#[through gritted teeth and tears] IF THE IS GRIEF THERE WAS LOVE IF THERE IS GRIEF THERE WAS LOVE IF--

[gaythreadrunner]

ohhhh right the grief comes in waves

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind. 

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still. 

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad. 

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up. 

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face. 

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall. 

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt. 

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you. 

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch. 

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret. 

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream. 

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming. 

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes. 

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it. 

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger. 

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice. 

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy. 

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them. 

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway. 

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect. 

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over: 

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too. 

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you. 

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own. 

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him. 

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world. 

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his. 

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder. 

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you. 

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other. 

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you. 

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light. 

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers. 

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan. 

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with. 

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there. 

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him. 

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins. 

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is. 

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry. 

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you. 

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him. 

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it. 

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you. 

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry. 

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum. 

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes. 

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it. 

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you. 

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head. 

But he knows what you really mean.

[quillcraftconquer]

TW: Angst (?), Divorce, little sad lol, WIP

John Price is a good dad.

When he’s home, he’s present. He changes diapers. He feeds the baby. He helps out with bath and bedtime routines. He’s up at every cry he hears.

But that’s not why you left him.

He’s a great dad.

Except he didn’t know what size diaper your son wore, or that he preferred to be bounced, not rocked. He didn’t know what time to give him his last bottle, or when to lay him down. It had only been six months since you had your son, and John was gone for over half of it. You knew he had to be busy, but fuck, you gave up everything, and it felt like he gave up nothing. You quit your job. You left the SAS. You stayed home. You took care of the baby. It wasn’t necessarily because you wanted to, either, but someone had to, and you knew John wouldn’t.

It ate at you that you knew John wouldn’t.

“I need help.” You begged him, and when he offered to have his sister or his mother stop by more often, you knew it was a lost cause. You didn’t want them. You wanted John.

You remember when you reached your breaking point. You laid in your bed, staring at the ceiling as you listened to your baby cry for over an hour.

John said “I’ve got it.”.

When you finally burst through the nursery door, eyes blazing as you watched John attempt to rock him, again, you snatched your son from John’s arms. Your son was hungry, a cry only someone who spent countless hours with him would recognize. You gritted your teeth in anger when John tried to take him back.

“I’ve got him”

“Give him to me”

“I can do it”

Finally, you remember your anger boiling over, screaming at John through hot tears that he couldn’t even change a fucking diaper without asking you what size, or how much to feed him, or that he liked to be bounced and not rocked.

You remember the grief that filled John’s eyes when you pushed him out of the nursery, slamming the door in his face as he stuttered. You remember laying the divorce papers and your ring on the counter the next day, packing a bag to take you and the baby to his sisters until he left for deployment again.

You remember every feeling that rushed into your heart when he left, leaving the signed papers on the countertop.

When you moved out, he was on deployment. When you FaceTimed him for the baby, he always ended the call with “I love you.”. You could still see the flash of gold on his hand in the video.

You refused to say it back.

On the rare occasions he did come home, your house was the first stop he made. You would always meet him at the door with your son to exchange him, knowing if you let him any further, he would fill the spaces in your home with memories of him.

Until today.

[hanafubukki]

“Papa will you come back tomorrow?”

The innocently spoken words felt as if a thousand thorns struck Lilia.

Malleus climbed onto his bed; unaware of the turmoil his words had brought forth.

Papa.

Lilia took a shuddering breath in.

Papa.

Lilia clenched his fists.

Malleus couldn’t call him by such a title.

It wouldn’t be allowed.

“Malleus,” Lilia kneels in front of the little prince, “You can’t call me that.”

Malleus’ lips trembled, brows furrowed, “Why not? Papas are ones who takes care of and raises children.”

Lilia closed his eyes, he had to control his emotions; before holding the tiny hands clenching his clothes.

When had these hands grown? So small were they when he first hatched.

“My Prince, I am not your father.”

Meleanor and Levan, surely, they would laugh at his predicament.

But the Senate-

If the Senate found out, he would be barred from seeing Malleus.

He would never be able to see him again.

“But pa-”

“No.”

Lilia forced his voice to steady through the bitter gravel and yearning in his throat.

Every teardrop causing a fissure in his heart.

“I am just Lilia to you. I’ll only ever be your caretaker.”

Lilia straightens up, trying to ignore the shaking form of his princeling. Resisting taking him into his arms and soothing him as he had done many times before.

“Have a good sleep, My Prince.”

Lilia tries to ignore the sobs from behind.

“Papa come back!” Malleus wailed.

Lilia closed the door behind him.

Breaths coming out shallow, body heavy with grief.

Tears gather while teeth grit.

I’m sorry, my s—Malleus.

Lilia walks down the dark hallways, trudging forth.

Fragments of his heart left behind with each step he takes in tandem with the echoing sobs heightened by stone walls.

“Papa! Please! Don’t leave me!”

…yeah, I teared up a bit while writing this 😭💔 at least I didn’t kill off malleus this time…I’m sorry.

Do you ever think about how Malleus might have called Lilia “papa” or any other fatherly term when he was young as all children do? To the parents they love?

(Under the cut because I have a lot of thoughts and feels)

Do you ever think about how Lilia would have been so happy to have been called that by him? But he couldn’t? Not only because of the memories of Meleanor and Levan (in fact, I think they would laugh at the situation and tell Malleus to do it more if they were alive just for Lilia’s reactions lol), but because of the Senate?

Because the Senate would never approve. And if Malleus called him such a loving term, they would ban Lilia from visiting even the few times he could or snuck into the castle for Malleus.

Even if you take into consideration of Lilia hiding the circumstance of Malleus’ birth so he doesn’t feel guilty, do you ever wonder why? Or what led to it? The senate already tampered with history and how Malleus was born and they tried to control Malleus even now (they didn’t like him coming to NRC, all the guards he had, Malleus having to sneak away, etc)

I can see them isolating Malleus from Lilia if he ever uttered such a term in front of them. Then, Malleus would have no one left but his grandmother who he rarely sees as is.

Do you ever think about how Malleus tried to call Lilia a fatherly term but he couldn’t. Whether because Lilia said it, someone else did, or he stopped himself?

And how that yearning affected them both? Hurt them? In this case, how if Lilia stopped him, Malleus never tries again?

Not only because of the rejection, but because he doesn’t want to lose Lilia? He doesn’t want to be alone again? How Malleus is more polite and subdued the next time Lilia comes?

And Lilia knows? But this is how it has to be? Despite his bleeding heart? And the pain he caused them both? Because at least this way, he can still visit? Do you ever wonder if this is why Lilia tried even harder for the treaty? For Malleus to have freedom?

And…do you ever wonder Malleus’ reaction to Silver calling Lilia “toto” and then later “father”? Ever wonder, if this is the reason why “Malleus was jealous of an acorn bracelet”? Because Malleus couldn’t do, give, or say to Lilia what he always wanted?

Ever think about how this could be why he refers to Silver as “Lilia’s son” or Silver being a child but never himself? How he buries his feelings even now hearing “caretaker” versus “father”? Because of such situations in the past or what led to it?

Because I do, and damnit, I’m crying thinking about it. 😭😔

Also little storytelling bits I like to add as an emphasis:

“Malleus -> My Prince”

To add that little bit of extra angst, that bit of boundary placed and rejection. 😔😭 OTL

How even speaking the words “my son” mentally might cause him to slip, and yet, he still calls him Malleus and not My Prince.

[loveinhawkins]

There isn’t a strike of lightning, no grand epiphany that clues Steve in.

It just comes down to this: he knows Dustin Henderson.

Knows how he looks when confronted with a problem he desperately wants to solve.

“Fuck this,” he’s saying through gritted teeth, pushing down hard on the gaping wound across Steve’s abdomen; he’s doing everything right, Steve thinks with pride, but it’s not enough.

It’s not his fault.

Steve says as much.

But Dustin isn’t listening; he’s just muttering to himself, “Not again,” over and over.

And Steve suddenly feels like he did when dropping the quarter into The Indiana Flyer—the moment just before the song played, already knowing what he would hear.

“Not again?” Steve asks very quietly.

Dustin’s mouth snaps shut. His face is chalk white, and there’s more than just fear in his eyes; there’s guilt too, guilt and a responsibility he should never have to bear.

Steve wants to take it from him.

He lifts his hand, grunting with the effort, and ruffles Dustin’s hair. “Oh, bud,” he murmurs, “you’ve kept trying, huh?”

Dustin’s eyes fill with tears.

Steve tries to hush him, breathing turning shallow from the pain.

“Hey, you—you’ve g-gotta hand it to me, man,” Steve says through a faint smile. “Was… on the right track, y’know? O-obsessed with clocks.”

Dustin gasps out a laugh. It ends on a sob.

“Shut up,” he says, and that’s all—no clever comeback, nothing, even though he always has one.

Steve’s heart breaks for him.

“How many times?” Steve says, but he doesn’t need a reply; he knows enough just from the way Dustin is shaking.

“I—” Dustin swallows, shakes his head. “I don’t…” Oh, Steve thinks, his kid is tired.

“C’mere.” He cups the back of Dustin’s head. “Everyone… everyone else make it?”

Dustin starts to cry.

It’s an answer of its own.

“Shh. Hey. That’s… you can stop now.” Steve pats the back of Dustin’s hand, stills the pressure on his wound. “Listen. Just… just let it run this time. Hey, it’s okay, Dustin. It’s okay.”

“It’s n-not okay, Steve, how can you—”

“Shh,” Steve says again, and maybe this is as much for him as it is for Dustin; he doesn’t want their last conversation to be a fight. He looks into Dustin’s eyes. Smiles. “Christ, I’m so proud of you.”

It doesn’t cover everything he wants to say; there’s not enough time.

I loved growing up with you. I’m sorry. I wanted to be there for you forever.

“Fuck you,” Dustin says, young and angry and so afraid. “Don’t say you’re proud of me, asshole, just don’t—”

Don’t go.

“Okay, fine. You’re a smartass,” Steve drawls, and Dustin lets out a choked giggle before grief takes over again.

“God,” he says, “this isn’t fucking fair. I sh-shouldn’t have to choose—this is—”

“Bullshit,” Steve agrees. “That’s not on you, man. Not your fault if the game’s rigged.”

Dustin closes his eyes.

It’s not so bad, Steve tells himself. He can just… rest for a couple seconds, tell Dustin to get outta here, then…

A faint chime.

Dustin’s eyes open. There’s a sudden gleam to them, shining through the fatigue. Determination.

Hope, despite everything.

“Well then,” Dustin says, “s’a good thing I’m a smartass.”

And then he’s running.

Steve manages to lift his head up with a cry, gets to see Dustin reach a grandfather clock ensnared with vines, because of course he’s not gonna listen to him, he’s such a little shit, and Steve loves him so much—

Dustin reaches up to the glass in front of the clock face, smashes it with his hand.

The world turns white.

The last thing Steve sees is Dustin turning to him with a shaky grin, mouthing, “One more.”

And Steve’s still terrified, but he also thinks of the world’s most stubborn, brilliant kid with a wonky compass, of how many times do I have to be right on the money before you guys just trust me?

It’s a walk along the railroad tracks, stumbling into each other’s lives; it’s just get ready, and you die, I die; it’s being trapped under Starcourt, and Steve left with the one thing that all the drugs, all the pain in the world could not take away from him.

The absolute faith that Dustin would figure something out.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

~

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.  

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.  

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

~

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

~

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

hiii! request for kaz x reader where she’s super drunk and he has to help her get home. they end up spending the night together. love ur work!!!!

This took a bit of a turn… your warning would be grief and a bit of sadness. Looks like that’s today’s theme.

I’ll sit with you

All Kaz wanted was a calm night. He had too much to do. Too much to look over. And all of it wasn’t gonna get done unless he concentrated. But the universe had other plans because not even an hour later after he had sat down his door was opened by a worried-looking Inej.

“We might have a problem”, she muttered, looking at him worriedly. “What is it this time?”, Kaz grunted, “Can’t you all just figure some stuff on your own?” Inej frowned but just shook her head, “It’s Y/n”. And that was enough to make a shiver run down Kaz’s body. All of the worst scenarios flashed through his mind.

“She’s alive just…”, as if reading Kaz’s thoughts Inej added, “Just so fucking drunk”. Kaz ran his damp hands over his pants, “So, walk her home”, he gritted his teeth. He hated it when you got the hold of your alcohol consumption. It happened rarely. But… his eyes darted to the calendar on his desk. Today was marked in a red bubble. Your sister’s death date. Mentally cursing himself for letting it slip Kaz stood over reaching for his cane. Inez looked at him as if seeing a spectacle. “What?”, Kaz practically growled. “I didn’t think you would actually… go to her”, her voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah, me neither but look at me now”, he gestured to himself before pushing past her.

Kaz was at least glad that you had chosen one of his bars to get wasted at. He had people there. Even more so that meant that his crows were there. So at least someone kept an eye on you. But what he didn’t expect was to see Jesper holding onto a ladder shouting towards the ceiling. Well, until he looked up himself and there you were. Curled on the wooden beam. Face radish and splotchy.

“Move”, Kaz jabbed his cane into Jesper’s back, climbing the first couple steps of the ladder. “Care to explain?”, he looked straight at you. Trying to keep his worrying at bay for now. “No”, you muttered, sad eyes burning through him. “How many of my bottles did you down, huh?”, even if his legs screamed at him, he still climbed higher. You glanced to the side, looking at the table below, “Two maybe”.

Kaz hummed, “The good kind?”, pulling himself up. “With the waxed top”, you muttered, licking your lips, eyes growing hazy. Kaz nodded trying to keep his balance as he inched closer to you, “Very well, at least you have a good taste”. You chuckled lightly, pushing to get up but miscalculating your balance. Nearly tipping over the edge. Gasps from below filled the bar. But Kaz already had his arms around you.

“Have I told you that I hate that you climb things like a lunatic?”, Kaz sighed, making sure you both were steady on your feet. “Once or twice”, you hiccuped, quickly covering your mouth. Kaz gave you a tight smile. Reaching his arm out, he pulled you closer, “Come here”, the warmth of his filled all of the broken pieces of your heart. As you clung to him as if he was a lifeline. “It’s okay, I got you”, he muttered against your hair. “I’m sorry”, you whimpered, feeling your eyes fill up with tears. “I understand. We both lost people we loved. I will never hold that against you”, you moved to look up at him. Watching him for a heartbeat before nodding your head. “Come on, I’ll sit with you for a bit and then we will go home”, Kaz muttered, before helping you to sit down. “And you bunch get lost”, he gestured to the rest of the crows looking up at you two.

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Tear You Apart Prequel✨

Series Masterlist

A/N: The prequel is finally here! It came to me out of nowhere today while I was listening to “Wait” by Knuckle Puck on a loop. Now that, my friends, is the power of music. I love this little series so much, and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written! I love getting into the pit of Joel’s grief and showing that underneath all the hardness is just a soft man that wants someone to understand him 🥹 He deserves all the love.

Pairing: Outbreak! Joel x fem! reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only MDNI)

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Summary: This is where it all began, the first time you ever met Joel. He’s mean, rough around the edges, but you see through him. You feel his grief as much as you feel your own.

Chapter Tags: Outbreak au, Joel captures reader, dark! Joel, tender moments, grief, angst, tension, Joel needs a big hug

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

 The sharp rope scratches at your skin as you try to free your bondaged wrists from behind your back. You rock against the wooden chair and grit your teeth together as you bite back the urge to scream. It’d be no use. You’re under his watch, under his control, under his eyes. Those dark black pits that are filled with nothing but regret that devours his eyes, feeds on his soul like a pit of ash and nightmares. A monster that devours anything he can control, anything he can get his calloused fingers on. 

   He wants control, he thinks he has it, but that’s not the case. Not exactly. Because control is a weakness. He’s just a man that’s ruined from a dark world who has nothing left but his own misery to spread to anyone he can claw his jagged nails into. He wants others to feel exactly how he feels. Grief can do that, can change a man into a blood sucking monster. And that’s exactly what he is, the worst kind of them. Vengeful, disconnected, full of regret, used. Just like you are. 

   You watch him stalk around you, circling you like a vulture as he glides his calloused fingers over your skin. You see the way he moves. Slow, concentrated, shoulders hunched as the green flannel clings to his broad chest. Dangerous, dark, unkind. That’s all he shows, all he knows. 

   “Let me go,” you demand as you scrape your skin against the rough bindings and hiss when you feel blood against your wrists. 

   He clicks his tongue and ends right in front of you as he picks up a piece of your hair. “I don’t think so,” he chuckles darkly as he continues circling slowly. “You gonna tell me what you were doin’ outside my house in the middle of the night? Tryin’ to steal somethin’ from me, hmm?” 

   “No, I wasn’t stealing anything…”

   “Liar!” His voice is blaring, echoing through the tiny basement that’s dark and filled with cold cement walls. Only a little light shines in the center of the room. Just enough to see the scowl that’s stretched across his angry face. 

   “I’m not lying, if you’d only just listen to me!” You fight back, your face burning fiery red as you try to pull free of your bindings again, but it’s no use. You’re stuck.  

   “I don’t listen to filthy little liars, sweetheart. Should’ve never come around these parts of the woods. It’ll only get you hurt,” he grins as dark eyes fill the dim room. 

   He slowly slides his fingers down your arm like a sly snake as you feel the bristles of callouses catch against your glistening skin. His skin is warm, burning into yours as you feel the fingerprints imprint into your forearm. He kneels down in between your legs as he rests one hand on your thigh, slowly opening the other as he settles between your legs. And then he looks up at you. That same unattached stare that belongs to the skin of a lone wolf. 

   “So, jus’ what am I gonna do with you, hmm?” he asks as he glides his fingers over your dark denim jeans. “Maybe paint the inside of your thighs white? Maybe sit you on my lap and have a little fun with you? Maybe…”

   You shut him up as you inhale and spit into his face as a glob of your saliva lands in one of his eyes. You see him flare his nostrils as he wipes the spit off with his flannel sleeve and starts chuckling under his breath. “Oh, I like a little fight in a girl. Kinda turns me on more.”

   Before you can react, he shoots up and grabs the back of your hair as he pulls hard and forces your eyes up. You grimace in pain as he pulls tighter. You look anywhere but at his eyes, so you just stare at his worn leather boots. 

   “Look at me,” he demands with gritted teeth as you feel his hot breath blow against the side of your neck. You turn your face and shake your head as you refuse to follow his strict orders. 

   He pulls tighter against your hair as you cringe and feel a cold teardrop lick at the corner of your eye. You can’t give in, can’t give in to him. You hear him growl loudly as he pulls and snarls a harsh order at you, “LOOK AT ME.”

   You feel the tear run down your cheek as you carefully move your eyes to look at him, your eyebrows knit together in frustration as you stare coldly at the man that holds you captive. His nostrils flare, dark eyes burning into yours as you take a real good look at him for the very first time. 

   He’s so run down looking, tired, just like the broken watch that sits clasped around his left wrist. The hard lines paint maps across his wrinkled forehead, an old scar sits burning across the top of his right eye, his salt-and-pepper scruff is rugged looking as some of his thick, tousled strands of hair fall down into his dark eyes. His green flannel is worn, just like his dust covered boots weighing him down to the ground. And his eyes. There’s sadness, remorse, regret lying in those chocolate eyes. Eyes that beg for someone to take him out of his misery. Eyes that plead for goodness but are weighed down by the hardness of the sick world. Eyes that beg someone to feel everything he does. Eyes that scream for help. 

   He keeps a tight hold of you, fingers still locked around your hair as he pins you in place, the weight of his body sinking against yours as you feel the roughness of his beard slide against the side of your cheek. Before you know what you’re doing, you speak. “It’s all about control with you, isn’t it? You want someone to control because you can’t control what’s going on around you in this apocalyptic world. You want someone to blame, someone to use to take your own misery out on. Is that right?” 

   His dark pupils expand as he snarls against your face, his fingers gripping harder as your head snaps up and pain radiates through your skull. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ‘bout, sweetheart. Better watch your mouth,” he growls as pain shoots down your neck.

   You see the glisten of the broken glass on his watch, wonder why he wears a broken watch in the first place. It hits you like a hurricane crashing against a weak structure, spiraling your insides as if you feel his pain radiate down your body. He lost something dear to him, went through waves of pain you can only imagine. Just like you lost everything in your life. 

   He grabs another handful of hair until you shout into his weathered face. “I know what it’s like to lose something! You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”

   His snarl lessens as his narrowed eyes relax, his grip on you growing lighter as he breathes in steady breathes. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he bites back as you see pain as clear as day in his distant eyes. The dark flecks floating around like pieces of the past as loss is etched in shades of dark brown throughout his irises.

   “That’s why you do this, isn’t it? You need the control, need to feel something other than the loss you carry. Need someone to fasten yourself to as you let the pain slip from your fingers so you can pour it out to strangers so they can feel that bit of pain you carry every single day.”

   His eyes widen, his breath hitching as the weight of your words crashes over him. A realization taking form as his jaw ticks and his thick fingers run down to the edge of your hair. There’s no more pulling, just the mere brush of his fingertips against your thick hair. 

   “You want to do something to me? Fine, do your worst. But at the end of the day, it’s you that chooses to be a monster. You are the one in control.”

   His eyes grow large as his breathing goes shallow. He drops the grip on your hair and stands abruptly as he paces the floor while raking a large hand through his scruff. He looks conflicted, torn up, ruined as he paces and paces the cement floor. 

   His body stills as he turns and looks at you, his eyes full of regret and sadness as the glint of tears wash over his deep brown eyes. He flexes his hand into a tight fist and clenches his jaw as he huffs out frustrated and grabs a sharp knife from the corner of the room. You freeze up until you realize he’s cutting your bindings free as the tattered rope falls to the floor. 

   “Go on. Get out of here. Leave,” he growls as he nods his head toward the rusty stairs and gives your shoulder a slight push.

   “But I…”

   “LEAVE!”

   You stumble over to the staircase and start to move, but after the first rusty creak of the stair you can’t help but to look back at the man that burns with pain. You see him pacing back and forth slowly, his face is so tormented. You almost feel bad for him. Almost. 

   You cautiously step back off the stairs and slowly walk over to him as you shakily reach out a hand. You see his tense shoulders, his lowered head as he holds his hands over his face. That’s when you feel it. The sheer grief that plagues him night after night. You feel it burning deep in your soul as you stare at his weathered features. He’s so lost, scared. 

   You ever so slowly lift a hand and place it softly over the back of his shoulder, holding your breath as you’re sure he’ll knock you down to the floor. He turns sharply your way, and that’s when you see the glisten of tears in his eyes, a shade of dark blue that covers his entire being. Wrecked. He’s so wrecked. 

   “I see you. You’re not as alone as you think you are,” you whisper as you let your hand linger timidly on his broad shoulder for just a few more seconds. He stares at it, conflicted features running over his worn face and then slowly turns toward you, eyes the color of chestnut brown. He flinches when you finally drop your hand to your side and step back out of his reach. 

   His lip quivers, jaw clenching as tight as a fist as he stares at you with big chocolate eyes that glisten with held back tears. You know this pain, the unbearable agony of losing someone so close as they slip through your fingers and never return to the light of day. You know he’s hurting. You know.

   You think of running your fingers over his patchy scruff but quickly talk yourself out of it, afraid he might snap at you again. One more look at dark eyes and you’re backing up, turning back to the staircase as you start to tread up heavy steps. 

   You hear him take a step toward you, hear his leather boots scuff against the hard ground as you look down and see the man with burning eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, looks like he might ask you to stay, but he stays silent. So you go, flee up the stairs, back to a semblance of peace.

   Before you turn the old brass doorknob, you look back and find him looking in awe at you, his breathing ragged and his mouth parted open with bloodshot eyes. Eyes that beg you to stay. 

   “You know, you’re not really the monster you think you are.” His jaw goes slack, his arms heavy at his sides as he stares wide-eyed at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, he just stares. Weepy eyes that cry out for just one soul to listen. You hear him though. You hear him.

   You grip your raw, torn up wrists and feel the pain simmer down to your bones. This is the pain he must feel, too. The pain you might just understand. Maybe that’s why you almost stay, almost turn and reach for him again like you could take his pain away. But you don’t. At least not this time.

   Before you overstay your welcome, you turn the cold doorknob and push past the opening as you flee the house that holds pain and regret. You slip your way outside and disappear into the thick trees, leaving just enough traces of footsteps for him to find you again. 

   This wasn’t the end. No. This was the very beginning, a beautiful cycle that’d keep spinning, a whirlwind of you and Joel. The moment everything changed. He claimed you from the beginning, the very minute he let you out of those ropes. It wasn’t over. 

   He’d find you again, hunt you down till he got his hands on you again. A little lamb that would feed the hungry wolf. A lone wolf that needed to feel again. And you were it. The undoing to his starving form. For he was just a man who longed to rid himself of all the suffering and pain he experienced day after day. You were exactly what he needed. It was you. So he’d follow you through the trees, track you down till he could taste nothing but you. You were the little lamb he desired, craved. And god, did he need you. He needed you…

Tagging some of you that read part 1 🩷 @janaispunk @amyispxnk @mountainsandmayhem @littlevenicebitch69 @lotusbxtch @keylimebeag @untamedheart81 @bbyanarchist @bishtrouille @vividispunk @vivian-pascal @survivingandenduring @wannab-urs @pedrostories @docharleythegeekqueen @rav3n-pascal22 @my-favorite-reading @silk-spun @fanfictilltheend @tuquoquebrute @beardedjoel @msjarvis @syd-djarin

If you liked this, consider reblogging or sending me an ask 💕

[delicatebarness]

cry baby | the alt ending

Summary: In the original plot of Cry Baby, John Walker never disappeared and our Cry Baby never met Peter Parker. Instead, her relationship with John blossomed into something Bucky and the rest of the Avengers hated. Turns out, they were right to hate him as his love for their girl was just a game. A game Bucky would not survive.

Warning: Abduction/Kidnapping. Physical Restraints. Emotional and Psychological Abuse. Violence and Physical Injury. Death and Grief. Manipulation and Coercion. Self-Neglect.

Word Count: 3743

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Series Masterlist

A/N: Hi, so I know this was not what won on the poll but, I wanted to do it anyway. I would just like to remind everyone that this is not canon. In the second installment of Cry Baby 'Badge & Blood' Bucky is very much alive and happy! This is just a write-up of the original ending, the ending that almost was. I would say I hope you enjoy it, but it is heartbreaking.- B

Tags: @buckys0whore | @thezombieprostitute | @lanabuckybarnes | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @softieekayy | @noonespecial90 | @hello-therree | @randomawesomeperson102 | @whoreforbarnes | @thejutvtsupport | @somnorvos | @cjand10 | @plasticbottleholder | @birdenthusiastez | @am-3-thyst

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @mrsnikstan | @lanabuckybarnes

Never did you imagine yourself in a situation like this– tied to a chair in the middle of a grimy, abandoned warehouse. Cold metal biting into your wrists, and damp, musty air filling your lungs with each shaky breath. Your mind raced with thoughts on how you got here, how you feel for John’s charm, even with Bucky’s warnings and Steve’s relentless attempts to protect you. Everyone saw something you couldn’t– or wouldn’t. There was a danger behind John’s charismatic facade, one you were now painfully aware of. 

Pounding against your chest, your heart raced as you heard noises outside the warehouse. Creaking open, you strained against your bindings, hoping it wasn’t John about to walk in. To your immense relief, it’s Bucky. His piercing blue eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of you, bound and helpless.

“Sweetheart!” he shouts, sprinting toward you. 

“No, Bucky! Stop!” you screamed, your voice cracking with desperation. 

Skidding to a halt, Bucky was barely inches away from an almost invisible wire running across the floor. Looking down, realization dawned on his face. Another step and the warehouse would have exploded, taking you both with it.  

Before you can say anything else, slow, mocking claps begin to echo through the warehouse. As John steps out of the shadows, your blood runs cold, his smug grin sends chills down your spine. Sauntering over, John stands behind you, his hand resting on the nape of your neck, stroking your hair. 

“Good guard dog,” John sneers at Bucky, his voice dripping with condescension. “Always showing up right on time.” 

You couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and you hated yourself for it. The tears begin to stream down your face, sobs escaping your lips. You hate how vulnerable you felt, how helpless. Most of all, you hated that you let John hold this power over you. 

Bucky’s fists clench at his side, eyes now burning in anger. “Let her go, Walker,” he growled, his voice low and as dangerous as ever. 

John laughed, the sound causing your skin to crawl. “Why would I do that? You see, Little Cry Baby here is my insurance policy. Steve will do anything to save his precious little sister. Isn’t that right, baby?” 

Turning your head away, you were unable to look at John. Your mistake and its weight crashed down on you. He never loved you, you were just a pawn in his twisted game, to gain control over Steve’s territory. 

“Don’t you dare hurt her,” Bucky warned with gritted teeth, taking a cautious step back.

John’s fingers tightened in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look up at him. Devoid of any genuine emotion, his eyes were cold. “Hurt her? Oh, James, you misunderstand me. I have no intention of hurting my baby. Not if Steve cooperates.” 

You could see Bucky’s desire to tear John apart, but he knew he had to be careful. It would only take one wrong move, and the whole place would go up in flames. He tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths. 

“What do you want, John?” Bucky asks, his voice steadying. “Just tell me what you want.” 

John’s smile widens, and he releases his grip on your hair, walking around to face Bucky. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere. It’s simple… really.  I want Steve to relinquish control of his operations to me. All of it. He steps down, and I take over. In return, I’ll let the little bitch go, unharmed.” 

There was conflict in Bucky’s eyes. He wanted to save you, but he knew the cost and it wasn’t his to pay. Steve’s leadership had kept things in balance, handing that control over to John would plunge the city into chaos. 

“Think about it, James,” John said, his tone almost casual. “You could have her in your arms within minutes, and all it takes is a little power shift. It’s not so much to ask, is it?” 

Bucky tried to keep his composure. “You don’t understand, Walker. Even if I wanted to hand over control, it’s not my power to give. The respect and loyalty Steve has, can’t just be transferred to you, especially not by me. The city won’t follow you.” 

Irritation flashed in John’s eyes, but he quickly regained his smug demeanor. “Yeah, I know. But fear? Fear is a powerful motivator, James. Surely, out of everyone, you know that.” 

Bucky looks at you, and you can see the torment in his eyes. He’s weighing his options, trying to find a way out of this mess. You shake your head, pleading with him silently. You don’t want him to sacrifice everything for you. You don’t want to be the reason your brother loses everything he’s built.

“Don’t do it, Bucky,” you manage to say through your sobs. “Don’t let him win.” 

John’s expression darkens, and he steps closer to you, a menacing edge to his voice. “Oh, baby, you should know by now that you don’t get a say in this.” 

Watching as John’s fingers trail down your cheek, Bucky’s jaw clenched. Each touch left a shiver of dread in their wake. His fingers lingered, tracing patterns on your skin with a sickening intimacy, your stomach churning. His eyes never left Bucky’s, reveling in the torment he was causing. 

With a twisted smile, John leaned in close, his breath ghosting over your face. His lips, cold and mocking, pressed against your forehead in a perverse parody of affection. Bucky’s knuckles turned white as his fists tightened. 

John’s voice was a low whisper as he continued his charade, placing another kiss on your temple. “Such a good girl,” he taunted, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. 

“Bucky,” you whimpered, your sobs broke through the fog of despair, snapping Bucky out of his rage. 

“Sweetheart, I’m here,” his voice cut through the haze, grounding and steady. He was a beacon in the strong of your fear. “Look at me.” 

Through the blur of your tears, your eyes found his. The blue of his gaze was like an anchor, steadying you– pulling you back from the edge of your panic.

“That’s it, focus on me,” he encouraged softly. His tone was soothing despite the fury simmering beneath his skin. “You’re doing great, that’s my girl.” 

John’s grip found your hair again, but you kept your eyes locked on Bucky’s, drawing strength from his unwavering presence. Each breath you took, ragged and shallow, slowly became a little steadier under his watchful gaze. 

Enraged by the connection between you and Bucky, John’s face twisted with jealousy and fury. He decided it was time to sever that bond once and for all. Then, with a swift, cruel motion, he pulled out a gun. The metallic click of the safety being disengaged.

Eye widening in alarm, Bucky never breaks eye contact with you. “Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice unwavering. The shot rings out, a deafening crack echoing through the warehouse. 

Time seemed to slow as Bucky staggered backward, his eyes still locked on yours even as the force drove him back. Instinctively, his hand reached up to his chest, where a dark, crimson stain began to spread through his shirt. 

“Bucky!” you scream, the sound tearing from your throat. Your heart shattered at the sight of him wounded and bleeding. 

His leg trembled as he tried to steady himself, fighting to stay upright. His lips moved, forming words you couldn’t hear. The pain was clear in his eyes. 

“No!” you sobbed, struggling against your bindings. Rope cut into your wrists, but with your entire focus on Bucky, you barely felt the physical pain. 

The blood flowered faster now, and Bucky’s face grew pale. He dropped to his knees, still trying to keep his eyes on you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Echoing through the warehouse, your cries were a haunting symphony of anguish filling the cold, and empty space. 

Leaning in closer, John’s breath was hot and rancid against your ear. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to patch this one up, baby,” he whispered, word lacing with cruel satisfaction.

Desperation and rage collided within you. “Bucky!” you screamed, your voice raw, a testament to your fear. You watched as he struggled to stay conscious, his vibrant blue eyes now clouded with pain. 

Fading into the periphery, John’s taunts became a distant murmur. Your world narrowed to a single point: Bucky. The man you love, now bleeding out before you, each drop a silent scream of your own helplessness. 

John’s laughter echoed through the warehouse, a sinister chorus bouncing off the walls, but you didn’t hear it. Your focus was on the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, the silent plea in his eyes for you to stay. 

Looming over you like a dark cloud suffocating your every breath, John leaned in even closer. His voice was a venomous whisper in your ear. “This is all your fault, you know,” he hissed, words dropping from his lips with malice. “If you had just listened to him, if you stayed away from me, your precious dog wouldn’t be dying right now.” 

Wrapping your hair around his hand, John yanked your head back painfully, forcing you to face him. “Look at me,” he snarled, his eyes blazing. “He’s dying because of you. You brought this on him, you pathetic bitch.” 

“No,” you sobbed, shaking your head as best you can. “Please, let me go to him. I need to help him.” 

A cruel smile played on his lips as he released your hair, stepping back just enough to let you see the full extent of his deranged delight. "Go to what?" he sneered. "He’s dead! There’s nothing left for you to do!"

Desperation clawed at your throat, your voice breaking with each word as you begged, "Please, John, let me go to him. I need to help him. Please."

John’s laughter echoed through the warehouse, a chilling sound that bounced off the grimy walls. He seemed to relish in your despair, feeding off your pain. "Pathetic," he muttered, shaking his head in mock pity. 

Your heart shattered at his words, but you refused to give up hope. You strained against your bindings, your eyes locked onto Bucky's pale, motionless form. Every fiber of your being screamed to be by his side, to hold him, to somehow make everything right again.

"Please," you whispered, your voice a broken plea. "Let me go to him. I love him."

For a moment, John’s expression faltered, a flicker of something almost human crossing his face. Then, with a sigh, he waved his hand dismissively. "Fine," he said, his voice dripping with false magnanimity.

John cut the ropes binding you, and you stumbled forward, collapsing near Bucky. Desperation fueled your movements as you crawled toward him, carefully dodging the explosives trigger with a frantic, shaky determination.

Your hands trembled as they reached his face, the chill of his skin seeping into your bones. "Bucky," you whispered, tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks. "Please, stay with me. Please."

Bucky's eyes fluttered open, the light in them dim but still present. He managed a weak smile, his lips barely moving as he whispered, "I love you, sweetheart."

Cradling his head in your lap, you rocked back and forth, your sobs echoing through the empty warehouse. "I love you," you choked out, your voice raw with emotion. "I always have."

His breathing was shallow, each breath a struggle. You gently stroked his hair, your tears mingling with the blood staining his shirt. "Stay with me," you pleaded, your heart breaking with every second that passed. "Please, don't leave me."

Bucky's hand weakly reached up to touch your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "You... you were always the only good in my life," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Don't... don't lose that."

As his eyes began to close again, you pressed a kiss to his lips, your tears wetting his skin. "I won't," you promised, your voice a whisper. "I won't."

~

Suddenly, the door burst open again, and you hear Steve and Sam’s voices cutting through the haze of your despair. The chaotic moment seemed to slow as they rushed in, their presence barely registering with you until Natasha and Wanda followed closely behind them. Gasping at the sight, Wanda’s face paled as she collapsed into Sam’s side. He caught her with ease, his expression hardening with resolve. 

Lifting your head slowly, your tear-filled gaze locked onto Steve. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene before him: his little sister, soaked in the blood of his best friend, cradling his lifeless body.

“Stevie, please,” you sobbed, your voice trembling and desperate. “Please, Stevie, bring him back.” 

Steve's heart broke at the sight of you, his protective instincts roaring to the forefront. He wanted to rush to you, to hold you and somehow make everything right. But the harsh reality of the situation held him back, his steps faltered as he stared at John, standing with a gun pointed in your direction.

Seeing the despair on his face, John smirked, his grip on the gun tightening. "Isn't this touching?" he sneered. "But take one more step, Rogers, and I'll have a lovely little pile of Avengers to clean up."

Steve eye’s bore into John with a searing intensity, and anger and cold calculation blended dangerously. His voice was taut, he struggled to maintain a steady tone despite the underlying edge of desperation. “What do you want, Walker?” 

John’s gaze slid over to Steve, his smirk widening with a casual, almost dismissive air. “Oh, the usual,” he drawled. "A luxurious lifestyle, perhaps a winning lottery ticket, and a hot tub would be nice."

Steve’s silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating, speaking volumes without a single word. His gaze remained locked onto John, unyielding and resolute despite the turmoil roiling within him.

John’s smirk faltered as his expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. “Not in the mood for some light comedy?” he taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fine… I want your empire.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, the muscle working beneath his skin as he fought to keep his composure. The sarcasm dripped from his lips, sharp and venomous, a thin veneer masking his boiling frustration. “Still cracking jokes, I see.”

The weight of John’s demand settled heavily between them, a stark contrast to the dangerous levity John was trying to maintain. Steve’s eyes, though filled with pain, were also fierce with determination. Every second counted, and he knew that his next move would be critical.

John’s demeanor shifted abruptly, his smirk draining from his face, a glare taking its place. The mockery faded, and his voice only dripped with a cold menace. "You’re really risking your sister’s life just to be sarcastic? How touching, Rogers."

Steve's gaze remained unwavering, his eyes blazing with fierce determination despite the dire circumstances. "She’s the only leverage you have,” he said, his voice steady once again but now sharped with intensity. “I thought you were just stupid, but I didn’t think you were this much of an idiot."

John’s face contorted with rage, Steve was wearing down his patience. “You think you can outsmart me, Rogers? I want it all. Everything.”

Steve’s jaw tightened as he processed John's demand and the weight of it. The silence was heavy as Steve weighed his options, the urgency of the situation pressed down on him. Each second passing stretched out. He was caught between his protective instincts, love for you, and the responsibility of maintaining the city’s balance. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he reluctantly removed his leather jacket, the solemn gesture of surrender.

"Fine," Steve sighed, his voice heavy with defeat and resignation. "You can have it. Here." his voice was firm yet weary.

Tossing the jacket toward John with a resigned flick of his wrist, the fabric fluttered through the air. It landed near John’s feet, its descent slow and deliberate. John's eyes widened with surprise, and greed, a malicious satisfaction flickering across his face.

For a brief moment, John's surprise was evident, but his expression quickly shifted to one of greedy triumph. He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the jacket with mean anticipation. The power he had sought was now within his grasp, and Steve’s surrender had given him exactly what he wanted.

John had momentarily lowered his guard. It's just enough for Sam and Natasha to spring into action. Natasha dashes forward, her movements swift and precise. Sam follows, and together they tackle John.

Steve and Wanda, faces etched with a blend of anguish and determination, rushed to your side. The urgency in their movements was palpable as they reached you and Bucky. Their eyes were wide with a mix of fear and hope, but the grim reality quickly set in.

Bucky lay motionless on the cold, grimy floor, his skin ashen and lifeless. The once vibrant blue of his eyes had dulled, and his breathing had ceased entirely. Steve dropped to his knees beside him, his hands trembling as he tried in vain to check for any signs of life. Wanda, her face pale and stricken, dropping to your side. 

Clinging to Bucky’s cold body, your sobs grew more desperate and ragged. Your pleas for him to come back, for any sign of life, were met with the harsh silence of finality. Steve’s voice broke as he called out Bucky’s name, his frustration, and grief mingling with the hopelessness of the situation. The efforts to revive him were pointless; Bucky remained still, the light of life extinguished.

Sam and Natasha moved with practiced precision, their synchronized efforts overwhelming John with brutal efficiency. Sam gripped onto John’s arms, forcing him down onto his knees while Natasha landed strikes with a vengeance. Struggling, John’s resistance was nothing against their combined strength and skill.

With each blow, Natasha delivered a cathartic release of guilt and anger she had bottled up. Her fists moved like lightning, hitting harder with every strike. John’s face contorted in pain, Sam’s held him in an iron hold he could not break free from. Echoing through the warehouse was the sound of flesh hitting flesh. 

“Nat! That’s enough!” Sam’s voice cut through the air, his words barely reaching her. Lost in her fury, her sole focus was making John pay for the suffering. Her knuckles were raw and bloodied, but she showed no signs of slowing down. 

“Natasha!” Sam shouted again, his voice more urgent, he tried to break through her blind rage. “It’s over! He’s done!” 

She couldn’t stop, she didn’t want to stop. Her vision was blurred by tears of rage, Her fists were pounding mercilessly into the man’s already broken body. 

As the sounds of Natasha’s sobs mingled with the stillness of the warehouse, you remained centered around Bucky. Steve’s face was a mask of torment, his usually strong and steady demeanor cracked at the sight of his best friend. He reached out, touching Bucky’s cold cheek, his hand trembling. “Buck,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

ONE YEAR LATER

The chill of the autumn air bit through the leather jacket. Save for the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city, the cemetery was quiet. 

Kneeling down, you traced the letters etched into the cold marble: “James Buchanan Barnes– the true heart of the family.” Your fingers lingered on his name, the name that once filled your life with love and laughter, Now, it was a reminder of everything that had been taken from you. 

In your other hand, you carried a bottle of his favorite beer and a pack of cigarettes. You placed them carefully at the base of the cold, grey stone. 

You sat down on the damp ground, resting your back against the headstone. Pulling your knees to your chest, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. 

“I’m here, Buck,” you whispered, your voice carried away by the wind. “Just like always.” 

As the wind picked up, you pulled the leather jacket tighter around your body. No matter the weather, you never moved. These couple of hours a day with Bucky were sacred, your time to feel close to him. 

“I brought your favorites,” you murmured, glancing down at the beer and cigarettes. “I know it’s not much, but it feels like you’re still here with me what I do.” 

You often found yourself talking to him, sharing your thoughts and feelings, even though you knew he couldn’t respond. He’d probably tell you to stop crying, anyway. 

“Sam and Wanda are holding up,” you continued your voice still barely a whisper. “It’s been hard for them, but they’re doing their best. Steve… he’s trying so hard to be strong, but I see the pain. He misses you so much, Bucky.” 

You took a deep breath, letting the cool fresh air fill your lungs. “Nat, she’s been a rock for all of us. But, I know she still carries the guilt of that night. She blames herself for a lot, she doesn’t need to, it wasn’t her fault.” 

Tears began spilling down your cheeks. “I miss you, Bucky. Every single day. There’s not a second that goes by that I don’t think about you.” 

The wind rustled the leaves around you, and for a moment, it felt like Bucky was there, his presence a comforting balm to your aching heart. 

“Everything reminds me of you,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “I keep expecting to see you around every corner, to hear your voice, to feel your touch. But you’re not there. And it hurts, Bucky. It hurts so fucking much.” 

As the hours passed, the sky shifted from the dull gray to a deep black. Stars beginning to twinkle above, but you remained where you were, lost in your grief. 

Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, and your body. It bore marks of sleepless nights and days spent in mourning. The dark circles under your eyes and a gaunt appearance spoke volumes about your lack of self-care.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” you whispered, your years falling freely. “I don’t know how to be okay without you.” 

Your eyelids grew heavy and in the quiet of the cemetery, with the bottle of beer and cigarette packet lying beside you, you fell asleep. Finally, find a moment of rest in the place where you feel closest to him.

---

Series Masterlist

[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 31

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of Daemon, whose loved her all her life.

TW: a dead body, helaena having more lines in this chapter than in the entire House of the Dragons series.

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty-One: The Pity

Ser Criston opens the large wooden doors of her room, mere seconds after a member of the guards had told him that someone or something had jumped out of the window.

He sees Alyssa sprawled on the floor, covered in blood. It pained him to see her in this manner, yet his eyes trailed elsewhere - searching for Prince Aelor who should've been crying right now.

Yet he could only hear silence.

A deafening silence that threatened to split his ears in half.

"Alyssa," he opened his mouth, piercing through the thick atmosphere. She laid on the ground, staring at the ceiling - unmoving, covered in purple bruises. "Alyssa," he repeated her name again, kneeling beside her - wrapping his arms around her like a father would his daughter.

The Pity.

"Alyssa," he repeated her name for the third time - hoping for a response. "- where is Aelor?" he asked staring deep into her purple eyes, ones that reminded him of Rhaenyra. Her eyes which were once filled with hope and happiness, were now devoid of any emotion.

Blankly, she points at the open window. Ser Criston paled. The war of ravens and letters have indeed ended, and there wasn't a thing in this world that could remedy a mother's grief.

It was the dead of night when Ser Criston Cole made his descent to the courtyard. There were a dozen servants surrounding the Prince's body, but he made sure to shoo them away. He was with Helaena when he wrapped Prince Aelor with a green cloth.

"Did you dream of this?" he asked, holding the small corpse close to his chest. "It doesn't matter, it's already done." Helaena responded, taking the corpse off his hands and into her arms. Whatever warmth radiated off her body could not bring the dead back to life.

"I've said it countless times, our family wants something that has never belonged to us." Helaena gritted her teeth, opposite to Criston, she could look at the body - she could stare deep into Aelor's crushed face. "- Alyssa will never forgive Aemond, not even in the afterlife." she added with utmost certainty.

Helaena fights the tears that threaten to leak out her eyes. This could've been Jaehaerys or Jaehaera, and she couldn't have done anything to prevent this. "There is tragicness in my dreams, Ser." she opened her mouth, reaching for Aelor's little fingers as if he was still alive. "- because it means reliving the same thing twice." she breathed, finally allowing the tears to leak out of her eyes.

"How will we tell your mother? Aegon?" Criston asks, eyes avoiding the piece of cloth carried by Helaena. "It is their callousness that has led to this, and we'll all pay our dues." she mumbled.

"We'll tell them in the morning, then. We'll keep things quiet, lest the news reach the Targaryens in Dragonstone. Prince Aelor was our bargaining chip to Daemon and Saera. Now, Rhaenyra has taken him away." he gritted his teeth, placing all the blame on his former lover.

"His death will bring more battles than you anticipated." her moony voice trailed off, and they began marching towards the castle. Criston was unsure if that was her observation or her vision. "My grandfather thinks that the war will only be between Aegon and Rhaenyra, but he is wrong - that much I know." she whispered.

Inside the castle were a few Septas waiting for the delivery of Prince Aelor's body. "Then, you must leave, my Queen." Criston pleads.

Helaena gives him a knowing smile.

"We'll pay our dues, ser." she repeated her previous statement, before fading from his view, covered by the Septas.

We all process our grief in different ways. Aegon drowns himself with wines and whores. Helaena keeps to her children and visions, but Alicent does not have time to mourn.

"Prince Aelor was murdered by mercenaries that found their way inside of the Red Keep. It is obvious that this act of terrorism was committed by Rhaenyra's forces." Otto opens his mouth to speak, still at a shock that Aelor died the night before. "- Aemond killed her son and now she has gotten her revenge. A son for a son." he added.

Alicent licks her lips.

It makes her a fool to sympathize with the enemy, right?

"Ser Criston Cole found Princess Alyssa sprawled on the floor, covered in her own blood - obviously shaken." Ser Otto further expanded on his thought. "Where is Aemond?" Alicent inquired. "The damn boy has always done as he pleased." Otto raised his voice.

"His son is dead - his wife is useless." he cursed.

"What is it that you want me to do?" Aegon raised his eyebrow. "A murder happened inside of your castle. Rhaenyra will not chafe her knees. We must force her now - Saera will turn against her. The perfect time for making allies." Otto placed a hand on the table.

Alicent shook her head unconsciously.

In disbelief at the recent turn of events.

"Victory has never been closer to us. If we play our cards right, we'll be mere days until the rebellion in Dragonstone is vanquished." Otto estimated and Aegon nodded his head.

"To war, then?" he smirked.

Four walls, a ceiling and a floor.

None of them were enough to contain Alyssa's grief. A few hours ago, she was taken from her room and moved to a part of the castle that she's never seen before. There was a layer of dust collecting on the windowsill. She hasn't moved for a long time now.

There was hardly anything written about losing a child, more commonly - the child got to bury their parent. It was nature, a parent and a child's life only meets halfway until the former dies and watches from the afterlife.

The same thing couldn't be said for Alyssa.

A knock on the door breaks her free from her thoughts, and Aemond enters the chambers. "Alyssa," his face is a mess - it looks like he hasn't gotten any sleep since he arrived.

Her gaze turned sharply in his direction. "What are you doing here?" her voice leaked with venom, and he takes a step backwards. She has never spoken to him in that tone before. "Is it true?" he asked, praying to the gods that it was just a rumor.

"It is your fault, and yours alone." she could not managed to raise her voice, but the venom remained. "I-I," he could not form his words. A single tear flowed down his eye, before he bolted away - slamming the door loudly.

Aemond was only ten and three when he lost his virginity. It was to a woman almost twice his age, a brothel-madam that Aegon forced unto him. He's never forgotten the incident, the whispers of protest that evaded his mouth - and now he goes to back to it.

"You're back," the woman raised her eyebrows. He collapses into her arms, wrapping her in a warm embrace. 'Coward' he insulted himself. His wife was grieving in Maegor's Holdfast. Aelor was cold in the crypts, and his family was mere seconds away from certain war.

He was here. He was alive.

Of all the people that deserved to die, why was he alive?

Her hands trailed down to his chest, removing his cloak and tunic. Unbuttoning it with ease. "You're safe," the woman whispered - silencing him with a kiss.

next chapter >>

[argisthebulwark]

I'll Burn Alive For You

summary: Before he gets a chance to confess his feelings, he's already lost you. gn reader, no pronouns or yn used feat: Vilkas, Miraak, Farkas, Brynjolf warnings: explicit depictions of injury, death, and grief. masterlist

"I wanted to love you." Vilkas gulps, teeth gritted against those damned tears. His hands are squashed to your abdomen and the cave reeks of your blood. Bleary eyes stare back at him - he doesn't even know if you can hear him. Grabbing fistfuls of your armor he drags you to his lap, lungs burning with the sobs he cannot let out. "Please." He's gasping, begging for you to stay. Your fingers are chilly when they flutter over his hand, smearing blood over his skin. Your lips move around words he can't hear and rage smothers all the sadness - god, he hates himself. He's always been so selfish and here he sits, wasting your last moments begging for you to love him back. "Don't go." Vilkas pleads, struggling to keep pressure to your wound - he knows you've lost too much blood but he can't give up. "The others will be here soon, just - don't go yet." Farkas or Aela will know what to do. They'll have more bandages - he's kicking himself for packing the bare minimum. It's selfish and unfair but he grits his teeth and wills you to stay alive for him. None of it matters, of course. He's seen your wounds and knows when there's no coming back. The rest of the world feels hollow when your last breath rattles under his palm. He should have told you sooner. To hell with the fear of being rebuffed. He should have confessed how deeply you'd embedded yourself into his heart, that training you had become the highlight of his week, that when you accused him of glaring he'd merely gotten lost in thought of kissing you - he should have told you before you were dying in his arms.

He should be happy. Hell, Miraak should be celebrating - he's done it. He's beaten the damned prophecy that's hung over his head for so many years, he actually killed the Last Dragonborn. He survived your crusade on Apocrypha and withstood your attacks - he won. His cruel smile slips when your grip on his arm lessens. You were strong but he was quicker, the dagger easily finding the vulnerable curve where the plates of your armor didn't quite meet. Even when he twisted the knife you'd clung to him, bloodied lips pleading with him to find some other way past this. As Miraak watches your empty eyes stare off into nothingness he feels the life drain from him. Each breath that rattles through your lungs takes you farther from him, sending you to the one place he can't follow. His boots would never sully Sovngarde's heavenly fields but you, oh the gods know you deserve the best the heavens can offer. It's wrong. You are slipping through his fingers and he's powerless to stop it; dropping the blade Miraak grasps for your shoulders, attempting to shake life back into you. This is wrong. He fucked it all up and he needs to stop it. "Dragonborn." He can't make his tongue form your name, the very thought of it feels like a sin. He's done nothing to earn that type of familiarity. "I've changed my mind. We can find another way -" He knows that it is futile. Even as Miraak faces the god that has ruined every facet of his life and offers to forge a new deal he knows that his actions mean nothing - yet he cannot stop himself from trying.

Farkas feels the flame of his heart gutter out. Your hand grows limp where he clutches it to his chest, though your grip on his tunic loosens. He feels so far from the rest of the world, as if he's floating somewhere far from his body - this cannot be real. "No," his whisper breaks the silence, "not yet." It wasn't supposed to be like this. His heart is supposed to be skipping nervously when he asked you out to dinner - it was all planned out. You were supposed to return from the mission, exhausted but successful. Farkas would sweep you off your feet with the promise of dinner and a hot bath. You were supposed to listen to him stumble over his words trying to explain how deeply he'd grown to love you and giggle when he made some awful joke. This wasn't supposed to happen. Aela wasn't supposed to haul you back to Jorrvaskr soaked in blood and mummified with bandages. He wasn't supposed to hear those apologies - this wasn't right. "Don't leave me yet." Farkas begs, voice breaking when he raises your cold fingers to his lips. "We haven't gotten to the good part."

Brynjolf knows loss - grief has been his constant companion over his many years, but he'd forgotten how terribly it burnt when fresh. He heard nothing past the ringing in his ears after those fucking words passed Mercer's lips. "Real sorry, kid." Mercer offered a pat on Brynjolf's shoulder but he's forgotten how to speak. His mind replays that last moment over and over; the little kiss you'd left on his cheek before skipping after the Guild Master, the promise that you'll speak more after returning, the confident grin that made his heart skip. You were so full of life that it had overflowed into him, reigniting a heart that had felt dead for decades. No. Mercer is wrong. He chokes down whatever miserable sound threaten to escape his throat, eyes cast wildly around the Cistern praying that you'll hop out of some shadow and laugh at him for believing such a silly thing. His heart is beating too fast. He can't get enough air in his lungs. The room is spinning and he's going to be sick, he's going to lose his footing. Everything is wrong. Brynjolf has no clue what he's thinking. His feet are moving of their own volition when he trudges through Riften, mind buzzing with that terrible need to prove Mercer wrong. He'll fight through that fucking ruin and find you there - you could be injured, you might need his help. He will not lose you.

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic March 30 – prompt 30: Calming Draught – word count 642

Calming Draught - Calms the user of shock, trauma etc

Remus was late. Whenever he went to St Mungo’s he tried to make it home before dinner, but this time he had been caught up with Mary in a very complex healing potion. They had gotten it wrong a bunch of times and had ended up crying in frustration, missing Lily and her mastery of potions even more than usual. When he finally walked in the house it took him one look to see it was bad.

All of Harry’s toys were scattered around the living room and in the middle of it all Sirius was holding the screaming two-year old in his arms, trying to calm him down, himself looking on the verge of tears.

“What happened?” Remus asked, putting his bag on the carpet.

“The neighbours had a birthday party with fireworks,” Sirius said through gritted teeth, carefully bouncing Harry up and down with the only result of making him scream even more. “One of the fireworks was green.”

Remus nodded and got closer, carefully taking the little boy from Sirius’s arms. Green lights made Harry mad with terror, and it took a really long time to calm him down. The first time it had happened had been with the fireworks on the fifth of November, literally a couple of days after they had taken him in. Exhausted with grief and the responsibility of now having to raise their best friends’ son they had taken an embarrassingly long time to realise it wasn’t the fireworks to frighten him so much, but the green light. Somewhere, deep into Harry’s brain, he connected it with the light Avada Kedavra made when used, the same light which had robbed him of both his parents.

“It’s alright Bambi,” Remus said soothingly. “Nothing will hurt you now, I promise.”

Harry’s screaming turned to sobbing and he buried his face in Remus’s jumper.

“Cry all you want,” Remus whispered. “We’re here for you.”

After a while, the sobs stopped and Remus looked under the wild mane of hair that looked so much like James’s to see Harry had fallen asleep, exhausted. He carefully placed him in the day bed by the fireplace while Sirius collapsed on the sofa.

“You’re so much better at it than me, Moony,” he whispered as Remus sat by his side.

“It’s not true,” Remus passed an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “We’re both learning.”

“I couldn’t calm him down,” Sirius said slowly. “He was screaming so much and I couldn’t do anything, I just wanted to scream with him. It’s so unfair to him, Moony. Prongs and Lily were made to be parents and we… We don’t know what we’re doing.”

“I know,” Remus sighed.

“It’s ridiculous, I… I don’t even know what loving parents look like!” Sirius was now half-laughing half-crying, practically in hysterics. “We’re going to fuck him up, Moony, we’ll be like my own parents!”

“Sssh, my love,” Remus quietly kissed Sirius’s temple. “You’re exhausted.”

“I am,” Sirius sobbed. “I always am, and then I think about them not being happy with what I’m doing with Bambi, and… Maybe Lily wishes her sister had gotten him instead.”

“That’s how I know you’re rambling, Padfoot,” Remus chuckled. He shifted to pass a hand through Sirius’s hair and look him in the eye. “If there’s somewhere from where they’re watching us, I know Lily knows we’re doing our best. And Prongs is probably still laughing at the time we had the brilliant idea of leaving Harry alone for five seconds with a barrel of paint.”

Sirius chuckled.

“All those handprints on the corridor wall… He truly is a Marauder’s son,” he said.

“We’re trying and it’s going to be fine,” Remus smiled. “We’ll manage it, together. Alright?”

“Alright, Moony,” Sirius nodded.

“Good. Now, I think you could do with a drop or two of Calming Draught before bed, don’t you?”

[lesbianpepsi]

Meant To Be Yours

pairing: amber freeman x fem!reader

summary: amber has tricked you into killing one student, you refuse to be tricked again; something amber doesn't like.

words: 2.165k

warnings: canon scream stuff, death, description of murder, knives, violence, blood, swearing, toxic!amber, manipulation, bad writing

authors note: a double whammy tonight for y'all. i have no regrets.

"All is forgiven, baby. I promise I'm not mad about what you said to me." Amber said through the call making your jaw clench as you shake your head, not believing a word that comes out of her pretty mouth.

"Stop calling me, Amber." You told her in the most demanding voice you could muster up, covering it up with your growing fear as your eyes glanced around your living room. "I've not forgiven you so just leave me the fuck alone." 

Amber scoffs through the device. "Why are you saying these things, Y/n? You've practically thrown me out like I'm fucking trash!" Her voice became more gruff as her anger quickly replaced her fake kindness.

"Because you are, Amber, you're fucking trash. You tricked me." You remarked as you ran a hand through your hair, staring intently at the dark corners of the room. 

"Is that what you think? That I tricked you?" Amber asks you in an overly heartbroken tone making you roll your eyes. "You did trick me, Amber, you manipulated me into doing something vile."

"Baby, you know I'd never manipulate you, I love you too much." She says her voice is becoming quieter. 

Tears swelled up in your eyes as you shook your head, your jaw still clenched tightly. "You manipulated me into killing, Wes." You whispered through gritted teeth, your heart beating erratically in your chest. "You said it was going to be a harmless prank to scare him."

"It was harmless." She defended, the sound of her shuffling around being heard on the phone. "Wes was a bitch boy anyway."

You scoffed as you stood up from the couch, your anger towards your girlfriend and the grief and guilt of Wes's death making your blood boil in a disgusting way.

"Fuck you." You whispered before hanging up on her, turning your phone on silent mode before tossing it onto the couch. 

It was only supposed to be a prank; that's what she told you. 

Wes was notorious for his hatred towards horror movies, especially Amber's favourite Stab. 

Amber suggested to you that you and her should play a little prank on him after he was "too touchy" with you as Amber said.

The prank being you and Amber would dress up in the famous Ghostface costumes and give him a little scare.

You were reluctant in the beginning but after Amber's persuasive words you eventually agreed.

Amber had already planned it out and told you how the prank was going to play out. 

You would call him as Amber would sneak into his house and scare him before taking off her mask and showing her friend it was a prank.

That isn't how the prank went. 

You were in Amber's car on call with Wes as Amber sneaked into the house late at night in the Ghostface attire.

In the beginning it was going smoothly, even funny to you at times. Then in a blink of an eye everything changed.

As you uttered the iconic line "What's your favourite scary movie?" you didn't get a panic response or even get hung up on; instead you heard fighting.

Screams so loud and guttural you had to pull your phone away from your ear.

Immediately you ran into the house to see what had happened to your absolute horror. You saw Wes on the floor covered in blood as he gargled on his own blood, his throat cut lightly, as if Amber was teasing him an easy and quick death. 

You didn't even know how it was possible that Amber could hurt him so much in less than thirty seconds. 

His eyes met yours as he whispered out his final words, a look of betrayal on his face.

"Y/n?" 

Amber killed Wes, and you helped her. 

You screamed at Amber as she gazed at Wes's dead body, taking off her mask as a look of pleasure swirled in her dark eyes.

She was proud. 

When you threatened to tell the police what she had done her proudness was replaced with smugness as she waltzed at you, a bloodied knife still in her grip. 

"You're an accomplice to my crime, baby. You call the cops on me and we both go down." 

Her words hit you like a wrecking balls with reality. You were an accomplice to her crimes.

The Bonny to her Clyde.

You didn't know what to do - you still don't know what to do, confess the truth to the police and go to prison or keep the entire killing an unsolved mystery; let your best friend become an unsolved case.

One thing you have been doing is avoiding Amber, hell, you've been avoiding everyone. You haven't left your house in days as you rotted away; the guilt slowly killing you.

Sighing, you ignore the vibrations from your phone as you move towards the kitchen, going to make yourself a glass of water in a weak attempt to calm yourself down. 

Grabbing a glass you headed towards the sink to fill up your glass. As the cold water slowly filled it up your eyes were focused on it as your thoughts were plagued by Wes.

You didn't even notice the person standing in the corner of the kitchen.

"Y/n."

You gasped as you dropped the glass making a loud clatter as it landed in the sink. Turning on your heel to your horror you see Amber standing a few feet away with a soft smile, the one that used to make your heart swoon. 

"Don't run." She asks you as she takes a step forward. 

Without hesitation as you do the exact opposite of her words, sprinting away as you headed towards your front door.

"I said don't fucking run away from me!" Amber yelled as her heavy footsteps were heard right on your heel.

Using all the strength and speed you could muster you force yourself to run even faster, but it wasn't fast enough. 

Amber's foot trips yours making you collapse to the ground as the view to the front door just reaches your eye sight.

You whimpered in pain as you tried scrambling back up but was stopped by Amber jumping forwards and standing in the hallway heading towards the door, blocking you from escaping the house; blocking you from escaping her.

She sighs as she runs a hand through her hair, looking down at you. "My love, please stop being like this. We're in this together, you can't leave me alone." 

Her soft spoken words wither into your heart as your glare softens, staring up at her as you slowly stand up. 

"Why are you here, Amber?" You demand as you take a wary step backward, your eyes focused on her body the entire time.

Amber's eyes gleam as she smiles crookedly at you, taking a singular step closer to you. 

"You left me, Y/n." She whispers, taking another step closer as you take another one back. "I fell apart without you and you've fallen apart without me."

You shake your head as you glance back at the stairs that would lead you to your bedroom before back at Amber's innocent looking face.

"Don't lie to me, sweetheart, you and I both know we can't live without each other. It's what made me realise something." Amber whispers, taking another step closer as you don't take another step back, breathing heavily as you stare at her.

She smiled sweetly as she reached you close enough to place her hand in your cheek, caressing it gently.

"We're meant to be." She insists.

You smile back at her as you lean into her touch, Amber visually relaxes as her smile softens.

"No we're not." You say before punching her in the face with all the strength you had in your body.

Amber stumbled back in shock as a small ooze of blood began spilling from her nose. One of her slender fingers touches the blood before pulling away to examine it.

Her jaw clenched as her eyes connected with yours, a look of pure rage in her black eyes.

You swiftly turn around as you run up the stairs as you head towards your bedroom, the only place you know has a lock and a secret weapon.

"Y/n!" Amber yells as she chases after you, right behind you as she tries grabbing you, her fingers skimming over your back. 

Scrambling towards your room you unlock it and throw yourself inside before slamming your body against it, shutting it as you locked it. 

Amber's fist pounds against the door as she screams your name.

"Y/n, don't lock me out! I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one." She yells through the door, her palm laying flat against it.

You jump towards your dresser where a small pocket knife Amber gifted you was hidden.

Tears are free falling from your eyes speedily but you paid no attention to them, your only focus being on your life.

"You were meant to be mine." Amber growls from behind the door, banging against it once again. 

You flinch at the sound as you flick the blade out of its pocket, backing up against the corner wall as you sobbed quietly.

"I'm all that you need, Y/n, me. Not Liv, not Chad, not even fucking Tara; but me." Amber insisted in a raucous voice as she yelled. "You carved open my fucking heart, Y/n, you can't just leave me to bleed!" 

Your heart is going a hundred miles per hour as your hand becomes shaky, the small knife with Amber's and your initials on the blade shakes.

"Y/n!" She screams in a guttural rage, leaning her forehead against the door from the other side. "Open the door, please." Amber whispers but is loud enough that you hear it.

"Y/n, open the door." She begs again in a pleading voice, her own voice becoming shaky.

You frowned at her hurt voice as you unconsciously took a step closer to the door.

"Y/n, can we not fight anymore, please?" Amber whimpers, making your heart crack at her voice. 

You shake your head as you try to force yourself to stop getting closer to the door. You know she's only doing this to make you open the door, yet you still can't help but feel bad. 

"Please, baby, can we not fight anymore? I get that you're scared and that's my fault, and I'm so sorry, Y/n." You don't say anything as you remain frozen in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do.

"I've been there, feeling the guilt, I was there with you, remember? Do you really think I haven't been feeling horrible about it too?" Amber wailed from behind the door, her voice cracking.

Amber has been feeling guilty about it? You thought she didn't care?

"I can set you free, Y/n. From all the guilt and pain. I know how to." Amber states making your eyes widen in hope. She could make you feel better?

You're silent as you try to process her words, something Amber sees as a sign of rejection.

"Y/n, don't make me come in there." Amber says, her voice becoming louder and angrier the more she spoke. "I'm gonna count to three and if you don't open this fucking door I won't help you." She yells banging the door once again to emphasise her point.

You don't want that, you want Amber's help, if she wouldn't lie to you again, would she?

Wordlessly, you quietly walk over to the door, unlocking it as fresh tears still flow down your cheeks.

Amber immediately opened the door as her eyes locked with yours, her furious expression fading away. 

"You opened the door." She says breathlessly as she takes a step closer to you, her eyes averting  from yours to the knife in your hand.

You nod your head slowly as you drop the knife, your heart beating for Amber and Amber only now.

"Will you help me?" You croak out in a strangled voice. Amber nods her head as she smiles at you, placing a hand on her cheek just as she did earlier, the blood under her nose dripping onto her shirt but she didn't care.

"I'd do anything for you, baby, you're mine and I love you with all my soul and heart." Amber says as she uses her free hand to grab yours, interlocking your fingers together. "We're meant to be." She insists with her crooked smile.

You look down at your hands noticing the bruises on Amber's knuckles along with a few healed cuts. 

God, you caused that. You might've hated Amber but you also loved her. 

"Say it." Amber asked as she tugged your cheek making you look at her with tearful eyes. "Say you're meant to be mine." 

You swallow nervously as you gazed into Amber's dark eyes, blinded by her beauty and soft words.

"Meant to be yours."

[professional-yearner]

Can't Help Falling In Love With You 🤍

Pt. 1

Yandere! Cheater! Officer Clone trooper x Fem! Reader

Series TW!: cheating, mistresses, grief, murder, Evil-ish, being trapped, toxic relationships, forced relationship, obsessive love, obsession, general insanity, manipulation, disloyalty

A/N: I hope you guys like this first installment of my new-ish series! I do intend to finish it this time lol. I really hope you like it! :3

You sat in the dark, staring blankly at the messages. They were sweet, affectionate, and playful, with a deep sense of connection that made bile creep up your throat and your head light. You remembered when Steel used to message you like this, it seemed so distant now, but you could remember it almost vividly.

You hadn't realized you were crying until you had to sniff to keep mucus from dripping onto the data pad. It made sense why he had been so distant recently; staying out late on his leave instead of being with you, always on his data pad doing 'work', never really touching you anymore.

The name opposite his own messages seemed to be laughing at you, bold and victorious as it burned into your retinas;

Arah

Was that her name? It was pretty, like she must be. Was it just that, or was she funnier, smarter, more capable, more interesting? Maybe all of the above.

You cried out, pain racking through your entire body; you had thought he was your person. You thought he thought you were his person.

It had all come together when you met him, and now it had so rapidly fallen apart.

-

The morning following your discovery was bleak, but you had to keep it together, at least until he left again for the day.

It was a sisyphean task to hold back your tears without him noticing as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head before he went (something he hadn't done in a while), but you didn't think you could face him now, not until you got yourself together a bit.

You finally broke once he closed the door behind him, trying to take air between sobs as you did your best to move towards the bathroom.

Skincare didn't work, the tears and snot wouldn't stop long enough for any of your products to set.

Putting on a nice outfit didn't work either, you just found new ways to compare yourself to how pretty his new girl must be, making your crying all the more intense.

Finally, you found yourself in the kitchen, exhausted from a day that sped by you and stomach rumbling.

You had to climb the counter to get the ingredients that you needed, seeing as the it only reached your hip at the most.

Steel had insisted on you not "wasting your money" on a step-stool, going on about how he'd always be there to get things down for you. Remembering that made you grit your teeth, grief momentarily replaced with vitriol.

Karking liar.

Mixing and cleaning went by in a blur, you were so practiced by now it felt like a reflex. You looked down at what you were making.

It was both of your favorites; pancakes.

It was simple, basic even, but it had kind of been your thing. It seemed appropriate considering you had met in a diner.

You felt your eyes heat as you flipped the pancake.

You really thought he loved you.

You could remember the first time you had kissed, the first time you had felt so wanted and right with someone;

You giggled as he bumped your shoulder with his, the rough material of his uniform scuffing your bare arm lightly as he grinned down at you. The rain pattered on the two of you, your hair and his hat beginning to drip.

You paused your walking as you caught his eye, the look he was giving you catching you off guard; his brown-gold eyes shone more openly than you had ever seen them, soft affection following your every movement as his lips curved into a warm smile.

"What?" You smiled up at him, laughing lightly.

He stepped out in front of you, leaning down to push the hair away from your face and touching your nose with his,

"You're perfect, angel."

Your eyes widened as you took in the moment, a desire settling itself against your ribcage at his declaration. Stomach fluttering, you worked up every scrap of courage you had, finally leaning forward and closing the distance between the two of you, pressing your lips shyly to his.

He seemed to be in shock for a moment, making you pull back, only to give a small squeak of surprise as he shot out a hand to bring you back, capturing your lips gently, but passionately, against his once more.

You both stayed like that for a while, lips moving against each other in quiet tenderness before he pulled away slowly, rubbing your cheek with his calloused thumb,

He breathed softly, face only an inch from yours, "Sweet girl."

You bit back a silly grin, bringing your forehead to his and placing your hands at the sides of his face in a Keldabe kiss, one last show of your overwhelming adoration before pulling away.

"You want to come back to mine? I could make breakfast for dinner; your favorite."

He said nothing for a moment, looking at you as if you were the beginning and end of the galaxy, making you almost tear up before his face broke into a lopsided grin once more. He picked you up by your waist suddenly, causing you to squeal as he spun you around, laughing,

"Cyar’ika, you are the love of my life!"

You stared at the pan, watching the pastry grow black as you zoned out. The love of his life.

You sobbed, clutching the counter as the smell of burning pancake filled your nose.

Maker.

[irenadel]

And if the devil... 8/10

Making a banner for this finally for the grand finale coming soon. Excuse to rb. Credit for the Aemond screencap goes to the wonderful Liv @barbieaemond No smut and TW: mentions of childbirth and labor pain. But in my defense, Aemond is back on his bullshit in this chapter.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Vain little thing

You had loved his hair, impossibly soft and white, heavy like rich cloth and always immaculately slicked back. What did he need a crown for if he already owned this glory? You had laughed at him. Vain little thing. With his sapphire and his perfectly fitted clothing, deceptively severe black, hugging a distractingly narrow waist and legs so beautiful they could make grown women cry. All these silly things, all this care and attention, because he didn’t know he was already perfect.

You had kissed the edges of his scar and had lied to him so brazenly. He had never been ugly, you had said, and he would never know what it was like to be ugly. You had ran one calloused finger down his forehead and nose and across his lips and he had drunk fully of you. Of your adoration for him.

What a fool he had been.

He does not falter now. If anything, he renews his zealous effort, his training, his studies. Ser Criston seems pleased and Aemond does his best to appear so as well. He does not speak of it, his royal mother having forbidden it, still too grateful that she had managed to keep one son from murdering the other to risk it again. Aegon doesn’t speak of it either, doesn’t jeer or laugh or boast, having tasted the bite of his brother’s knife, he must not be eager to sup of that bitter cup again.

Aemond as unwilling to partake of thwarted outrage as any of them almost lets Helaena and the children well enough alone.

He tries, but you have changed things irrevocably for them both. Though Helaena will not look at him, she does not turn him away either. She sits with him and doesn’t embroider. He cannot bring himself to read to her as she holds Jaehaera so close his niece squirms and protests and pushes her mother away with her fat, little arms. From the corner of his eye he can see why. He does his best not to pay attention to the ghost of you, his sister teaching you a new dance step, you soothing one of the children, sometimes their mother, sometimes Aemond himself.

Once, she crumples, crying into her abandoned thread and cloth, so wildly, so desolately that Aemond rushes to her, unable to let her be, unable to stop her tears, unable to do anything but grit his teeth and hold her. She despises his touch but endures it and Aemond endures with her. He feels cold all over, hard as ice and just as brittle, stretched out and empty. And though they are all they have left of you, he cannot bring himself to hold her again, in front of others or even in the privacy of her chambers, knowing full-well where the madness of shared grief could take them.

He tells himself he does not go to those rooms as often as he should because he is too proud to go through another fight. Another unwanted toy cast off between him and Aegon. More ground given, as he had given and given when they were both boys. He spends too many hours standing by the princess’s door wondering what good it can do to go in, what good to look at her looking for you, as adrift in your absence as he himself feels.

But it is there that he sees his brother once more. The princess’s screams had brought him to pace outside her rooms and the birth of his third child had dragged Aegon from his cups to sit, only half-sober, all nauseous, on the floor outside his wife’s chambers, little Jaehaerys in his arms, white faced and crying silently, a thumb stuck firmly in his mouth.

It was too early for the babe, the maester had informed Prince Aegon matter-of-factly, but both brothers had heard the slight panic in his voice. It had come on too soon, too unexpectedly. One moment the princess had been taking breakfast with her ladies and the next, her little babe was on the way, the pain of labor so great and sudden, the princess had been rambling about flowers blooming red on the streets of King’s Landing. No one could blame her for incoherence after the twelfth hour. This was her second birth. Queen Alicent’s second birth had been quick and easy and they had all expected more of the same from her daughter.

But when rain breaks out, Helaena begins to scream without stopping and Aemond feels like he could murder his brother, just for putting her through this, just for the sin of doing as he was told. Like Aemond himself.

They say nothing to each other, tense and tight-lipped, and Aemond tries hard to remember these are his brother’s children, his brother’s wife, his brother’s things. It does not become him to come for them, furtive and quick as a thief, just because he has been left with nothing. He is better than this (better than to do as was done to him).

Because if Aegon has begun to drink more than usual, if he has eyed Aemond’s miserable face, the set of his shoulders so rigid he seemed to be held up by wire, if he has stopped when they encounter each other, sometimes for a second, as if wanting to say something, especially now, before the door barring his brother from all the things Aegon has and does not deserve… well Aemond has no time for it. No interest in hearing excuses, from him, from you or from himself.

I merely wanted to know what color it was.

He can almost hear his brother’s wine-soaked amusement, trying to make it a lesser offense, dismissing his transgression, his theft, of the only thing Aemond had ever possessed… just because he had not known his brother truly wanted it. 

You always take everything to heart, brother. I’ve had belly aches that lasted longer than her.

He can almost hear his mother’s scream and the satisfying whimper that had escaped Aegon when he’d shoved him up against the wall, knife pressed at his throat, for daring to hold your name in his mouth and your pain in his hands. He cannot hear the fight that should have followed, because his mother had held him back from what he should’ve inflicted upon his brother, who had not been so much sorry as mistified. Confused. At a loss. As unable to see the wound upon you as he had been unable to see the one upon his little brother when he’d brought Aemond back from the Street of Silk, white as a ghost and quiet for once in his young life.

And what else could he have done, if he had not been permitted to avenge you or himself, how could he have faced you with anything but scorn, if scorn and spite and death was all he had to offer. He should have come back to you with his brother’s blood on his hands instead of poison on his tongue.

But there is no mirth in Aegon now, no nervous giggle, as there hasn’t been anything but shifty-eyed embarrassment for weeks. There’s his brother’s puffy-eyed exhaustion and fear for his child. No words or apologies that could suffice for him, or you or Helaena’s birth pains.

There is no mother who can save him now.

There’s just Jaehaerys, asleep at last in spite of his mother’s crying, nestled in his father’s lap, Aegon’s hostage to fortune, shield against a brother’s wrath.

There is no Queen Alicent but there is Helaena. Her screams dying down at last, so quick that it is like music after they are gone. Aemond would have let himself crumple to the floor, faint with rage and relief, if only the maester hadn’t hoisted him up and into the birthing chamber. The princess will not take a drought for the pain or for sleep until she has seen her brother.

It is unseemly and borderline scandalous and Aemond is past caring.

The queen is there, Aegon has followed behind him, the princess’ ladies are carrying out soiled linen and Aemond finds that all he can seem to think of is that he has never seen Helaena’s hair unpinned, or her skin sallow and blotchy, soaked in sweat, for all they share blood and home and hearth.

He feels a bitter weight of loss and wasted time caught in his throat.

When she calls his name he chokes on all the unspent love you have left behind. For you, for his sister, for these children of his blood, one lustily crying out in new swaddling clothes, at the unfairness of existence, the other two behind him, somewhere he cannot reach them as he cannot reach you or Helaena or anybody who matters.

“You’ve lost a knife, brother,” she says to him through parched lips.

“I’ll get another one,” he comforts his sister unthinkingly, unable to touch her but clinging to the excuse of a pitcher and cup of water for the princess to go to her side. His mother is saying something. Maybe the Hand is being called. Maybe the King. He holds a cup of water to Helaena’s lips and deliberately avoids thinking about anything.

“The sheath,” she says as she reaches for him, Aemond unwilling and utterly incapable of not catching her birdlike hand in his grip, crushing it so hard he is afraid he will hurt her. He would curse the violence of his brutish hands except you had loved it. “You must find the sheath. The sand will bury it, the tide will take it, the crabs will feast on it, Aemond, you must…”

And he almost breaks into pieces, because Helaena cries when she cannot speak anymore and she has never liked to be touched, least of all by him, but she is in his arms, rocking back and forth. The sheath, she whimpers, the sheath and the sea and the crabs and the darkness at dusk and your wedding bed… 

And there is no prying her from his arms while she weeps in shared pain and sorrow for a loss he only now lets himself feel. He would have fought them off, the maesters, his mother, even King and Hand and Ser Criston Cole himself if any had dared separate them. Aemond, the sheath and the knife and the blood… He would have slit throats and gutted knights just to hold Helaena as she cried for the girl he had not been allowed to mourn. Pale braid in the wind, wild, daring and his.

But it isn’t they who send him away. It is Helaena, still crying, still unwilling to let anyone else touch her, telling him to go and find it. Find it in the kitchens or the streets or the sea. Wherever he has to look for it but find it.

He is out of Helaena’s rooms and alone in the corridor, too dazed and heartbroken to even weep himself. He wishes to break things. Helaena’s door. Aegon’s face. The Hand’s brooch and the crown on his father’s head. He does not weep. Retreats the moment he hears other come up the stairs, unwilling to bear the shame of being seen like this. Away to the gardens where he can call on Vhagar to come take him away. Spare him this sudden solitary grief after the succor of Helaena’s arms. By way of the kitchens if he must. Not because she asked but because it is the quickest way outside and away from here.

They do not expect him there. He has rarely visited the kitchens… unlike his brother. But still he is a prince and not to be detained or disturbed and it is because he knows this and the kitchen staff know this that he finds his attention snagged when someone calls out to him, in the wrong address, with unwarranted brazenness:

“Your grace! Your grace please! You are Prince Aemond One-Eye?”

He nearly sends the guards for her head, just for how she dared to say to his face what others merely whisper behind his back. Except he hears the woman say your name and the blood freezes in his veins.

She looks nothing like you, except in the tight, pinched corners of her lips. The look every Flea Bottom resident eventually gets. She’s pure King’s Landing though, none of the Essos he had found in your Dothraki height and the hook of your nose and your ruby-red eyes. But Aemond knows who she is either way. Because he has heard enough of her from your lips and sees the woman you spoke of as she steps towards him, sturdy castle-castoff cloak dripping rain and mud from her vigil outside the gates. She comes up to him bold as you please, chewing the inside of her cheek in an anxious uncertainty you had shared but conquered and subdued ages ago… at least, around him.

Like you, your aunt does not know a prince’s proper title.

“M’lord… your grace… I beg your pardon. I’m here about my girl. I thought you ought to know. I thought someone should fetch you… I…”

And he feels himself grow proud and cold, as if you had sent this piteous envoy to plead your case for you. As if he needed to shore up resistance against you, a strong enough argument to keep you from crawling back into his insides, his ribcage, to wrap yourself around the mangled thing it holds.

He sees only your aunt’s lowered eyes, hears only her pained stutter, does not catch the careful choice of words, of a woman trying to spare a boy, royal though he may be, the unbearable pain of this loss.

“She’s gone, walked right out, m’lord. I don't right know where she’s gone but I thought, m’lord, I thought you ought to know. Whatever my husband said. I kicked the boy out. It’s a terrible thing he’s done. It’s a sin, is what it is. The gods… the gods know…”

And the queen may not have thought much of his smarts, but Aemond is his mother’s son. He may not understand it fully, but he understands enough for his gut to clench in cold horror, for his hands to tremble as he grabs this woman’s heaving shoulders and rattles the truth out of her.

“She was still bleeding when she left, m’lord, the gods know where she went and the babe… the babe—“

Aemond cuts her off, not with a word but with a noise like a wounded beast, a noise that Vhagar echoes in her fitful slumber high above the cliffs of Blackwater Bay. Aemond’s cruel hands fall upon your aunt’s face, as they had upon Helaena’s fingers, upon your own slender neck, always ready to tear it to pieces, to enact destruction so he won’t have to bear truth. He should’ve silenced her, your kin, not your blood, but your kin nonetheless. The woman whose pinned up braid taught you how to put up your own hair out of the way to struggle and toil for royal men too stupid to appreciate it. He should’ve cut off her tongue and sewn up her mouth before anything else dared tumble out of it, before he can form any clearer a picture than he already has. A picture that may have demanded he cut her down, her and all her wretched progeny.

“Where?” He hisses through clenched teeth and your aunt, heedless of kitchen gossip and keep decorum, takes a prince’s hand, a grieving, furious boy’s hand, to lead him out into the streets where your blood has bloomed red indeed.

[kurogxrix]

Boys Don’t Cry

Dad!Ao’nung x Sully!reader

IN WHICH Ao’nung cries for the first time in his life after the death of your son, but you’re here to help him through it.

Warnings: ANGST, death, grief of a son, our bby crying :(.

READ Fire Drill first to understand, this is Ao’nung’s side of the story.

Ao’nung had never cried in his entire life, other than the moment where he had been stripped from his mother’s womb and into the lands of Pandora. He had always been a quiet baby, always the type to cause trouble that would make him laugh rather than wail.

Growing up in a strict household had only strengthened Ao’nung’s lack of emotional display  as he grew up, always feeling like the future Olo’eyktan should not shed any tears. He remembers the times where he would make fun of his more sensible friends for crying over the smallest things, making them feel small for being able to express their feelings. He thought that crying was something boys were not supposed to do, that they were supposed to appear strong for their families when bad things happened. 

Sure he had been reprimanded by Ronal and Tonowari countless of times for his behaviour and recklessness, and he would often come back from hunts with a couple of gashes and wounds littering his skin, but never a single tear to graze his cheeks. He would grit his teeth until pressing down on them would hurt, trying to swallow back his pain so he didn’t cry. 

His sister, Tsireya was very fragile of nature as she inherited their mother’s more hidden side. She was sensible to things around her, and she was never scared to show how she felt. Sometimes during their youth, Ao’nung would tease her and call her a crybaby whenever she’d cry about the smallest things, causing her to sob even harder and getting reprimanded by his father. 

Soon you would get to know that the boy was emotionally constipated. It had taken it a while for you both to confess, yet alone for you to comprehend that he had feelings for you. Those same feelings that you had accidently revealed to him one night, and he was glad, because that had allowed him to act out on his own. Soon, your love had developed into more than just being mates and sharing a bond through tsaheylu. You had both created a baby through that said love, and Ao’nung was elated at the news.

He hadn’t cried when your son was born, unlike you that was spent and just happy that he was finally here. In some way, he felt prideful of not being soft-hearted like his family. He felt strong because to Ao’nung, boys don’t cry. 

-

Ao’nung had never cried in his entire life, not when his son was born, not when he laid wailing excruciatingly in your tired arms. Crying does not always represent happiness or sadness, he didn’t need to cry to show that he felt joyful of the welcoming of your new baby. The warm smile on his face was enough to tell you that he was more than happy that his son was finally here, and he had vowed to himself on that day that he would be strong for the both of you. 

Though when the humans and recoms came to claim your father in their death grip, he didn’t know what would happen. Ao’nung watched as you poured your heart out for the unfortunate death of the oldest Sully son, your brother Neteyam. His death gripped your heart like it had never been held before, crushing it in its cruel hold. His lips turned into a frown as he held you in his arms, your shoulders shaking as you trembled from the aftermath of your sobs. 

The humans were cruel people, claiming what is not theirs and destroying whoever and whatever is in their way. He had sworn to himself on that day that he would kill every single one of them for making you suffer in such a way and that your tears would not be in vain. But as he watched as his forever home vanished in the midst of the flames, his heart could only pick up the place. 

You were frozen beside him as you watched the marui that you both shared being engulfed by the fire. Ao’nung remembers not thinking straight as he gripped your arm in a tight grip as he dragged your frozen state into your home. He remembers the blood curdling screams that you let out as you cradled your deceased son, unpitied by the Great-Mother. 

He couldn’t remember exactly when his eyes had started tearing up, the burning feeling of arriving tears rising in his throat. The sight of your mutilated son was more than what his heart could take, and soon the fresh tears began pouring down his cheeks freely. There wasn't much that he could let out, no more than 3 tears rolled down his grimy cheeks, but they were 3 too much. 

His tattoos burnt his skin as he felt undeserving of them. The ones marking his arms up to his chin were the ones that he had acquired after passing his rights of passage, deeming him a strong and valuable adult, but how could a strong man fail to protect his own family? How could he have let his own son’s life slip out of his fingers when he knew that he could’ve protected him. 

The guilt was overbearing, shifting him out of reality as he thought of the little amount of time that he had been able to spend with his son. It ate him up from in to out, leaving him feeling like an empty shell void of any emotions. The feeling of his mother’s warm palm over his arm was enough to snap him out of his derivative dreaming, the harsh sounds of your wailing reaching his tense ears. He was so distraught, pupils blown and without knowing where to look anymore.

He didn’t want to look at your poor son as he laid unmoving in your arms, but the guilt of not looking would soon catch up to him if he didn’t. Ronal’s hands cupped her son’s cheeks, ripping him out of his trance once more. He could make out a few distinct words that his mother was talking to him, but the ringing in his head was far too overwhelming for him to even concentrate. His lips wobbled and his ears were flat against his skull. 

Ronal’s own distraught state was far too much for him to comprehend, so he gently peeled her hands off of him. 

She had never fully accepted you like her own daughter, not even when you had publicly announced that you were mated to her son. But whether she liked it or not, you were family now just like your son was to her, and family doesn’t like seeing family suffer. She couldn’t even imagine the pain that you and  Ao’nung currently felt, as she placed a hand on her swelling stomach. 

Later that night, things were dead silent in his family’s marui. He had come for a simple thing, and it was to fetch fish for you to eat tonight, because he needed to take care of you no matter how he felt. It didn’t matter if he felt emotionally destroyed, he had made it his duty to take care of you while you grieved. 

Tsireya’s frown seemed permanent ever since the events had happened, not knowing how to comfort her usually stoic brother. She had never seen him like this, so distant and quiet because he was unable to express his own feelings, and it hurt her more than anything to see her only brother suffer in silence. 

Hell, the silence of their marui was suffocating on its own. Tonowari couldn’t even approach his grieving son, because damn was he also emotionally constipated. He cursed himself for his inability of expressing himself freely, that if he wasn’t then maybe his son would’ve been confiding the thoughts that were bothering him so much to them. He knew that it weighed him down, so much that he could not even stand the pressure even if he sat on his knees. 

Ronal’s guilt as she rethought of 2 years ago when she had agreed with Tonowari to let you seek Uturu 

in their village. Maybe if she had been stronger and had strictly denied her mate, Ao’nung would be happy off with someone else right now. There would’ve never been a war upon the lands of Awa’atlu and her son would be smiling amongst his own little family. Though she knew it was wrong for her to think of this at such a time, because she knew that the love that Ao’nung held for you and your son is great, and he wouldn’t exchange the both of you for anything in this world. 

For, she had a close connection to her children unlike anyone else on this planet did. A mother does tsaheylu right after birth with their babies, and the emotional bond that they share is like no other. She knows when her children are hurting, she can sense it, she can see it. Ronal can’t help herself but to treat Ao’nung as though he was the fragile kid that he had never been, but nothing seemed to break through that shell of his. Maybe, she believed that it was better off to let him sort out his feelings with you, that he would feel better to confine in you for now, that he would eventually open himself to them.

The violent images of his son’s scorched body and the vile smell of demise was still fresh in his mind, the events replaying like a broken video. 

So they watch as Ao’nung walks away, a plate full of fish held tightly in his unrelenting grip. Ronal knew that there was always a light in darkness, he just needed to look through the right path, and she was sure that soon enough you both would. 

-

When you awoke to the cold feeling of emptiness beside you, there was a nagging feeling that tugged at your chest. Despite that the pain of losing your son was still swirling raw in your chest, you knew that Ao’nung getting up before you meant that something was wrong. It wasn’t that you usually woke up late, no, further than that even. It was that Ao’nung usually waited for you to get up before starting his chores. Those were the little things that you had caught onto in your relationship, and it was damn time that they came in use. 

You raised a hand to rub the grogginess out of your freshly opened eyes, fingers digging oddly pleasurably into your eyes. Then, when the grogginess had disappeared, you could see your husband’s back turned away from you. Ao’nung was cutting up a few fruits as he dropped the pieces into a large bowl before him, his ears were flattened upon his head and his tail laid flat against the material of your temporary marui. Given that the one where you previously lived on was now in shambles.

Plus the both of you wouldn’t have been able to live in the home in which your son had passed away in, it would always be a dark spot on your hearts. 

Painfully, you stood up from your previous spot as you approached your husband. You kneeled down behind him and he visibly flinched when you brought a hand down to rest upon his shoulders. Though you didn’t take it to heart. Slowly by slowly, you began creeping your hands around his torso as though not to scare him and you embraced him warmly from the back. It was silent, but for once the silence was not comfortable. It was stuffy and suffocating, full of unsaid words that were waiting for clarity.

“I’m so sorry yawne, I never intended for things to be like this.” you excused yourself like any of this was your fault. Like the recoms following your father and unabling you from having a good life was any of your fault. Ao’nung was silent, more than he had been yesterday and your chest quivered as you started crying again. You were tired of it, tired of feeling like all you could do was cry for this nasty feeling of emptiness to leave your body. 

You watched from the corners of your eyes as his lips wobbled at your words, despite the tears blurring your vision. Ao’nung turned his head away from you as he hid his vulnerability, and your heart ached at the sight of your husband. You didn’t want him to feel like he had to hide how he felt around you, or feel like he had to be embarrassed or scared that you would somewhat judge him if he came true to how he really felt.

“Hey,” you gently called out for him, unravelling your hands from his torso as you moved to sit in front of him. The dish of fruits was long forgotten as you moved it to the side to take its place. Ao’nung’s lips were sealed in a tight line and you could now see the tears that gathered in his eyes, unable to escape his waterline. You felt your heart drop down to your feet as it was only the second time that you had seen your mate cry, but now you were in a mental state where you could help him. 

You took his face into your hands like his mother had done the past night, and it felt all too comforting to him. His cheeks burnt with discomfort but you were not about to let him cry his sorrows alone, you were his wife after all. Your thumbs ran soothing circles upon his cheeks as you waited for him to turn his head to you, leaving him the time to feel comfortable enough so that you wouldn’t have to force him upon it. 

“It’s okay to feel gloomy after what's happened, you don’t have to hide yourself from me,” you whispered out the last part, your throat burning as you felt more tears rising up in your eyes. You blinked them away as they fell graceful down your darker skin. “I’m not going to judge you, I'm not going to tell anyone.” you pleaded through tears and soon enough he turned his face towards you. 

You watched as he completely crumbled, his lips dropping impossibly further down into a bigger frown before he pushed himself further into your embrace, his arms wrapping around your waist as he hugged you. Ao’nung felt embarrassed when you didn’t berate him for crying, feeling ashamed that he even felt the need to hold back whitin your presence. 

His face was buried in your neck as he sobbed his sorrows away, your arms intertwining behind his neck as you swayed him back and forth. He knew that you were loyal and that he trusted you with his entire life, he knew that you would keep your promise of zipping it. He felt so much relief as he sobbed into your arms, your body warm and close to him. 

For, boys do cry, and so do men. Men who have lost their families, their homes, the ones that they loved. Men who are mature enough to understand that crying does not render you as weak, and soon Ao’nung would learn to open his heart to that thought. He felt safe sharing his burdens and sorrows to you, and you always listened to him with open ears just like he did with you. 

-

hey y’all concerning the requests, i’ll be posting them within 3 day intervals (if i’m done with them fast enough to do so).