, our sleeping bags, everything. Gone.”

“Just be thankful we’re alive,” San retorts bluntly.

You know that’s not the best thing to say at the moment, and you brace yourself for Woo’s response.

“Oh, sure. All thanks to you, right?” Woo says, glowering. “What were you thinking, shouting after it like that?”

“I was thinking about saving your life,” San responds, tone far more calm than Woo’s.

“My life didn’t need saving.”

“It definitely did,” you think, but you know better than to interject yourself into this.

“What you were doing was almost getting yourself killed,” Woo continues, voice rising with every word. “I mean really, what was the plan San? You threw yourself - no, sorry, you and Seonghwa - off a cliff! You think that’s some kind of heroic gesture, that I’d be thankful?”

San does not respond.

“No, seriously. Tell me, San, because that has to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and I’m at a loss at what you were possibly thinking.”

San does not look away from the sky as he speaks. “Would you two go check if there’s any place we can take shelter around here? I need to speak with Woo alone.”

Seonghwa and you share a nervous glance. He purses his lips together, worried about what may be said and what that may mean for the rest of your journey.

Although, this isn’t either of your business, and you both awkwardly rise to your feet. “Alright,” Seonghwa says, the two of you beginning to make your way down the beach.

You try to catch his eye again, to see what he may be thinking about all of this, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead. The two of you don’t talk again even as you make it past the beach, down the open field and into the forest’s thicket.

San waits until the two of you are completely out of sight, having disappeared from the shoreline and into the woods. He still does not look at Woo, does not want to see his angry furrowed brows, his tense jaw and clenched fists. The stars are easier to speak to.

He isn’t sure where he gains the strength to say it. Perhaps there is something about surviving a plummet to your death that makes you take a step back and think about things. San doesn’t really know. He just speaks.

“Maybe I was thinking the same thing as you when you dragged her off that cliff with you. That same reckless, thoughtless panic that you felt when you saw me go over and decided to throw yourself after me. That blind instinct that says I’m willing to die in a heartbeat, so long as it gives you a chance to survive.”

San waits for Woo to say something, but he does not. Although the swordsman can hear him shuffle, clearly growing uncomfortable, exposed.

Amidst Woo’s silence, San connects Kuroku’s constellation in his mind. He and sister used to search for them in the night sky when he was little, finding Libaiya’s sun and Zaria’s siren amidst the bountiful little glowing beads. That was before Jude died. Before everything became so damn complicated.

San sighs. “I’m tired, Woo.”

There’s so much that he could be referencing, too much, but Woo understands it to be about the journey. “I know,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “But we’ll get to Kuroku soon, and then things can go back to normal.”

San laughs, a breathy chuckle. “Normal,” he says, mulling over the word, the silliness of it. “What is our normal?”

“What do you mean?” Woo asks, prodding a little further after being met with silence. “San?”

“When are we not fighting? Or avoiding each other? Or pretending this limbo we’re in doesn’t matter when it so obviously does?”

When his words are met with silence, San swallows hard. His throat feels tight, almost sticky. Like his body is begging him not to do this, his heart screaming at him to not say anything, not to burn this bridge even if it’s falling apart at his feet.

But San has to do this. If not for his heart, then for his sanity.

“We’re killing each other, Woo,” he whispers, still not looking at him. Not letting himself be swayed. “Or at least… you’re killing me.”

There’s a thick silence that follows these words, that leaves San a little surprised. He’d expected the elemental to get defensive or angry, just as he had been up the mountain earlier. Instead he remains quiet, hesitant.

Perhaps he can tell that this time is different.

“What are you saying, San?” Woo asks, quiet.

“I’m saying that I’m done,” San replies. “I can’t keep fighting like this, I can’t keep watching you throw yourself into open fire over jealousy, I can’t keep letting this thing between us put everyone in danger.”

San drops his voice to a whisper, so quiet that he isn’t sure if Woo can even hear him, the words too vulnerable to be said so loud. “I can’t keep waking up alone.”

San can hear Woo swallow, hard and thick. When he speaks, his voice is shaky.

“Is this about her?” Woo asks, but his tone is not accusatory, nor angry and jealous as he so often is when the subject of you arises. Instead it is broken, defeated. Rejected.

“No,” San answers, and it’s with a small laugh. Not of the condescending kind, just a hum towards the idea of all of this starting with you, as if he’d only started feeling this way mere weeks ago. “She may have been the final nail in the coffin, but we’ve been hammering for years, Woo.”

Another silent pause, before the elemental’s voice becomes even smaller. “Is there anything I could do to change your mind?”

San considers this. May as well be honest.  “Yes, but you couldn’t do it.”

“What is it?” Woo asks immediately, driven by scheer instinct. Willing to do what it takes, willing to be thoughtless and reckless. Willing to jump off any cliff need be.

“You would need to give me all of you,” San says softly, a comet whirling by in the sky above him, as if what he’s saying is some sort of wish. Fool’s hope. “No bits and pieces. No secrets, just full honesty. Nothing hidden. Stripped bare.”

“You already have…” Woo rushes, before abruptly trailing off. San finally looks up at him, pushing himself back onto his elbows, meeting the elemental’s eyes.

Woo’s face has fallen, mouth drawn open as the words fail to come out, as he realizes they would be a lie.

San does not have all of him. There are things he won’t share, vulnerabilities hidden deep within him, a part of himself that he is not willing to unravel.

San wishes the Woo would take a breath, then unwind himself. That he would explain everything, why he pushes San away yet refuses to let him out of his reach, or why he needs San so badly on the coldest of winter nights, but disappears come the sunrise in the morning.

He’s always believed that this is because Woo also loves Seonghwa, that there is space in his heart reserved for another, a place that San can never hold no matter how much he tries.

But the way that Woo looks at him now, his mouth drawn open and eyes wide with an agonizing desperation, San knows that there is something deeper than that. Something dark, something holding the elemental back, something that Woo’s heart pleads for San to know but is unwilling to actually share.

Something that Woo will never tell him, that makes him wonder if he truly knows the elemental at all, and San is too tired to hold on to false hope any longer.

“We’ll get to Kuroku, then we’ll go home and figure out what we’re going to do about this,” San says finally, and he knows his voice sounds cold. Inside his heart is screaming, wailing, clawing for attention. His mind shuts it down. “For now let’s just finish what we started.”

“Okay,” Woo answers, gaze falling down from San’s, staring at the ground. The little speckles of grey-coloured sand surround them, murky and wet, cold. San wants to reach out and touch him. Hold him, kiss him, make him feel better. He stops himself.

He supposes that this will take a lot of time to go away. So be it.

“I’m going to go see where they ran off to,” San says. He rises to his feet, and his knees feel like jelly. He wants to collapse, his brain buzzing, vision foggy within this state of delirium. It feels like he’s not in control, cutting himself off from his emotions leaving him empty and hollow, weightless.

“Okay,” Woo says again, even quieter than the last, still not looking at him.

“Don’t stay out here too long. It’s cold and you’re soaked,” San says, before his feet are moving towards the forest and away from the beach, footprints trailing behind him on the sand.

“Sure,” Woo says, and his voice shakes. There’s a certain wetness to it, raspy as it rises up from his throat, and San realizes the elemental is holding back tears. It nearly stalls him, as San isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the elemental cry beyond a few silent tears.

He knows he would not be able to handle it, and so he continues forward, leaving Woo behind.

When San finds you in the cave that you and Seonghwa found, his expression is solemn. Sitting down a couple feet to your left, he reaches behind him to remove his sword from its sheath, only to remember that it’s no longer there. It’s somewhere back up the cliff, lost to the bushes after he’d been thrown off the monster’s back.

Upon realizing it’s gone, San sighs. He runs his hands through his hair, before keeping them placed on the back of his neck, as if he can no longer hold his head up on his own.

“Impressive fire,” he says suddenly, in reference to the hand-made fire crafted in front of you. It is rather impressive, made of a bounty of small sticks and logs all arranged in an intricate fashion, as well as some sort of fern stuffing the middle that helped get it started.

You chuckle, the thought of you containing the wilderness skills to make something like this amusing. “Seonghwa started it,” you explain, and San smiles, before glancing around the darkness of the cave.

“Where is he?” He asks.

You nod towards the cave’s exit. “Took a walk in the forest.”

San quirks an eyebrow. “It’s the middle of the night, almost sunrise.”

“Yeah, well,” you start, albeit awkwardly. You don’t want to sound too self-pitiful.  “I don’t think he felt comfortable sitting alone with me.”

San’s smile falls, own eye drifting from yours to the flames. “Ah.”

You decide to change the subject. “Where’s Woo?”

“Down at the beach.”

When he doesn’t add anything else, you know that he doesn’t wish to speak about the elemental any longer.

The two of you sit in a not-so-comfortable silence, before you notice the dried blood on his tunic, having soaked through the fabric of both of his forearms. Amidst the more immediate danger, you’d forgotten the nasty fall he’d taken from the beast’s back, having wiped the skin clean off. You grimace at the thought.

“Your arms,” you start, clearing your throat. “Do they hurt?”

San glances down at them, eye widening as if to say: “Oh, right. That happened.”

“Uh, not really,” he says, before pulling up one of his sleeves. His breath catches at the sight of the skin, painted with bright bloody patches and a consistent red all throughout. He lets out an uncomfortable laugh, in shock. “Although, it looks like they should, doesn’t it?”

You frown, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Do you want me to clean them?”

“We don’t have salve anymore, remember?” San says with a nonchalant shrug, brushing it off.

“Still,” you start, glancing behind you. “Even just some water could help.”

Before he can protest otherwise, you rise to your feet. The sound of dripping water can be heard from deeper within the cave, loud enough that you figure it would be a quicker journey than walking back to the shore. Besides, you want to give Woo his space.

Following the dripping, darkness swells around you, the light of the fire fading in the growing distance. You and Seonghwa hadn’t ventured any further than the opening, not wanting to risk stumbling upon any more deadly monsters in your search for shelter. Fortunately, you find the source of the dripping before the darkness becomes too thick. It falls as a steady stream, trailing from the top of the cave, likely sourced by a pond of sorts further up the mountain.

Taking a page from Seonghwa’s book, you rip off the bottom of your tunic, using it as a make-shift cloth as you soak it in the falling stream.

When you make your way back to San, he gives you a soft smile, although it quickly falls as you begin to dab at the scrapes with the shirt-cloth. He winces, attempting to tug his arm away, but you keep your grip on his wrist firm.

You don’t need to explain it to him, he’s surely had enough injuries to know that momentary pain is a small price to pay against infection. He stops pulling, letting his arm fall limp in your grasp. His gaze drifts up from his arm to your face, settling there for a moment, before trailing back down.

“San…” you start, hesitant as you trail the cloth along his skin. Perhaps it is unwise to ask, to risk stirring the pot more than you already have, but you need to know. “Why are you letting me do this? Why aren’t you avoiding me like Seonghwa, or yelling at me like Woo?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, the question quickly turns into a nervous ramble. “I mean, I screwed you over. You need that money, San. How can you just sit there and…and smile at me, knowing what I did to you? To all of you?”

That same soft, sad smile spreads over his lips now as you say those words. He sighs, although it is not a defeated or exhausted sound, more contemplative. When he looks up, his gaze is more gentle than you deserve.

“I probably should be more mad at you, shouldn’t I?” He says, letting out a quiet laugh that’s more a quick puff of air through his nose.

You respond with a nod, pursing your lips together. He sighs. “I guess… I guess I just get it. I know what it’s like to be desperate for something, to do things that you know are wrong and eat you up inside, but it feels like there’s no other option.”

Your brows furrow, watching him carefully. You don’t look away when he meets your eyes, a way of asking without saying anything aloud. He hesitates for only a moment, before swallowing hard, good eye flickering downward and away from yours.

“In the year after Jay killed my family, before I met Woo, I was living in The Cat’s Cradle. I had nowhere else to go, and to work towards paying off my debt, I had to work as his errand boy.”

San swallows hard, squinching his eye shut as if relieving it all. “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, that I hated myself for then and still do now. Spying on people who had just as little as I had, who were also in debt to Jay, ratting them out. I may not have actually killed anyone, but I may as well have by turning them into him.”

“San…” You start, but trail off as you’re unsure of what to say.

“I guess in a way I always knew it was too good to be true,” San says softly, lip curving upward, although it’s more defeated than anything else. “It would be too easy. Much easier than I deserve.”

You open your mouth to say something, to likely spout your condolences and that he certainly does not deserve what you’ve done to him, but he must not want to hear it.

“I can tell that the world hasn’t been kind to you, just as it hasn’t been to me,” he says, not giving you the chance to speak. “Your family is also dead. Powerful men are also hunting you. You also have nothing left.”

Tears well in your eyes, and he takes the cloth from your hand, setting it down on the ground. He replaces it with his own hand, gentle as his fingers intertwine with yours. “I may be disappointed, but I can’t be mad. It’d be too hypocritical.”

It’s too kind, too understanding. The tears begin to slip from your eyes, and he reaches forward with his other hand to wipe at them, grazing his thumb along your cheekbone. When it makes its way to the corner of your face, he keeps it there, the rest of his hand cradling your head.

“Don’t cry,” he mumbles, thumb rubbing back and forth against your skin. “I said this to make you feel better, not to make you cry.”

“Sorry,” you say, with a breathy laugh. It quickly falters, fading into a stifled sob. Your lip quivers, face contorting inward on itself. Mingi always said you were an ugly crier.

“I’m sorry, San,” you say, and this time it is different. This time it is so much more.

He smiles. “I know.”

The silence that surrounds the two of you is thick. He continues to watch you, eye holding yours. A part of you wants to shy away, knowing how weak you look, the vulnerability in your swollen eyes and trembling lips.

Yet, you don’t, because at the same time you feel safe. You don’t know the last time you felt so truly understood, the last time you were stripped bare. Not lying, not pretending to be someone you are not, not walking on the egg-shells of a mistake.

And in the face of that person - the person that you truly are, horrible faults and all - he does not shy away.

He has seen you unravelled but holds you all the same, and amidst the situation's ugliness, it is the most accepted you have ever felt.

San leans in, slow and careful, like the air has transformed into molasses. His gaze falls, lingering on your lips. Your heart races as he draws closer, quickening beats that echo through you.

When he’s only a few inches away, he stops, and something flickers over his features. Sorrow, hurt, and all the emotions that have been building for so very long. In you, in him, in all of you.

Somehow, you know that this hurt is not about you, about this moment. This pure and vulnerable moment that he does not wish to taint with the pain of something else.

Instead of finding your own, his lips drift upwards, settling onto your cheek. Onto a stray tear that slipped past his thumb, gentle as he removes the wetness from your skin.

He pulls back to place his forehead against your own. He is warm, breath holding that same rich scent of coffee as it did a couple days ago. It’s cozy, comforting, and you feel the need to let him know how deeply you appreciate this. Appreciate him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, sitting in the promise of a kiss, noses brushing but lips never quite touching.

While he does not say anything out loud, the way his hand gently squeezes your own tells you everything that you could have wanted to hear.

Wooyoung pauses at the entrance of the cave. Having followed the flickering light of the fire and the sound of hushed voices, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to find.

However, whatever he may have anticipated, it was not Seonghwa sitting outside of the cave with his arms drawn around his knees, avoiding the display of you and San huddled around the fire. Your faces are pressed so close together that Wooyoung wonders if the two of you had just finished sharing a kiss.

His eyes are puffy and his nose is stuffed. He feels gross. Wooyoung hasn’t cried in a long time, at least not like that. Maybe since Yeonjun and Winter, which makes sense, as this is the closest he’s felt since then to losing someone he loves. Any tears he’s shed from then on have either been minimal, or born from pure fury. These were neither.

He sits in the entrance for at least a minute, and when it doesn’t seem like the two of you are going to stop any time soon, he walks over to sit with Seonghwa.

The empath glances up at him, letting out a short sigh. “Hey,” he says, shuffling over to make space next to him.

“Hey,” Wooyoung replies, taking a seat. Despite himself, Wooyoung sniffles, and Seonghwa’s gaze darts over. Wooyoung knows that he’s giving him the look without having to meet the blonde’s eyes.

“Do you want me to-”

Wooyoung’s answer is immediate, knowing exactly what it is the empath plans to offer. “No.”

“Alright,” Seonghwa says quietly, casting a glance behind him, at the two of you by the flames. Wooyoung notices that Seonghwa doesn’t seem angry. He’s not fuming or sulking, more so impatient, fingers tapping along his knees as he seems to simply be waiting for the two of you to finish.

Wooyoung doesn’t get it, how Seonghwa handles these things. How he doesn’t explode. How he doesn’t lose himself in anger the way Wooyoung does. How he avoids your gaze rather than stares daggers into it.

He turns to Seonghwa, nodding towards the both of you. “Aren’t you mad?” He asks.

“No… Yes? I don’t know,” Seonghwa starts, a tad frustrated. He leans back so that his head presses against the cave's rocky exterior, lips drawn into a weak smile. “If San can forgive her, I'll let him. It’s not my place to foster grudges for him.”

That’s not really what Wooyoung meant, and he tries to be a little more direct.

“How does it not bother you seeing them like that?” Wooyoung asks, along with the unspoken question: “How do I make it not bother me?”

Seonghwa laughs, although it is low and unhumourous “There isn’t any jealousy to be had, Woo. She isn’t mine to keep. She never has been, even when I thought of it as…more than it was. I always knew that it wasn’t meant to last longer than Kuroku. We’ve just reached the ending a little sooner than I expected.”

When Wooyoung doesn’t respond, Seonghwa shrugs. “If she can bring San a little peace, well, why should I not let her?”

Wooyoung doesn’t know what to say to that. When he looks at you he sees the Libaiyan orphanage, he hears the oath he gave swearing complete obedience to your father three times a day. He thinks of those nights he spent dreaming of your entire family's demise, of what he would give to be the one to set that kingdom on fire.

But he also sees the broken girl crying over the horrors she committed. He sees your worried gaze lifting him from the sauna’s fog and casting him a trusting glance across the table when trying to trick the mimic.

He sees you knees deep in the mud, begging him to understand that you never knew about the orphanages. Tears in your eyes as the two of you were at death's door, whispering about how sorry you were.

How can you be both of those people at once? How can you be his greatest enemy, but also the only person he’s been able to tell the truth about his past?

He hates you. He also doesn't.

Wooyoung doesn't know what to feel. He wishes he could just be angry. It's so much easier to be angry than anything else. Than this, whatever it is.

Wooyoung sighs, casting a glance back at both you and San. You’ve finally pulled apart, backs turned as you both watch the flames. He can hear you whispering, and would be able to eavesdrop if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to hear what San might be saying to you.

With the thought of San returning to his mind, his face immediately feels too hot again, throat scratchy and his eyes wet.

He relives it. San’s cold voice, his defeated laugh, his footsteps following behind him as he left Wooyoung in the chilly, wet sand.

“You would need to give me all of you,” San had said, right after saying it was something that Wooyoung could never do.

The worst part? He’s right.

Wooyoung’s chest aches, and then it begins to shake, convulsing. The sobs rattle within him as he does not allow them to be released from his mouth. San can’t hear him, he will not make this any worse than it already is.

“We’re killing each other, Woo. Or at least… you’re killing me.” San’s words.

“We both loved you, and this is what we get for it?” Winter.

Two different beats to the same drum. Is this what he does to the people he loves? Hurts them? Makes them feel worthless? Kills them, or at least their souls?

He’s always feared of getting too close to San, of what he might do if he let down those remaining walls. If he would hurt him, if he would lose him.

He’s always tried so hard not to lose San. Steering the swordsman away from any perceived danger. From you, initially. Trying to protect him in any way he can. Even when it’s irrational, even when he knows it's only pissing San off, he’s never been able to help himself.

When San threw himself off the cliff, Wooyoung felt the world crumble to ash around him. It was Yeonjun all over again, the moment his head cracked against that rock, and nothing else mattered.

That would not happen to San. Not again, Wooyoung would not let it. He would not lose him.

Well, here he is, having lost him anyway, just in a different way. Perhaps it was inevitable, doomed from the moment they met, yet another curse on the god’s behalf.

Perhaps San is better off without him. Safer.

Wooyoung places his palm over his own mouth, stifling another sob. He feels a hand settle on his shoulder. Seonghwa. Fingers moving back and forth, he rubs the area around his neck in a soothing, comforting fashion.

Wooyoung would normally shove his hand away, tell him to piss off. Don’t get too close to this, don’t trouble yourself with my problems, take your hand away from the flames or else you’re going to get burned.

He doesn’t. Instead Wooyoung lets Seonghwa touch him. He does not move closer, he does not place his head on the empath's shoulder. He does not fully accept it, but he also does not push him away.

And for tonight alone, Wooyoung breaks.

~~~~~

next chapter.

[declanscunt]

kenstewy fic recs?

oh god… so many… first of all anything and everything by ao3 authors leoandsnake (especially tsd i & tsd ii) and stewyonmolly (im particularly fond of lesbian kenstewy & their senses series)

MORE RECS UNDER CUT!!!

coefficient of variation by trill_gutterbug

summary:

"No, it's not—I just want to. It's not like, a thing, you know?"

"You want to lie here slobbering on my limp dick while I read forty-seven thrilling pages of Macroprudential Policy Regulation, but it's 'not a thing.'"

Kendall's face, already hot, pulsed feverish with a livid mix of embarrassment and arousal. He shut his eyes. "Something like that, yeah."

Telemachus’ Detachment by magnoliabud

summary:

There’s one thing Logan hasn’t used against Kendall yet: his relationship with Stewy. Kendall decides to jump in front of it.

Or: thirty years of something.

Set from the middle of Series 3, after the shareholder’s meeting.

tenderness of heart by strangeluvz

summary:

Stewy,

My assistant said that you told her if I wasn’t using my phone “to at least send a fucking letter or some shit” and I don’t know whether you were joking or whatever but here. You know that being online is bad shit for me man. So here’s this: I’m OK. Is that good enough? Do you need a stool sample or something too? Vial of my blood? Let me know

Kendall Roy

*

Kendall goes offline. Stewy sends him letters.

we’ll meet in even greater darkness later by moonrocks

summary:

Kendall isn’t exactly sure what Stewy’s doing here, if this is a booty call for old times’ sake or there’s something else they need to discuss. Maybe Stewy’s just doing him another solid. Since his dad died, it’s been hard to be stagnant in his apartment all alone. Between the studio in LA and the corporate retreat in Norway, Kendall has actively avoided it, but the election is coming up, and there’s nowhere to run now. He’s in the bullpen and the beast is rearing its ugly head.

(Set sometime between 4x04 and 4x08).

some little language by strangeluvz

summary:

Stewy says, “Dude, sometimes. I think I, like, love you so much, it physically hurts.”

Kendall replies, without thinking, “What the fuck.”

*

Post-canon: Kendall goes to Stewy. Stewy’s arms are always open.

Make Good by Springandastorm

summary:

"I don't think…" Kendall trails off. His shoulders hang heavy.

"You don't think, or you do?" Stewy asks, the usual smooth scale of his voice a little softer, like he's talking Kendall off a ledge somewhere.

"I think I'm pretty fucking hollow."

"Yeah. My voice echoes when I talk to you." Stewy agrees, leaning a little closer and knocking his shoulder into his. "That's okay."

a current under sea / picked his bones in whispers by ingwertee

summary:

God, he’s been picking up the pieces for a mopey, strung out, kicked puppy version of Kendall for over a year now. Kendall’s sudden surge of confidence, however unjustified, turns him on, reminds him of the Kendall he had started to think only existed in his daydreams.

a little of the collapsing space by ohtempora

summary:

“I’m not gonna say you should have told me,” Stewy says. “You absolutely should not have told me fucking anything."

what did you tell me, mary by harukatenoh

summary:

In which Kendall and Stewy attempt to answer: what have you got in your fucking hand?

i figure you with love by alaczije

summary:

Stewy manages to do a decent job of forgetting about Kendall, and him-and-Kendall, and all the neuroses contained therein, until the pap photos leak.

Luxe / Redux by orestesfasting

summary:

He’s not sure what he’s more angry about, is the thing. The betrayal or the subsequent lie.

Or—maybe that’s not quite true. He knows which one he’s more angry about, and he knows that rationally it should be the other one. But needless to say, if Kendall had told him the truth about why he did what he did, Stewy wouldn’t be heading to his place uninvited at 11PM on a Saturday night, brimming with righteous fury like the proverbial woman scorned.