#( its just - still stings on bad memories is all )

[delimeful]

taking the fall (7)

warnings: presumed character death, mentions of death and injury, miscommunication, angst, psychological warfare between 2 fools, poor life choices, cliffhanger (?)

- 

The human was acting weird.

That in itself wasn’t unusual– almost every human Virgil had ever seen was engaged in some incomprehensible nonsense, and the tales Roman had told him only further solidified his personal belief that beans had only managed to make it this far through a combination of size and luck alone.

Even that simple memory of sharing stories made his eyes sting. He’d been forcing himself to think about Roman more often lately, like he was picking at a barely healed scab. Any time he thought about Janus– no, the human without the proper amount of sickened fury, he ran his mind through the horrible facts, digging his nails in deeper until the wound felt freshly made. 

(The facts were as follows: Roman had been caught and caged and killed. Virgil would never see his best friend again. And it was all the human’s fault.)

The injury wasn’t allowed to heal, not now, maybe not ever. It didn’t matter if the human shared his name or treated his wounds or gave him food. It didn’t matter how many little quirks and habits that he noticed, the little things that turned someone from a stranger to a fully-formed person. It didn’t matter because Virgil would never fall for the facade, would never forget that a borrower’s life wasn’t worth anything to the monster before him.

So, he refused to give up a single smudge of ground, his jaw locked and glare sharp. The human kept providing food and medicine and idle commentary, and Virgil kept himself from softening through constant mental reminders. 

He wouldn’t need food or medicine if the human hadn’t captured him in the first place. He could certainly live without the snarky remarks and sarcastic flattery, no matter how much he sometimes wished to snap back, and the human’s apparent delight on the few rare instances he did bite out a scathing response. It was easier to keep quiet when he thought about how gullible Roman could be, how easily he might have fallen for simple acts of decency and insincere compliments. 

It was harder when the human did things like spend an afternoon building a makeshift bed for him. It hadn’t been a hand-me-down; Virgil had overheard several hissed swears throughout the process, and seen the shiny burns notched across a few of Janus’s fingers as he set the bed down with a flourish. Still, at first he’d stalwartly refused to so much as glance at the wooden frame, its bumpy hot-glue edges, or the soft, hand sewn pillow serving as a tiny mattress. 

Oddly, the human never seemed particularly put out by his stubborn refusals to engage. Wryly amused, maybe, but he hadn’t watched Virgil with those cold, hawk-sharp eyes since those first couple of days. The little interrogation session seemed to have reassured him greatly, forebodingly enough. 

It was hard to feel good about the schemes that had to be going on out of sight, with Janus indubitably planning to root out the rest of the small colony in the walls, but at least the shift in demeanor meant Virgil was less likely to keel over from stress alone. His instincts had been worn to a thin, frazzled thread from all that intent staring, and he was glad for a break from it. 

Still, because he was who he was, he couldn’t help but think about what might happen once the season turned. He didn’t want a human to catch any more borrowers, even ones who had so thoroughly screwed him over, but if summer arrived and the human hadn’t succeeded, Virgil was well within reach, small and injured and easy to take out a fit of temper on.

If the human didn’t believe he was telling the truth, subjected him to a more painful sort of interrogation to try and get the information Virgil just didn’t have, it could prove lethal. One break was bad enough, but if the weak spot was re-shattered? He could be left adjusting to life with one usable leg, with no family or companions to act as a safety net as he relearned vital skills. The life of an outside borrower was harrowing when one did know they were doing, let alone when they didn’t. The first time he messed up, he’d be as good as dead.

If the human did catch the other borrowers, well. Virgil wouldn’t have any more use to him, at that point. If he continued to sit here helplessly, his fate would probably match Roman’s.

(Why had Janus been stupid enough to kill Roman before figuring out what he needed to know in the first place? Had he misjudged his own strength and killed him accidentally? Or had it been an active, malicious choice, made with full confidence that he’d be able to catch more borrowers to replace Roman?

He had to stop thinking about this. He was going to make himself sick.)

So, no matter which outcome, he had to escape before then. 

Easier said than done, of course, but nothing in his life had ever been easy, and he was still trying. At the very least, he thought the human’s strangely accommodating behavior could be turned to his advantage. If Janus thought he was falling for the nice guy act, he’d lower his guard, the same way he’d lowered it when Virgil had lost himself to panic and hunger before.

If a snappish prisoner was entertaining to the human, he would stop keeping his replies trapped behind his teeth. He would banter and complain and drop little bits of useless information whenever his captor pried, pretend that he was softening under the improved treatment. He would do what he had to do, give as good a performance as he could through the bitter hatred, if it meant upping his chances. 

So be it. As long as this human insisted on pretending to have a heart, Virgil would gladly take advantage of every faux beat of it.

He wasn’t going to just lie down and accept his fate. He refused to give the human the satisfaction of an easy kill. If he couldn’t escape, he would at least go down fighting tooth and nail, vicious and determined all the way to the end. 

He thought Roman would have wanted that much, at least.

–

Janus was feeling good about the progress he’d made with his little guest. 

Sure, they had gotten off to a poor start, what with the violation of several ethical, moral, and legal boundaries, and certainly, his first impression had been a ludicrously evil one, but even so! 

V didn’t spend as much time sulking behind the fake shrubbery lately, had been eating and drinking with reassuring regularity, and after an initial period of resentful silence, had even occasionally deigned to reply to one of Janus’s mostly-cursory questions. All promising signs, though Janus still felt like the olive branch he’d extended was always a mere moment from being sharply swatted away. 

That was fine; he didn’t really have to make nice with the borrower he’d abducted, in the end. In fact, he doubted that V was truly feeling as grumpily peaceable as he seemed. The borrower had spent the first week of their acquaintance trying dedicatedly to escape, and his placidity now was likely just a long con.

It didn’t matter. So long as he could retrieve what had been stolen, he didn’t mind at all if V vanished without a trace the very next day. Janus was oozing with charisma and wit. He certainly wouldn’t miss the reticent company of someone so morose and petulant, even if that someone also happened to have a dry sense of humor and a remarkable talent for razor-sharp rebuttals. 

Janus suspected that he would have an easier time ignoring his tiny hostage’s sparkling personality if he hadn’t taken to spending at least one meal a day forcing V to endure his presence, but his recent attempts to become a more gracious host didn’t extend that far. He had to take his amusements where he could find them, and lately he’d been finding them in bothering his snappish guest. 

It was during one such meal that he was forced to admit, even if only to himself, that V truly had been an innocent bystander. 

Janus was an expert at convincing himself, but the evidence was overwhelming— the most obvious being that there were quite a few marked differences between V and the other borrowers he’d spotted. 

For one, their knowledge bases.

He’d realized early on that in order to survive in such close quarters with humans, borrowers needed to have excessive knowledge of not only human architecture and technology, but also of humans themselves, particularly the routines, habits, and personalities of the ones they robbed. They certainly wouldn’t have managed to get one over on him without that keen understanding of the layout of his apartment and his schedule alike. 

V, on the other hand, had nearly concussed himself trying to hide in faux foliage the first time Janus had turned on the television. 

The borrower tended to survey everything with a level of narrow-eyed suspicion, but whenever he was confronted with something he didn’t understand, that wariness was joined by a somewhat comical expression of poorly-hidden bewilderment. Janus had noticed that V even tilted his head sometimes, as though trying to use a different angle to puzzle out the function of a toaster.

(The little gesture was not charming. Not remotely. Janus remained thoroughly uncharmed.) 

If V had truly been living in the walls of this apartment with the others, he would have been spotted by Janus long before the current situation. So then, the question became: where had V been living? 

To his horror, the answer became more and more clear with every sour response V provided during their mealtime conversations. 

Simple offhand comments that went like,

“Something that bright is bound to be poisonous. Do you even know who harvested it? You might be fine making yourself sick, but I’m not.” 

and,

“Look, it doesn’t matter if it warms up, not even insiders are idiotic enough to try and move homes during the spring. A single thunderstorm and they’d lose most of their supplies, if not their lives, to the mudslides.”

and even,

“I’m not scared of a little garden snake. It couldn’t eat me if it tried, and besides, I’ve fought bigger beasts as a teenager.”

If Janus had been perturbed by the knowledge of tiny people secretly living in the walls and watching his every move to steal from him, he was outright horrified by the realization that there were some borrowers who lived outdoors, entirely in the elements. 

Outside, where they were towered over by squirrels and storm clouds alike. Frankly, he considered it a miracle that V had survived long enough to be pushed into his sink. Maybe he did care if V escaped, if it meant that he would return to living the terror-filled life of, essentially, a wild mouse with thumbs. 

Janus had felt the rapid near-buzz pattering of V’s heartbeat, held the weight of V’s life in the palm of his hand, knew that he was so incredibly small and breakable and determined to survive despite it all. To imagine the borrower being snuffed out by something as banal as the life cycle made an inexplicable unpleasant twisting begin in his gut. 

Not that he actually cared about the guy or anything. It was simply a shame, and horrifying to think about to boot. 

Still, the thoughts were pervasive enough for him to begin reconsidering the terrarium V was currently residing in. It had sufficed as a temporary holding cell for a borrower he planned to release once he’d reclaimed what was his, and he’d added a few small touches for comfort, but it certainly wouldn’t do as a more permanent residence. 

If he planned on extending V’s stay past the season’s turn, he would have to come up with something better. Luckily, he had the perfect starting point: he’d recently run into a neighbor a few doors down with a particularly undersized hobby…

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @aecd27 @persephonestears @moonyxstars @xxmooxmooxx @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @jungchloee @she-wont-miss @duchesz @i2rapunzel @historicallyqueer

join my taglist here!

[todoriin]

x : TOUCH ME NOW *+ﾟ

in which: you help sunday through a predicament. a part 2 nsfw to this sunday fic.

warnings: 3k wc,MDNI or u fail ur next test, afab!reader but no pronouns, sex pollen trope, oral (m receiving), fingering, idk how in character sunday is but i blame it on sex pollen, sunday busts like multiple nuts, wall sex that then becomes bed sex, riding, creampie, unrealistic sex, unprotected p in v, emotionally charged sex towards the end, multiple rounds.

a/n: there are so many warnings i'm kinda ashamed. anyways, i hope u enjoy! i'm never gonna look at this again lol

A feverish heat clings to Sunday, racking shivers up his spine. Warmth suffocates him, expanding to all edges of his body- legs, chest, head, there’s a particular stubborn sensation that clings to his core. And his pants.

It must have been because of that mysterious substance that befell him during the mission. At first, it was a stinging in his nose and eyes that eventually faded, but after a while the real side effects kicked in, and he concluded that it was some sort of material that enhanced… sexual needs, if the growing stiffness in his pants was any indication. He excused himself from the group, and darted back to the hotel at record pace.

Curled up on his made bed, the linen sheets are a mild balm against his hot skin, coat and shirt discarded the second the hotel room locked behind him. Hours have passed since he separated from the group but the symptoms still stubbornly fester in his gut, falling and rising but never fading, sticking to his being like glue. 

It’s already painful enough on its own, but you just have to be on the other side of the hotel door, knocking and knocking, asking if he was alright in that sweet, concerned voice of yours. 

Things have been… awkward since that incident with you in his room. He hasn’t been able to look you in the eye since, and Sunday’s positive the entire Express can tell that something happened between you, just not entirely sure what.

Having a good memory can be a curse sometimes, and because of it, he hasn’t been able to forget the feel of your warmth atop him, and the paralysing fear when he realised just how strong his desire was. Sunday won’t deny it, even back in Penacony when he was the strict and rigid Head of the Oak Family, there were undertones of attraction that stirred in his heart when he first got to talk to you, but they were quickly buried, just as he was taught to do years ago.

Now, in closer proximity and freed from shackles of duty, he can’t help but let the desire roam wild, peaking at the incident that occurred not too long ago.

A siren’s song. He’s going to give in to your call. 

He opens the door no more than a crack, letting your voice come through loud and clear.

“Sunday?” Your tone is gentle, kind, treating him like a wounded stray that would run if you got too close. In some sense, he is, except he thinks if you got too close, he’d pounce on you and do what he’s been thinking of doing for days- weeks, even.

Except in his barely-lucid state, he thinks it might be worse.

“Can I come in? Mr Welt told me you were unwell and separated from the group when March and I went away.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, strained.

You raise a brow. “You’re clearly not. No offense but… you sound a bit worse for wear.”

“It’s alright, I can manage alone.”

“Yes but you don’t have to, I’m happy to help.”

“I don’t think this is something you might want to stick around for.” 

With each passing moment that you turnaround his rejection, Sunday feels his sanity slipping and pants growing tighter. And when you raise your eyebrows again in defilement, he just wants to pull you in and sink you both to the floor, reduced to a puddle of limbs where neither of you can tell where he ends and you begin.

“How bad can it be?” You whisper and all fighting spirit leaves him. He lets you inside.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you’re putting a hand up to his forehead, testing his temperature as if his entire face wasn’t flushed, pale skin heating up to an uncharacteristic pink. You seem to be avoiding the obvious issue that’s happening in his lower body.

“What happened?” 

“I- uh, was hit with something,” he groans when you steps away.

“Like hay fever?” You ask, still somehow innocent and unaware.

He never thought he’d need to spell this out to someone. “Like extreme arousal.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth forms a small ‘o’ in realisation, eyes trailing down to his bare torso for a mere second before meeting his gaze again, as if deciding how to word the next sentence you want to say. 

“Would you like some help with that?”

In any right state of mind, Sunday would be double checking that what you said was right. That he wasn’t hearing things. However, in a lust-ridden state where he can’t even tell north or south without thinking of the incredible stiffness in his pants, he says what he thinks is most logical.

“Please.” It’s no more of a whimper, but you hear him loud and clear because next thing he knows, you’re cupping his face with bringing it to yours, tongue parting the seam of his lips. 

Sunday backs you up against the hotel door. You seem eager, that delights him. 

With the invitation pressed into his mouth, he uses it to lick into your mouth, exploring and reaching wherever he can, tilting his head slightly for better access, overpowering whatever control you had previously exerted over him, just has he’s dreamed of. Biting on your bottom lip, he feels saliva dribble down his chin, wetting his skin. He separates from you to catch the trail, kissing down your chin and going even further, lips meeting the dips and curves of your neck as you gulp, overwhelmed by the onslaught of affection. 

It’s your hands that remove your shirt, pulling it over your head as he continues his flurry of kisses, eventually stopping near your sternum. It’s your hands that exposes you- all of you, to him, letting him near his mouth and hands to your breasts. He squishes and pinches your left mound as the right one is enveloped by his lips where he spits and suckles, the sound so unabashedly wet that it shoots straight down to your core- where you need him the most. So you roll your hips against his and enjoy the vibrations of his moan, mouth still connected around you. You do it again and this time, his grip tightens, parting from your breast with a satisfying pop. 

Crazed hunger gleams in his eyes and you sink to your knees before him. 

“Let me take care of you,” you mutter breathlessly, now eye level with his member. His very obviously, very painfully hard member. Your hands make quick work of his pants, unbuttoning them as Sunday does the work of discarding both his boxers and the pants, leaving him naked before you, cock hitting the base of his abdominals. 

It’s an odd sensation to present yourself so wholly to someone for the first time, especially when your most private parts are in the other person’s face, but Sunday’s mind is too far away to feel ashamed. Not when your hands crawl up and play with the angry, swollen tip of his dick.

“This looks so painful,” you mutter. “How long did you suffer for?”

“A couple hours,” he confesses through stifled teeth, feeling your hands move up and down along his shaft. You’re toying with him, seeming so sympathetic to his current condition when the only thing you’re doing is making it worse, the heat flaring hotter and hotter than he thought humanly possible in his abdomen. 

It’s like torture, but he never wants you to stop. Never wants you to leave.

“Poor thing,” you coo. When you kiss his leaking tip, he collapses against the hotel door, bent arm catching him against the hard material. From this perspective, Sunday gets to watch you take him whole, his cock disappearing into your mouth inch by agonising inch until you stop just short of the base. It is so filthily wet and warm, and his skin glistens from your saliva when you move back, only to take him again, tongue sliding over the veins of his incredibly sensitive member. 

The pleasure is overwhelming. It feels like everything and not enough, all at the same time. He wants your mouth to be hugging him like this forever, but he wants more, wants you to sink into his ligaments and press this feeling of pleasure into him permanently. Wants his muscles to remember the sensation of your tongue and lips, and how your spit mixes with his precum as small whimpers and moans leave him.

A hand comes to the back of your head, and Sunday begins to move his hips in tandem with your actions, and a surprised sound rings from the back of your throat when he forces himself deeper into your mouth. He does it again and again, wings fluttering as a coil begins to tighten in his lower half.

“I’m- I’m close,” Sunday whimpers. “Don’t stop, please, I want to- I want-”

The pleasure climaxes and hot ropes of cum shoot into your used mouth, dribbles out when it’s too stuffed to stay in, falling down the curve of your lips, down your chin, and landing on the floor or your body. He feels like ascending. This has been the high he’s been craving, the solution to the mania Sunday has been subjected to.

It is still not enough. He watches you swallow his cum, using your finger to clean around your mouth, and gulps when his dick springs to life again, aroused by the sight alone. 

Only a fraction of his issue has been solved it seems, because neediness still burns hot in his veins, and he needs you so pathetically bad. Needs to press you against the nearest surface just to take you again and again. 

Your eyes widen at his hard cock again.

“Still not enough?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse from being used. 

“More,” he groans, and presses his mouth against yours when you rise from your knees, pressing a flurry of kisses against your lips, mixed with moans as words are spoken against your mouth. “Want more of you, let me inside.”

You nod against him, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders, desperate for the anchor. “Please.” 

A hand traces over your hip and moves down to your core. Two fingers part your folds, letting two digits sink into your wet entrance, collecting your slick as he glides in and out, feeling the constriction of your walls around his hand. 

You cling to him tighter, resting your forehead against his shoulder as you deal with the onslaught of blinding pleasure, heightening when his thumb plays with your clit, rubbing circles and moving the nub up, down, left, and right. It’s mind-numbing, you don’t know what else to think of except the pleasure he’s bringing you. 

It’s torn away when he retracts his hands, heated golden gaze staying locked with yours as he licks himself clean. An act so obscene that it leaves you speechless, all coherent sentences slipping from your brain as Sunday holds your leg up to his hip, allowing him more access. 

He grinds his hard length against you, sliding it along your wet slit, sometimes catching your clit, causing you to jolt in his hold. Your breath is heavy with anticipation as you claw at his back, unable to take anymore of this gentle torment, walls clenching around nothing when his tip rests against your entrance. Sunday’s testing you, teasing as his perceptive, golden gaze never strays away from your expression, analysing every micro change as he slowly, slowly, slowly eases in, feeling every movement of your walls parting to make space for him.

You’re constricting him, pulsing around him so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to think straight without fucking into you so recklessly that you leave an imprint on the door. His lust-filled brain wants to, but the composed part of his mind knows to give you time to adjust first, even if you’re wet enough for him to move freely. 

However, it seems that he’s too impatient himself. 

A sudden warmth floods your walls, gushing hot white as Sunday rests his forehead against you, shuddering, laboured breaths heaving out his chest.

“Did you just… cum?” 

“Yes,” he pants, wings fluttering lightly as he recovers from busting his load without warning.

Your hands move to play with the hair at the base of his neck, twirling the strands as you wait for him to come down. It’s alarming that you can already feel him getting hard again. Just how strong was this pollen? 

“Sorry, it’s just… I haven’t felt anything this powerful this before.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, holding his cheek. “Sunday, use me. Don’t hold back.” 

With your blessing, he regains his footing and slowly retracts his hips, almost sliding out of you before thrusting back. You moan right by his ear, nails clawing his skin. The pace of his movements stay slow, methodical as he splits you open, but with a last few rolls of his hips, Sunday begins to pick up the pace, listening to his frayed mind as the wet sound of skin slapping skin fills the hotel room. 

Your whimpers of his name are soft as he keeps moving, holding your leg higher to his hip for more access as he relentlessly bullies himself into you, reaching even deeper parts of you. Mixed essences coat your skin, the last load he spilled into you falling out and dribbling from your entrance, and down to the apex of your thighs. It sounds obscene every time he thrusts into you, and the pleasure makes you bite into the junction of his neck- a coping mechanism against the searing build up in your abdomen.

He’s thrusting into you so deep, hitting a sensitive spot over and over again, causing you to see stars on the edge of your vision. 

“I’m almost there, please, don’t stop,” you’re puffing against him now, gasping for air when his hand suddenly crawls between your bodies, rubbing your clit in the exact way he did before, intensifying the pleasure as it shoots through your nerves.

Without warning, you gush all over him, walls spasming around his cock as he continues chasing his own high, hands squeezing you harder as he grows sloppier. Then, with a muffled moan, he lets go and spills hot semen into you, his hips stuttering flush against your pelvis as he presses himself as close as possible. 

Both of you pant erratically, still coming down from the high as you cling to each other with vice grips. He nuzzles into your shoulder, wings and silver hair tickling your skin. His is still feverish, burning and hot against your body. You can’t even remember if he grew hotter since you first began, but it’s hard to think about it when Sunday’s still nestled inside with no intention of leaving any time soon.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, careful not to break the delicate atmosphere.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m feeling… a little more clear-headed now.”

“That’s good. Should we move away from the door and sit on the bed?” 

He slips out of you and you wince at the feel of thick fluids dripping out of you and down your inner thigh. Sunday is at least conscious enough to sit you down and go grab a towel, gently grabbing your ankle to stretch your leg, patting your skin gently to rid the traces. Despite how methodical and tender he is, he can’t hide his growing erection, even if he’s diligently avoiding looking at your spent cunt. 

“This… predicament of yours must be stubborn,” you joke when he takes a seat next to you, unable to meet your eyes.

“I think this one might be mostly my doing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

Without hesitation, you swing a leg around and straddle him, sitting daringly close to his cock. “Need a little more help?” 

He groans through gritted teeth when you roll your hips, teasing him with a half-lidded look, lips turning into a smirk. You will be the reason for his demise, an obsession growing in the depths of his mind.

“If you are fit enough, don’t exert yourself for me.”

“But I want to help,” you pout at him. 

Yes. Something like obsession. 

Sunday’s hands are vice grips on your hips as you lower yourself down on his dick, the familiar stretch causing you to wince, but his touch is grounding as he places a flutter of kisses on your face when you’ve lowered yourself completely, the back of your thighs meeting his. You watch as his face contorts with pleasure, gaze focused on where you’re joined. 

“You feel so perfect,” he murmurs. “I’ve been dreaming of this, I can’t believe it’s real.”

“Dreaming? How so?”

“Ever since that… day, where you visited me in my room,” he grunts, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, to stop desiring you, I felt it was better for the both of us if I just kept my distance since then.”

You cup his cheeks, placing a kiss on his nose before you move, rising before slamming down, causing the both of you to moan in sync, his being more of a whine. Repeating the movement a few times, you feel wet droplets landing on your hands, and you stop moving out of surprise, the ichor falling from his eyes catching you by surprise.

“Sunday, are you-”

Catching the liquid gold with your thumbs, you are so devastatingly careful handling him that he might just cum again, decorating your insides with white for the fourth time that night. He barely just holds on, though, for the sake of his own sanity. 

Although he almost snaps when he feels you catch a tear with your lips, and then you clench around him- oh, this is the recipe for his downfall.

“You will drive me crazy.” He whispers as he holds onto your wrists. “T-This… this is incomparable. I-I want you like a man starved.” 

Then, without warning, he rolls you around so that your back is on the bed and he’s the one on top. Climbing between your parted legs, he carves a space for himself in your arms, infatuation glazing over his expression. 

“Let me show you how badly I crave you.” 

© TODORIIN 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[bluebeary-jay]

A promise softly sung

Astarion x f!Reader/Tav

Summary: before the battle that will decide his fate, Astarion is terrified of losing you to Cazador. you comfort him after a nightmare. (set at the beginning of act 3)

Tags: hurt/comfort, BIG angst and some fluff, poor boy doesn't believe he's deserving of love :( let's hold him until he changes his mind

Warnings: mentions of trauma, self-deprecating thoughts, memories of past abuse and torture, c*zador, being unable to move (briefly), tadpoles mention (idk if that's a trigger)

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: hiiiiiiiii my darlings <33 soo this is something else from what i usually write but i finished bg3 recently and i LOVED IT but i'm on a trip rn so in the absence of my pc i found some inner inspiration to write something again. honestly i missed writing very much but i had the biggest block for almost a year now but maybe it'll get better now that my classes are starting again and i'll be needing a distraction lmao. anyway comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated and don't be shy to send in a request! and as always, happy reading!!! <3

He was there again.

Astarion loathed those hard, stone walls as much as he feared them. It was here that he once spent an entire night, having infernal script meticulously carved into his skin. It was here that he was punished every time he disappointed his master, every time he didn’t do well enough on his mission. It was here that he was reminded time and time again how worthless, pathetic and meaningless his existence was. It was here he returned in almost all of his nightmares.

But now you were here, too.

Astarion couldn’t believe this, but no matter how much he blinked or willed himself to wake up, the view before his eyes didn’t change. It was you, chained by the wrists to the ceiling where he was hanging so many times before, your toes just barely scraping the ground that was already splattered with your blood. Your clothes were ripped to shreds and cuts and bruises covered almost every inch of your skin. Astarion wanted to run up to you, to get you somewhere safe and far away from this place, but he found that he was unable to move. It wasn’t shock seizing up his limbs, but magical paralysis which he had experienced a couple of times during combat. Even though he knew it was a spell that was holding him in place, he still fought against it with all the strength he could muster – but to no avail.

Your eyes, full of tears and fear, met his briefly before you looked past him at someone else.

“Ah, my sweet, insolent boy,” whispered a voice straight from Astarion’s deepest, darkest nightmares, causing him to tense up in terror. A hand – pale, all too familiar in its deceptive tenderness – brushed his jaw from behind before grabbing his hair roughly. The vampire spawn could do nothing but watch as his head was tilted back and he came face to face with his master.

No, it can’t be… How was Cazador here? How were you here?!

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Astarion,” Cazador tutted, shaking his head. “Running away like that, not returning home for months… It’s no way to treat family, isn’t it?” Astarion felt a sharp sting of his master’s quarterstaff at his back, digging into the scars made by the same hand, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even scream. “But I’ll forgive you… eventually. After all, you brought me this delectable treat…”

Both him and Cazador looked up at you when Astarion realized what – or rather, who – that bastard was talking about. He tried shaking his head, tried begging for him not to hurt you, but he still couldn’t move, his voice was still stuck past his throat and no word or sound came out. In the meantime, Cazador stood up, walking around his spawn to stand in front of you.

“His own survival was always the most important thing to him,” Cazador said almost pitifully, and only after a moment Astarion realized that this time, he was speaking to you. “He’s a selfish, contemptuous creature, after all. Say, did he tell you he loved you before he lured you here like so many others before you? Did he lie, swearing how much you mean to him?”

“Yes, he… he did.”

Astarion prayed to any higher being that it was just the power of another spell compelling you to say that, and not what you were really thinking. He tried to struggle against his own magical restraints, but whatever scroll or verbal command was used, it was far too powerful for the vampire to beat it with sheer willpower alone. He was helpless again – but worse than that, he was forced to watch you being at Cazador’s mercy, too, all while he couldn’t do anything to save you.

“I honestly didn’t think poor Astarion had it in him,” Cazador continued calmly, gliding gracefully around you and disappearing behind your back. Your own eyes, now full of hurt and betrayal, were trained on Astarion’s. He couldn’t turn away, but in the corner of his vision the elf saw a flash of a blade against your bare skin. “To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him… But I’m so very proud of you, sweetling.” Cazador looked at him over your shoulder and licked his lips, so, so dangerously close to your neck. “You’ll live to serve me for centuries to come, and you can watch your lover take your place in my ritual… You did well, Astarion.”

No, Astarion cried in the prison of his own body, unable to reach you or to even stop Cazador from spilling lies into your ears. Not her, no, no, please–

“No!”

Cazador smiled widely and sank his teeth into your fragile neck, and you screamed, still looking at Astarion with this horrible hatred in your eyes…

“No, no, please! Take me, please, just don’t–”

“My love, it’s alright, you’re safe…”

“Stop! Please, just–!”

His body suddenly jerked painfully and his eyes shot open, darting around in confusion and trying to figure out where he was. Astarion wasn’t feeling the cold frigid air of the kennels anymore – instead his skin was almost hot, and damp from sweat, but there was something smooth and soft under his back… the sheets. He was in a bed, at an inn. Still panting heavily, he looked around, noting the details in his surroundings: the crooked chandelier, a little window with curtains drawn shut, his shirt hung neatly over the back of the chair… and your shoes right next to it.

At the memory of your battered and tortured body in Cazador’s dungeon, Astarion shot up with a belated sob, almost knocking you over in the process. Only when your warm hand left his cheek did he notice your presence. You were kneeling next to him on the mattress, expression worried and sorrowful, with the last traces of sleep just leaving the edge of your vision. His red eyes scanned your body, but there were no bruises, no cuts made by Cazador’s wretched blade, no burns on your wrists from the manacles he saw you in mere moments ago.

And there was no hatred in your gaze. Only love and care he didn’t deserve.

Astarion’s eyes filled with tears, but before he could run out of the room or hide under the bed, you opened your arms, gently offering him the solace within. And he, being the selfish, contemptuous creature that he was, didn’t deny himself what he wasn’t worthy of.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, petting his hair softly, while the other hand was – as always – mindful of the scars on his back. “It was a dream, my love. You’re safe here with us.”

His body shook with quiet sobs as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the soothing scent of your skin and your blood singing to him just beneath. He saw again before his eyes the way Cazador looked at him before he bit you, right in this place he was now so close to…

To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him…

“I’m sorry,” Astarion choked out, finding his voice at last, which made you pause in your ministrations. “I’m so sorry f-for not doing anything… He…”

You were quiet for a couple of seconds, but then Astarion felt the most tender touch of your lips on the crown of his head, and he buried his face more into your chest.

“I’m here, darling,” you whispered. “Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.”

He didn’t answer, instead lifting his arm and tentatively brushing his fingers just underneath your shirt. He didn’t feel any scars mirroring his own, but could still see the blood flowing from your back and down your legs, could still hear your painful scream… It brought fresh tears to his eyes again.

“I… I swear, I would never do that,” he attempted to explain himself, but his words came out in a pathetic sob, and he shook his head again, curling in on himself. “He– he was lying. I’d never…”

A fresh wave of tears wetted your shirt, but you didn’t seem to mind as you gently rocked him back and forth, cradling him safe in your arms. Old Astarion would probably scoff at the condescending action of being treated like an infant, but he knew better now. He still found it difficult, but with you at his side he was learning what true care and affection looked like, and how to accept it. You were always so patient with him, so gentle, never rushing or angry when he couldn’t give you the closeness and intimacy you deserved. Astarion loved that about you – even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud just yet.

“My star…” you hesitated, but ultimately asked, “what did you dream about?”

The vampire took a shaky breath, unable to open his eyes or speak about what he saw. Instead, he called on the tadpole in his brain and nudged your mind with it, wordlessly asking for permission, which you immediately granted. There was at least one thing the tadpole was good for, he thought as you lived through the nightmare his weak, broken mind had conjured. If by the gods’ grace all of them managed to get rid of the tadpoles and survive this whole ordeal… and if by some miracle you still wanted to stay with him after all was done… Astarion knew he would have to learn how to communicate his feelings on his own. But not tonight. Not tonight.

You didn’t say anything for a long while, only continuing to hold him close to your chest. In this position he could hear the soothing beat of your heart, proving that he didn’t lead you to Cazador, that he didn’t turn you into a monster like him…

“We’re gonna kill him,” you finally said with your throat tight from emotions. “I promise you, as soon as we get to the Baldur’s Gate, we’ll find him and end him for good.”

Astarion knew what he should say – he should agree, or maybe jest that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said, or even argue that it’s not going to be that easy.

But all he could do right now was to continue clinging to you like a child, too afraid to face you.

“I’d never give you away,” he breathed, so quietly that he wasn’t sure you heard it, but he didn’t care. “Even if I had to suffer another two hundred years. I’d never–”

“I know, my darling,” you whispered back, and Astarion felt your own tears disappearing in his white locks. He still couldn’t believe why someone like you would waste your tears on him of all people, and it caused a new kind of pain to bloom in his chest. “And you’re not those things he told you. You’re… you’re everything to me, Astarion. Everything.”

Astarion wondered if he’d ever believe that. You proved to him time and time again that you can make anything possible, even change the worldview of someone like him… but with Cazador’s threat still looming, he didn’t have it in him to try and convince himself of your words.

Maybe after the bastard's dead, he concluded. Maybe then it’ll get easier and he can finally start becoming someone deserving of you.

You stirred slightly, breaking him out of his musings. Astarion hugged you tighter, sharply stopping you from moving away.

“Please. Don’t go.”

You just leaned back on the pillow and kissed his head gently again. Astarion felt the tension in his body melting away just a little, but the tears welled up again in his eyes.

“I won’t. Promise.”

And you kept your promise. Astarion didn’t fall asleep again, but your constant heartbeat under his cheek brought him some semblance of peace as he waited for the sun to rise. It didn’t feel right to let you care for him so much, to gift and envelop him with your love that he didn’t deserve… But it’d be even more wrong to take that choice away from you. He knew all about that, after all, and he'll be damned if he ever treats you the way he was treated.

So Astarion decided that he will let you love him and he will love you in return, for as long as you allow it.

Because, truth be told, he was nothing if not a selfish, contemptuous creature.

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[sinofwriting]

Cover It All Up - Charles Leclerc

Words: 2,214 Summary: As she starts to get ready to meet her boyfriend's mom, she can’t help but be nervous considering that last time she met a boyfriend’s family he dumped her all because his parents didn’t approve of her.

Masterlist | Support Me! 

After the disaster of Lando Norris, she had told herself no more British men and no more F1 drivers. She had at least stuck to one thing.

Charles was different from Lando. The only thing they really seemed to have in common was that they both were F1 drivers and competitive people. But where Lando would get stroppy when she beat him in paddle or during their one bowling date, Charles would laugh, grinning at her as he kissed her in celebration, telling her how easy she made it look, despite that sometimes not being the case at all.

It wasn’t that Lando had been a bad boyfriend, he had been nice, just not for her. Or rather she wasn’t for him.

She thinks about it as she stares at herself in the mirror, regretting the sleeveless top she bought to meet Charles’ mom. It was pretty, the color complementing her perfectly, there was just one problem. The lack of sleeves. Meaning her tattoos were showing.

She had lost count how many she had after getting her first one when she was eighteen and then getting three more within that same month. She had some on her thighs as well, a tattoo on the back of her shoulder and a small one on her ankle.

She loves her tattoos, there isn’t a single one she regrets but as she looks at them now, she does. The shame and embarrassment from meeting Lando’s parents still has a spot in her mind.

They barely had spoken to her during the dinner, their eyes lingering on her tattoos, the multiple piercings in her ears. Her words had seemed to fall on deaf ears, her compliments, and questions. She hadn’t been surprised when a day later Lando told her that they didn’t approve of her. It made her laugh. Lando’s parents not approving of her because she had tattoos and a few piercings in her ears. She had been surprised when he broke up with her in practically the same breath.

“It’s just a lot, isn’t it?” He gestured at her. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. “What do you mean?” “Well,” He chewed on his lip for a second. “The tattoos, the piercings.” He shrugged. “It’s just a lot, a lot to see, to deal with.” That had made the blood rush more, knowing he was referring to when she got her last tattoo. “And besides.” He continued. “I can’t really be with someone that my parents don’t approve of. It would never work.”

The memory has her eyes stinging, she had never felt so small or embarrassed before. Taking her top off, she puts it back on its hanger, placing it back in the closet before looking at its contents. There wasn’t much. Charles had tried to get her to bring more stuff to his, but she had figured one suitcase was more than enough. It filled the two drawers he gave her, she ignored the existence that those two drawers belonged to a dresser that was hers, and her clothes that had to be hung up fit perfectly in the section he gave her. She also ignored that they didn’t fit perfectly, tons of free space around them.

As she looked at what she brought with her, she sighs. So much of her wardrobe was short sleeves, tank tops, and sleeveless things, all to show off her tattoos and here at Charles’ she only had one top that had full length sleeves.

It was cute, it just wasn’t the top she wanted to wear, she had imagined wearing when meeting Charles’ mom, but it would have to be the one. Pulling it off the hanger, she quickly pulls it on, just barely resisting the urge to make a face as she looks in the mirror. She forces her eyes away from the mirror as she begins to take her piercings out, including her fake septum one.

As she takes her helix out on her left, she sees Charles behind her.

“You’re putting different ones in?”

She makes a humming sound.

He smiles, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Can I pick again?”

She can’t help but smile at the question, leaning back into him for a second. “You can pick something for my lobes. I’ll be wearing this top.”

He frowns as he looks at her tray of jewelry. “I thought you wanted to wear the one you bought yesterday.”

“It didn’t look nice on me.”

“Well, that can’t be true.” He lightly scoffs, before holding up a pair for her approval.

She shakes her head at the opal earrings, but opens her hand for him to place them in. “Next thing I know, you’ll be giving me earrings with your number.”

He flushes at the comment, looking away from her.

“Charles!”

He grins at her laughter, wrapping himself around her again, watching as she puts the earrings in. “You look beautiful with my number on you, mon amour. I can’t help but want to see you in it all the time.”

“Can I not pick another one?” He asks after a moment of her fiddling with her earrings, the backs of them always giving her a little more trouble. “Like uh,” he taps a spot on her ear, trying to remember it. “Your conch.”

She shakes her head, turning in his arms. “I’m not wearing any others today. You can pick all of them tomorrow.”

His eyebrows raise, “Including this one?” His hand goes between their bodies to gently press at her navel.

“Including that one.” She kisses his cheek. “Now, are you ready to go?”

He nods, eyes darting around her face, drinking her in before he frowns. “Amour, you aren’t wearing any other piercings?”

She shakes her head, stepping back. “I’m not wearing any others today.”

“I thought you just meant your ears, I didn’t think you meant your fake ones.” His frown deepens. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her go anywhere and only wear one visible piercing. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She tells him. “Just not feeling today.”

He looks at her, something not feeling right, but he nods. “Okay.” He kisses her forehead. “Let’s go then.”

As they walk to his mother’s, he can’t help but look at her. Not just because it’s hard for him to not look at her, which it is, because something is wrong. He’s never seen her cover up her tattoos when it hasn’t been cold out and he’s never seen her with so few piercings. It just isn’t her. It’s not who she is.

Her grip on his hand is also a little tight and he can see her fingers on her other hand constantly rubbing at her palm. She’s nervous, he realizes, feeling a bit stupid. He had thought that he had calmed the worst of them, but now as they grow closer, he fears he hasn’t.

Maybe he hadn’t told her enough how excited his mom was to meet her, to see her. She had so many questions about her tattoos and her piercings, where she got the fake ones, and so many other things it made Charles’ head spin. He had never seen her so excited to meet one of his girlfriends before.

“She’s going to love you.” Charles tells her as they reach the front door, pressing a small kiss to her cheek.

“Promise.”

She smiles at him, her nerves bleeding through. “Okay.”

He presses another kiss to her cheek before opening the door.

“Maman!” He calls, stepping inside. He wants to go further in the house but knows better than to leave the entryway with his shoes on. Bending, her hand still in his, he loosens the laces of his shoes with his free hand before getting them off. Staying bent over, he loosens the laces on hers as well, smiling at the large sigh she gives.

Standing straight he nearly jumps at the sight of his mom watching the two of them, a fond smile on her face. “Maman!” He greets, giving a squeeze to her hand before letting it go to hug his mom.

Wrapping his arms around her, he expects for her to murmur how much she’s missed him, fuss about his hair, press a kiss to his cheek, while she hugs him back, but all she does is give him a quick squeeze before moving out of his arms and past him. He looks at her wounded, but she doesn’t notice, enveloping his girlfriend in a hug, whose eyes widen before she returns it.

“Oh, you look beautiful, Y/N. I was so happy when Charles told me you’d be coming today.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Leclerc.”

“Pascale, please.” She says, finally pulling away. “Have you eaten? What would you like to drink? Come sit.”

Charles watches, mouth slightly dropped as his mother ushers her into the kitchen, completely ignoring him. She always asked him that, and told him to sit, no matter that he had grown up here. He was one of her babies, she always said, before gently pinching his cheek.

“Water is more than fine, Mrs. Leclerc.” He hears her laugh as he enters the kitchen and sees them sitting at the table.

“Please, call me Pascale.”

She smiles at his mom and he can feel the love he has for her grow more as she reaches for his mom’s hand, taking it in hers for a second. “Pascale.” She says, “Water is more than fine. And I have something for you.”

“Oh, there is no need for that.”

Charles watches, surprised as he sees her reach into her purse and pull out a jewelry box. He had no idea that she had brought something for his mom. “Charles mentioned that it can be hard to find nice topaz and opal jewelry.” She says, voice quiet and Pascale opens the box.

“It’s beautiful.” She breathes, carefully taking it out of the box.

His eyes widen as he sees the necklace in his mom’s hand. It was stunning. The topaz perfectly framed with opal. He had never seen anything like it.

“Mon amour,” the words are breathless as he shakes his head. “How did you?”

She ducks her head, “I wanted to give something to you,” she looks at Pascale. “That represents all of your kids. It was hard to find, but I’m happy I did.”

Pascale places a hand over her heart, tears stinging her eyes and she puts the necklace gently on the table before wrapping her arms around the girl. “Thank you, ange. Thank you so much.”

Charles watches as she melts into the hug, her nerves finally seeming to leave her and the sight of the two most important women in his life embracing makes him breathe easier, his own nerves disappearing.

“Now,” Pascale starts, pulling away. “Charles is going to pour us some wine.”

“Maman,” he tries protesting, but she continues ignoring him and he huffs before letting his feet lead him to where the wine glasses are.

“And you are going to tell me all about your tattoos.”

“Oh.” She looks shocked and Charles brows can’t help but furrow.

“You of course don’t have to.” Pascale rushes to say. “I just have seen so many pictures of them, from Charles and your Instagram, and would love to see them and hear about them. Your piercings as well. I had no idea you could get such good fake piercings.”

“No, I-I would love to tell you about them.” Her eyes glance over to Charles, who is concentrating on pouring wine. “I was just a bit nervous meeting you with all of those things. I didn’t know you had an interest.”

Pascale looks at her in confusion. “Since Charles showed me your photos, I have wanted to meet you. You are such a gorgeous girl and you make him so happy. And I love your tattoos. Did Charles never say?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Charles!”

He stops, eyes wide, just about to set the glasses of wine on the table. “What?”

“You never told her that I love her tattoos? Charles!”

“I thought I had.” He defends, putting a glass in front of both of them before sitting in the chair next to his girlfriend, his arm immediately coming up to rest on the back of her chair as he presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m sorry, mon amour.”

“It’s okay.” She tells him, with a small laugh. She turns her head to look back at Pascale. “Really even if he had told me, I might have not believed him.” She pauses, taking a sip of a wine. “The last time I met someone’s parents, they didn’t care for my tattoos and piercings. He broke up with me over it.”

The older woman scoffs, shaking her head. “Their loss and our gain. They are lovely from what I’ve seen.”

“Would you like to know about my favorite one?”

“Yes!”

Charles watches fondly as she pushes up her left sleeve, exposing a myriad of tattoos before pointing at the one just above her wrist on the inside, telling his mom all about it. It’s a story he’s heard before, more than once, but just like his mom he can’t help but listen intently as well.

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part four

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, vampire au, slow burn

part four word count: 15.8k

part four warnings: swearing, more blood and other vampire-y things, dark themes, descriptions of past abuse (non-explicit), even MORE tragic backstories, a little sexiness

soundtrack: still monster / moonstruck / lucifer - enhypen / everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears / immortal - marina / supermassive black hole - muse / saturn - sleeping at last / everybody’s watching me (uh oh) - the neighbourhood

note/disclaimer: EVERYONE DOUBTED ME. I DOUBTED MYSELF. BUT DESPITE IT ALLLLLLL HERE IS PART FOUR!!!!!!! Enjoy my friends, and then tell me about it! As always, happy reading ♡

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

A literature student in your third year of university, you’ve been dreaming of having your writing published for as long as you can remember. With a perfect opportunity dangling at your fingertips, the only obstacle that stands in your way comes in the form of a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome, and unfortunately, very talented writer by the name of Lee Heeseung. Unwilling to let your dream slip out of reach, you commit to being better than the aforementioned pain in your ass at absolutely everything.

But when a string of vampire attacks strikes close to your city for the first time in nearly two hundred years, publishing is suddenly the last thing on your mind. And, as you soon begin to discover, Heeseung may not quite be the person you thought he was.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

When you wake up, it’s with a pounding headache and a deep wave of something that almost tastes like regret. 

Through the jumble of your sleep-addled mind, it takes you a few moments to locate the source of that uneasy feeling. But as soon as you do, it washes over you in a sweeping tide of sensation. 

Images, sounds, tastes. Feelings. 

You’re lying in your bed. Alone. But your mind isn’t convinced of it. 

For long, heavy moments, if you screw your eyes shut tightly enough, you’re somewhere else entirely. 

Notches of your spine pressed against the expanse of a wall. Long fingers, ones  that don’t belong to you, toying with the hem of your shirt. Tracing the skin beneath your ribs. 

Sighs that you swallow. Lips pressed against your own. Teeth. 

Desperate, heady, sordid.

A brief stinging sensation. The faint, metallic taste of blood. 

The breathy pleas that follow. 

All at once, all over again, you’re lost in it. Drowning in it. Consumed by it. 

It’s a ghost of the real thing, a mere shadow in comparison. But you’re aching with it just the same. 

Through the muddle in your mind, you barely remember getting home. 

Footsteps and movement and other mundane details are lost to memories of a much headier nature. 

Lips against yours in the cover of darkness outside your apartment door. Fervent whispers of words that sound like “Bad idea” and “Not tonight.”

But still. He followed you in. Or at least you think he did. There’s far too much room for error in the recesses of your clouded memory.

It feels real, though. The recollection of gentle fingers in your hair. Soothing this time. With the intent to calm, subdue. Creating distance from desperation instead of adding to it. 

The slow press of lips that you wish you had more time to become familiar with. Against your temple this time, the bridge of your nose, the swell of your cheekbone. 

And a final, quiet command. 

“Sleep,” he’d insisted. 

And you hadn’t wanted to, not really. But no matter how many encounters you’ve had with immortality, you’re still woefully confined to the constraints of your humanity. And exhaustion still has clutches you can’t escape. 

Eyelids flickering, unconsciousness sang to you like a siren song until you were unable to resist its lull any longer. 

And there had been no promises between the two of you, but waking up alone was not what you expected. 

It’s undeniable though, even as you sit up, sheets tangling around your hips. You’re still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. They’re wrinkled – a result of fervent ministrations and a long night of sleep disturbed only by strikingly vivid dreams. 

But even though small remnants of his presence remain, your room is empty, save for you. 

Rolling your neck in a slow circle, you wince at the stiffness, the tinge of pain you feel as it crosses above your left shoulder. 

The rest of your body carries a similar heaviness. As you ease your way out of bed, your limbs feel tight, stiff, overworked. 

Still, you force your feet to carry you to the space outside your bedroom. If you’re honest, part of you is hoping that you’ll find him waiting for you there. But as your eyes trace over the expanse of your apartment, your stomach sinks with disappointment. 

Empty. Just like your bedroom. 

It’s not enough to make you panic. Not yet. There are a thousand possible explanations for his absence. Before you start to decide which one is most likely, a knock echoes against your front door. 

And it’s almost embarrassing, the speed at which you cross your living room. 

But you can’t swallow the immediate sense of relief you feel. Coupled with a sudden swoop that reaches all the way to the pit of your stomach. 

Because he’s here. He’s here and it’s real and the surge of butterflies is enough to have you forgetting any potential complications. 

You know he can hear your footsteps, can certainly tell that your heart has just begun to beat unnaturally fast, but you don’t care. Can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. 

You wonder if he feels it too, this magnetic pull. It clutches at your heart with a soft touch and pulls at your mind like nostalgia. As if you’re a girl with a crush, writing the details of your affection in the secrecy of a diary and doodling hearts along the border. 

You pause, hand on the doorknob. With your other hand, you flatten the top of your hair, self-consciously tucking a strand behind your ear. 

It defies logic. After all, any remaining mussing is of his doing. But still, you can’t suppress the desire to have him see you at your best. 

After one last deep breath, you twist the knob. A smile is already tugging at your lips, widening along with the door. 

But when it opens fully, your lips fall flat. It’s not Heeseung that stands on the other side. 

From where he lingers in the doorframe, Jake scratches at the back of his neck rather awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. 

“Jake?” Disappointment colors your voice in obvious strokes. You might feel bad about it if you weren’t so confused. 

“Hey, ___,” he returns. His exhale almost sounds like an apology and it has your stomach swooping again. This time in trepidation. Anxiety. “Can I come in?”

“Is he okay?” It’s probably rude, the way you ignore his question entirely. But suddenly, it’s all you can think of. Why is Jake here? Avoiding your gaze and already sounding regretful. 

“Heeseung’s fine,” Jake assures. Your brow furrows. He’s fine, but he’s not here. You can’t decide if that inspires relief or something far more unpleasant. 

The silence extends for a moment. Jake doesn’t offer any additional explanation. Instead, he requests again, “I have something to ask you, but it would probably be better in private.”

“Right,” you nod, forcing the unease in your gut away. “Would you like to come in?”

Jake smiles, a tight thing, before stepping inside wordlessly. When you shut the door behind him, you keep your back turned for a moment. Inhaling deeply, you try to regain a bit of control over your mounting emotions before turning to face him. 

Jake has already made his way to your couch. Instantly, you're reminded of when another guest of yours did the same. It’s almost enough to send you spiraling again.

Jake, unaware of your inner thoughts, doesn’t let you linger in them for long. Instead he motions to the seat opposite of him. “Come sit.”

You frown, still fraught with nerves. Jake sounds far too serious for this conversation to be anything but unpleasant. Following his request, you slide down into the chair across from him. 

Once you’re seated, he doesn’t waste any time. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’ve got an errand for us today.”

Raising your brow, you wordlessly urge him to elaborate. 

Jake reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, metal object. It takes a moment for you to recognize it, but once you do, your stomach only sinks further. 

It’s a key. The key. The same one you found last night. Along with someone whose absence is still very much unexplained. 

Jake looks at you, but your gaze is still trained on the object in his hand. “How do you feel about a return trip to New Haven?”

New Haven. You can hardly process his question, much less answer it. 

Because they were together. Heeseung gave the key to Jake. Intentionally passed it along to him. And despite all of the possible explanations, you can only fixate on one. 

He’s avoiding you.

You don't say anything, but Jake reads your expression all the same. Gently, he sets the key on the table between the two of you. Again, he sighs. It’s an apologetic sound, and you hate it.  

A beat passes. Two. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Something happened between you two, didn’t it?”

You don’t answer. At least not with words. But the way your eyes widen is confirmation enough. 

“I—” You can’t decide if lying would serve you any good here. Ultimately, you decide to stick with the truth. You have too many unanswered questions to play any games. “How did you know?”

Jake smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “After five hundred years, you kind of just… know.” He pauses for a moment, weighing his words. And then he adds, “You don’t have to tell me, of course. But you can. If you want to.”

You can’t think of anything you’d rather do less. It’s illogical and frivolous and entirely human, but you’re embarrassed. The things that passed between the two of you hold weight in your mind. Significance. Importance. 

And now he’s deliberately avoiding you. You can’t help but feel slighted. Played. Used, even. Your voice is small when you ask, “Did he say anything?”

Jake shakes his head. “He’s been pretty silent. Even more so than usual.”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t. But answers are still lingering far beyond your reach. Jake might not be privy to the details of your affection, but he does know Heeseung like the back of his hand. 

With a deep exhale, you push your pride to the side. 

“We…” you trail off, searching for the right words. Something that won’t feel too invasive, too intimate to share. “We had a… moment. And I thought— well,” you frown, suddenly unaware of your own expectations, “I guess I didn't know what I thought. But I didn’t expect him to avoid me.”

“Ah,” Jake enunciates carefully. “That would explain why he’s been so moody today.” He nods to himself, pausing briefly before adding, “It’s not because of you.”

You just give him a look, obviously disbelieving. 

“I mean, it’s not because of you specifically,” Jake clarifies. “It’s…  a bit difficult to explain. Heeseung is…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “guarded, as I’m sure you can tell. He’s quiet, reserved. He keeps a lot of himself locked up in his own head, and he ruminates on everything. Predicts a million terrible outcomes of every situation and fixates on them until he’s convinced himself that everything will end in flames.” 

“So a raging pessimist, essentially.”

“Maybe,” Jake pauses. “But I think that you have to consider his perspective, too. That’s the thing about immortality. It’s… lonely. Often unbearably so. We all deal with that in our own ways. Sunghoon and his bed are one extreme end of that. Heeseung’s the other.”

You frown. He’s skirting around the edges. Hinting at something without fully saying it and you’re tired of guessing. 

Jake sighs. “I won’t pretend to know everything that’s happened between you, but Heeseung’s not just acting irrationally.”

Your brow furrows. “What does that mean?”

“I…” This time it’s Jake that hesitates. A struggle plays out across his features, as if he can’t decide whether this story is one he should share. Finally, he exhales. “It’s not really my story to tell. But Jungwon had a similar situation, I guess you could say. We had only been changed for around twenty years when he met this girl. It was purely by chance. And it was completely innocent at first. She was an apprentice at the tailor shop in the town we were living in. A human one.”

Your stomach is sinking with every word. The story has barely begun, but you call tell from the tension in Jake’s expression that it doesn’t have a happy ending. 

“He never intended for anything to happen, but he met her once and then he kept going back. It wasn’t intentional, but things spiraled from there. Until he was in far too deep.”

Jake is sparing plenty of details, but even the vague picture he paints is enough to have the unpleasant feeling solidifying in your gut. 

“And there was nothing dramatic, really. No big fight or fall out.” Jake sighs. “But she got older. And he didn’t. For the time they had, they made each other happy. In a lot of ways, they were perfect for each other. Except for in the one way that mattered.”

His immortality. Her humanity. Jake doesn’t say it, but the truth is there all the same. 

“Their love fell apart in a quiet way. Slowly, steadily. Five years had passed, and Jungwon looked the same. She started getting suspicious. He was running out of excuses and had to cut contact just to keep us all safe.”

A part of your heart breaks for him, for the love that he lost, for the circumstances that were always going to dangle just outside of his reach. 

“He couldn’t help it, though. He kept tabs on her. And she did what every human does. She nursed her broken heart, and then she moved on. She fell in love and found a family. Including a daughter.

“But for Jungwon… It broke him. For almost two hundred years, he felt like a shell of himself. And we all watched it happen, but I think it hit Heeseung the hardest. Out of all of us, he was always the romantic, although you’d never guess that now.” 

Jake smiles wryly and the dread in your stomach hardens into a rock. 

“He might not have to hide what he is from you, but that will only buy you so much time.” Jake meets your eye, imploring you to understand. “No matter what happens between the two of you, you’ll always have something he doesn’t: the ability to move on. To forget. To find someone that fits into your life in all the right ways. He’ll never have that, no matter what he wants. No matter what he feels.”

Jake’s gaze settles on the side of your neck. The bite has already begun to fade, scar tissue covering what was once an angry red wound. 

“And he’s already led to you getting injured once. I can’t imagine the kind of guilt he’s probably feeling over that.”

You’re quick to protest. “But that wasn’t his fault—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jake shakes his head. “That’s how he sees it.”

Lips tightening, you search for holes to poke in his logic. “Isn’t it better to take that risk? You can’t avoid a chance at happiness just because you’re worried it will lead to sorrow in the future.”

“That’s a nice perspective,” Jake agrees. “But it’s a human one. If you want to understand him, you have to consider what it’s like for him. His regrets and sorrows aren’t like yours. They don’t have an end date. They’ll live forever, just like him.”

“But so will the good memories—”

“No.” Jake shakes his head. “They won’t. Time will warp them, eat at them, until the good memories hurt just as bad as the awful ones. Maybe even worse.”

You flinch as if you’ve been scolded. Jake’s features soften. “I don’t expect you to understand. And I know he doesn’t either. He doesn’t expect your understanding or patience or forgiveness. He wouldn’t ask that of you, because he knows it’s not fair. Because he knows that it’s different for you.”

It’s selfless. It’s considerate.

You hate it regardless.  

Carefully, Jake adds a final suggestion, “For you and him, for the sake of your own peace, it might be best for you to do the same.”

His words settle heavily into the air. 

Do the same. It’s vague enough to be open to interpretation, but no matter how you warp it, there’s always one striking similarity. 

Jake is encouraging you to move on, to forget about last night and everything that led to it. To let memories fade and moments die before they can grow into anything stronger. 

And in the grand scheme of things, even in your limited mortal lifespan, it really hasn’t been that long. The first time you saw Heeseung was only a handful of months ago, and the taste of his name was bitter on your tongue for the majority of it. 

There have been so many versions of him. A rival classmate. A pesky annoyance. A savior. A guardian. A lover. 

A vampire. 

You don’t know him. Not really. You’ve seen parts of him, and the remaining pieces feel like something that would be all too easy to want. To love, even. 

And maybe Jake is right. He has the advantage of perspective. He’s seen history unfold and recognizes the patterns. He’s terrified that tragedy will repeat itself. 

But it doesn’t make it any easier – the thought of letting him go. 

Your feelings might be mortal. Your days may be limited, but that doesn’t make them any less significant. 

Amidst all the uncertainty, you know one thing for sure. It’s not a conversation with Jake that will give you any kind of closure, that will lead to any final decision. 

You need to talk to him. To Heeseung. Need to hear his thoughts and fears and desires in his own words. Need him to listen to yours. 

You’re not sure how to go about it. If he’s hellbent on avoiding you, there’s little you can do. 

But there must be something. Some way of getting to him. 

Before you have long to linger on it, another knock sounds against your door. It’s much sharper, more urgent than Jake’s was. 

Immediately, your eyes flicker to the vampire across from you, widening in surprise. 

Jake just sighs, shaking his head slightly. “I apologize in advance.”

Although slightly cryptic, it’s confirmation that whoever is on the other side poses no threat. Slowly, you stand, making your way back to your front door. 

Opening it, you find five overeager faces crowded in your doorframe. 

“Morning, ___,” Sunoo beams. “Hope you slept well.”

 “I don’t know,” Niki whispers, “Those look like some pretty serious dark circles.”

“Dude,” Sunghoon elbows him. “You can’t just say that.”

“Yeah,” Jay nods. “That’s super rude.” Turning to you, he gives you a wide smile. “You look great, ___. Not tired at all.”

In the center of them all, Jungwon just sighs. “Sorry to intrude like this.” Sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck. “Is there any chance you could invite us in?”

Two minutes later, the sight that greets you would be enough to make you laugh out loud if the surrounding circumstances weren’t so dire. 

Your couch is far too small for the five vampires crowded onto it, elbows flying into ribs every time someone adjusts too far in one direction. Next to the chaos, Jungwon leans against the arm of the couch, eyes trained on you. 

His gaze feels assessing, almost. As if he’s trying to decipher the events of the previous day. Under his scrutiny, you do your best not to flush. 

From his seat at the far end on the couch, Jake’s lips pull into a flat line as another scooch sends him squished up even further against the armrest. “What are you all doing here?”

Jay smiles, nodding at you. “We came to check on our favorite human, of course.” 

“We heard you even snuck into your evil professor’s secret lair.” Sunghoon adds, nodding appreciatively. “Badass.”

“Plus we had to get out of the house.” Niki grimaces. “Heeseung is still in one of his moods.”

Despite yourself, you can’t quite help the expression that crosses your features as soon as his name is mentioned. 

As if that weren’t mortifying enough on its own, of course all six of them pick up on it. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Sunghoon waves his hand dismissively, entirely unaware of why you’re so affected by the sound of his name. “Being in a mood is just a regular Tuesday for Heeseung.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jay shudders, clutching at his neck. “When I mentioned that Jake was planning to go with ___ to New Haven so she could go back into the secret evil jail, I thought he was actually gonna throttle me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so–”

“Anyway,” Jungwon interjects. He might not have been privy to your conversation with Jake, but he is a bit better at picking up on the subtleties. “We did want to form a plan for your return to New Haven. I apologize for the sudden intrusion, but since you and Jake were already here, we thought this might be the best place for all of us to talk.”

Jungwon’s words barely register. He’s there. Heeseung is at their shared home. Of course he is. It makes sense. It’s the most likely place for him to be. 

But he’s there. They’ve all seen him. Talked to him. And now they’ve come here without him. 

“Right,” you nod, forcing a tight smile. “Well, we have the key from the professor’s university office now. And we don’t know for sure, but it just might open the chest I found last time at New Haven. As soon as we know that the professor is away from the building, I think we need to return and try to open it as soon as possible.” 

The thought of going back into that place fills you with a distinct sort of dread, but you need answers. You all do. 

Jungwon nods thoughtfully. “We can do that. We’ll get eyes on him first and establish a warning system for you and Jake.” Reaching into his back, he pulls out a pair of walkie talkies. “Heeseung also mentioned that there’s no cell service down there. The two of you can use these so that you’re not going in blind.”

Reaching forward, you take them from his outstretched hand. “These will be perfect,” you agree. 

“And ___,” Jungwon adds, suddenly serious. “Thank you. Truly. We know that none of this has been easy.” Five heads nod in near perfect unison. “But what you’re doing will save lives. There was another attack last night–”

“What?” You can’t mask your shock.

“A few miles outside of the city,” Jungwon confirms, lips pulled in a tight line. “In an area we hadn’t been patrolling. There were two victims.” Jungwon pauses, his words weighing heavy in the air. “High school students.” 

High school students. In recent weeks, death has become a familiar theme. But youth has it feeling brand new. You suddenly feel like crying. 

High school students. Kids. Children with their whole lives ahead of them. Dreams and plans and goals for the future. All lost in one tragic, horrific moment. 

Your heart hurts for their families, their classmates, their teachers. So many lives affected, changed, darkened. 

Teenagers whose worries should have extended only to homework and exams and finding a date for the prom. Not becoming headline news in an ongoing series of tragedies. 

Wait –

Headlines. News. 

Frantically, your eyes flick towards the clock on your counter. Last night really did do a number on you. You slept well past mid morning. If your clock is accurate, it’s dangerous close to one in the afternoon. Ignoring the fact that you can’t remember the last time you slept so late, you return to the more urgent matter at hand. 

Panicked, you turn to Jungwon. “We might have another problem. I’m supposed to have my first article for Professor Kim written in the next two hours. I don’t know if I–”

Jungwon shakes his head. “It’s already done.”

“What?” A confused frown pulls at your lips. “What do you mean? I haven’t written anything yet.”

Reaching for the bag he set down by his feet, Jungwon pulls out a small stack of papers. “He gave these to me this morning before we left,” he explains before handing them to you. 

Wordlessly, you reach out, accepting them. 

Fingers shaking slightly, your eyes trace the first handful of lines. 

It’s jarring – there’s no other way to describe it. 

You have no idea how he’s done it, but reading Heeseung’s writing feels a bit like looking into a mirror. It’s unsettling, just how easily he seems to be able to emulate you in his writing. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought you wrote this yourself. 

Everything is perfect, down to the last detail. Words you’ve been scolded by past professors for overusing are scattered throughout. Unique turns of phrases that are hallmarks of your style are intricately weaved between paragraphs.

And it only solidifies your determination.  

You have to see him. You have to.    

Writing has always felt like an extension of your soul, a physical manifestation of your very being. And anyone that can capture you this intimately, this intricately, is not someone you can just forget. 

Jungwon, unaware of your inner turmoil, must mistake your silence for scrutiny. “Is it okay?” He asks, an edge of concern in his voice. “We still have some time, so if there’s anything you need to change–” 

“No, it’s…” you trail off, unsure how to describe the writing in front of you. “It’s exactly what I would have written. 

“Oh,” Jungwon nods. “Okay. Well… Good, then. I have the digital copy too. I’ll send it to you and you can pass it along to the professor.”

You nod, a bit numbly, still shaken by what you’ve just read, still brimming with the urge to confront Heeseung about it.  

Logically, you know that your visit to New Haven can’t be delayed for something as selfish as this. People, lives, an entire city, are hinging on answers you might find hidden there, after all. But as soon as you’ve finished, you know what you’ll do next. 

You decide, in your living room, surrounded by a group of six immortal beings, that it doesn’t matter if Heeseung has senses and skills for evasion that far outmatch yours. You will find a way to see him, to talk to him. You have to. 

But then your gaze shifts, lands back on Jungwon. There’s a slight frown that pulls at his lips as he talks to the others, assigning patrol duties and discussing potential complications for your upcoming mission. 

The longer your gaze lingers, the more you see it. The unmistakable weariness. Telltale signs of exhaustion. Jungwon might have lost the physical need for sleep, but the exhaustion that clings to him comes from a different source. And it runs deep. 

All at once, you can’t help but wonder what Jungwon was like, all those centuries ago. Before he met her. The human girl Jake told you about less than an hour ago. You wonder if he still thinks of her now. You know he must. 

You wonder if it hurts just as bad, if the sting is just as sharp every time. And that sends your thoughts spinning to a different, far more dangerous place. 

In five hundred years, when the only memories of you that remain are left in these seven boys, you want them to remember you with fondness. The kind that aches with affection instead of regret. 

If Heeseung wants to prevent an inevitable heartbreak, then you suppose you can’t blame him for it. But to you, his avoidance is cowardice. Distance won’t undo what’s already passed between you. 

If he wants space, then so be it. You have a key in your hands and pressing matters to attend to. Heeseung will only stay hidden so long, and it’s best to do what you can in the meantime. 

You owe it to them, to him, to everyone whose lives have been touched by recent tragedies, to do everything in your power to change the trajectory of current events. 

So, with a new determination, you push Heeseung a little more firmly into the back corner of your mind, tucking all of the loose edges and pressing thoughts into a neat, tidy box to be revisited later. 

Pulling out your phone, you open the digital version of the article Heeseung has written under your name. You give it one more once over, and it’s just as uncannily you as before. 

Tucking away every feeling that inspires for later, you turn back to Jake.

“So,” you venture, eyeing him as he turns the key over between his fingers. “Are you ready to do this?”

…..

New Haven feels only slightly less ominous in full daylight. Although the remnants of winter still cling to the air like a bad omen you can’t quite shake, sunlight streams through the clouds with the steadiness of a sure thing. 

At your side, Jake appears equally uncertain. 

“Your professor has interesting taste.” It’s a joke, something meant to lighten the mood, but you hear the wariness all the same. 

“Wait until you see the inside.”

Jake picks the lock with nearly as much ease as Heeseung had the night prior, and then the two of you are inside. 

Despite his initial uncertainties, Jake handles the looming hallways and odd shadows of the publishing house rather well. Knowing that the other boys have eyes on your professor and are protecting you from afar helps to abate some of the anxiety, even if you still have to force away a handful of unpleasant memories that threaten to rise. 

When the two of you reach Professor Kim’s office, you don’t bother to hesitate. By now, you know what you’ll find on the other side of the door. 

Jake, however, does give a double take at the massive painting you and Heeseung put back into place just one short night ago. 

Gauging his reaction in your periphery, you decide to play dumb. 

“Is something wrong?”

Jake just takes another long look at the painting of the open field, filled with flowers. He tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, you think he rather resembles a curious puppy. 

“No.” Jake shakes his head. “Sorry, I just…” He takes one final look at the painting. “That painting just looked weirdly familiar for a minute.”

“Celedis, right?” You turn to face the vampire. “I thought the same thing, but Heeseung said it’s slightly different. Something about the flowers.”

At that, Jake doesn’t bother to mask his shock. “He told you about Celedis?”

“Showed me, actually. You know,” you reach your arm out towards him. “With the whole physical contact astral projection thing.”

You’re about to ask Jake to help you move the painting, but he’s still stuck in the details you’ve just revealed. 

Jaw nearly slack, he asks, “He showed you Celedis?”

“Yeah,” you frown. You didn’t realize this was new information. “I thought you knew. Back at your house, after I was attacked. He told me – er, showed me – about you guys.”

Remembering the water tower, you add, “And he’s used it, his ability, I mean, to show me other things about his past.” A memory surfaces, one of a young boy sneaking pastries from a medieval kitchen. Your heart gives a sudden lurch. “About Celedis.”

“Fuck, Heeseung.” Jake swears under his breath, but you hear it all the same. 

“Was he not supposed to?” Despite your current feelings of frustration towards Heeseung, your intentions aren’t to get him in trouble or create any sort of rift between him and the others. Suddenly, you’re scrambling to backtrack. “It was really only a couple of things to help me understand, I promise. He would never compromise your safety or–”

“It’s not that.” Jake shakes his head, interrupting. “Heeseung just… his ability isn’t one he uses often.”

At that, your brow furrows. That strikes you as odd. All things considered, it seems like a rather useful gift that should have found several practical applications over the past five hundred odd years. “Why not?” you ask. 

“It’s not…” Jake trails off, hesitating. Trying to decide how much he should share. “It’s not exactly something he takes pleasure in doing.”

Your brow creases further. That only leaves you with more questions than answers. You can’t remember him being particularly bothered either of the times he exercised his ability with you. “What do you mean?”

Again, Jake hesitates. His teeth worry at his bottom lip like that will prevent words from spilling out. “It’s not really my story to tell.”

“What story?” The corners of your lips pull downwards. “I don’t understand.”

For a moment, Jake just takes a long look at you. And then he sighs. “Heeseung explained Celedis to you?”

You nod.

“Including our origin story?” Jake pauses. “Our families?”

Again, you nod. “You were all nobles.”

Jake hums in agreement. “Yeah, we were. After peace was forged, the kingdom had to reorganize itself a bit. Our families were allies now, partners instead of enemies. Eventually, it was decided that each of our families would spearhead one sector of rulership, if you will.” Pausing for a moment, Jake gauges your reaction from his periphery. He asks, “Did he tell you about this?”

Deciding honesty will serve you best here, you shake your head. 

Much to your gratefulness, Jake just sighs again. “My family primarily dealt with the management of food resources. My father tracked annual crop production, rainfall, resources allocation, things like that.”

“Okay…” you nod, trailing off. The picture he paints is a logical one, but you don’t see a connection to Heeseung’s strange supernatural ability yet. 

Jake continues, “Heeseung’s father, on the other hand, always had a knack for strategy. It was decided that his family would be the de facto head of defense and protection of the kingdom. We were allies, but there was still worry that enemies from outside Celedis’ borders might arise. Although, his father’s methods were always a bit more… aggressive than you’d expect in peacetime.”

Frowning, it's hard to imagine. You suppose that hter may be sides to Heeseung you haven’t yet seen, but it’s difficult to think of him as anything but patient. Gentle. Hearing that his father was the complete opposite doesn’t sit well with you. Quietly, you wait for Jake to continue. 

“Even though we kept aging until we were twenty-one, our abilities manifested when we were just kids. And Heeseung, at ten years old, did what any child would do when he suddenly realized he could project his consciousness through touch.” Jake sighs again. “He told his mother.”

The memory comes rushing back unbidden. Heeseung isn’t here to project any visions, but all of a sudden, you feel like you’re back in that field anyway. Watching silently, helpless, as a tiny version of Heeseung accidentally makes his friend ill after his ability manifests for the first time. All over again, your heart hurts for him. Too small to understand what was happening, too frightened to do anything but seek consultation from his mother. 

“His father, of course,” Jake says, “eventually found out, too. And like any great strategist, he saw this newfound ability first and foremost as a tool. Heeseung wasn’t just a heir anymore. He was a weapon. And he was brought along to things no ten-year-old should have to see. War meetings, strategy sessions. Prisoner interrogations.” Jake’s eyes drop to the floor. “Torture, mutilation, executions. He was made to watch all of it.”

The small gasp you let out is involuntary. 

Jake’s eyes find you again. “And then, afterwards, he was forced to relive it, over and over and over. His hand on top of his father’s, so that the kingdom’s leader of defense could analyze every detail. Construct the perfect strategies, devise the best methods for extracting information, for making others bend to his iron will.”

Your stomach rolls with a fresh wave of nausea. 

Jake finishes with, “I’ve known Heeseung for five hundred years, and I can count on one hand the number of times he’s ever utilized his ability with me. Every single one of them has been out of sheer necessity.”

And explaining Celedis to you, sharing pieces of his long lost childhood, are decidedly not. The gravity of it all sinks in with full force, and you suddenly feel as if your knees might buckle under the weight of it all. 

You have to see him. You ache with it now, the overwhelming urge to just say fuck it and run until your feet have carried you all the way to their shared home. Until your fist connects with the outside of his bedroom door and the only barriers that exist between the two of you are easily breakable. 

But Jake has a key in his pocket, and you have the fate of a city resting in the liminal space between you. Selfish desires, no matter how strong, will have to wait. 

“I…” you hesitate for a moment, searching for the right words. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean. For trusting me.” 

Jake nods. “For what it’s worth, we all do. Trust you, that is. Even Jungwon, although he might never admit it out loud. It’s been a while since we’ve spent so much time around a human. They’re all really fond of you, you know.” Jake grins, something just a bit devious entering his eyes. “It drives Heeseung insane.”

“Well,” you return, “For what it’s worth, I’m quite fond of you all, too. Definitely my seven favorite vampires.”

“Aw,” Jake brings a hand to his heart. “You’re too kind. I’m honored, truly.”

Turning back towards the painting, it’s a sobering reminder of why you’re here, what you still need to do. Looking towards Jake at your side, you request, “Help me move this?”

Nodding, a refound sense of determination enters his gaze. “Let’s do it.” 

Painting aside and key in your hand, you find yourself once again face to face with the small opening that separates Professor Kim’s office from that horrifying dungeon of a room that sits just below it. 

Jake hands you a walkie talkie, and you eye it warily for a moment. “We’re sure these things work?’

“Positive,” Jake nods. “We tested them this morning. Oh, and I brought you this, too.” Reaching out, he hands you a headlamp. “He mentioned that it’s pretty dark down there.”

“Good thinking. Thank you.” Clipping the walkie talkie onto your belt loop, you take the light from Jake, securing the headband around your temple. Even though the gravity of the situation isn’t lost on you, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. Giving your front pocket a final tap, you confirm that the key is tucked away safely. “Well,” you turn back to Jake, “see you on the other side.”

“Good luck,” he nods. “And if anything, and I do mean anything, feels off, use that to talk to me, okay?” He just his chin at the walkie talkie at your waist. 

“I will,” you promise. 

And then, with just one final glance over your shoulder, you’re suspended into darkness just as surely as the previous night. For a moment, you consider igniting your headlamp. But you decide against it rather quickly. It’s probably best that you don’t see just how far beneath you the ground is. 

This time, thankfully, your decent feels much shorter. With some of the uncertainty stripped away, your feet are touching solid ground before you know it. 

Once you’re firmly planted, you reach for the light on your forehead. 

It ignites, shooting a strong beam of light straight out in front of you. 

Again, you fight the shiver that traces the length of your spine. It is quite cold down here, with a certain dampness that permeates into your bones, but that’s not why you shudder. 

WIth light revealing their secrets, the cells that line the passage are even more ominous. Dark, rusted iron lies in wait on either side of you. 

Handcuffs, chains, spare pieces of metal you’re sure you don’t want to know the purpose for, line your path as you force your feet forward. Even if you wanted to take a closer look, that’s not why you’re here today. Mission in mind, you continue down the long, dark path towards the opening where you know you’ll find the chest.  

Finally, after a few long minutes, you’re face-to-face with the locked chest again. The desk is still there, too, undisturbed. 

Taking a deep breath, you reach into your pocket, retrieving the key from Professor Kim’s university office. Forcing away any other lingering memories of the previous night that threaten to rise, you bring the key to the lock. 

Your hands are shaking. The cold, the fear, the anticipation. They all settle heavy in your bones and leave you with tremors you can’t quite stop. 

“C’mon,” you whisper out loud to the darkness, with no one but you and the faint sound of dripping water to hear. “Come on.”

Finally, the key aligns just right. 

Despite the tremble in your fingers, despite the improbability that this key even matches this lock, it slides in with ease. 

And when you turn it to the right, you hear a telltale click. 

In your shaking grip, the lock falls open. Sliding the key back into your pocket, you pull the lock out of the loop of the front of the chest. Setting it down at your feet, you take one deep inhale. 

And then, with hands that still tremble, you push the heavy lid of the chest open. 

You’re not sure what you expect. Something horrific, maybe. Some damning evidence of evildoing. Something soaked in blood, something so explicitly terrible that there’s no guesswork to be done. 

But the chest contains only two things. 

The first is a massive stash of what you assume must be distilled moonflower. Organized neatly into rows upon rows of tiny small vials that look terribly similar to the contraption he used to shoot you in the neck the first time you came to the publishing house.

This, in and of itself, feels like a revelation. According to Heeseung, moonflower is rare. And knowledge on proper distillation processes is even more obsolete. To have this much of it distilled and on hand… it must mean something. 

The chest is nearly overflowing with the small vials, save for a small space, just in the middle, where a book sits nestled amongst the moonflower. 

A book that looks nearly identical to one you’ve seen before. To one that still sits forgotten in the bottom drawer of the dresser next to your bed. 

Hands still unsteady, you reach for it. 

At first glance, it’s an exact copy of the strange book you found in the university library all those weeks ago. But as you lean closer, you notice one key difference. The title. 

The one you found tucked away on a library shelf was called Sacred Monsters: The Origins of Immortality. 

But it must be part of a set, an anthology of sorts. 

Because the book between your shaking fingers stares back at you with the title Sacred Monsters: Cures for the Affliction. 

Book in your hands, you realize you have a dilemma. The volume is far too thick to take pictures of every page, but removing it from the chest to bring with you feels risky. 

At least this time, you think as you reach for the walkie talkie at your waist, you don’t have to make all of your decisions alone. 

Pressing the button on the side, you speak into the receiver. “Hey Jake, you there?”

A handful of seconds pass before his response filters through. It’s crackly but perfectly audible. “I’m here. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you confirm. “I found something. A book. It’s pretty hefty. I won’t be able to take pictures of all of the pages. Do you think I should bring it with me or just take a few photos and leave it here?”

“It was in the chest?” Jake asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I think it might be too risky to bring with me.”

“I agree,” Jake confirms. “Just take a few pictures, and then get out of there.”

“Will do,” you agree. “See you soon.” You secure the walkie talkie back on your belt loop. 

Setting the book down on the cold ground, you sink to your knees in front of it. Reaching for your phone, the first picture youtube is of the front cover.  

Deciding that they’ll want evidence of the moonflower as well, you reach up to angle your camera towards the open chest. 

And then you return to the book. Opening it to the first page, the similarities are uncanny to the one you found in the library before. The font, the slight discoloration, the ink smudges lost to time. It’s too overwhelming to just be a series of unlikely coincidences. It must be connected to the other Sacred Monsters. 

Taking quick photos as you flip through the pages, you force yourself not to linger, no matter how much curiosity eats away at you. You’ll have time to review the pages later, you tell yourself. Right now, the best course of action is to get in and out as quickly as you can. 

Still, a handful of phrases and words jump out at you as you photograph the pages. 

Moonflower distillation…

Degeneration…

Test subjects…

Nightshade…

And finally, just as you’re drawing to the end of the book, a phrase catches your eye. 

The Kingdom of Celedis. 

Your heart drops into your stomach, body going cold.

He knows. You’re not sure how much. You're not sure exactly what. You have no idea why. But your professor has a book locked away in a secret underground prison beneath his publishing house. A book that mentions a kingdom lost to time, forgotten by everyone, preserved only in the minds of seven immortal beings. 

Professor Kim knows. And somehow, that’s more terrifying than anything else contained in this dark, decrepit place. 

Taking a photo of the final page in the book, you let it fall shut once again. Placing it back in the chest just as meticulously as you found it, you close the lid again and slide the padlock through the hold. 

The key goes in just as easily this time, locks as easily as it opened. Despite the obvious age of everything else in this place, the lock has no signs of rust, no hint of disuse. 

It’s been opened regularly, you assume. And likely by your professor. 

As that realization begins to settle, the walkie talkie on your hip gives another disconcerting crackle. Immediately, your heart leaps into your throat, mind spinning with the worst possibilities. 

You’re at the very end of the passage. It will take you at least ten minutes to be back in the office and another three to be out of the publishing house. More than that if you account for the potential of your professor’s heightened senses. 

After a moment of extended silence, Jake’s voice filters through. 

“Everything still okay down there?”

Your mind swims with relief, but your pulse doesn’t slow. 

Bringing the device to your mouth, you press the button on the side. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just finished. I’ll be back up soon.”

Another beat of silence passes. And then, “Glad to hear it. I’ll be here.”

But you can’t help but confirm, “They still have eyes on Professor Kim?”

Jake answers quickly, “Yeah. Sunghoon and Niki have eyes on him. He hasn’t left his house.”

Tucking the key back into your pocket, you begin the journey back, your quick footsteps echoing against wet stone. “Good. See you soon.”

Down the narrow passageway, your phone feels leaden in your pocket, weighed down with evidence you’re not sure how to parse. You want to be out of here as quickly as you can, back in your apartment where you can compare the two books. Where you can show them to the others. 

Thankfully, again, the way out feels shorter. Despite the ache in your muscles as you pull your body up the ladder, time passes quickly as you ascend back to the publishing house. 

True to his word, Jake waits for you just outside of the narrow entrance. He reaches out a hand to help pull you back into the small room. 

Giving you a quick once over, he frowns. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You practically have. Celedis. But this isn’t the place. 

You shake your head and tell him as much. “Not here.”

Despite the brevity of your words, Jake understands. Instead of pressing you further, he helps you slide the mural back into position, once again covering the opening to the room below. 

Giving the painting a final look, you’re sure of it now. It is Celedis. It has to be. Even if some of the details are slightly wrong. 

But your head is spinning and your thoughts are jumbled and you can’t be the only one with the weight of so many revelations weighing on your mind. 

As the two of you make your way back down the hallway towards the front door of New Haven, Jake tells you, “We’ll reconvene at our place. We can go over everything there.”

You shake your head. “Tell everyone to meet at my apartment instead.” 

“What?” A flicker of confusion creases his brow as his head tilts to the side. “Why?”

“It’ll make sense soon, I promise,” you tell him. “There’s something there I need to show you. All of you.”

Jake glances at you, but he doesn’t question you further. His earlier words echo in your mind. “For what it’s worth, we all do. Trust you, that is.”

At your side, he pulls out his phone as you pull the door to New Haven shut behind you. “Jungwon,” you hear him say. “Change of plans. We’ll meet at her apartment instead.” 

Again, the questions must be short lived, and Jake is ending the conversation just as quickly as it started. 

…..

When you arrive back at your apartment, Jungwon, Jay, Sunoo, and Niki are waiting for you in the parking lot. 

Stepping out of the driver’s seat, Jake nods at Jungwon. Then, after glancing around, he asks, “Where’s Sunghoon?”

“Keeping an eye on the professor,” Jungwon answers. “We thought it would be best to have at least one of us tailing him still.”

Jake nods. 

Jungwon turns to you. “I take it you found something. And there’s something here at your apartment you want us to see?”

You nod. “Yeah. A… well, a book. Two books, actually,” you amend. “Let’s go up,” you nod at the staircase, “and I can show you.”

Jungwon hesitates for a moment. A meaningful glance that you can’t quite decipher passes between the five of them. 

“Okay,” he finally acquiesces. “Lead the way.”

Phone heavy in your pocket, you climb the two flights of stairs with the five of them trailing behind you. The distance they put between you is slightly odd, but you don’t have much space left in your mind to think much of it. 

That is, until you reach your doorstep. And find it already occupied. 

“Heeseung,” you breathe. A force of habit more than anything. 

He’s already looking at you. Heard your conversation in the parking lot and your footsteps on the stairs and your heartbeat in your chest. He knew the exact moment you would round the corner and the number of breaths it would take you to reach him. 

His dark eyes reflect afternoon sunlight in a way that looks all too much like stars, and you have no idea what to do with any of it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if his words are anything more than a bandaid on a bullet wound, as if the five boys behind you can’t hear the words that pass between you. 

And you’ve been stewing in it since this morning, thinking of all the ways you could beg him, plead with him, convince him to let whatever lies between the two of you to blossom, to grow wings. 

But now, with his eyes on you and the fate of a city in the pocket of your jeans, words fail you. 

Finally, your lips part. “I have something to show you.” And now you’re the one putting up walls, building barriers. For now, he’s not a boy that kissed you until your head was spinning and you couldn’t make right from left. He’s a vampire, and the two of you have a job to do. 

Your hurt, your desires, your wounded pride still sit heavy in your gut. 

But you owe it to him – this boy that was born a prince and sharpened into a weapon and cursed with a blessing he never asked for – to bring an end to this particular bout of suffering. 

To let the tragic kingdom of his youth rest once and for all, even if you have to reopen wounds in the process. 

Across from you, Heeseung only nods. 

Stepping to the side, he lets you be the one to open the door. He doesn’t need to linger outside; he’s already been invited in, more than once. But he does anyway. He waits for your words, for your approval, and then he follows you inside. Behind him, the other five exchange long, sideways glances. 

Just like this morning, the sight of the six of them crammed on your small couch is almost enough to inspire a smile. Under any other circumstances, you’d be laughing out loud. Now, however, you just give a long exhale. 

“They key worked,” you begin. “It opened the chest.”

Five hundred years, and they all have yet to perfect their patience. 

“And?” Jay is practically tripping over himself to get the question out. 

“It was full of distilled moonflower,” you tell them. Vials like the one the professor used to inject me in the neck. Hundreds of them.”

“What?” Sunoo gasps.

“How?” Niki frowns. 

“Moonflower is rare,” Jake shakes his head. “There’s no way he could have that much of it.”

“Well, he must know some secret place where it grows or something,” you suggest. “Because he does.”

“No,” Jungwon shakes his head. “You don’t understand. It’s not only a matter of knowing where it grows. Moonflower is a magical substance, and magic is finite. It simply doesn’t grow in abundance. In order for someone to have a stash that large…”

“He’s been collecting it,” Heeseung finishes. “For a long, long time.”

“He’s been a vampire for twenty years,” you remind them. “Maybe he’s been collecting it just as long.”

Again, Jungwon shakes his head. “Hundreds of vials isn’t something that can be achieved in twenty years. Hundreds of vials is hundreds of years.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.” You frown, wheels in your brain beginning to spin. 

“There are two possibilities,” Jake says. “Either your professor is lying about how old he is…”

“Or he’s not the only one that’s been collecting and distilling moonflower,” Jay finishes. 

Sunoo shakes his head. “We haven’t seen any evidence of him working with others.”

“Either way,” Niki frowns, “Something's not quite right.”

“The moonflower.” Jungwon looks at you again. “Was it the only thing in the chest?”

You shake your head. “No. There was also a book.”

“Right.” Jake nods. “The one you took pictures of.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I left it in the chest, obviously, but I took photos of the pages. I didn’t have a chance to look too closely while I was there, but I think it talks about…” you trail off for a moment, eyes flickering to Heeseung, despite yourself. “I think it talks about Celedis.”

“Celedis?” Jake balks. 

“That’s impossible.” Jay shakes his head. 

But Jungwon just looks at you. “Earlier in the parking lot, you said you had two books to show us.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I do. I was in the university library a few weeks ago, and I found this book. It was about vampires, but it was… I don’t know. It was strange. It wasn’t vitriolic or propaganda. It was almost like a diary. The reason I wanted you all to come here is because I checked it out. I have it here, in my bedroom. But the weirdest part is the title.”

“The title?” Sunoo prompts. 

“It’s called Sacred Monsters: The Origins of Immortality. And the book I found in the chest today, it looked really similar. And it was called Sacred Monsters: Cures for the Affliction.”

A beat of silence passes. Another. 

“That,” Niki finally says, “Doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

Standing, you nod. “I don’t think so either.” Walking to your bedroom, you open the bottom drawer of your dresser. With the events of the past weeks, part of you expects the book to have vanished mysteriously. To have been nothing but a figment of your overactive imagination. 

Despite your musings, Sacred Monsters: The Origins of Immortality lies undisturbed just as you left it. With careful hands, you pull it out of your dresser and bring it back to the living room, setting it on the coffee table in front of the boys. 

“This is the book from the library?” Jungwon asks. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. “And I don’t have a printer or anything, but I’ll send you the photos I took of the book from the chest today.”

Scrolling through the files you send him, Jungwon pauses on the cover, glancing between it and the book on the coffee table. “I see what you mean. These must be related.”

Reaching for the book, Jay flips open the front cover, frowning. “There’s no author or publication date.”

“I know,” you agree. “It’s all so odd. It wasn’t even in the library system,” you add, remembering that night at the library. “The librarian had to manually check it out to me.”

“Jesus,” Sunoo grimaces, glancing at some of the pages over Jay’s shoulder. “This is super depressing.”

“Yeah,” Jay nods. “I see what you mean. This is definitely about vampires, but it’s nothing like other human-written vampire literature. 

Next to them, Jungwon scrolls through the images you’ve sent him, enlarging photos to read pieces of text. With each and every passing image, his frown grows deeper and deeper. 

“We have a problem,” Jungwon finally says. Looking back at the photo, he amends, “Several, actually.” 

You assume he must have drawn the same conclusion as you. “He must know about Celedis, right? The professor, I mean.”

“Yes,” Jungwon confirms. “I’m sure he does.”

“But how?” Jay presses.

“I don’t know.” Jungwon’s mouth pulls into a grim line. “But that’s not all.”

“This page,” He holds up his phone. “It’s a guide. Explaining in excruciating detail how to harvest, store, and distill moonflower. It also discusses its side effects. On humans and vampires.”

Scrolling to the next photo, he adds, “It looks like they studied these side effects. Through experimentation. Most of these pages are entries. Data. Experiments.” Looking at all of you, he lets the weight of that sink in for a moment. “Whoever wrote this book tested moonflower and its effects. On humans and vampires.”

“What?” Jake frowns. “The professor tested moonflower on vampires?”

“Not the professor, necessarily,” Jungwon shakes his head. “But yes, whoever wrote this book must have.”

“The cells,” you breathe, a sickening realization beginning to build in the pit of your stomach. “The cells beneath New Haven. It wasn’t just a jail.”

“It was a lab,” Heeseung finishes, locking eyes with you. 

Jungwon holds up another photo. “I think you’re right. Look at this.” You all squint as he enlarges the photo. There’s a date at the top – September 13, 1942. And next to it, a number V029.

Beneath it are a series of notes too small to make out from where you sit. Jungwon reads them, “Dosage: 8 milliliters. Injection site: Lower throat, right side. Time of effect: 2 minutes, 19 seconds. 

“V029 continues to exhibit strange behaviors under the influence of Moonflower. Although dosages have varied, the results remain consistent. Today, she spoke again about “Celedis.” When prompted with the addition of pain, she requested drawing paper. Upon refusal, she would not speak. A second dosage was administered (6ml) and further infliction of pain was utilized. V029 did not respond audibly to any given prompt or stimuli.”

“Celedis,” Jake echoes. “One of his… test subjects,” he spits with vitriol, “was the one to mention Celedis.”

“That still doesn’t make sense,” Jay points out. “It doesn’t matter if his test subjects were vampires. We’re the only ones that know about Celedis. Every other vampire in existence is a descendant of the eighth son. None of them should have any idea that Celedis ever existed.” 

“And we don’t know that these were the Professor’s test subjects,” Niki points out, echoing Jungwon’s earlier words. The page is dated for 1942. If he is telling the truth about when he was turned, he wasn’t even alive yet.”

“There must be some way to corroborate that,” you frown. “He said that he was turned the same night his entire family was massacred. Obviously, it wouldn’t have been reported as a vampire attack, but there should be something about it. Some kind of public record of their deaths, at least.”

Heeseung nods, pulling out his phone. “I’ll see if I can find anything.”

“Um,” Sunoo interjects, holding up the original Sacred Monsters book, the one you brought home from the library. “We might have another problem.”

Six pairs of eyes turn to look at him. 

“Most of these entries just seem like personal writing, like you said,” Sunoo nods at you. “But this section towards the end, here…” He trails off for a moment. “It’s called Blood Moon Ritual.”

“What?” Six voices echo in unison. 

“ There’s only one entry,” Sunoo continues, frowning. “And it doesn't really make sense. It’s a poem, like the others,” Sunoo explains. “Here, I’ll read it.

“The Origins of Immortality

That which was lost can be gained. 

The requirements are the same. 

That which was gained can be lost.

The sacrifice goes unchanged. 

Every life can end.

Every life can endure.

Fate is always determined

By what the wish is for.”

For a moment, your living room is silent. 

Jay breaks it by asking, “What the fresh hell does that mean?”

“Literature majors,” Niki glances between you and Heeseung. “Either of you want to pipe in on this one?”

“I mean,” you start, “without context, it kind of just sounds like a bunch of nonsense.” 

Before you can turn the words around in your mind again, Heeseung speaks up from where he sits. “I think I found something,” he says, holding up his phone. 

“Really?” You ask, just at the same time as Jay presses, “What?”

“There is a record from,” he double checks the date, “almost exactly twenty years ago. It’s anonymous, but it gives ages. A nine-year-old child and her forty-three year-old mother. The official cause of death is listed as an animal mauling.”

“That matches, then. That’s exactly what the professor told me.”

“There’s more, though,” Heeseung frowns. 

“More?” Your brow creases. 

“Another death.” Heeseung matches your gaze. “The child’s great grandfather, age ninety-one. And the location of death… Didn’t Professor Kim tell you that he was visiting family outside of the city?”

You nod. “He said it happened in a remote cabin. A group of nomadic vampires attacked them there.” 

Heeseung shakes his head. “The location listed here is the city. This city.”

Your frown deepens. Heeseung sticks the final nail in the coffin. “Their bodies were discovered near a row of abandoned buildings where there have been past instances of mountain lion activity. It’s on the far side of the city. Just a few blocks away from New Haven.”

You echo his words. “His family died near New Haven?” It’s odd, the way the truth seems to mingle with lies. The way your professor seems to have chosen strange pieces of the story to be dishonest about. “Why would he tell the truth about his family dying from a vampire attack twenty years ago but lie about where it happened? And not mention a grandfather?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says. The reality of just how much you have yet to uncover begins to settle uncomfortably in the air. Every discovery seems like it only leads to ten more mysteries to solve, another dozen dead ends. 

“I’m still stuck on Celedis,” Jay says. “We need some way to figure out who this person was and how they knew Celedis. We need–”

“We need the whole book,” you finish. 

It’s not a question or a matter of opinion. It’s the obvious conclusion to be drawn. 

Jungwon nods. “Sunghoon should still have eyes on the Professor. I’ll confirm that he’s still home, and then we can–”

“Are you insane?” Heeseung isn’t looking at his phone anymore. His search for more information on the tragic deaths of Professor Kim’s family are forgotten for the moment. “She was just there twice, and you want her to go back again? Now?”

“Heeseung…” Jake warns, taking care to guard his tone. 

“I know it’s not ideal,” Jungwon tries to placate him, “But that book has answers that we need. Right now, all we can do is speculate. If your professor has a massive stash of distilled moonflower and knows about Celedis, who knows what else he might have access to? What else he might know? People are still dying, and he’s connected to it all somehow. I’m sure of it.”

“I know that,” Heeseung bites, visibly frustrated. “But why does she have to be the one to–”

“And how exactly are you planning to get one of us down there?” Jungwon sighs, running an open palm over his features. “I don’t want to argue with you, but unless you have a plan for getting Professor Kim to invite you into his secret vampire torture chamber, ___ is the only one of us that can get this book.”

“It’s okay,” you finally interject. Something about the two of them arguing over your fate while you sit and watch doesn’t quite sit right with you. More than that, something about him always speaking over you, acting as if it’s all in your best interest, while also not bothering to give you the time of day, is all too reminiscent of the other decisions he’s made on his own. 

Still, you choose to be gentle. “I debated with Jake, actually, about whether I should bring the whole book or not. We thought this would be safer for now, but I knew it was a possibility that I would have to go back for it. I was prepared for this.”

Heeseung looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to argue, but something in your expression has his words dying on his lips. 

“I’ll get ready,” you nod. Retreating to your bedroom, you add, “Just give me a minute to grab my jacket.”

In all honesty, your jacket is the least of your concerns. Because despite your resolve, despite the will that you’ve forced yourself to steel, Heeseung is right. 

Even at a distance, he can still read you like the back of his hand. Like an open book with nothing but pages for him to peruse at his pleasure. 

The thought of going back to New Haven, of going back into that cold, dark, empty expanse of horror sends your mind spiraling. Walking into the bathroom adjoined to your bedroom, you place both hands on the counter on opposite sides of the sink. It’s an attempt, a feeble one, maybe, at grounding yourself. 

Forcing your gaze upwards, you match your own eye in the mirror. A million emotions are reflected back at you. Determination, weariness, resolve, fear. 

You’re scared. No matter what you tell them, no matter what you tell yourself, you feel it. Swimming in your mind, nestling in your bones. A terror rooted so deep you’re not sure you’ll ever get it out. 

You don’t want to go to New Haven. You don’t want to descend down that ladder. You don’t want to risk your life or your comfort or your sanity. You don’t want to have feelings for an immortal being that needs blood to survive. 

But reality doesn’t bend to the whims of frightened girls, and ignoring the things that scare you won’t make them go away. 

Bravery, you think, as you watch your reflection in the mirror. It’s not just reserved for moments that feel grand in scale. It’s also here, in places like this. Where there’s nothing but you, your reflection, and all of the things you wish you could avoid waiting for you just outside the door. 

So with a final inhale, you force your features into something neutral, something that at least five of the boys waiting for you outside will believe. And then you walk back to your bedroom, making sure to pull your jacket over your shoulders before stepping back out into the living room. 

Jake stands from his seat on the couch when you enter the room again. Heeseung avoids your gaze. 

“You ready?” Jake asks. 

“As I’ll ever be,” you nod, forcing a false sense of cavalier lightness into your tone. 

“Good thing I left the headlamp in the car,” Jake jokes, pulling on his shoes. 

“And the walkie talkies,” you agree. 

Despite yourself, you can’t quite stop your eyes from wandering back towards your living room one last time. 

Jungwon is dictating new assignments while the others listen attentively. Well, three of them anyway. 

Heeseung just sits there, his eyes still trained on the ground. 

You’re sure he can feel it, the way your gaze settles on the side of his face, traces his profile and then does it again. But no matter how long your gaze lingers, he won’t return it. 

And maybe this is it, you think. Maybe you’ll just have to make peace with the fact that all you’ll ever get from him are closed doors and avoided eye contact. 

He’s had his teeth in your neck and your blood on his lips, and despite it all, the only thing he has for you now is a cold shoulder disguised as concern. 

And if this self flagellation is some kind of atonement, an apology for a crime he’s convinced himself he’s committed, then that, you think, is where his true selfishness lies. 

He can call it altruism and immortal wisdom all he wants. But caring for you from a distance will never be something you thank him for. 

It’s not a declaration you can make in front of an audience, so with a final sigh, you turn towards your front door and follow Jake’s retreating figure from it. 

As it so happens, you can be selfish too. You pretend you don’t feel Heeseung’s eyes on your back the entire way out. 

However, you must not be as good at disguising your fear as you thought, because Jake is nothing but apologies while the two of you walk side by side down the stairs. 

“I really am sorry,” he breathes into frigid air. The warmth of his breath creates a visible cloud. “I shouldn’t have told you to just leave the book there, but I was worried–”

“It’s not your fault.” You shake your head. “I thought it would be best to leave the book, too. And it’s okay, really. I’ll be just fine.”

“Still,” he reiterates. “I’m sorry that it has to be you. It can’t be fun going down there all alone. And especially since we know what it was used for now…”

Your lips flatten. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“Sorry,” He laughs, apologizing again. “You’re right. No more gloomy talk. We’ll just get you in and out as fast as we can, and we can worry about the rest of it later.” 

“Works for me.” You force a tight smile, reaching for the car door. If it’s any consolation, you’re glad that it’s Jake you’re with. His presence is steady, carries a certain kind of lightness that helps to chase away some of the lingering storm clouds, even if just for a moment. 

But just as you move to slide into the passenger seat, you hear the telltale sound of footsteps on pavement over your shoulder. They’re rapid, loud. Whoever it is, they’re running. 

Turning over your shoulder, your brow creases in confusion when your eyes land on Heeseung. Again, it’s not you he’s looking at. 

Heesung is talking to Jake when he says, “Change of plans. Jungwon wants you down by the river.”

“What?” Jake frowns. “But what about–”

“I’ve got her.” Heeseung’s words cut through the air like an arrow, pierce through your uncertainties like a knife. 

“I…” Jake trails off. He’s looking at you, not Heeseung when he asks, “You sure?”

“Go,” you nod. “I’m sure Jungwon has his reasons.” It’s flimsy reasoning, and between the three of you, no one is convinced that Jungwon is responsible for this change. 

But they’re switching places all the same. Jake gives you one final glance over his shoulder, and you swear you see him shake his head before he heads back up the stairs to where the other boys still sit in your apartment.

And Heeseung still won’t look at you, even as he walks around to the other side of the car and slides into it, sitting only a handful of inches away from you. 

It’s a reflection of this morning, an echo of earlier as the car turns out of your apartment parking lot and sets course for New Haven. Only this time, it’s Heeseung in the driver’s seat, not Jake. 

The silence between the two of you extends for long minutes, nothing but the gentle hum of the car heater to fill the empty air. 

Finally, with nothing but road ahead of you, Heeseung exhales a long sigh. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You say the word, and I’ll turn this car around. We can go back to your apartment or to my place or somewhere else entirely. I’ll get you on a plane out of the country, if that’s what you want.”

You raise a brow. His meager attempts at kindness have started to lose their shine. “And the book?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “Fuck that stupid book.” 

Easy to say, maybe. But both of you know it’s not true. Besides, “I don’t want to leave the country.”

“Really?” You can’t tell if he’s serious when he adds, “I hear that Costa Rica is lovely this time of year.”

“I’m sure it is,” you concede. If he wants to skirt around admissions, you’ll run headfirst into them. “But I’d be worried about you.”

Heeseung only sighs. “I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You’re sure he knows it, but being difficult on purpose isn’t new to either of you. “And we’ve had this argument before. My mind hasn’t changed, and clearly yours hasn’t either. If you get to decide how to live your life without any input from me, then I expect the same courtesy from you.”

“It’s different,” he insists. Now, at least, he’s talking. Even if it’s only to beg for a bit of your understanding. “I’ve already lived a life. Too many lives. Five hundred years worth of life with no sign of any end coming soon.”

You have to disagree. “Have you, though? You know, when people talk about having lived a life, they’re not just talking about years. They’re talking about family, friendships, community. Achievements, accomplishments.” The last word dangles from your lips. Oh, fuck it. “Love.”

Next to you, Heeseung is silent. You press on, “I understand that you’ve made up your mind. That with all your five hundred years of immortal wisdom, you’ve decided you get to make decisions for the both of us. But you know what else is a normal part of life? Kissing someone and regretting it. You can just avoid me at parties, you know. You don’t have to threaten to send me to Costa Rica.”

“It wasn’t a threat–”

But you’re not done. “I liked it, by the way. In case you were wondering. I don’t care if you regret it.” Your pride feels like something forgotten, discarded long ago. Maybe it’s a facade or false bravado, but you find it easy to bare your secrets here in the passenger seat. “I liked it when you kissed me. I liked the way it felt when you put your hands on me. I liked the way you lost control with my blood in your mouth. I went home and I laid in bed and I thought about it. All alone in my bedroom, with my hands on my skin everywhere you touched me while I pretended like it was you. I dreamed about you. I woke up thinking about you.”

Heeseung whispers your name. A warning, a plea. He might as well be shouting in your ear. 

“You can avoid eye contact and pretend it never happened all that you want. I’m not going to. In fact, I’m probably going to think about it again tonight. Do what you want. I’m not going to pretend that I don’t have feelings for you, and I’m not going to avoid New Haven,” Your chest is heaving now. Between words, it’s easy to forget that you need to breathe, too. “And I’m not running away to fucking Costa Rica.”

“You think I enjoy this?” Heeseung’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel. “You think I like having this… this war in my brain? This constant struggle? You think I’m playing with you? Toying with your feelings because I can’t make up my mind?” He shakes his head and sends your thoughts scattering. “I’m not. You used to glare at me across the lecture hall, and it would be the highlight of my day. I looked forward to every assignment Professor Kim gave us, because it meant I’d have another chance to read something you’d written. I’ve been alive for five hundred years, and I don’t think I’ve ever found anything that makes me feel the way your words do. For the first time in my life, I felt like someone else could take what I was feeling and put it into words.”

That gives you pause. He… thought about you? Even then? He read your writing?

“And it didn’t stop there. I used to go home from class imagining, praying that I could be like every other person in that stupid class. That I could be just another kid in my twenties worried about disappointing their parents and picking the wrong major. That I could waste my afternoons staring at the pretty girl in my literature course that couldn’t be bothered to give me the time of day. Fantasizing about asking her to study with me at a coffee shop or share a workroom in the library.”

Your eyes are wide now, and they’re trained directly on him. Heeseung is still looking out at the road in front. 

“You think I don’t think about you too? That I want to pretend none of it ever happened? You’re wrong. All I do is think about you, and all I do is want. But they’re things I can’t have, things I can’t be. I wish I could fall asleep dreaming about you. I wish I could wake up with you on my mind and know that I only have so many days to do something about it.”

He shakes his head, as if that will clear the errant thoughts that have clearly begun to consume him.

“But I can’t. I can’t sleep. I can’t shut off my brain, even for a second. All I do is think. All I do is remember. You think I didn't like it? You think I didn’t go home with the feeling of your skin on my hands and the taste of your blood in my mouth? You think I don’t spend every waking hour with the sound of you whimpering burned into my mind? I’ve wanted things before, but never like this. I made peace with myself a long time ago. I know what I am and I understand that ultimately, my existence is a burden to this world. I’ve learned to stop wishing for impossible things. But every time I look at you, I just… I just want.”

Your voice is small. You don’t know how to respond to any of it. “It’s okay to want things.”

“It’s not.” Heeseung shakes his head. “Not when they’re impossible. Not when it will only bring pain to the people I care about. I don’t want to be someone you avoid at a party. I don’t want to watch you move on with your life when this inevitably ends. But all of those things you talked about earlier, all of those parts that make up a life – friendship, family, community. I can’t give you any of that.”

It’s hard to hear. It hurts to see how visibly upset he is about all of it. 

“It doesn’t matter if I live for another five hundred years or a thousand years or until the end of time itself. I already know I’ll spend all of it thinking about you.  I’ve made peace with it before, and I’ll learn to do it again, but I can’t take your life from you. And even if I wanted to, I can’t watch you grow to resent me for it.”

In front of you, the road appears endless. With sunlight reflecting in the rearview mirror, the day is dying, and your hopes are going with it. 

“When I tell you that I’ll send you to Costa Rica if that’s what you want, it’s not because I’m trying to get rid of you. It’s because I want you to make the choices that are best for you. Not for me, not for the boys, not even for this city. I don’t expect you to take me up on it. Your moral compass will be the death of me, I’m sure. But the offer will always be there.”

Your emotions feel frivolous. Your desires feel petulant. Still, you can’t help but counter, “And what if I resent you now? For not even giving this a chance?”

Heeseung smiles, a wry thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’ll take comfort in knowing you have a whole life ahead of you to get over it.”

It’s a stalemate that has the car stumbling back into silence, even as your head spins. He noticed you, he thought about you, long before you ever thought you were even a blip on his radar. 

He read your words and connected to them. As a writer, it feels as if he’s admitted to seeing your soul and finding it beautiful. As a human, it makes you want to fall in love, despite all of the ways he’s thoroughly and entirely erased that possibility. 

You’re not sure how long you sit in the quiet, mind reeling. It can’t be more than a handful of minutes, though, before the scenery around you begins to take a familiar shape. You’re close. 

Early evening has just begun to close in. Around you, shadows are growing longer, street lights flickering on as the last rays of sunlight fade from the day. 

Still a few blocks away, Heeseung pulls into an empty parking lot. 

You frown. “Surely we can get a little closer than this?” It’s seamless, how well the two of you slip into your roles. You have a job to do. In the face of that reality, it’s as if the past twenty minutes don’t exist at all. The only evidence is the lingering tension that simmers in the air. 

“It’s not that.” Heeseung pulls his phone out, frowning at the screen. “Sunghoon’s not responding.”

“What?” Your eyes widen. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Heeseung assures you. “He was responding to Jungwon just fifteen minutes ago. But that means we haven’t heard from anyone with eyes on the professor since then.” Weighing his options mentally, Heeseung finally suggests, “Why don’t we drive by New Haven first? We can make sure everything looks okay. If Sunghoon still hasn’t responded by then, we can make a decision.” 

“Okay,” you nod. 

Back on the road, it takes you less than five minutes to reach the publishing house. Immediately, you can tell that something is wrong. 

“There’s a car,” you whisper, even though you’re still inside the safety of the car, still driving down the road. “There’s a car parked out front.” 

“I see it.” Heeseung’s lips pull into a tight line. 

“I think it’s his car.” Your eyes widen. “The professor’s.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung confirms. “I think so too.”

“Why is he here now?” You wonder. “Didn’t you say Sunghoon had eyes on him at his house just fifteen minutes ago?”

“Something’s not right,” Heeseung agrees. “I’m going to turn around. We’ll head to the house and figure things out there.” He maintains an even tone, but you can sense the hint of panic in his voice, the slight tremble as he turns the car around and starts to head in the opposite direction. 

“Sunghoon…” You trail off. 

“Try calling him.” Heeseung passes you his phone, jaw tight. 

Taking Heeseung’s phone from his outstretched hand, you press the call button. The phone rings. In the quiet, each shrill ring sounds like thunder, burns like terror. 

“He’s not answering.” Your voice is quiet as you state the obvious. The call drops from lack of response. 

“Fuck,” Heeseung swears beneath his breath. But then he reasons, “I’m sure it’s fine. He’s probably just occupied at the moment or–”

The sound of a ringtone suddenly fills the car. 

“Is that him?” A wave of relief washes over his features. But it’s premature. 

“No,” you shake your head, frowning at the dark expanse of Heeseung’s screen. “It’s my phone. Hold on.” Digging it out of your pocket, the caller ID only makes the dread in the pit of your stomach intensify further. 

Again, your phone rings, the sound cutting through the car like a knife. 

“Who is it?” Heeseung asks. “Your heart just jumped like crazy.”

“It’s Professor Kim.” Your words are barely a whisper. 

“What?” Despite the task at hand, Heeseung takes his eyes off of the road and turns to you. 

“I should answer it, right?” You frown, fingers trembling. “He’s probably just following up on the draft I submitted earlier.” You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince – Heeseung or yourself. 

“Fuck,” Heeseung repeats. “I… yeah, you should answer.”

“Okay, just,” you sit up a little straighter, as if your professor can somehow see you. “Just don’t make any sounds.”

Sliding your thumb across your screen, you accept the call. 

“Hello? Professor Kim?”

“Hello,” he greets from the other end. Oily slick as always, but there’s something ragged in his voice, too. As if he’s recently exerted himself. At the very least, he doesn’t leave you wondering for long. “I had a chance to review your article.”

“Oh,” you reply, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. “What did you think?”

“Outstanding work,” he praises. “Truly. You are one of the most gifted students I’ve ever come across.”

Under any other circumstances, you’d beam with the praise. Now, your anxiety only heightens. Twists knots in the pit of your stomach. “I… I appreciate that, professor. It means a lot coming from you.”

“I’d like to discuss my suggestions for edits, of course.”

“Right,” you nod. “Could I call you back? I don’t have my computer at the moment, and–”

“I’d like to discuss with you in person, actually.”

“Oh,” you force neutrality into your voice, even as your heart gives a sudden lurch. “Okay. I’m available tomorrow, if there’s a time–”

Again, he interrupts you. “I would like to speak with you tonight. And I have something to show you. It’s quite urgent, I’m afraid.”

“Tonight?” You echo. And ‘something to show you’? At your side, Heeseung stiffens. “It’s a bit late. I’m not sure…”

“With the recent deaths in mind, I’m sure you understand that time is of the essence. The sooner we can publish your work, the sooner the victims can be avenged.”

You turn to Heeseung, a question in your eyes. Matching his gaze, you see the way his head begins to shake. His silent disapproval of the idea. But then he stops, sighs. 

In the driver’s seat, next to you, Heeseung silently mouths three words. 

It’s your choice. 

It almost makes you want to cry. His small adjustment. His trust in your ability to choose for yourself. 

Into the receiver, you ask, “Where should I meet you?”

“The publishing office,” your professor responds, approval in his voice. “How soon can you be here?”

Mentally constructing an alibi, you settle with, “I’m not too far away, actually. Probably twenty minutes. Maybe a little longer.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you shortly.”

The line clicks dead. 

“I don’t like this,” Heeseung’s voice is dripping in unease. 

Yours is no better. “I don’t either, but it’s all part of earning his trust, right?”

“He said he had something to show you. I don’t like all of the possibilities that could entail.”

“I’m sure it’s just something to do with the article,” you try to reason. “He’s probably prepared it as a mock publication or something and thinks I’ll be thrilled to see my writing in an official format.”

Under any other circumstances, you would be.

On the topic of your article, you’re reminded that the words in question aren’t actually yours at all. If this car is a place for revelations, you decide to add one more to the list. 

“How did you do it, by the way?” Your gaze traces Heeseung’s side profile where he looks out at the road ahead. “How did you write that article just like I would have?”

Heeseung just sighs. “I told you,” his voice is low, quiet, “your writing means a lot to me. I’ve spent a lot of time with it. I suppose that made it easy to emulate.”

“Well, thank you.”

“For stalking your writing?” Heeseung teases. 

“For reading it,” you correct. “For taking the time to understand it.” To understand me. 

“You act like it was torture for me.”

“Well, I do remember you calling one of my pieces ‘nauseatingly vitriolic.’” It feels like a lifetime ago, that evening in the writing workshop. 

“That was one piece,” Heeseung defends. “And it wasn’t really you.”

“No,” you agree, “it wasn’t.”

Heeseung glances at you, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine it too. A world where he’s just Heeseung and you’re just you. 

Two humans that met by chance, worried about disappointing their parents and picking the wrong major. Arguing over semantics and vying for attention from their professor. Stealing glances across the lecture hall that start to linger just a little too long. Meeting outside of class and pretending it’s nothing more than a terrible coincidence every time, even if you never fail to slide down into the seat next to his. 

Stealing kisses outside of your professor’s office. Sharing a cup of warm tea at a sporting event both of you are only pretending to understand. Falling in love. 

Simple moments. Quiet moments. Human moments. 

Heeseung reminds you just how far away that version of reality is when he asks, “Should I turn around, then? It’s already been five minutes.” His voice is quiet, like there’s a fantasy he doesn’t want to disturb, too. 

You shake your head. “Take a right at the next light, and drop me off at the bus stop. There’s a group of cafes a couple stops down that are popular with students. If he asks, I’ll say I was at one of them when he called.”

Heeseung doesn’t bother to protest. He follows your directions until the two of you are parked on the curb of the bus stop. Bidding him goodbye, you step out from the passenger seat. “I’ll meet you back here,” you tell him. “I’ll take the bus this far, just to be safe.”

“Okay,” he agrees, “but message me before that. As soon as you can.”

“I will,” you promise. The moment lingers for seconds longer, a million words and promises and declarations dying on both of your lips. You sever them all with the shutting of the car door. 

Heeseung doesn’t drive away, not until the bus arrives. And even then, you swear it’s his car you get fleeting glimpses of in the rearview mirror. 

But a handful of minutes later, Heeseung and his car are nowhere to be seen as you exit at the stop closest to New Haven. With the absence of the sun, there’s a biting chill in the air. Grateful for your jacket, you pull it a bit tighter around your body, suppressing a shudder. 

Glancing down at your phone, you send one final message before taking your last few steps towards the publishing house. 

Going in now. 

Heeseung responds in milliseconds. 

Be safe. 

Raising a fist, it feels a bit odd to knock on the same door you’ve broken into twice in the past twenty-four hours. The irony doesn’t have long to linger. Professor Kim is quick to answer the door and even quicker to usher you inside. 

Tonight, he looks every bit the well-kept professor you grew used to in your classes. With a creaseless button down tucked into dress pants, he might as well be back at the front of the lecture hall.

“Thank you,” he reiterates as he leads you down the hallway. “I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” 

“Of course,” you nod, trying to look as enthusiastic as he wants you to be. “The gravity of the situation is not lost on me. I’m excited to review your edits and get my article published as soon as possible.” 

“Right,” he nods, a bit apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive me, then, but I have something rather important to show you first.”

That makes your brow crease in confusion. Is what he’s showing you not related to your writing?

“What is it?”

Your professor just shakes his head. “I’m afraid words won’t do this justice. Follow me.” 

Beckoning you forward, he leads you to the same room you were poisoned in the first time you visited New Haven. Suppressing a shudder at the memory, you force your footsteps forward, even as your senses start to scream at you in protest. 

Pausing at the door, he turns over his shoulder to look at you. “You’ll be pleased to know that I believe I may have been wrong about Lee Heeseung.”

That sends ice spinning through your veins. You don’t like the sound of Heeseung’s name in his mouth, hate the idea that he’s been so fixated on him. “What do you mean? Wrong in what way?”

“See for yourself,” your professor grins. And then, he opens the door. 

The room is as dim as it was the last time you were here, but this time, your professor is quick to turn on the overhead light. 

But the absence of darkness only reveals a horror much worse than anything you imagined the darkness concealing.  

Because on the opposite side of the room, hunched in the corner, there is a figure illuminated under the harsh fluorescent overhead lighting. 

His system is infused with so much moonflower essence that he can hardly do so much as lift his head. But when he finally finds the strength to do so, you make direct eye contact with Park Sunghoon.  

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: Hello my loves! I am so happy to finally be able to share this with you all. I know I mentioned before that part of the reason it took so long was because of some recent changes in my life outside of tumblr, but if I'm honest, part of it too was that I was just having a really hard time continuing this story in a way that felt like it did justice to the first three parts.

There are so many moving pieces and things going on, and I really want to make this story come to life in the best way possible. Thank you for being patient with me while I agonized over that internally lol. I hope that this part was worth the wait. Love u all ♡♡♡

[santaasi]

die with the smile

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: a love once haunted by nightmares finds solace in a sunrise, where promises of healing and hope turn dreams of a future into quiet, steady certainty.

warnings: !major spoiler for obx4 final!, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, establish relationship, talking about death, mention of panic attacks, no use of y/n, jj calls reader angel, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.9k

a/n: requested by this ask. thank u for request, love <з. and to everyone else – i'm waiting for your requests too.

ᯓ★ now playing…

lady gaga, bruno mars – die with the smile

IT WAS SUFFOCATING. After everything that happened in Morocco, it felt like your chest had been crushed under an unbearable weight. Breathing no longer came easy. Each inhale was a jagged reminder of the past, a sharp sting of memories you couldn’t escape. You hated sleep, hated the moments when your mind would surrender to the dark. Every night, the desert came back to haunt you, its endless stretch of sand suffocating. You saw JJ lying there, motionless, his body a broken promise beneath the burning sky. And surrounded by the Pogues, Rafe fucking Cameron, his hands digging JJ's grave, burying the love of your life six feet under.

You could still hear your voice, a fractured thing, torn from your throat as you screamed for them to stop. You fell to your knees, pleading with them to hear you, begging them to leave him there, to not let him go. But no one listened. John B, Sarah, Kiara, Pope... they just stood there, frozen, like they couldn’t see the life slipping away. Of course, it was just a dream — your brain's cruel joke, twisting everything you feared most into a nightmare. But in the stillness of the night, when you woke with your heart pounding and the cold sheets tangled around you, it didn’t feel like a dream at all. It felt too real. Too close.

And so, for three months, you lived like this. In the hollow space between waking and sleeping, where the line between nightmare and reality blurred beyond recognition. Three months of restless nights, clinging to coffee mugs as if they could fill the emptiness, while your eyes begged for sleep. But when you did manage to fall asleep, the dreams would return, relentless, each one leaving you more shattered than the last.

It wasn't as bad as it had been in those first two months, when every moment was suffocating with fear. When you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your house, couldn't bring yourself to stop waiting for that phone call from the hospital. The one that would confirm the thing you couldn't bear to imagine — that JJ was gone. Everything had felt like a fever dream: tracking down doctors, finding anyone who could help, getting him back to Kildare, the hospitals, the bills you could never afford, the ones that now you had to face. Your parents never asked you to repay the money, but you knew how much they'd given up for it. They'd been saving for years. It felt wrong to let it go without giving something back.

And then there was that month of rehab, where the days stretched on like a never-ending ache. Sitting next to JJ's hospital bed, listening to the faint beeps of machines as nightmares still held you in their grip, tormenting you while you tried to hold onto him in the real world.

You hadn't cried once. Not in those two months. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to — weeping felt like you were digging his grave in advance. Like if you let the tears fall, you’d lose him all over again. But now, he was here. With you. Alive. The JJ you knew, the one who cracked jokes, who lived without fear, without hesitation. And you tried to return to who you were before, but it was harder than you'd expected. He made it seem so easy, slipping back into his old self, but you felt like you were still drowning in the wreckage of what had happened.

For weeks, you sat beside him, feeling his skin warm beneath your touch, hearing his laughter echo in the spaces between you. But still, in the quiet moments, the fear lingered. Every time you closed your eyes, you feared waking up in another cold bed, alone. But each morning, you’d find him there, by your side. He was here, alive, and you began to let yourself believe it, piece by piece.

Slowly, the days started to fill with color again. It wasn't easy, but it was better. Breathing no longer felt like a battle, and with each passing day, you felt yourself letting go of the haunting fear, the dread that lived just behind your ribs.

And you never left his side. Once, it had always been JJ who took the lead — who reached for you first, who kissed you first, who pulled you close. Now, you were the one to reach for him, to thread your fingers through his, to press a soft kiss to his lips or his forehead. It was like you were holding him tighter, making sure he was still real, still here.

"If I had to almost die for you to get this clingy," JJ teased one evening, grinning up at you as you curled into him on the couch, "You could've told me sooner, you know. I didn't know I had a personal koala bear all this time."

You smiled at his playful jab, though your fingers gripped him a little tighter. You tucked your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was like a song, a reassurance that he was here. That he was alive.

You were learning how to laugh again. How to joke. How to be you again. Or at least, almost. Because even though the world felt like it was beginning to make sense again, you couldn't shake the nightmares. They were still there, lurking in the shadows. Every time you closed your eyes, you feared that the night would swallow him whole once more.

But for now, he was still here. And in that moment, that was enough.

The chateau had become your sanctuary, a fragile semblance of home. But even here, in the quiet of its walls, you couldn't escape the void that followed you, the weight that pressed on your chest every time you woke up without him beside you. The comfort of falling asleep wrapped in his arms didn't seem to be enough anymore. It didn't stop the dreams from coming.

Every night, they came like a storm. JJ, dying in your arms, blood staining his chest. JJ, sinking beneath the waves after falling off the boat, reaching for you, but you couldn't reach him. JJ, spiralling off his dirt bike, tumbling into the dirt, and you couldn't save him. And then, there was the desert. Always the desert. You couldn't escape it, no matter how hard you tried.

But in the moments before the nightmare took hold, when you woke to the warmth of his body next to you, his hand resting lightly on your waist, his breath soft against your neck, you could calm yourself. You could breathe, steadying your heart before the panic could rise. He was there. He was alive. And you would cling to that reality until the night came again, bringing with it the horrors you couldn’t outrun.

JJ, of course, remained blissfully unaware. He slept soundly, his chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of someone who had earned a brief reprieve from the chaos. And you — you would lie there, bathed in moonlight, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, needing to touch him, needing to see that he was really there. That he wasn't slipping through your fingers. Over time, the nightmares began to fade. They became less frequent, their grip less tight. But just when you thought you could breathe freely, just when you thought the storm had passed, it came crashing back.

Two weeks of peace. Two weeks of deep, uninterrupted sleep. But that night, everything changed.

The dream returned. The one you feared the most. JJ, lying motionless in the sand, his clothes stained with dried blood, his body pale under the desert sun. The wind blew the sand into your eyes, blinding you, choking you, as Rafe stood above him, digging, his hands moving with the unholy rhythm of a grim reaper, burying your love beneath the earth. You fell to your knees beside the pit, the hot sand searing through your clothes, but you didn't care. You couldn’t look away. You couldn’t look away from the hole that was swallowing everything you loved. With each shovel of sand, the pit grew deeper, and with it, your heart.

The faces around you were blank — pale, cold. John B, Sarah, Kiara, Pope... they stood there, frozen, as if they were burying someone they'd never known. No tears. No grief. Just... emptiness. It broke you. It shattered you, piece by piece.

"No! No! Please! Enough!" you cried out, your voice cracking as you scrambled to your feet, your body shaking. You turned to them, your heart a fragile thing, desperate for anyone to react, to feel something. "Do something! He's not dead! JJ's not dead! John B! Sarah! Please!"

The tears fell freely, hot against your cold cheeks, choking your breath. Everything blurred around you, and all you could see, all you could feel, was his face. His beautiful face, pale and cold under the relentless sand. You reached for him, your fingers trembling as they traced the outline of his cheek.

"I love you, JJ... Please, don't leave me... don't you dare leave me," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the roar in your ears. You pushed the hair from his face, trying to pull him back to life with your touch. "Please, Jay, wake up. I love you. Please..."

The heart-wrenching sob that escaped you felt like it was tearing you apart, even as they began to throw the sand over him. As they buried him. Covered him. And the world turned dark.

Someone's hands grabbed at you, pulling you away, but you fought them, kicking, screaming, dying with him as the earth swallowed your love.

"No! Please, no!" The words tore from your chest like jagged glass, but it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

Then, a voice — soft, familiar, grounding. A warmth that pulled you from the nightmare. "Hey, hey, angel..."

You gasped, eyes snapping open, panic seizing you as the darkness of your dream lingered. The bed was empty. The space beside you, cold and vast. Your body trembled as sobs wracked your chest, but then arms wrapped around you, strong and steady. They held you close, pulling you into warmth, into the comforting scent of the sea and something more.

"Wake up... come on, angel, it's okay," the voice coaxed, his words gentle but firm, a tether pulling you from the depths of your nightmare.

You turned, eyes still blurry with tears, and looked over your shoulder. You half expected to see nothing. To be alone in the darkness. But then you saw him. JJ. JJ. His face was the same as it always had been — familiar, comforting, real. The soft smile on his lips made your heart stutter, and you found yourself reaching for him instinctively.

"JJ… you're here," you exhaled, your body relaxing, your mind calming for just a moment. But then the overwhelming relief struck you, and suddenly, you were gripping him as tightly as you could, clutching him like you'd never let go. You turned in his arms, wrapping yourself around him, pressing every part of yourself against him, trying to absorb his presence with every cell of your being. You needed to feel him, needed him to know how deeply you'd been shaken.

"I thought you were… you were… I saw…" you choked out, the words barely a whisper, breaking apart in fresh waves of tears that trembled through you. You buried your face in his neck, shuddering as his hand ran soothingly down your back.

"Shh... I'm here, love," he murmured softly, pulling you even closer. "I'm with you, and I'm not going anywhere." His hand traced gentle circles in your hair, his voice a soft balm over your wounds.

JJ knew how much you’d been struggling. He saw it in your red, swollen eyes each morning, in the tired shadows that lingered beneath them. He noticed how you would sometimes drift off mid-conversation, lost to a place he couldn't reach, as if carrying something too heavy to share. He felt it every time you’d reach for his hand, holding it tighter than you used to, grounding yourself in his touch. And he felt it every night you stayed at the chateau, choosing to lie beside him rather than in your own bed, pressing your ear against his chest just to hear his heartbeat.

JJ Maybank wasn't oblivious. He understood what haunted you, and he wished with everything in him that he could erase it. Because he knew — if it had been you, if you were the one hovering on the edge of life and death... he couldn’t even let himself think of it. You were his everything, his only certainty in a world that had never offered him much. And knowing you were hurting like this, knowing he was the reason, that was the worst thing he could imagine. It was worse than the death he’d nearly met.

And so he tried to help you in every way he could. He stayed close, always nearby, holding you tight whenever you needed it. He whispered sweet promises in your ear, spun dreams of the future for you both, reminded you every day just how much he loved you. He did everything he could to show you that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere.

But seeing you now, shattered and trembling in his arms, feeling your tears soak his shirt, it tore at him. It was like a raw ache, a knife twisting deeper with every sob you released. You were suffering because of him, and he could feel the guilt clawing at his chest. He’d never wanted this — not for you.

As your breathing began to calm, your hold on his shirt loosened, and he shifted back slightly to meet your gaze. Your face was swollen from crying, your eyes rimmed red, and he felt a tenderness rise in him that he could barely contain. He lifted a hand to your cheek, thumb grazing your skin as he leaned in, gently brushing his lips over yours, a silent promise, as if he could kiss the fear away.

"I'm fine," you whispered, though your voice was trembling and raw. JJ just shook his head, unconvinced. He bent down, picking up his hoodie that had been lying on the floor, then draped it around your shoulders. The familiar, comforting scent of his cologne surrounded you, filling your senses, and you closed your eyes, sinking into the warmth.

"Let's go for a walk?" he asked softly, his voice gentle but insistent. You managed a small nod, slipping out of bed to follow him.

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon as you reached the beach, bathing everything in a soft, golden light. JJ's hand was intertwined with yours, and his thumb traced delicate patterns along the back of your hand, grounding you. The breeze tugged at your hair, the salt air filling your lungs as you took slow, steady breaths, savouring the tranquility of the moment.

When you reached your favourite spot, tucked away behind the rocks, JJ settled down, pulling you between his legs, his arms circling you. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, and you felt a soft, involuntary smile tug at your lips. His heartbeat thudded against your back, steady and reassuring, and you let yourself melt into the safety of his embrace.

For a few quiet minutes, you both watched the sun rise, bathing the ocean in warm, shifting hues. Then JJ's voice broke the silence, low and hesitant.

"You know... for a second, I thought I was going to die," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely let himself show. "When I blacked out, I thought... this was it. That y'll would leave me there in Morocco, that I'd lose everything."

JJ swallowed, as if trying to steady himself, and you could feel the tension in his arms as he held you tighter. He’d tried to laugh it all off before, hiding behind jokes and smiles, but now — now it felt real. The memories weighed down his words, and you could hear the unspoken fear beneath them.

"JJ, don’t," you whispered, your own voice catching. You pulled his hoodie closer around you, burying your face in the soft fabric to push away the memories of that day, the endless days that followed. His arms tightened around you, his cheek pressing against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he drew you closer, as if he could shield you from the memory.

"No, I need to say this… I need you to hear it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a shuddering breath, and you felt something wet land softly on your shoulder. A tear.

JJ gave a small, shaky grin and shook his head, leaning in close to murmur in your ear. "You've been with me through everything, angel. You saved me. You kept me alive."

The words settled into you, quiet and profound, and you turned to look at him, seeing the vulnerability he was baring, the weight he'd been carrying alone. You looked back at the horizon, feeling a deep ache inside, a pull that was both painful and reassuring, like your heart was finally finding its place.

You closed your eyes, concentrating on nothing but him — the feel of his arms, the warmth of his breath against your neck, the way his fingers tightened protectively around yours. You wanted to wrap yourself in this moment, to sink so deeply into him that you’d never be apart again.

"When I woke up for the first time… I heard your voice," JJ's voice trembled, breaking as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "The way you told everyone that I wasn't going to die... the way you begged me not to... not to leave you..." His words cracked, and you felt the weight of his pain seep into your bones. He was broken, and it tore at your heart.

You intertwined your fingers with his, feeling the soft, trembling pulse beneath his skin. "I couldn't die... every time I slipped away, all I could think about was you," JJ whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "That I couldn't leave you. That I love you, and I don't want to leave you..."

He gently cupped your chin, lifting your face toward his. His eyes — red and swollen from crying — met yours, and in that moment, you saw how deeply connected you were. You were both raw, broken open, and yet, still whole together.

"I love you so much, that even at death's door, I fought with everything I had to stay here with you," he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand slid down your cheek, brushing away the tears that refused to stop falling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I put you through this, angel."

You felt your heart shatter for him, your lip trembling as his words hit you like a wave. Your hands moved instinctively to his face, cupping it gently, and you shook your head. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault that life had dealt him such a cruel hand. It wasn't his fault that he had been made to suffer in ways no one should. You knew he didn't deserve this. He deserved better — so much better.

"I promise…" JJ's voice was tight with emotion, but he pressed on. "No, I swear... I will never make you go through this again. I swear it. I swear that after all this, I won't give you any reason to worry. I will always be here for you." His blue eyes searched yours, holding you captive with their intensity. The weight of his words felt heavier than anything you'd ever known. "I will be with you, no matter what. And I will build us the house you always dreamed of. A white house with big windows and a garden, where we’ll play with our dog — our dog, which we’ll name JJ Jr. And then... maybe a child, or two, or three...”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head, though tears still lingered. It had always been a dream, a fantasy you shared with him, but now, seeing the determination in his eyes, it felt like a possibility. It felt like something you could reach out and touch.

"I'll give you the world, angel. I'll give you paradise," JJ continued, his voice thick with promise. "I'll do everything in my power to make sure these stupid tears never fall from your beautiful eyes again. Do you believe me?"

There was a pause. His gaze was so sincere, so full of hope, searching for any sign that you believed in him, in what he was offering. You felt a warmth spread through you, a quiet certainty in your chest. You smiled softly, your heart swelling with a love so deep you thought it might burst.

Without thinking, you pressed your lips to his, soft and slow. You let your kiss speak for you — every unspoken word, every emotion that had built up inside you over the months, the fear, the longing, the desperation, and finally, the relief. This kiss was all of it, and more. You poured everything into it, every promise, every fear, every hope, every part of you that you'd been holding onto for so long.

You held him like you'd never let go, feeling the weight of time slow down, knowing that in this moment, you were safe, you were here, and he was here. Nothing else mattered — just the two of you, together.

"I believe you, Jay. I've always believed you, and I will, because I love you," you murmured, your words soft as they met his lips. He responded with a deeper kiss, pulling you into him as if he could anchor himself to you, as if he, too, was letting go of something.

You giggled as he playfully knocked you down onto the sand, its warmth wrapping around you like an embrace. The sand, once so haunting, now felt soft and grounding beneath you, no longer a symbol of loss but one of hope — a new beginning waiting to be written.

JJ leaned over you, his blue eyes softened by the first light of dawn, eyes that were once wild and filled with fear but now were steady, full of promises. "I love you more, angel," he whispered, his voice like a lullaby against your skin, "and I'm not going anywhere."

He leaned in, capturing your lips again, and this time, every kiss melted the edges of past wounds, pushing away the darkness of every nightmare and sorrow you'd held. Here, with his arms around you and the sky lightening into the day, it was easy to believe in something beautiful, something lasting. You kissed him back, savoring each touch, each brush of his fingers against your skin as he held you closer.

For the first time in months, you let yourself imagine a future unshadowed by fear. A life filled with morning sunrises like this one, laughter echoing between you, the warmth of a home you’d build together. As JJ pulled you even closer, you felt a quiet certainty settle in your chest — a certainty that happiness was no longer a distant hope but a promise waiting for both of you, right here, right now.

thankx for reading <3

i was literally crying while i was writing this and i felt like this for the first time in my life. so, i hope you liked it. you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

- your santi 🪐

masterlist

[emilys-bangs]

thankful you don't send someone to kill me | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, london!emily, angst, exes who STILL haven't gotten over each other, phone calls, pregnant!emily, brief mentions of blood, reader has trouble sleeping, implied previous insomnia, they still want each other bad

Summary: History repeats itself; when you call, Emily answers.

Word count: 1.7k

Part one

The TV blurs in Emily’s vision. Her eyelids are heavy, lashes skimming her cheeks, but another kick to the ribs swiftly dissolves any hopes of sleep. She groans quietly into the couch cushion, her palm smoothing over the curve of her stomach.

“Go to sleep, kid,” she mutters, feeling her daughter flutter under her skin. It’s all but fruitless by now; weak, watery light filters in through the curtains, dawn slowly creeping across the living room floor and chasing away the likelihood of going back to sleep. Emily rubs between her brows, stamping down on the urge to cry.

Nothing is easy when you’re 30 weeks pregnant. Not walking or sleeping or, hell, just being upright. She’s constantly tired, constantly aching, constantly on the verge of falling apart at the seams. Her skin is bone dry in the midst of summer, lips cracking and peeling if they’re not perpetually lathered in Vaseline, but the hormones are probably the worst of it. Wild and out of control, they bubble to the surface faster than she can blink, tears blurring her vision over nonsense, anger sparking in her blood at the slightest inconvenience. Mark flounders around her, desperate to have her in one piece; Emily is very nearly the same, slowly losing her patience with both him and herself, longing for the moment when she’d finally have her daughter in her arms.

But that moment isn’t coming along any time soon.

Emily nuzzles her face into the space between the couch cushions in an attempt to block out the light. Some shuteye has to do some good, even if by this point it’s probable it’ll tire her out more somehow. Her baby begins to still again, and Emily closes her eyes, relishing in the yet unbroken peace of the morning. 

She barely counts ten seconds before her phone buzzes with a call. 

The vibrations travel through the cushions and force her eyes open again. Her phone doesn’t even ring twice; it goes still mid-ring, the screen dying to a flat black. 

She’s going to kill Clyde.

Emily grabs her phone, scowling at the screen until her brain catches up, the letters on the screen joining together to form a name, and then endless ashy memories.

You.

Her breath hitches. She blinks and reads the name again, dragging her thumbnail over the screen. Its shape is so familiar, sloping letters joining sweetly to make up years of faded bliss, months of ever-present agony. There’s no way you’d call. Not after the last time, when she ground your heart to pieces beneath her heel, heard it crack in your voice and in her own chest. No, you wouldn’t call—she made sure of that.

Unless you’re in trouble.

The thought makes her chest tight. Emily doesn’t hesitate, pressing call and bringing the phone to her ear, hardly hearing the long rings through the roar of blood in her veins. 

Beep. Beep. 

She mentally calculates the time difference. Almost 2 am, if you’re in DC. Emily gnaws on her lip, automatically smoothing over a kick to her spleen.

Beep. Bee—

The line clicks. It’s silent, both of you holding your breath. Movement buzzes in the background, faint white noise; it doesn’t bend beneath your voice as you stay quiet. Waiting.

Emily cracks first.

“Y/N.” Her tongue almost weeps at the feeling of your name on it. “Are you—are you okay?” It’s embarrassing, the way her voice cracks, but she doesn’t even hear it. “It’s late. Are you home? Is everything—?”

“I’m fine.” Your voice is faded. Toneless. Emily exhales at the sound of it, her ears ringing. “Sorry. I, uh—I didn’t mean to call.” 

It stings, a barely healed cut slicing open again, but what did she expect? Of course you didn’t. 

But, she thinks deliriously. 

But you still called.

“My finger slipped.” You say, effectively deflating the balloon of hope in her chest before it can grow. “Sorry.” 

Emily swallows. Her baby kicks and she rubs over the ache, feeling the imprint of an elbow as the silence stretches and thickens and starts to taper off neatly into a goodbye. 

The thought sends a strange panic racing through her. She grabs the silence, snaps it in her hands, and lets her voice echo down the line. 

“Why are you awake?” 

But she knows why. Your mind races too restlessly too often. It wasn’t always that she could help; sometimes she just sat with you on the couch as muted reruns flashed on the TV, doing nothing but keeping you company and raking her fingers through your hair. 

Her hand twitches. She clenches her fingers into a fist, bringing them up to the torn skin on her bottom lip.

“Don’t know. Just one of those nights, I guess.” You speak slowly. The tired rasp in your voice is familiar, haunting; she wishes she could smooth it away. “We’re in New York.” You volunteer.

Emily peels a dry patch of skin from her lip, blood wetting her nail. She pretends it’s the sting that burns her eyes, makes them drown in salt.

“You’ll have to be up early.” She rasps needlessly, thinking of Hotch’s disfavor for tardiness. “Try to close your eyes, love.”

She bites down on her tongue, blood coating her teeth, but it’s too late. A sardonic sound huffs from your mouth, a phantom burst of air caressing her ear. “Solid advice, Emily. I hadn’t thought of that.” The bite of your tone claws into her flesh, drawing streams of blood down her limbs. Her tears join the mix, swirling down in the wake of your bitterness and her crumbling resolve.

Seconds clump together, and this time, she’s too scared to break the silence, afraid she’ll say something stupid. Confess that she’s not too sure she hasn’t made a mistake. Fucked up her life, and yours, and Mark’s. Beg you to take her back, away from her stiflingly kind fiancé who handles her with kid gloves, too unsettled by a version of her that isn’t fully composed. 

But no, she already pushed you away, didn’t she? She doesn’t get to go back. She won’t.

Emily’s heart trips in your silence. Do you hate her already? You must. Sometimes she thinks she hates you, but she’s pathetically weak where you’re involved. She can’t hear your name in someone else’s mouth. Can’t bear to think about you for more than a few minutes without her mouth going sour, cheeks puckering as she wonders if it’s possible you could’ve moved on, found someone better. She’s tender all over on the inside, bruised and sensitive, entirely composed of the fresh, delicate skin hidden beneath a scab.

Emily glances at her phone, making sure the call is still running. Your name is trapped in her mouth, her cheeks cool with sticky tears as she soothes her daughter’s restlessness and waits for whatever it is you’ll unleash on her. 

It takes an age before you speak. When you do, your voice is quieter. “It must be—what time is it over there?”

“Almost seven.” She croaks.

”God, that’s early. Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” She blurts out.

“Everything okay?” She hears the concern bleed into your voice. It chokes her, your lovely fingers digging into her throat and cutting off the flow of air to her lungs.

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice shakes. “It’s not—uh. Not nightmares or anything.” 

She can’t get herself to say it. Say, I can’t sleep because my baby’s keeping me up. She’s using me as a punching bag, and I can’t tell you about it because I don’t get to. Because I signed up for it and you didn’t. Her tongue is numb around the words, frozen in a way she never used to be with you.

Briefly, Emily hates the both of you. Hates herself for being ashamed to mention her unborn child that she’d torn her heart to get, hates you for making her hesitate.

Your silence tells her you understand. You were always a smart one, easily catching on to her wit and matching it with your own. Now you clear your throat. “Can’t be easy sleeping now. Seven months, huh?”

Her heart flutters.

“Just over,” she mumbles, looking down at her stomach. It gently warps the material of her tank top. “30 weeks.” Her voice wobbles. A warm tear drops on the crest of her bump and bleeds through the cotton, staining it dark. 

God, she’s thought of this. Dreamed of it. Calling you, hearing your voice even though she’s the last person to deserve it. She doesn’t even deserve to hear it tinny and flat through the speakers of her phone, through the buds of her earphones, trying to get close to the real thing—feeling it beat faintly in her ears—without stripping away more of her dignity.

It didn’t work. Nothing ever did.

Emily wipes her damp cheeks, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Um, how are you? How’ve you been?”

“Let’s not do this, Emily.” You murmur. You suddenly sound years older, worn down and thready. She closes her eyes.

“Are you eating?” Are you walking around with missing fragments of a heart like she is? “Is Serg?”

“The damn cat’s always eating.” You huff, something like a laugh. It pinches at her chest. “He misses you.” You say, quieter.

“He loves you.” Emily’s throat is numb with the taste of tears.

Your breath hitches in her ear. 

“I have to go.”

“Wait.” She whispers. “No, wait, please, I…”

I miss you. I still love you. I think I fucked up, but I’m not too sure I didn’t.

“Hey. Don’t…” You trail off, heaving in a breath, “Don’t cry, Em. You’re—you’re happy, aren’t you?”

She digs a heel into her eye. “I’m not.” She sniffs, her words ringing entirely hollow. “Not crying, it’s just—the baby. She’s kicking.”

Your stillness is palpable. “She, huh?” You say, your voice straining. “Picked out a name yet?”

What is she doing?

“You don’t have to do this. God, I’m sorry, I’ll just—take care of yourself, okay? Please.”

“I should be the one telling you that.”

Emily touches her stomach. Her daughter doesn’t rise to her touch, finally stilling. “I will if you will.” She rasps, rubbing circles on her skin.

A beat. Then, softly, “I’ll try.”

That’s all she can ask for. Maybe, Emily thinks as the call disconnects, even that is too much.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll

[ddejavvu]

hi mei!! i absolutely adore your writing, you're amazing!!

could i ask you to write for reader who's touch starved and really wants a tight hug from remus, but doesn't dare ask for it for fear of being too clingy?

i am so sorry if you've written this before, i binge-read your entire masterlist a little while back but my memory is also Very Bad-

"The quiet one's brooding again."

You glance up from your notebook to meet Sirius's squinted eyes, his brows slanted at you where you sit trying to focus on your work. You're not brooding, you're just not smiling. He kicks at you beneath the table, "What's'a matter, grumpy, your essay not long enough?"

"It's fine." You grumble, "I'm just having trouble editing."

"It's late." James scrubs a hand over his face, nearly tugging his glasses out from behind his ears. He lets the hand drag through his hair, nearly wrenching strands out where they've curled into each other, "I'm fading myself."

"I can't sleep until I finish." You groan, and suddenly everything is a bit overwhelming, the press of James's thigh against yours, the way Sirius's foot is still nudging yours beneath the table, the scratch of your sweater against your bare skin.

You vault from your seat, rushing towards the common room fire with staggering steps that probably invoke suspicions of booze from your friends. Finals are stressful, and you're always worried about the looming prospect of The Future, and that's concerning enough if you pass your exams. The thought of failing them and making whatever The Future is worse- well that's what's got your hands trembling. You grasp them together like you're cold, and it helps, but the shake is deeper than your extremities.

"Y/N," Remus calls, and you hear his voice get closer, not louder, as he approaches where you stand at the fire. You stare at the flames as an excuse to not meet his eyes, and they burn your vision, but you can't bring yourself to look away.

"I just need a minute." You squeeze tighter at your own fingers, the touch stinging but calming, "I'm tired and- and I just want to be done with my work and go to bed."

"I can edit." Remus suggests, laying a gentle hand on your shoulder. For all its softness you react like it's an anvil, letting it pile onto the weight already draped over your shoulders like a yoke and nearly falling back into Remus.

"Oh," Is all he manages to say before taking a leap of faith and sliding his hand from your shoulder to your waist, wrapping the other one around your hip to meet it. His hands rest on your stomach and he stands there being warmed by the fire with you, watching the way your hands squeeze each other tighter.

"I wish we could stay in school forever." You manage, your voice cracked and breaking, "I- I'm worried about getting a real job, and paying for housing, and- and never seeing my friends again because I'm too busy working."

"I know. Don't worry, though. You'll have a good shot in the job market, though, and if you're ever in need of a place to stay, you know James's mom will tuck you in like you're hers. You could live on her plastic-wrapped couch for the rest of your life if you had to."

"I couldn't sleep with all the crinkling," You laugh, even though two tears still streak down your cheeks. You sniffle, and your nose scrunches, but your face quickly widens with a yawn, "God, I'm so fucking- tired, I just-"

"Go sleep." Remus urges, squeezing you once and letting go, "I'll proofread your essay, and I'll make sure Sirius doesn't write penis on it again like he did last time."

"As the fucking title," You growl, a forgotten fury now rising once more in your gut, "You know what? I think I can manage to stay awake just long enough to change his name at the top to Sirius Balls without him noticing."

"I'll distract him." Remus promises, throwing a glance back at the man currently ignoring his essay in favor of chattering with James, "Throw in a swear or two for me, yeah?"

"Deal." You let him grab your hand before you depart, and he squeezes it much kinder than you'd squeezed yourself.

"Hey. If you get like that again, you can ask for a hug."

Instantly, you're a little sheepish, but you power through it to nod, "Thanks, Remus."

He nods once, then lets your hand go, "Hey, Sirius, you mind walking down to the kitchens with me to get some more wine from the professors' stash?"

Sirius is on his feet in an instant, plenty of years' experience with not only stealing, but stealing booze, "How many bottles do y'think we can carry?"

"Enough to make sure you don't proofread well." You suggest, grinning coyly, and James turns a blind eye, smirking, when Sirius's quill is in your hand the moment the portrait hole shuts.

[societyfolklore]

When All Is Said and Done

Title: When All Is Said and Done (Was I Not Good Enough?) Pairing: PostEndgame!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Female Reader

Summary: After Steve leaves to live his life with Peggy, Bucky is left behind, struggling with feelings of abandonment and unworthiness. Haunted by the thought that if Steve could leave him, maybe he was never truly worth saving, Bucky spirals into self-doubt. You try to be an anchor in the storm.

Word Count:  4.3k

Warnings:  // Explicit Content // Mature Themes.18+, Minors DNI, Angst, Slight Dub-Con, Unprotected sex (Wrap it!) NO Beta Read

A/N: Enty for @princessmisery666Daily Mixes Challenge BAD OMENS - Said & Done

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights streaming through the half-drawn curtains. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, his metal hand resting heavily on his knee, its cold surface a stark contrast to the heat of his turmoil. The letter Steve had left lay crumpled on the nightstand, its edges frayed from Bucky’s restless grip. He had read it so many times that he could recite the words from memory, yet they still cut like a dagger.

‘I had to do this for me,’ the phrase echoed in his mind, over and over, a haunting refrain. What did Steve mean by that? Every time Bucky tried to dissect the words, they only seemed to fracture further. At first, they felt like abandonment, a betrayal of their years together. Then they felt selfish-a stark declaration that Bucky’s struggle didn’t matter. And now, now they had twisted into something darker: confirmation that Bucky wasn’t worth staying for.

He stared at his reflection in the window, the faint outline of his face distorted against the city’s glow. Was this what Steve saw when he looked at him? A broken shell of the man he used to be? The thought clawed at his chest, tightening his breath. Maybe Steve had been waiting for an excuse to leave. Maybe saving Bucky had always been more of a burden than he let on.

Sam had tried to check in, his voice gentle but persistent. “Buck, we need you here. Let me help,” he’d said one afternoon, standing in the doorway to Bucky’s apartment. But the words only grated on Bucky’s fraying nerves.

“You can’t help,” Bucky had snapped, his voice colder than he intended. “You’re not the one he left behind.”

The sting of those words lingered in Sam’s eyes, but he didn’t push back. Instead, he gave a single nod and walked away, leaving Bucky to the heavy silence that had become his constant companion.

It wasn’t long before Bucky stopped answering the door entirely. The knocks came less frequently, each unanswered visit another nail in the coffin of his isolation. Soon, they stopped altogether, leaving him in a vacuum of his own making.

He spent most days like this-sitting in the dim light, staring at nothing in particular. The city outside buzzed with life, a stark contrast to the stillness inside his room. The only movement came from the faint trembling of his hands, the metal one glinting faintly in the light. Sometimes he would reach for the letter, his fingers brushing its edges, as if hoping the words would change. But they never did.

The nights were worse. The darkness brought memories he couldn’t escape: the weight of Steve’s shield in his hand, the sound of his voice promising they’d figure it out together. Those promises now felt like empty echoes, haunting him with what could never be again. Sleep was rare and fleeting, filled with dreams that blurred into nightmares, where Steve’s back was always turned, walking away without looking back.

You had noticed the signs. Bucky’s withdrawn behaviour wasn’t just an avoidance of others; it was a deliberate effort to disappear. He rarely answered his phone, and when he did, his responses were clipped and evasive. Days turned into weeks without a word from him, and your worry grew until it became unbearable.

The aftermath of Thanos had already taken a toll of a lot of you. It felt like your little 'found family' had scattered to the wind. It hurt. Hurt that Bucky was retreating and you'd wanted to give him space, but.. you were worried. You missed him. Standing at his door for what felt like the hundredth time you hesitated before knocking. When there was no answer, you knocked again, louder this time. “Bucky?” you called softly. Silence greeted you, but it didn’t deter you. You tried the handle and found it unlocked.

The sight inside was worse than you had feared. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tightly shut. Bucky sat hunched over on the edge of the couch, his metal hand gripping the edge of the coffee table with enough force to leave faint indents in the wood. He didn’t look up as you stepped inside, his head bowed as though the weight of his thoughts had become too heavy to bear.

“Bucky,” you said gently, your voice breaking the stillness. “You weren't answering your phone, I got worried about you.”

He let out a low, humourless laugh, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. His eyes were shadowed, tired, but there was a flicker of something else there-guilt. “You shouldn’t waste your time worrying about me Doll. I’m not worth it.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you refused to let them push you away. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “I care about you, Bucky. And shutting yourself off from the world isn’t going to help.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of him. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling shakily. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Fix what?” you replied, sitting down beside him, your voice softer now, coaxing him to open up.

He didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to his hands, the metal one clenching and unclenching slightly, as though he were trying to find the right words. The silence stretched between you, filled with the faint hum of the city outside and the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall.

Finally, he let out a shaky breath. “Everything,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Why do you come?” he snapped, his words laced with anger and desperation. “I’m not your problem to fix.”

The force of his tone startled you, but you didn’t flinch.

 “I don't want to keep loosing people. I’m here because I care.”

He let out a bitter laugh, getting up shaking his head as he paced the small space. “Care? About what? About some broken soldier who can’t even hold onto the one person who mattered?” His voice cracked, the bitterness giving way to something raw and vulnerable.

“Bucky,” you said softly, of course this was about Steve..  “Steve didn’t leave because of you. He made a choice for himself. It doesn’t mean you weren’t enough.”

He turned away, his hands clenching at his sides. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Steve couldn't stand the idea of what I am now. He was wrong about me…You're all wrong about me.” His words trailed off, but the implication was clear. He couldn’t bring himself to believe he was worthy of anything-not forgiveness, not friendship, not love.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him standing there, shoulders hunched as though he was carrying the weight of the world. You took a cautious step forward, your voice steady but filled with conviction. “Steve wasn’t wrong, Bucky. He believed in you, and so do I. You are worth fighting for. You always have been.”

"Then why isn't he still here?" 

He finally looked at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears that he refused to let fall. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something, but instead, he slumped into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands. His breaths were uneven, his shoulders trembling under the weight of his emotions.

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him trying to get him to look at you. “It’s okay to feel this way,” you said gently. “It’s okay to be angry, to hurt, to grieve. But don’t let it convince you that you’re not worth saving. Because you are.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn’t empty. Before you could think of what to say next, Bucky suddenly moved. His metal hand shot out, gripping your face with surprising gentleness given the desperation in his movements. His other hand followed, cradling your jaw as though you might disappear if he didn’t hold on. His lips crashed onto yours, hard and unrelenting. It wasn’t a kiss of romance but one of raw pain, a silent scream in the form of a desperate connection. His face was wet, and it took you a moment to realize it was from his tears, tears you hadn’t even known he’d been shedding. They mixed with the salty taste of his lips, painting a picture of the storm raging inside him.

The kiss broke as abruptly as it began, and Bucky pulled back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. His tears continued to fall, unchecked and raw, as he whispered, "I don't know how to be okay. I don't even know where to start."

Your hands found their way to his wrists, holding onto him as if to ground him.  "Shh it.." you murmured, your voice unsteady even as your heart pounded in your chest.   "I'm drowning can I don't know how-" He was kissing you again, this mad scramble for something. Anything to hold onto. 

The kiss was  harder this time, with a desperation that bordered on breaking. His grip on your face tightened-not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear he was holding onto you like you were his only tether to the world. His tears didn’t stop, and neither did the trembling in his hands. This wasn’t a kiss of comfort; it was still this raw and unfiltered act, a cry for salvation in the form of closeness.

His lips moved against yours like they were begging, pleading for something he couldn’t put into words. His breath hitched between kisses, the sound catching in his throat like he was choking on his own anguish. He pressed you closer, his metal hand slipping around your back, holding you as if letting go would shatter him completely.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered between the frantic press of his lips against yours, his voice cracking. “Tired of feeling this way. Tired of carrying it all.”

“Bucky…” you breathed, your own voice trembling as you tried to keep up with his frantic pace, your hands moving to his shoulders in an attempt to ground him. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave me,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to yours as his words spilled out like a confession. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t- I can’t do this alone.”

Your heart broke at the sheer vulnerability in his voice, at the way he clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him afloat. His lips brushed yours again, softer this time but no less desperate, as though he was afraid you’d disappear the moment he let go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, cupping his face as your thumbs brushed away his tears. “I’m here, Buck. Promise.”

His breath hitched again, his entire body shaking as his forehead pressed harder against yours. “I don’t know how to stop it,” he admitted, his voice a broken whisper. “It’s like… like I cant breath anymore...”  his voice cracking as his hands slipped to your waist, clutching you tightly  pulling you into his chest between his legs “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this… like I’m suffocating.”

“Bucky, you’re not alone,” you whispered, your hands moving to cradle his face again, desperate to reassure him. “I’m right here.”

But it wasn’t enough-not for him. He shook his head, his eyes wild and glistening with fresh tears. “I need… I need to feel something. Anything that isn’t this.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, harder and more insistent, his desperation spilling into every frantic movement He was out of the chair, you on your back beneath him.  The hard surface bit into you. His metal hand braced against the floor beside your head, while his flesh hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as though trying to memorize the feel of you. His kisses were messy, frantic, his breath uneven as he broke away only to return seconds later, pressing his lips to yours as if afraid the connection would slip through his fingers.

“Just… please,” he murmured against your lips, his voice breaking again. “Just let me feel something. Let me forget for a little while.”

“Bucky…” you breathed, your hands finding his chest pushing back a little was his weight got heavy. “You don’t have to do this. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need this,” he said, his voice raw, trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “I need you. Just for a little while. Please.”

His words shattered something inside you, the raw vulnerability and desperation in his tone cutting through any hesitation you might have had. Your hands moved to his hair, threading through the strands as you pulled him closer, your lips meeting his with equal intensity. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he shook with barely contained emotion, and you poured every ounce of reassurance you could into the kiss.

“It’s ok,” you whispered against his lips, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you, this wasn’t what you imagined. “I’m here, Bucky-.” He lips cut your off again. His lips captured yours with a bruising force, silencing whatever reassurance you’d been about to offer. The desperation in his kiss deepened, raw and almost frantic, his hand moved from your face.

As his lips continued to devour yours, his hands moved with a desperation that matched the intensity of his kisses. You felt his fingers brush against your waist, and then his hands were on your pants, tugging them down with a force that made the fabric tear. The sound of ripping cloth was lost in the chaos of his kisses, and before you could even process what was happening, his belt was undone, the metallic clink of the buckle hitting the floor a distant echo in your mind. You wanted to tell him to slow down it didn’t need to be like this. But his mouth didn’t relent.

Bucky’s mouth never left yours, his tongue tangling with yours in a heated, frantic dance as his body pressed against yours, the weight of him pinning you firmly to the hard surface. He was driven by a force that was more emotional than physical, and you didn’t have time to think as his body shifted fully on top of you. His hips surged forward, the powerful motion stealing the breath from your lungs, and you let him sink into you completely, your body arching to meet his.

A strangled noise escaped you, muffled against his mouth, as Bucky took what he needed with an unrestrained urgency. The sensation was overwhelming, his body filling yours with a force that left your head spinning. His lips broke away from yours only to crash back again, every kiss bruising and desperate. The air around you seemed to thrum with the intensity of his emotions, his ragged breath punctuated by guttural grunts and growls that sent shivers racing down your spine.

“Ugh-” The sound escaped him, a deep, almost feral noise as he buried himself deeper into you. His forehead pressed to yours briefly before his lips found your neck, teeth grazing your skin as a low growl rumbled from his chest. “I need… I need this,” he ground out, his voice rough and shaking with barely contained emotion.

You clung to him, your fingers tangling in his hair and your nails digging into his scalp as if to keep yourself tethered to reality. But he didn’t let up, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that bordered on chaos. Each movement was accompanied by another guttural noise from him, a deep, broken sound that spoke of both pain and longing.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your voice catching in your throat as his body invading into yours, the weight of his need pressing down on you like a tidal wave. His growls turned into sharp, strained groans, his face buried in the crook of your neck as his body moved against yours in a desperate, almost primal rhythm.

The sounds coming from him were almost animalistic-each grunt and growl carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was as if he was pouring every ounce of his anguish, his need, and his desire into this moment, and you couldn’t help but be swept away by it. You felt like you were being consumed by him, his emotions and his body becoming one overwhelming force that threatened to break you apart and hold you together all at once.

A deep, broken groan tore from his throat as he thrust harder, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. “God,” he growled, his voice cracking as his movements grew more frantic. “I can’t- I need-”

His head snapped up, his eyes wild and glassy as he looked at you. His lips parted, but the only sound that came was another deep, guttural noise as he kissed you again with bruising force. The desperation in his movements was mirrored by the growls that rumbled from deep within him, a constant, broken sound that sent heat pooling in your core as you felt yourself clench and squeeze around him.  The force of the kiss sent a shockwave through you, your body arching instinctively to meet his. Your hips moving back meeting each hard and aching thrust from him.  The endless kiss stole your breath as his need to pull you into the depths of his despair and keep you there with him. And you let him, because beneath the desperation, you could feel the unspoken plea: Don’t leave me. Don’t let me drown.

You felt the tears he hadn’t yet shed in the way his body pressed against yours, the tremor in his hands as they roamed your sides, seeking more of you. His desperation was mirrored in the rhythm of his movements, frantic and erratic, like a man trying to escape a burning building with no clear exit. Every painful thrust, every growl, every trembling breath spoke of a pain so deep it clawed at your chest, forcing you to hold onto him tighter, to reassure him with every ounce of yourself that you were here-that you weren’t going anywhere.

And yet, as much as he needed you, you felt something within yourself stir-something just as raw, just as desperate. It wasn’t just his hands gripping you or the way his mouth claimed yours like a lifeline; it was the realization that his need mirrored your own. You’d felt adrift too, lost in the aftermath of everything you’d all been through. And here, in his arms, in his chaos, you found a sense of purpose, of connection, that you hadn’t realized you were missing, you were tired of being alone..

“Bu-ck.” Your grip on him tightened as you felt the coil inside tighten and build.

His response wasn’t words, but the way he pressed his forehead against yours, his breaths ragged and shallow as his hips moved in a frantic rhythm against you. The weight of him, the heat of his body, the tension coiled in every muscle-it was overwhelming. Your own body trembled beneath him, not just from the intensity of the moment but from the sheer force of his need crashing into you. Shaking under him as it threaten to ruin you, your muscles coiled tight as you felt the end come rushing up to take you. You were lost in the storm, his strained grunting and the sound of him. Your body reached its breaking point. Your muscles clenched, your back arching off the surface beneath you as a shuddering cry tore from your throat. Your climax hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you breathless and gasping for air. “Nnmgh auh!”

Your body convulsed beneath him, your hips jerking upward to meet his as your inner muscles contracted in a series of sharp, intense spasms. The sound that escaped your lips was raw and primal, a keening wail that was lost in the cacophony of his own ragged breathing and strained grunting.  His hips surged forward one final time, his body locking into yours as he let out a raw, anguished cry. You felt his warmth spill into you, his body trembling with the force of his release.

As the waves of pleasure receded, you felt his body collapse onto yours, his weight crushing you into the surface beneath. You didn't care - you were too busy trying to catch your breath, your heart still racing from the intensity of the moment.

His forehead was still pressed against yours, his breaths ragged and shallow. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his release.

For a long moment, you just lay there, your bodies entwined as you struggled to process the intensity of what had just happened

As the silence between you grew, you felt his body begin to relax, his muscles uncoiling as he let out a deep, shuddering breath. You felt your own body relax in response, your heart rate slowing as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. Bucky didn’t move for a long while, his body heavy against yours as his head rested against your shoulder. His breaths came slower now, though they still trembled with the remnants of his earlier desperation. You ran your fingers through his hair, the strands damp with sweat, offering him the quiet comfort he so desperately needed.

The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing, mingling together in a steady rhythm. The weight of what had just happened hung in the air, but neither of you spoke, too afraid that words might shatter the fragile peace settling over you.

Finally, Bucky shifted, just slightly, enough to lift his head and meet your gaze. His blue eyes were glassy, filled with an emotion so raw it made your chest ache. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t,” you interrupted gently, your hand moving to cradle his face. Your thumb brushed over his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks that still lingered. “Don’t apologise, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenching as if he were trying to hold himself together. “I’m a mess,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you said softly, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along the side of his face. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. None of us do, we’re all trying to..” Move on, build back? “You aren’t alone.”

He opened his eyes again, searching your face as if trying to find some reassurance in your words. “Why?” he asked, the question filled with a vulnerability that cut straight to your heart. “Why would you want to stay with someone like me?”

“We’re in this together,” you said simply, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I see all of you, Bucky-the good, the bad, the broken. And I still want to be here.”  You swallowed hard, it was time to just say it “I still want you.”

A shudder ran through his body, and he dipped his head, pressing his forehead against yours again. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness of the room.

A faint smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “But I’m stubborn, and I’m not going anywhere.”

A breathy laugh escaped him, shaky and uncertain, but it was the first spark of light you’d seen in him all night. He leaned into your touch, his body relaxing just a fraction more as his arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

The minutes ticked by, but neither of you moved to break the embrace. You could feel his heartbeat slowing, matching the rhythm of your own, as the tension in his body finally began to ease. You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your lips lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at him.

“We’ll figure this out,” you said, your voice filled with quiet determination. “One step at a time. You’re not alone, Bucky. Not anymore.”

For the first time, he didn’t argue, didn’t try to push you away. Instead, he nodded, the smallest of movements, but it spoke volumes. His lips brushed against your forehead in a gesture so gentle it made your chest tighten.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

You held him tighter, the warmth of his body grounding you as much as you were grounding him. In that moment, the world outside didn’t matter-there was only the two of you, tangled together in a quiet, fragile connection but it was something to hold onto. END Again a big thankyou too @princessmisery666 for this challenge. I really liked a chance to explore this part of Bucky's story. Something was hesitant to tackle.

[heich0e]

suna's parents divorced when he was eight.

he doesn't remember a lot of the finer details as he's gotten older, mostly just that there used to be a lot of yelling, but he does remember the two piles of belongings that stacked up in the empty living room of his childhood home: one consisting of his father's and his own, and the other comprised of his mother's and his little sister's. their entire life, their entire family, packed up into cardboard and then divided down the middle.

the apartment he moved into with his father was always too quiet. it was in aichi, far enough away from where he spent the first decade of his life that he didn't have to be reminded of it every time he left the house, but since his father worked so much it still left him with plenty of time to think. to grieve. though maybe he didn't recognize it as that at the time. he played video games his father bought for him after school. ate convenience store bentos or whatever leftovers were set aside for him in the fridge for dinner. he put himself to bed at night. it wasn't a bad life, though maybe a bit lonely.

he was scouted to play for inarizaki when he was 14.

the lonely apartment turned into a lively dorm. he had new friends (his teammates) to play video games with. his convenience store bentos were replaced with hot meals from the meal hall. the loneliness of the apartment in aichi was a distant memory, but still lingered.

"i'm home."

rintarou drops his training bag in the genkan as he toes off his shoes, calling into the apartment to announce his return.

"welcome home!" you call back from further in the apartment, and the sound makes him smirk a little to himself.

you've been coming over to his place a lot lately, ever since he gave you his spare key. he's not upset about this in the slightest, but it doesn't mean he won't take every possible opportunity to tease you for it. he plans how he's going to make fun of you as he pads into his home towards the sound of your voice. he almost has it all planned out—his delivery on the very tip of his tongue—when he falters to a stop.

"how was your day?" you ask him without looking up from what you're doing.

and suddenly, anything rintarou may have wanted to say—joke or otherwise—is beyond him.

he watches as you set a plate of food down on the already full table just off his little kitchen. the food that covers the surface is still hot enough that steam curls up into the air above it, its preparation perfectly timed to his arrival home. his apartment is warm, and smells good, and there's music playing from your cellphone on the other side of the room that you must have been listening to while you cooked.

his chest feels tight.

you turn to look at him when he doesn't respond to your question.

"rin?" you ask again, a lilt of worry in your tone. "you okay?"

"what's all this?" he manages to ask, nodding towards the table where the meal you prepared is still waiting.

"oh, i've been craving my mom's recipe for the past few days, i just thought i'd make it for dinner," you say, tugging at your fingers nervously. your entire countenance is a bit different now, strained like you're worried you've done something wrong. "hope that's okay?" your words lift at the end like a question.

rintarou's never seen so much food on his table. can't remember the last time he even sat there to eat a meal—let alone a home cooked one. his face feels hot, and his eyes sting, and he just can't bring himself to look at you.

"yeah," he says, and if you notice how his voice is a bit croaky, you're nice enough not to tease him about it. "'course it's okay."

you smile, and you look relieved. "wash your hands then, it's getting cold."

you eat your dinner together and talk about your days. you take a shower while he cleans up the dishes. you fall asleep tangled up together on the couch with a movie playing in the background.

his home isn't quiet anymore. he isn't lonely.

and it's thanks to you.

[twiishaa]

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋‎♪ kuroo x reader ; wc approx 500 warnings spoilers if you haven't watched haikyuu dumpster battle !! i fear kuroo is ooc here ,, also my writing warning pls i literally cringed at myself multiple times through this

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 AFTER the match with karasuno came to its end and everyone had cooled down in the hotel, you, kai, yaku and kuroo were chatting into the late hours of the night about your memories in the club. it was a hard pill to swallow, that the match that had just been played out against karasuno was the last match you’d get to watch from the bench, the last time youd see the current nekoma team, as they are now, on the court. 

the others had gone to sleep; it was just the third years left lingering in the lounge, reminiscing about your three years spent here. you had been with the team since your first days at the high school– a confused first year you had accidentally run into the volleyball gym instead of the music rooms, but you stayed; one year became two, and two quickly became three. as their manager, you’d seen them through their highs and lows— the calculated wins and the sweltering summer heat. you were there for every moment, experiencing it like part of the team itself, part of the blood in their veins. all the memories flowed like water and had accumulated over the three years; and now, you were standing underneath the waterfall, soaked through. half of you was still left in the tokyo metropolitan gym, still watching in disbelief as the ball dropped and bounced off. it felt surreal— it probably hadn’t yet sunk in for some of the team yet— it’d hit them tomorrow, after the adrenaline wore off. 

you’d only gotten with kuroo, the captain now, in your second year, when you two accidentally applied for the same part-time job. you two, and the third years, now were practically inseparable.

“-and remember the time last year kenma and yamamoto were fighting?” yaku said, barely able to contain giggles. the four of you burst into laughter. 

“and fukunaga threw water on them!! oh my god,” you said, in between laughing fits. 

“we ended up staying late to mop it up,” kai added. kuroo sniggered at kai’s comment. 

despite the darkness outside and the late hour it was, inside the room was bright. the door was hastily shut to not disturb the rest of the team, but still left slightly ajar. it was only at least an hour later, when yaku and kai went off to sleep, leaving you and kuroo downstairs, still chatting. 

“i just wonder…” kuroo started, uncharacteristically melancholy.

“if i could’ve done anything better, if there was something i should’ve done to win, you know?” he hid his face in his hands. your eyes widened a little, they started to sting with tears. softly, you shifted closer towards him on the sofa. 

“you did your best. you had fun right? that’s all that matters, the results are just a byproduct.” barely a whisper, you tried to comfort him. it felt strange, you weren’t used to seeing him like this. 

kuroo chuckled a little. “hey, that sounds familliar. has someone said that before?” 

“it’s just a popular phrase, i guess,” you caught his laughter. 

kuroo looked up at you, his eyes glossy and unwavering, but still soft. 

“we did well, right?” he asked, his tone breathy and raw. 

wrapping your arms around him, you replied. 

“i’ve never been more proud of you, tetsu. i’ve been blessed with having been able to watch you guys for this long, and for having you by my side.” 

note first time writing for kuroo... gulp Σ(°ロ°) also most of this is descrition but like... kinda bad description HAHA

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ like what you read? here’s the masterlist! ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

[anotherspookyarchivist]

I have sinned some more. Here's another Stan in a Can snippet. For story context please look at this post, which includes the first two parts. Warning for those unaware, but this is a dark story; The funny name is misleading. "Communication". (CW: death, implied suicidal ideation, dehumanisation, emotional manipulation)

78467. 78468. 78469.

Lee was feeling something. An approximate of something. He tried to squish the feeling, because he didn’t want to risk Stanford’s mood before they’d even started.

Trepidation. That’s the word. It didn’t like the idea of complete detachment. Appeasing Stanford was important, but there was a part of him that knew that complete detachment would leave it with nothing.

It couldn’t see. It couldn’t touch. It couldn’t do anything. It’s trapped in this emptiness that is vast and unyielding.

Oh. That’s… interesting? Stanley stopped the mental count, disrupted by an actual memory. It liked the memories from the outside, it was hard to remember what reality looked like once – and Ford’s descriptions just weren’t enough for him; But the occasional memory – when he remembers seeing the outside world? Those memories have become his most cherished possession.

Thinking about its state reminded it of something that happened before Lee’s undeath. A different sort of darkness. A different sort of blindness. He’d felt so much back then, hadn’t he?

Rope burns on his arms, as he tried to shuffle out of them. Feelings of panic? Fear? Anxiety? Probably quite the mixture of it because it had been afraid to die. What a silly thought, he had been naive. Naive and in a lot of pain. Moreover as he had aggravated his injuries while trying his best to get out of that trunk. He had felt the pain for weeks after, its teeth were ruined; bruises everywhere on its vessel as it’d tried its best to find a new hiding spot.

If Stanley could smile, he would have. If he tried hard enough he could maybe remember what that felt like. To possess and be in control of a vessel and to feel its damage. The darkness of the trunk was still more than what he could see now, but maybe he could ‘play’ as if it were the same. That in just a few numbers he’d be finally try and move and feel a sting of something.

Then he discarded the thought.

Too risky.

He let go of the memory for now. The count was already quite high, and Stanford promised he’d return. So it’s better to not fall into any sort of emotion. Emotions were a low number thing. It was risky to dwell on them after 7484… or was it 6135?

Especially not now, where it was already struggling to keep itself in check. This must be the closest to happiness it’s felt in a while, and that was already dangerous. There was no need to add more.

It continued to count, and at 91362 it happened. Ford returned.

“Hello Stanley”, his brother always sounded so happy when he visited it. But Lee knew that he had to stay calm.

Hello Ford

“You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Let me guess, the portal?

“Yes, the portal. Again.” Oh, Stanford sounded… annoyed? Or maybe frustrated. It was hard to grasp. But the other continued quickly, before Stanley could get a word in. “It’s already been syphoning most of my time but today, had proven itself to be worse than usual.”

That sounds bad.

“I apologise for my delay.”

Don’t worry about it.

“Though, in all fairness, I should be blaming McGucket.” If that was the case, then Stanley would blame them too. He’d never met this McGucket person, but since Ford knows them, they have to exist… but it didn’t want to miss its chance, so it quickly asked for elaboration.

What happened?

“Oh, I know you’re curious Stanley. I’ll tell you about, if you’d like – and if you promise not to tell anyone else.” One nice thing about wherever it was placed in – Lee could hear Ford so well. All the nuances of the other were somehow transmitted to it. It wasn’t like he was hearing it, and yet it was. There was no other voice than Stanford’s, no noises or interruptions. And yet, it could hear his brother’s sighs, and laughter, as well as the other’s anger during moments where it had messed up. Ford was such a good scientist; To be able to create something so impressive (and empty. It’s empty so empty and it hates being left so alo-). Focus. It wasn’t worth thinking about this. Not during their conversation.

He could hear Ford laughing at his own joke. Ford being happy was good. It meant that it hadn’t messed up, yet.

I won’t tell, I promise.

“We’ve attempted another parallel expedition” is what Ford started with. The portal, Stan had to admit, was something it didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t mind Ford telling him about it. It didn’t matter if it understood or not.

“We’ve been increasing the amount of excursions for a while. It’s mostly to fulfil those frustrating quotas as presented by the government.” the other paused for a moment, and Stanley tried to imagine what Ford looked like right now. Eyes twitching? Hands shaking? Those were things that a person could do….

Oh, it had nearly missed his brother’s next words. He really should be listening. He was being rude and ungrateful. Ford was talking. It liked it when Ford was talking, so he’d better be attentive.

“Oh Lee, you wouldn’t believe how demanding they’ve become. I’ve been tempted to use McGucket’s Memory Gun and to… erase some of our work from their memories, though that would also erase any potential of future funding.” Ford sounded unhappy about it.

“Sadly, the upkeep of the Institute demands that we work with the government, even if we don’t like it.” and there was it again. A huff. Oh, this one the thing in the void recognised all too well. It’s had enough experience by now to keep itself in check.

“But it’s not like you can judge me, Lee. I know what you did to survive.”

I wouldn’t have judged you either way, you know.

“I know you don’t like to hear it, but I still don’t understand why you didn’t consider asking me for help. You sold yourself for scraps. Debasing yourself over and over, instead of asking for my help; Not even when we met up again did you think about telling me. You drove off. Stanley, you’re impossible.”

It didn’t respond.

“This is exactly why we’re in this position now, you know? If you’d been honest with me, I could have helped you earlier.”

I know. I’m… I’m sorry.

“But at least I get to keep you safe now. There’s nothing that could hurt you.”

Yes. Thank you. Thank you. And I’m sorry.

“I forgive you. You hadn’t known any better, and now you do. You’ve been doing so well, Lee. I know you’re trying your best.”

I do. I am.

There’s only silence. It was familiar.

1. 2. – wait Ford was probably still there. For some reason the other wasn’t talking? But Stanley didn’t worry. Worry would only lead to Ford leaving for real.

Ford? So, what happened with the portal?

“You’re right. I was supposed to tell you about today’s mishap.”

It waited.

“There was an incident during today’s parallel expedition. McGucket and his team were visiting dimension 4546B, while I was observing their trip from the lab; The dimension had previously shown up on our scanners – and we’ve already categorised it as ‘dangerous’… but we had not been aware of any additional dangers.”

So wha-

“One person from the expedition team came into contact with their parallel self.”

Oh.

“We hadn’t even known that a simple touch could cause such destruction. The dimension was immediately falling apart – and I had to ensure that the expedition team would return safely nonetheless.”

The guy?

“Sadly, the team-member didn’t make it. Seemingly disintegrated before the rest of the team, which was a whole other issue.” It was sure that it could hear Stanford thinking loudly.

“It was both fascinating, as well as horrifying. A danger that we’ve been completely unaware of.”, there was amusement in his brother’s voice.

“Poor Fiddleford. He’s still really bad at handling these intense moments. I do wonder if he’ll be willing to continue leading these excursions.”

Maybe Fiddleford would also need to learn how to ignore emotions?

“The whole dimension collapsed. It doesn’t exist anymore. So much potential information lost in a blink of an eye. The government asking for reports that we don’t have. That’s why I’ve been gone for so long, Stanley.”

Don’t worry. The number wasn’t that high. I’m glad you’re here.

“Moreover, it was suggested that we increase security and change our protocol for interdimensional travel – again. For safety purposes. Just to ensure that it doesn’t happen again.”

That sounds like more work.

“I agreed”

oh. it knew what would come next. That’s why Ford had been so happy to talk about his day.

“I really thought that this would be done by now – but work really keeps piling up. But I know you. You don’t want me to overwork myself, and you don’t mind waiting for a bit longer for that communication model, do you, Lee?”

…

“I knew you wouldn’t mind. Thank you, Stanley. And you know that I’m just so happy to have you here with me, have you support me throughout all of this. As always, my closest confidant.��

…

“You’ve settled in so well, really. I promise you, you’ll get that communication device as soon as I can make the time. I know this is important to you.”

…

“You just have to trust me.”

I do. I have to.

...It wanted to trust his brother so badly. He wanted to be able to have more at his disposal than this mimicry of a real conversation. The illusion often shattering at inopportune times. Leaving Stanley with this empty feeling, because anything else was not allowed.

“I’ll see you again soon, right Stanley. Stay safe.” a chuckle, and then nothing.

Goodbye Ford.

It waited for a bit. And then for a bit longer. And when nothing else changed and it remained in the void, he began once again to count. He wanted to trust his brother… but he just started the count. The number was low. Stanford wouldn’t return before he’s reached a higher number. It allowed itself to feel. Just for now. No one would have to know. Just until the number was higher.

And it let itself feel; It tried to grasp the first emotion it could find within its being, and so he let himself feel fear.

[gloomweed]

Eddie Loved Valentine's Day (eddie munson x bestfriend!reader)

a/n: I got the idea for this story last valentine's day, but I didn't finish it until today and I'm still not quite satisfied with it but I had to just get this out there already. This fic is more angsty than romantic, but it didn't feel right trying to shoehorn in some romance, so this is just how it's going to be.

summary: Eddie deals with some bad childhood memories on a valentine's day he spends with you.

w/c: 3.7k

Eddie loved Valentine’s day. Loved, as in, he used to. Specifically, when he was still in elementary school. Back then, the class would spend the whole day creating little mailboxes to hold all their cards. Decorating the recycled shoebox with stickers and markers, writing his name in big scrawling letters over the top. His mom would help him the night before, preparing the cards he was going to hand out. She would tell him how to spell each name, going one letter at a time. When she would ask if he needed help spelling his name, Eddie would hold out his little hand saying very confidently, “No, I know how.” Her voice was always gentle when reminding him ‘Eddie’ has a second ‘D’ after the first one.

Although there was little variety in the pack his mom bought from the store, Eddie made an effort to pick the card he thinks the recipient would like best. A Garfield card for Sindy, since she is always borrowing his orange marker. It’s her favorite color. An Odie card for Josh, since he spends recess digging with sticks and rocks. Something about wanting to find dinosaur bones. It would go like that until all the cards were signed, folded, and held together with little heart stickers.

The following day, Eddie would pass out all his cards and return to his seat to find his makeshift mailbox stuffed. In those days, he would get a card from every single classmate. He’d be filled with excitement as he opened each one. The puns and characters on the cards were fun to see, but really Eddie just enjoyed the thought that someone made him something. Some cards even came with a little candy. It was a fun day all around, and doing less school work was also a big plus.

After his mom passed, Valentine’s day kind of lost its charm. His dad said buying Valentine’s cards that kids were only gonna look at once and throw away afterwards was a waste of money and effort; however, that didn’t stop Eddie from participating anyways. He spent the night making his own cards out of notebook paper, drawing hearts and smiling faces on each one. Despite all the care he put into them, the finished product looked pretty messy. The cards weren’t all the same size, there were some misspelled words, marker ink bleeding through the paper, and since he didn’t have stickers, they were held together with regular translucent tape. Give him a break, he was nine. It wasn’t much, but Eddie put his heart and soul into it.

Once all the cards were passed out, everyone began digging into their boxes, reading cards and opening candy. “What even is this?” Eddie looked up from his pile of valentines to see one of his classmates holding up one he homemade, a disgusted look on their face. Another kid laughed. “Why does it look like that?” Eddie felt red, hot shame fill his cheeks as others began to join in the laughter. He sank further into his seat, wishing to disappear completely. Seeing Eddie’s name on the card gave the boy a target. “What’s the deal, Eddie? Couldn’t afford real valentine’s this year?” 

Eddie shot up from his seat. “No! My dad just forgot to buy them, is all,” he lied. “I just thought, you know, something is better than nothing, right?” His eyes darted between his classmates, hoping they bought it. 

“Next time, don’t even bother. It’d save us the time of throwing them away,” they laughed. It was then that the teacher made the announcement to return to their seats to resume the rest of the learning day. As Eddie sat back down he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. He put a lot of effort into those cards, only for his classmates to laugh at him and throw them away. His dad was right. What a waste.

That was the last time Eddie ever participated in Valentine’s day. Ever since then, he would spend the day doing anything else besides celebrating it. This year, he was at your house helping you get a head start on spring cleaning. You wanted to turn your life around, starting with a more organized living space. February 14th is as good a day as any to get started, and it wasn’t like you had any big plans. Which is totally fine and doesn’t depress you at all. 

Although he never told you exactly why, you knew Eddie didn’t particularly like the Hallmark holiday. You assumed it was because of how commercialized it had become since its inception. Of course it could be the matter of keeping up with his image. Soft petalled roses and candy hearts are pretty far from ‘metal.’ Whatever the reason may be, you hated the idea of your friend being alone on a day celebrating love, so inviting him to clean was the next best thing. While it took some convincing, eventually you coaxed him into it with the promise of beer and snacks.

You were both currently working in your bedroom. Eddie would hold something up and ask if you wanted to keep it or throw it away. Meanwhile, you sit on the hardwood floor creating piles all around you as you sift through the contents of your room. He did most of his work while sitting on your bed, a beer in his hand. 

Sometimes he would try on clothes you were feeling unsure of, saying that having someone model it would make it easier to decide its fate. Of course, this theory might have been successful if they actually fit him. The mental image of him in your too small knitted red cardigan is something that will bring a smile to your face for years to come. 

Running out of things to hold up to you, he looked in his direct vicinity and noticed a round tin by his feet, mostly under your bed. When you heard him gasp you turned to see what he had found. “Oh, that’s just my-”

“Cookies!” he shouted as he opened the blue butter cookie tin only for his face to fall in a confused frown.

You laughed. “Yeah, sorry. I reused that old cookie tin for my sentimental crap.”

Instead of delicious cookies, the tin was full of old birthday cards and handwritten messages left by people who cared about you. A letter from your now deceased grandmother, movie stubs from big releases, and Polaroid pictures of some childhood friends. Eddie smiled to himself. It was cute how you would keep stuff like this. From the outside, you didn’t look like the type of person to hold on to birthday cards from your 5th birthday. He looked at you with a playful pout, his eyebrows pulled together. “Aww. You do have a heart.”

Your offended face only made Eddie grin wider. “Shut up,” you laugh before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal and throwing it at him.

Laughing as he dodged your attack, he couldn’t stop some of the cards from jostling out. As he was gathering them back into the tin, he took a closer look at the one made of notebook paper. ‘From Eddie’ was written on the back in big messy letters.

Noticing his sudden silence, you stand to get a better look at what’s in his hands. You peek over his shoulder to see the valentine he hand made in the 4th grade. Immediately you become overwhelmed with embarrassment thinking Eddie was completely freaked out by the fact you kept the card so long, like some kind of stalker weirdo. Words vomit out of your mouth as you try to save your dignity. “Oh! That's- that's so weird! I can't believe I still have that. I thought I threw that out years ago. I’ll just take that back-”

Eddie instinctually snatches the card against his chest, his chin tucked in as he searches your eyes. When it's clear to you he isn't going to give it up, your hand falls limp at your side. Glancing at the card once more, he tries his best to keep his voice steady. “You kept this?” 

The change in demeanor feels unsettling. “Yeah, of course I did.” You look at your feet shyly. “It, uh, means a lot to me.” When you look back up, you see Eddie staring back with confusion.

You’ve gone through this scenarios hundreds of times in the late hours of the night when your brain just couldn’t stop running. How would Eddie react if he found out you kept something he made you when you were kids? The scoff that slips past his taunting lips was the last thing you expected from Eddie. He stands from the bed, looking down on you with a humorless smile. “This shitty scrap of paper means a lot to you?” The sudden scrutiny feels harsh and full of malice. You’ve never had the displeasure to be on the receiving end of Eddie’s anger, and from what little you’ve seen thus far, you hope to never face it again.

Shrugging like it was no big deal, you try your best to downplay your defensiveness. “Well, yeah. I thought it was really sweet of you.” You can’t stop yourself from squinting at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you mad at me for keeping it?” Why is he upset with you over this? It was given to you as a gift. You should be able to decide what you do with it without his approval. 

Despite being the one who asked the question, Eddie doesn’t really hear your answer, nor the following question. As he stares down at the messy writing on old, yellowed notebook paper, he feels his chest tighten in an overwhelming stifled rage. Having to be face to face with a reminder of his failure fills Eddie with so much self-hatred that he can’t think straight. It’s a reminder of his shitty dad. A reminder of his shitty childhood. It wasn’t fair. Every imperfect line and patch of bleeding ink stared back at him, mocking him. It all congeals to a point of no return in his gloomy head.

Eddie stares in silence for a moment too long and you can see the emotions shift in his face into something darker. “What are you-” You are cut off by the sound of a quick and quiet crunch, the paper crumpling in his first. It’s a knee jerk reaction that has you gasping at the sight, and Eddie immediately regretting. A piece of his heart shatters at the sound of yours doing the same. “Eddie!” Your high pitched squeal of anguish around the syllables of his own name has him filling with that same sinking heat of shame he felt all those years ago. 

Your hands dart at him, taking the paper from his grip as fast as it was destroyed. You do your best to smooth the paper back into some semblance of its former glory, but the creases on the old, thin paper still remain. It makes it difficult to see the handwritten words on the page, especially since your eyes are welling up with tears. You turn away from Eddie, too angry to face him. Too hurt to let him see you cry over this. Instead you kneel on the floor, slumping over the valentine you hold with the same delicacy as you would hold a baby bird with a broken wing.

Eddie feels his heart racing with anxiety. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to make you cry. He didn’t mean to. All he wanted was to get rid of the stupid reminder, not ruin your priceless keepsake. Eddie stands there for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He fucked up, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how to make it right. Your name falls from his lips in a stuttering mess. “I- I didn’t mean-” 

Whipping your head back to shoot him a teary eyed glare, you cut him off. “Don’t.” A sad shake of your head, “Just don’t, Eddie.” You didn’t want to hear how he was just trying to make some kind of joke. It wasn’t funny. It was just cruel. You turn back to stare at the ruined item in your cupped hands.

Eddie backs up towards the door, eyes wide and voice small. “Sorry.” You don’t say anything, but of course he doesn’t really expect you to forgive him. He leaves you be, silently making his way out of your house. 

On the drive home, he’s mentally kicking himself the entire time. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Why do I have to find a way to ruin everything? When he pulls into the gravel driveway of his uncle’s trailer, he cuts the engine and contemplates in silence.

He has to make this right. That valentine meant something to you. You kept that shitty scrap of paper for years while the rest of the class threw it in the trash where it belongs.  That has to mean something, right? You wouldn’t keep trash for this long unless it was important, right?

Eddie runs a hand down his face as he belatedly processed what you said about him. I thought it was really sweet of you. You thought he was sweet? The tiny compliment is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, and it only makes him feel worse about the whole situation. It’s going to take more than an apology to make it up to you.

It’s a few hours after the incident when you hear a knock at the door. “Coming!” You yell down the hall as you race to answer it. Seeing your kind smile fall when you realize it’s him, Eddie feels like you twisted a knife in his chest. He’s holding a modest bouquet of flowers towards you, gaze struggling to meet your own. “Well, look who it is.” You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’ve got some nerve, Eddie Munson.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, his breath visible in the frosty February evening. “I know. I know I don’t deserve to see you, but you deserve an apology. I came back to explain myself. Not that I had any right to do what I did.” He looks up at you from under his lashes. “Can I come in so we can talk?”

There’s a pout on your lips as you consider. The flowers do look very pretty, and he was thoughtful enough to have your favorite color as the centerpiece. Getting flowers last minute, on Valentine’s Day no less, was likely no easy feat, making the gesture more grand than usual. You hum in thought a moment before finally taking pity on the man practically groveling on your doorstep. “Fine.” You step aside to let him in, looking reluctant to do so. 

Relief washes over him as you make room. The warmth of your home felt like a welcoming embrace upon his bone chilled body. Once the door is closed, Eddie outstretches the bouquet towards you again. “Uh, these are for you.”

Doing your best not to show how pleased you are, you take the flowers from him wordlessly. Eddie turns to walk towards your living room, and you take the moment to smell the sweetness of them while he isn’t watching. You sit on the couch, laying the bouquet on the coffee table for the time being. 

Eddie continues to stand, feeling unworthy of your comforts. It feels reminiscent of when he first visited your home. The awkwardness of being new friends was evident as he stood in the corner, waiting for permission to sit on the couch or even enter the room. Now it’s like he wouldn’t sit even if you asked him to. Eddie preferred to pace while he talked. He has too much energy to expel to be still.

You give him your attention finally, arms crossed again, waiting for the apology he owes you. He clears his throat, hands nervously wringing together. “So first of all, I’m sorry for ruining your valentine. And your Valentine's day, for that matter. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He chuckles dryly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Shit, I wasn’t thinking at all. I just got caught up in my stupid bullshit. But I swear, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. It was just-” You raise an eyebrow, not quite believing him yet. Eddie releases a breath like it was struggling to get out. “Seeing that valentine I made that everyone gave me shit for…” he sighs again, struggling to find the words. “It just brought it all back. I was a kid again being pointed and laughed at in front of everyone.” 

As he says this, your features soften when you recall what he’s talking about. You heard what some of the other kids were saying about Eddie’s valentines, but at the time you didn’t think he cared what they thought. He was always unapologetically himself to the point that the thought of Eddie being embarrassed or ashamed never even crossed your mind.

Eddie looks at you with a sad tilt of his head, wild curls bunching at his shoulder. “That doesn’t make it right, but I thought you ought to know why I did what I did.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It had nothing to do with you and I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself. I’m a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart.” He smiles ruefully, “but you already knew that.” His eyes dim a little at his self-deprecation.

You nod in understanding, a small smile on your face. “I appreciate your apology.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to forgive him just yet, and you wanted to be sure he realized that.

Although Eddie knew it wouldn’t be easy, he can’t help but feel disappointed he hadn’t earned your forgiveness yet. Regardless, he nods with a tight lipped smile in acceptance before reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “I wanted to make it up to you,” he pulls an envelope out, “with this.” 

You blink owlishly at Eddie’s outstretched hand, surprised he brought more than flowers. Standing from the couch, you gingerly take the card from him, watching him for any signs of what it might be. 

As you open the package, Eddie is already explaining his reasoning. “Now, I know it’s not the same, and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as the original, but I tried my best to remake it for you.”

Pulling the card from the envelope, you gasp at what you find. The writing is much neater, the drawings more detailed, and even the paper feels like it’s made of thicker material, but there is no doubt that this is Eddie’s reconstruction of the card he destroyed. 

The premise of the card was the same. A penguin (your favorite animal at the time) wearing sunglasses, surrounded by icebergs with bubble letters saying ‘U R COOL’ after your name. The sketches are much more sophisticated than any nine year old could make. It was clear that Eddie had honed his art skills over the years by doodling in the margins of all his school work instead of paying attention in class. But it wasn’t what the card looked like that made it special. It was the thoughtful gesture itself. 

When you look back up at Eddie, he shifts on his feet uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He’s unsure what to make of your expression. “So, uh. Do you like it?” Before you can answer, he’s already speaking for you with a defeated slump of his shoulders. “You hate it, don’t you? I’m sorry, I know it’s not-”

“I love it.”

His eyes go wide, genuinely surprised. “Yeah?” He perks up when he sees your beaming face. “Really?” Eddie lets out a small ‘oof’ when you crash into him with an enthusiastic hug. His chuckling rumbles against your ear as you hold him tightly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Parting from the hug, you admire the valentine some more. “And I do forgive you, Eddie. I just wish you would have told me what Valentine’s Day really means to you sooner.” You search his dark chocolate eyes. “We’re friends, right? You know I would never make fun of you like that.”

And Eddie did know that, but in that moment, he couldn’t rationalize his intrusive thoughts away. It’s easier to hear that you’re loved versus actually believing it. All he can muster is a shrug, unable to put his inability to trust into words. “Yeah I know.”

With his unconvincing answer, you try a different approach to get him to understand what he means to you. Wordlessly, you leave the room leaving Eddie standing there wondering what you’re up to. You’re back before he gets the chance to overthink your departure, a picture frame in hand. As you fiddle with the tiny metal prongs holding the backing in place, you begin to explain. “From now on, I’m gonna make sure everyone sees this.” You slot the valentine into the frame before securing the backing once more. 

You hang your trophy in the center of your living room wall. Once you’re satisfied with the results, you take a step back and admire it with your hands on your hips. “There. Now, anytime someone visits me, I can brag to them about the personal valentine you made me.” Looking back over your shoulder, you see Eddie smirking bashfully.

“Oh come on. No one’s gonna want to see that.” He gestures to the hand drawn image, but you’re already shaking your head defiantly.

“Too bad. They’re gonna have to. Matter of fact, I’m gonna require they marvel at it for no less than 60 seconds before they can even enter my home.” Your arms are crossed with a playful smile on your face.

Eddie chuckles and there’s a small pause as he appreciates you. “You’re such a dork,” is his mumbled response.

You point up at the framed doodled penguin adorned in shades behind you with an astonishing amount of confidence. “Not according to my best friend.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh. “That’s it. I’m taking it back.” Eddie starts towards the wall, reaching above you. “You’re not cool anymore.” 

Instinctually, you put your hands on his chest in an attempt to stop him, but Eddie isn’t one to back down. “No! You can’t!” Giggles bubble out of you as you try your best to stand your ground. “I am cool!”

[court-jobi]

Phantom Spasms | Headcanons

Pro-Hero!MHA x Reader: Kirishima, Midoriya, Tamaki, Shinsou, Bakugou

Words: 3.8k

Prompt:

A telltale quiver wracks your body every now and then. Trembling: like a ghost which holds its wrenching fingers in wait to play piano on your nerves and muscles- attacking your body without warning or mercy. Once upon a time, those unsettling sensations would have been the sign of a flare-up or overextention… but now, phantom spasms merely unlock memories of pains seen and unseen. How will your hero best soothe your aches?

Warnings: desc. of injury/ body aches, language (because BK exists) HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF assorted

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

A/N: Still working through some fun asks, but here's some headcanons since it's been a minute~ show weeks are crazy for me (my theatre kids get it) Happy Halloween and Happy Booping, yall!

--Eijiro Kirishima

The first time you jumped out of your skin at work due to someone's hand landing on your back, Sero simply figured you spooked easily from behind. You made a joke right away to his teases. Then another time, you pinned whoever it was to the wall, when it happened to poor unsuspecting Mina at a party. You apologized and everyone laughed the overreaction off- sweet ‘Pinky’ included. 

But it wasn’t till it happened a third time at night -in your kitchen- with your own sweet-spirited Kirishima, that he finally became the one to learn what the reason behind your jerks stems from.

You were a little down in the face, getting some ice cream when he sleepily trudged out of bed for some water– and to find his sweetheart who’d left him cold and lonely. He found you up and tracing the bottom of your dish with your spoon, and made to come behind you with a hand to your waist– when you gasped. Flinching hard and snacking him with a grab– to root him to the spot and rear up to hit your attacker-

"OW- babe, it's just me!!" 

Your eyes widened and back stayed arched until you kind of stuttered and rubbed it with your free hand. Your gaze fell away to Kirishima’s arm- with stinging tears and guilt. You’d drop the scoop carelessly on the counter and regulate your breaths, all in hopes this could be perceived as another nervous-nelly reaction and not sign of what this actually is… something worse. 

"I-I’m sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, baby-" Kiri carefully raised a hand to brush your face into a sweet caress. Like magic, his touch soothes and your back finally eased up and let you sigh.

"No. I'm sorry. God, did I hurt you?" you straightened and rubbed at his arm yourself.

"Nah, it's fine, manly hit tho, babe!" He brushed it off until his laugh died seeing your eyes. "Hey. You ok? Is... something wrong with your back?" Kirishima smooths your hoodie’s folds back over your shoulders and down your arms to casually hold your waist."You were... rubbing it, just now."

"...happens more than I let on..." you sighed a little dejected. "Old injury, just - spasms- sometimes, when someone comes from behind me and I didnt notice." 

Kirishima’s gears worked together through the drowsiness,, "so... when Mina?"

"Yeah."

"And when Sero came in the-"

"Not as bad, but yeah," you nodded.

"Oh God, babyyyy," he lifted you and rubbed the outsides of your thighs when he sat you on the counter, shifting the ice cream remnants aside and caressing your low back. "Why didn't you say anything? I never would have teased you like that! Damn, I give you surprise hugs all the time..."

"It's not all the time!" you tried to assure him. "I usually hear you or know it's coming, and it's nice. It's really nice." 

A fond smile brings you to run a hand through his floppy hair. 

"I.... it actually feels better when I know it's you at my back. It feels... safe, y’know?"

He hummed and lifted his brows, raising his hands to your cheeks and giving you a sweet kiss. 

"Then consider me your personal koala, angel. I've got your back." The reassurance would touch you at its sweetness– till you see that he glanced down to your cleavage. "And your front, too."

"Oh hush, Kiri."

He laughed at the far more tame slap at his chest and tickled your sides to get you to join in. Once calmed down, you hugged Kirishima tight from your spot on the counter and so did he- now taking careful, soothing rubs on your back. 

"I love you so much, baby. Tell me anytime it hurts from now on, ok?"

-- Izuku Midoriya

It was in training at Grounds A when it began storming outside, so you figured you’d stay a little longer and not fight the bad weather on the roads. If nothing else, it gives you extra time to watch him practice his new and improved shoot style. With the new suit came a learning curve, so Izuku practically lived on campus nowadays, long after his classes were over. Before he could take to the streets, he’d need to learn how to work as a hero again, merging his physical disciplines with the new tech he now wears to protect himself. 

Happy to spend any break with him and support him on his hero track, you came anytime Izuku called and asked for you to take notes. He’d call out how high he guesses he can reach, and you’d yell the actual figure back as soon as he landed; as a game of sorts to see how far he could go. 

Izuku shouted one simultaneously with a thunder crack and while you did answer, it sounded faint. He looked back through sweaty bangs and he noticed you kind of spoke it downwards to the ground- and you were rubbing at your back with an awkward reach.

"You ok?" Izuku called– you looked up suddenly and smiled to mask the quivering sensation as it died down.

"Yeah, I'm good! Go again!"

A few more rounds passed and in between kicks, the thunder cracked again. Even Izuku cringed at the sight out the window, seeing how nasty it was getting. The passing worry over ‘Kacchan’ being out in this drek came through a mutter when he bounded back to your side with a solid thud on the ground, looking to you for perhaps some reassurance– 

– at least he was seeking you out, until he realized he was the one who needed to attend to you. Izuku’s eyes went wide and he rushed to your side with a higher-pitched call of your name.

Shoulders held uncomfortably straight, you were half slumped on the railing, trying to regulate your breaths. 

Izuku huffed over to your side in a second, the flash of electric teal ebbing through his suit's grooves catching your eyes as he worried in front of you. 

"I'm really fine," you rasped, "it happens’a lot– more annoying than anything." You chuckled as it eased up and allowed you to carefully kneel to a sit. Izuku crouches by you too, easing you down slowly.

"Honey, that's not normal! What's happened? Are you ok?? " 

He is quick to start mother-henning you, cupping your cheeks… and you had to smile.

"It’s just a phantom pain," you twisted and pointed at the back "Not even really ‘painful’ anymore, even- just.. strange. Like, have you ever had a bad dream that something's poking you in the back, but nothing’s really there?"

He sweated through that strange scenario, "Uhhhhh, no? I've never had that before..."

"Well, it’s a thing. The doctor checked me out," you brushed off all the same. "Just the thunder spooked me, and it acted up. Loud noises make me jump., and everything siezes."

Izuku is still hard to settle, so you give him the speed-read through what happened to you. A rookie mistake of pushing yourself beyond your limits when you were young resulted in a (potentially) life-long bout with strengthening your core, keeping good posture… years have been spent working around the scar tissue under the surface as best as you can manage.

"Scar tissue?"

"Yeah, right... here." 

You thumbed at the spot of your tremors, 

"Surgery took care of it. There's not even a bad incision- it just..--”

-a low rumble shook the sky-

“- teases, sometimes. Under the surface."

"Oh," Izuku mumbled, noting you seemed embarrassed, “So it’s like a missing limb? Amputees will say that, I hear. Aizawa has before, too, after what he did with his leg...”

Thinking back to a darker time, you’d felt the same of yourself… when you worried whether or not you’d walk again. It has been so scary, feeling that there should have been horrible pins and debris sticking out of you with how your nerves twisted and pinched all around the site of your wound. As much as you wish it wouldn't, sometimes it feels like yesterday that you were laid up in the hospital for endless scans and tests for weeks on end.

Simply put, you agree so as to not worry him more: “In a way, yes.”

"-But it’s not hurting you?"

"Not... ‘hurt’ exactly, just feels kinda queasy."

Izuku’s powers of observation can read as overwhelming, though right now, you think it’s sweet how he’s taking in every inch of you to memory. He's running through a thousand and one solutions- you know the signs.

He got an idea. 

"Hey, well, let me rinse off and we can stay in and watch a show until this storm lets up! That way, you won’t be alone! And I'll sit at your back... I can rub it, if it helps?" His ears got a little pink as he rambled through, but you smiled up at his eyes sweetly. 

"That'd be nice~"

-- Tamaki Amajiki

Tamaki laid curled up in his favorite spot on your chest: his long-sleeved hand rests tucked into himself while he nuzzles into your neck. It’s his favorite spot since he could hear you and feel all of you so well, but you didn't have to see his face.

He admittedly had fallen asleep there, even though a storm had started. Poor baby can sleep through almost anything as long as you're still enough (as his pillow).

But today? When your jump underneath him roused him, he suddenly went self conscious,

"mmmmmAHHH, s-sorry, I didnt- I... hey, what are..."

A moment’s delay, Tamaki noticed your pained expression as you let out shallow breaths. 

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you??"

"No, honey, no, you’re... ahh... yer’fine...." you tried to press your tummy back down and nuzzle back into bed. You were clearly preoccupied and not able to fully focus on resolving his quivering self as quickly as you normally would. 

"Y-you’re shaking..." Bridging up on an elbow off of you, Tamaki sounded concerned and a little more commanding. He could be very protective once he knew there wasn't a risk of embarrassing himself, "Tell me what hurts, love."

He laid on his side and regarded every twitch of your face as you glanced his way. For all his shrinking into himself and generally submissive nature, no one stands in your corner like Tamaki Amajiki. Now with your roles of confidence reversed, you felt ashamed not telling him sooner.

"It's just... my low back." You turned to face him, thumbing it, and he instantly touched the spot, your skin jumping at contact but settling as he palmed it. "It acts up sometimes... old injury and all."

"Do I need to take you to the nurse?"

"Oh no," you brushed off, "there's nothing she'd do anyway- it's supposed to go away on its own." Then another thunderclap brought it on again, and he tightened onto you again.

His little face dropped, feeling horrible that you were suffering all this time. After your initial recovery, physical therapies, even taking you to and from your yoga classes, Tamaki had foolishly assumed you’d made a full recovery without an ounce of lingering trouble.

 "I can't believe I didn't see this before. God, I'm a terrible boyfriend…" he mumbled into your shoulder, holding on for comfort as he tucked you under his arm so your back laid mostly on the bed again and he shielded you from on top. You cooed at his self deprivation and just petted through his hair.

"Tama-honey,” you tapped his chin to look up at you, "you're the best boyfriend I could- ever- wish for.”

And it's not a lie- never a lie when it comes to him. Had he only been in your life during your recovery from that pesky broken leg back in your teens, you're sure you would have bounced back ten times faster.

You're here now," you sunk adorably under him to make him feel bigger, "why would I ever feel anything but completely safe with you?"

His little lip quivered into a smile and he leaned to kiss your nose and cheek to which you sighed at both touches happily. "What should I do? To help, I mean?"

You keen a little at this caring attention. You rarely told him to do anything due to his fawning -and already skittishy- nature that simply wanted to be held and adored when in your company… but with how gentle he's being, this opening makes you answer him honestly. What's so wrong about giving him a reason to please you?

"Back rubs are nice~”

When you turn over gingerly and he starts to pet along your back, you wiggle your hips a touch.

“You can go under, hon. I won’t break, promi-”

“U-UNNDER?!” 

You giggle into the pillow. Simple back scratches will have to do for your shy darling.

-- Hitoshi Shinsou

You haven't noticed much pain since you were in the hospital, post-accident. The meds they gave you were gold, and just about knocked you out within fifteen minutes of a dose. Truly all you’d wanted was to go home and ride out your recovery, but everyone on staff urged you to take the PT seriously, as it would help you in the long run. Your chief cheerleader -and drill sergeant- was none other than your partner in both heroics and love, Shinsou.

Once settled in your second story apartment, you really hedged against leaving to brave the stairs unless absolutely necessary. But even when you needed to for an appointment, Hitoshi was there, taking you by the hand to support you step by step. There to help you shower, there to help you dress until you could proudly manage on your own. But even then, you claimed you relied on his witty banter more than anything else… He’s strong in every sense of the word, and stoic where you need him to be, even now off duty. You missed heading out to fight crime with him, but ‘all in good time, sweetness’ was his anthem during your six week long ‘house arrest’.

Being home was such a happy change of pace from the white hallways of the triage floor; you were actually eager to tackle the monotony of chores again. Shinsou had encouraged you to rest, but didn’t fuss or demand it when you went piddling around the apartment. It wasn’t until you were putting dishes away that you had your first, huge flare-up.

You couldn’t even call it pain- just the most intense muscle spasm and queasiness you've ever felt that shook you from your low back up your spine. The sensation honestly scared you. The mug in question immediately retreated to the counter and you stumbled beside the fridge -balancing on the counter- your breaths fast and short as the tremors vibrated in you, 

"Hi–Hitoshi?!" You called weakly, trying not to panic.

He was there in a matter of seconds; he’d already heard the crash and was on his way to investigate. You heard him curse lightly before coming up beside and behind you, lowering your arms from their mismatched hold on whatever cabinet handles you could grab and placed both palms on the counter, 

"Let go," he prompted, and you obeyed without any coercion. When you held onto the flat surface, he took your waist in his hands to steady you. "Don't tense- breathe through it, deep breaths."

"What's happening…?" you can’t turn to look, even though you wanted to.

"It's in your back, right here?" Shinsou laid a warm palm on the queasy area, and you whimpered an affirmation. "You're ok, sweetheart. It’ll pass- it's just a spasm. It'll pass... just breathe."

You forced yourself an inhale that’s not as slow as you know he’d prefer, but Shinsou doesn’t correct you. Here he stands, rubbing your back with two expert fingers and his thumb over the bundle of nerves where your initial surgery had been. It seemed to help because breathing got easier. 

"That's it,” He whispered close to your ear, closing his eyes to pray. "You're doing good." He kissed a few spots on your shoulder as you relaxed as the minute wore on, him rubbing your back and you sinking away from the counter as your back bowed back from its arch.

"Oh my God...." you breathed.

"Better?"

You nodded. He looked up and saw the open pantry and let out a little breath. He kept a hand on your waist and put the mug up himself.

"You know things like this are why I'm here. Don't push yourself."

You soured at that, "I should be able to reach things in my own kitchen..."

"You will- just not right now." Shinsou said firmly, but in a tone that softened at the end whenever he was with you. You turned your back to the counter,

"Thanks," you breathed out, rubbing up his arm. "That was... really wierd. And kinda scary."

"The same happens in my neck from time to time. Not so much anymore. It will fade after a couple months." 

You exasperated at the sound of that time frame. Shinsou had suffered a bout of whiplash after a villain sting earlier that year, and you remembered his more subtle shudders and shivers indicating his nerves were getting back to standard operating procedure. That neurological progress took nearly half the year, just as he said.

But Shinsou knows your brand of impatience all too well. He lifted your chin to his gaze, more concern than scolding, 

"-which is why you need to take your recovery seriously. I know you wanna bounce back fast; I can help you get there. You know what to do. We want to avoid these as much as we can."

You nodded, but your chest still sunk. You know more practically that you couldn’t bother him every time it happened, yet you now fear what would happen now if he hadn't been here. He’s only off night duty for another week, so after this weekend, you’ll be managing life solo, more or less… 

But despite any lingering discomfort showing on your face, Shinsou would do anything to see it go away. He pressed a kiss to the soft edge of your eyeline and leaned his forehead to yours, rubbing your back comfortably in his hold- making your hands naturally hold back on his arms to make him stay. He brought you gaze back up, 

"Hey sunshine..." 

You opened your eyes to see his small smile. Makes him look all the more sleepy, but it’s such a soft sight, you’re happy to see it all the same.

"Do you trust me?"

You smiled back a little brighter. "I do."

"Then you should let me help you when you need it. I'm counting on you to tell me when that is. Promise?"

"I promise." You closed your eyes, just soaking in his presence. "I just want to be normal, babe."

He nuzzled noses with you, "Normal is subjective. You're healing, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

You had to smile at his logical reasoning– takes after his mentor. So you nodded and asked if you could turn in and start up a bath, even if it was a little early in the day.

He massaged the soft skin by your ear and responded, "of course, love. Whatever you want."

--Katsuki Bakugo

You had rare help in the kitchen most days at this hour, since Bakugou was still on some personal leave from his agency (a forced break from his pr specialist who's placed him in time-out from the public eye). Given the availability he now has should be regarded as a gift, he was there to readily help you and no doubt distract you with kisses while you worked. His teasing has carried on throughout the afternoon as he cleaned up behind you, and was working on washing up the last few dishes when you were getting out a stockpot for dinner.

Crouching a little too fast to reach it on the low shelf, the shooting queasiness had your back bowing, and breath expelling out of your lungs in a gasp not unlike ‘fear’. You flopped almost immediately to your butt and pivoted with your back to the cabinet as you let out an uncontrollable moan.

At the sound of a hushed 'ughhh not again' in your first language, Bakugo peeked from the other end of the island and couldn’t find you at first… so he leaned off to the side and found your crunched body on the floor.

With a loud curse, he dropped everything and rushed to your side, 

"What the hell happened??" Bakugou’s hands went everywhere, from your hands to your shoulder, scanning your legs and your tense face for signs of a cut or a bruise you could have made this quickly.

"Babe, I'm fine, this is normal f’me."

"THE FUCK YOU’RE FINE– you're on the DAMN FLOOR!" He went to pull you up bridal style but you stopped him suddenly,

"No, no don't!! It's just gotta pass first…"

His eyes went wide and felt panic creep down his back. Bakugou flopped criss-crossed on the floor, and ran a hand through his hair- all that’s left was to watch you helplessly, which was the last thing he wanted to do in this moment. Surely he could do something. The waiting made him angrier than ever for a split second, until he reigned in some breaths himself. Eventually, the blond just reached a hand out to rub your knee. What else was he supposed to do?

You sensed your boyfriend’s now silent concern, and sent a little weak smile his way as it started ebbing away, 

"It's already better. My back just seized up sometimes, it's just an old injury that acts up every now and again. I usually don't do ‘squatty’ movements like that- things that tax it,” -you wink a little playfully- “Rookie mistake~”

Bakugou nodded, yet just stared at your core as it leveled back to normal.

"Sorry about that. Getting older sure doesn’t help these things~" You breathed out as you sat up normally-- only to have Bakugou launch at you fast and grip you to him–

You yelped at his sudden reach but brought a hand to his back– strange, that you think you might need to soothe him instead with how hard he’s breathing– 

"Katsuki?"

"Don't scare me like that again, dummy," he croaked out, nuzzling his face into the warmth of your neck and cradling your head to him in the dearest way.

Really, you should know better by this point. He can be battered and bruised beyond recognition and won’t pay a bit of attention to himself… but when you get so much as a paper cut or a wasp’s sting, and he will nearly go ballistic to tend to you.