#Another part of him left scarred by curt

[kairithemang0]

from an ocean away they’re punching walls in agony about what they’ve become without each other and they both know it’s all Curt’s fault

[swifty-fox]

yo you post your fics on AO3? if so please share your user babe

omg yes I do! you can check my swiftywrites tag but

Masters of the Air:

Kingdom for a Kiss - 104k Long-form Postwar exploration of Clegan's relationship and their trauma. Explicit.

Gale takes a deep breath to compose himself, tucks the jagged angry edges of himself back to face inwards. “You said you would write.”

understanding in a plane crash: WIP (5 parter, three parts up) Prequel fic to Kfak, as told from John Brady's perspective as a POW

“The thing you can't quite put your finger on about DeMarco,” He says, “is that you want him to fuck you til you cry. Sorry to spoil the game for you.”

Brady stares at him and stares at him, alone in the Base’s Chapel and rosary halfway finished. He thinks he might throw up, or maybe strangle Curt Biddick and then throw up.

“Lock it up, Johnny, they’re gonna see you bleeding it all over soon.”

press your tired hands against my lips darling: Finished. 3K word re-write of the Bucks final conversation in the cockpit. Loose prequel to KfaK but with some minor inaccuracies Mostly SFW

Gale takes John's hand, brings the scarred knuckles to his mouth and holds it there, turns their hands over til he can place his lips to the pulse point at John’s wrist. It’s not a kiss, there’s no press or pursing of lips, but tender nevertheless, intimate in a way that makes Gale shudder. Cautious of whether John will even allow this.  

“I ain’t prayed in a long time,” Gale says whisper-soft. He feels John’s pulse skip a beat, “but I prayed every day you were safe and alive and coming back to me. Every morning, and every night.”  He lets himself cry again, tears hidden against the scarred skin of John's hand. 

Little Beast: Ongoing. Porn with a bit of Plot modern au of Burnout John and Priest Gale. total of 30k of them fucking and arguing. Three Parts so far. NSFW to the max

“It’s such a shame you’re cooped up in here like Rapunzel there Buck.” John drawls lazily. He makes a show of looking around “Is Mother Gothel nearby?” 

Buck has to fight back against another smile, wouldn't give him the satisfaction or the encouragement “Father Huglin is away at a conference today.”

“All alone without a chaperone.” 

The Old Guard:

in another life maybe you and i would be walking down an aisle in white: Finished Joe/Nicky (18K) Art Professor Joe & Art Conservator Nicky reconnect after ten years. This one is uh. Sad. Mind the tags. It's an incredibly personal piece to me and probably one of my favorites .NSFW

Dear Joe, you have always been the brave one and I wished every moment for even a drop of that. Perhaps that is why I claimed you as mine, out of a desperate need to have even an ounce of what made you, you. I desired you but I would not, could not ever let you in. I loved you and kept you and hurt you, keelhauled you against the impenetrable ship that was my heart and when the ragged pieces were left behind I still asked of you your silence.  

It is no wonder our love was left in bloody tatters on that lawn. 

Make me a Saint: Finished (8k) Nicky and Nile mete out some justice to a corrupt priest. NSFW for violence. Mind the tags. As of right now, my most popular fic

“ I was a priest before your bible was even written old man ” Nickys voice thunders in the tiny room, crackling over the walls like fire. Even Nile flinches at the sudden volume. He takes another step forwards, bracketing Father Marcus’ arthritic twisted feet with his own.

His voice does not shake.

“I preached the word of God before your language was even invented . I have known the church for longer than you can comprehend. I have seen great men and evil men take up the word of the Lord and I have seen them all rendered dust. I have seen you and I have judged you, Father Marcus. The Church may practice restraint but I do not. The diocese may have turned a blind eye I but I do not. The courts may have found you innocent but I do not . 

Calcification of a God: Finished (4K) Nicky has a lil Menty B and then Joe gives him a bath. Mostly SFW if I recall correctly

“I think,” Nicky says “If I were God, it was you I modeled humanity after. I think if I were God I would have left my throne in heaven to walk beside you and I would have been richer for it”

Yusuf chuckles “Death makes you sentimental my darling.”

Wolfstar:

Oh Captain, My Captain!: Finished, 1.6k Drabble of Wolfstar cuddling and reciting poetry. SFW

He cups the back of Remus’s head, presses him further into the safety of his body with a hand on his mismatched, misaligned rib cage and rocks them slightly. Remus grunts slightly. Sirius hides the teeth of his smile against the follow of his own neck and allows the curtain of his hair to cover them both for a moment. He listens to the two of them breath, always slightly out of sync, out of rhythm. Remus quick and labored, Sirius racing to catch up only to find himself charging ahead only to drop back behind when he tries to slow down. 

“ If I vibrate with vibrations other than yours, must you conclude that my flesh is insensitive ” That doesn’t fit quite right, so he tries another, brow furrowed and fingers tracing the knobs of Remus’ spine like the knots on a tree, with reverence and a little hint of greed. 

[plantinghobbies]

Growing Pains

Two: Sure I’d Never Be Found

Author’s Note: Back from some traveling and finally had dedicated time to write. I’ve been overwhelmed by the support for the first chapter. Thank you so much, revisiting your notes kept me motivated when I struggled to focus or hit a block. The incredible @solipsisticno1 also helped keep my ass in gear. This’ll be a fast and slow burn (I’m a Gemini so cannot escape my love for duality). Welcome all constructive critique, favorite parts, questions, etc - so grateful for any and all feedback. Ok, here’s more of Tess and Matty.

It’s the longest he’s spent near mountains since he left home. Growing up, the idea of vastness had scared him; he doesn’t like to be reminded of how small and microscopic his existence is in the very grand scheme of things. Sometimes, he’ll lie awake at night fixated on just how tenuous life is, how quickly something outside of his control could end it. He wonders what he’d be remembered for – his art or his infamy? On particularly bad days, he wonders if he’d be remembered for long at all.

But the panoramic views of the peaks from the house the label rented him have the opposite effect. After years of touring in cramped bunks and living in packed cities, he feels the space around him palpably, like he’s been curled into a ball for too long and is finally able to stretch out.

When he’d announced his plans to spend the band’s hiatus working on some solo material with Jack in the States, he’d been most nervous about telling his band mates. Even though they’d always been supportive of each other branching out in various ways, this felt different somehow. It was one thing for George to work on remixing the odd single or producing with other artists, it was quite another to put out a whole solo record as Matty was planning, with a potential tour as well. But, as they had for the last twenty years, the guys had his back one hundred percent.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the call from his mum that came in the night before he left. She’d seemed antsy when he’d seen her for a bon voyage dinner two nights ago, but he chalked it up to her not wanting to say goodbye.

“Matthew, I’m still not sure if I should even be telling you this, had to really talk myself up to it. But I know I’d be kicking myself later if something happened.” There’s a tremor in her voice that he hasn’t heard in years.

Oh God, he thinks, she’s sick. Worse, she’s dying. His mind already flashing to her funeral, him attempting to perform a song for her before he breaks down in tears, failing her in this final act.

“You know I am so proud of you, and I wouldn’t ever dream of questioning your sobriety. But you’ve never been on your own like this without your support system – and lord knows neither have I – but it’s not easy. So I just need to say be careful, be vigilant, ask for help when you need it. I’m a plane ride away.”

The indignation that reared up at him was visceral. 34 years old, several years in recovery, and she still didn’t trust him. Looking back, he knows he could have handled it better. He’s proud of himself for not blowing up at her, something a younger version of him would have absolutely done. But he knows he was curt, wanting to punish her, inflict hurt like what had welled up in him at the thought that his own mum doubted him.

After the first few days of wandering his house, un-showered and aimless, he’d begun to see what his mother meant. The process of writing and recording is inherently unstructured, at least for him, filled with days where he does nothing and nights of manic activity. It’s him, sitting around with his own thoughts, picking at the scabs and scar tissue of his past. He didn’t realize how much he relied on the rhythm of others - the band, the tour - to provide structure for him. For the first time in his life, he is without those things, and the space that it creates feels like a blessing and a curse.

In the couple of weeks since, he’s settled in a bit more, has found a gym and can now navigate to Jack’s studio and back without relying on his phone. The word routine has always rubbed him the wrong way, evoking images and associations that make him uneasy. Boring. Pedestrian. Old. When he left rehab, they’d armed him with a written routine to help ease his transition back to his “everyday life.” It was cookie cutter shit that he hadn’t even done in rehab, let alone out of it – daily meditation, making his bed, a gratitude journal. One glance at the word and the list of to-dos had him pulling up his dealer’s number before the plane had even landed.

When he finally got clean for good, a new therapist suggested he develop a structure in lieu of a routine. At first, Matty didn’t understand the difference, and he’d worried that he’d once again sunk a ton of time into bettering himself only for the system to fail him.

“What do you like to do for fun?” His therapist, David, asked. The question caught him off guard, he was expecting the beginnings of a diatribe on the benefits of eating healthy.

“You mean, besides heroin?” Matty often tried to get a rise out of David but had yet to succeed, his shit-eating grin met with nothing more than a stoic quiet. Sometimes, when he was bored or couldn’t focus during their session, he’d imagine what David’s home life was like. What does this guy do for fun? Is he a Saturday golfer and Sunday churchgoer like he looks? Or does David leave the prim façade at work, shedding his tweed jacket on his way to a BDSM club or an after-hours rave?

Finally, David indulges him. “Yes, besides heroin.”

That was easy. “Music.”

“Ok, but music is also your job, which can be a source of stress. What do you like to do besides making music?”

He’s embarrassed to admit he’s a bit stumped. Over the years, he’s amassed a laundry list of abandoned hobbies – some lasting for a few days, others a few months. But only one has ever lasted long-term. Well, social media but that’s more of a habit he’s adopted to avoid other, worse vices.

“Umm, honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t really ever been able to keep up with one long-term besides writing songs.”

“Ok” David smiled “let’s start there.”

In the end, he was glad that he stuck with it. Nowadays, Matty had a simple list of things that he liked to do that help him feel his best – he isn’t regimented about doing them, which he thinks is how he’s been able to stick with it for so long. They didn’t cure his addictive cravings but they kept them at bay. He still resented the amount of effort that was required for him to have a “normal” day - but it was better than the alternative.

Given how late he got in from the studio the night before, he should still be in bed. He and Jack had been holed up for almost two days straight, capitalizing on a burst of creative energy that had them laying down the rough cuts of three songs and the outlines of a fourth. When Jack had finally gone home to Margaret, he’d kicked Matty out of the studio as well, demanding that he shower, eat and sleep – in that order. He’d caught a few hours of shut eye but the chord progression he’s stuck on has him unable to quiet his mind enough to rest. What’s new? Unable to even muster the focus needed to make tea, he settles for coffee instead. The expensive coffee machine gurgles next to him as he stares out the window, realizing that he can’t remember the last time he’d been outside. Maybe “touching grass” (he refuses to admit that he might be too old for certain phrases) would help unstick it?

It’s the first time the front porch has seen any action since his arrival and he takes a minute to get situated, shifting his chair this way and that. Finally satisfied, he looks up just in time to catch the vaguely familiar side profile of a woman walking by with her dog. Before the image registers in his brain, she’s gone. He finishes his coffee then heads out to jui jitsui before meeting Jack.

That afternoon is one of the most productive days in the studio so far, he feels like they’re getting somewhere. He’s desperate to sustain the momentum, to try to quell the intrusive, insecure thoughts that he can’t do this on his own. No amount of encouragement from Jack has helped, he needs to see it for himself.

He’s not above relying on superstition and decides to do everything the same the next day, including watching the sunrise on the porch, staring at the coffee as he swirls his mug. The jingling of a leash has him tilting his head up, eyes journeying up long legs, tracing an hourglass figure that had been hidden by the bar, meeting her piercing eyes – yep, that’s her. He leans forward in his seat, casting about for a witty comment to put her on her heels the way she had put him on his with that story the other night. But he doesn’t get a chance, her eyes seeming to look right through him as she passes by.

At first, he convinces himself that she just didn’t see him, unable to accept that he hadn’t left any impression on this woman. The next few days find him inching his chair closer and closer to the sidewalk each morning, but her and her dog just sail past without a second glance, seemingly immune to his presence. And listen, he’s not a dickhead - it’s not like she owes him any acknowledgement. He understands more than most how rare uninterrupted time to yourself can be in this day and age. But he hears her daily greeting to the older man who sits on his porch reading the paper a few doors down! So, it feels like she’s ignoring him specifically and intentionally – and the question of why is driving him mad. It scratches at sensitive scar tissue where his admittedly oversized ego meets a more fragile self-esteem, seizes on feelings of being unremarkable and weaponizes them. Has his overactive mind casting about for various reasons for her silence, most of them bad. She doesn’t recognize him, not even from the other night. Or worse, she does.

The rest of the week in the studio is a bit of a wash.

Saturday finds him bored and antsy, with little to do and even less motivation. Trying to occupy himself, he sets his sights more firmly on getting a rise out of her, any acknowledgement really. Just to get her to crack once, he tells himself, and then he’ll leave it be. He doesn’t dwell on why he gets so bothered by apathy, physically shakes away memories that surface uninvited in his mind - his mother’s glazed expressions, his exhaustive attempts to garner her attention. Getting a reaction from people was his coping mechanism long before it was his job.

Pulling the Adirondack chair - so cliche but also so bloody comfortable – right up to the fence, he positions it at an angle in clear view of the sidewalk. Sure enough, as she approaches, her eyes land on him from behind her sunglasses. He only knows this because her step falters slightly, head dipping into the barest of nods as she passes. The thrill that Matty gets from even this subtlest reaction is a welcome change from the monotony of the last few weeks. He can imagine what George would say if he saw this “Christ mate, you’ve got to get out more.” But George isn’t here, none of them are – and that’s the problem isn’t it?

The next day, it becomes clear that she is, in fact, fucking with him. She’s walking toward him, her mouth opens to speak – Matty slides forward in his chair at the sight, ready to declare victory – and then curls it into a smirk at his earnest reaction. It’s obvious enough that it had to be intentional. Oh, game on.

His tendency to hyper-fixate is a blessing and a curse, making him a better artist but an occasionally insufferable human. He’s determined to not let her get the best of him this time around, spending downtime in the studio brainstorming how to get her to break first. The answer comes to him as he’s standing outside, having a cigarette between writing sessions. The sign hanging in the window across the street is just too cringe, too cliche, too absolutely perfect to ignore and Matty strolls out of the store with it not two minutes later.

The next morning, he’s giddy with anticipation. As she turns the corner her head is down, almost as if she’s determined not to see or been seen. At the last second though, she glances up and clocks the sign leaning against the outside of the fence right, him seated next to it with a sly smirk on his face. She stops, stares, and then - right as he’s certain she’s going to maintain their silent standoff - she barks out a laugh. It is loud and raucous and feels like a well-won prize after two weeks of continuous effort.

“Oh my god, where did you get that?” She seems surprised to hear the sound of her own voice. If she’s disappointed that she’s “lost,” it doesn’t show. He begins to tell her, in his trademark roundabout way, a winding story about the fucking writing block that him and Jack ran into which led to him being outside, to seeing the store but then back around to the song that he was working on. She is nodding along but glances at her watch twice, the dog trying to pull her to keep moving, bored of him. She opens her mouth to interrupt him, a split-second pause where she huffs and seems to question herself, before rushing out with “Listen, I gotta get this guy to the park or he’ll have a meltdown, you can tell me the rest as we walk.”

She walks on, not giving him a chance to respond as he hustles to catch up with them. He meets her on the sidewalk the next morning, not giving her a chance to pass him by again.

[oxygenbefore1775]

Cicatrix

for day 2 of jeankasaweek "post-war"

pairing: jean x mikasa

wc: 0.5k

summary: for the first time Mikasa lays eyes on Jean's scars left from the war

Until that day, his bare torso had remained veiled from her sight, unintentionally covered by the fabric of his shirt, the quilted cloth of the blanket or the night's shroud as they settled for sleep, making the unveiling all the more profound.

"Morning." A soft breath grazed at her hair as Jean greeted her with a peck to the temple. Yet Mikasa has been long awake before that, rolling to her side to meet his gaze, her eyes half-lidded in the morning bliss.

In the silence of the room they exchanged glances, a few moments of tranquility before the reality of the day sets in.

The night was humid and hot, leaving his skin barely covered by clothing. Jean was the first to break off his gaze, offering a gentle smile as he turned around and sat on the edge of the bed. It was then that she finally noticed.

Scars, like an intricate web, etched into his torso. The pale lifeless ridges in stark contrast against his sun-kissed skin, catching the light with each movement. Her heart swelled with emotion as Mikasa noticed more and more of them, digging into his flesh and denting it.

Her eyebrows furrowed at the morbid realization — all used to be wounds Jean acquired in battle. How painful they must have been at the moment, yawning and pulsing with blood. A hitched gasp gave her away since Jean turned his head to her, his eyes meeting her, a hint of awarness sparked in his eyes, followed by a twinge of vulnerability. He understood that she saw.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Mikasa shifted closer to him, her hand reached out tentatively. A sardonic smile painting his features, Jean gave her a nod, granting her the silent permission.

His skin felt warm and alive beneath her fingertips as she traced the ragged edges of his scars. Jean's body tensed with anticipation, his breath catching in his throat, as the delicate strokes sent shivers down his spine, raising goosebumps on his broad back. Mikasa's touch lingered at certain points, her mind wandering in attemot to guess the origin of each wound.

"Don't you have them as well?" Jean chuckled softly when he received a curt no in response. "No? I suppose you don't. Blows don't seem to land on an Ackerman."

"Don't say that," she rebuked, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

The warmth of their bodies pressing together, and Jean could feel her fluttering hearbeat against his back. With a soft sigh he leaned into the embrace. Her eye caught yet another cicatrix slashing his shoulder, and in an impulse movement she pressed her lips against the pearly skin.

Musing over the scars that bore the memory of pain and blood, Mikasa found solace in the blossoming relief within her. The end of the war had brought her a sense of comfort, knowing that the battles were finally behind them. There was no more loss that stretched its greedy claws out to her and what's dear to her.

As Mikasa lay her gaze upon the map of Jean's scars, she tried to etch each and every silvery blemish down into her memory. She knew that scars would always be a part of him just as her mental scars are a part of her. Yet, a profound sense of joy welled within her as she embraced the conclusion to that chapter in their young lives, where no more wounds would mar their skin.

[walker-bait-1973]

We Ain't Dead Part Six

Photo Edit By Me

A Daryl Dixon x Y/N (Feminine) Fanfiction

18+

Warnings: Typical TWD violence, Swearing, Strong Sexual Content, Mentions of Abuse, Smut

Author's Notes: Daryl and Y/N have discovered a safe haven. Things have changed between them. What's the next step?

Masterlist

Part Five

Chapter 19: After

Daryl withdrew and stared wide-eyed at Y/N, chest still heaving, sweat pouring down his forehead, and hair damp. Y/N was breathing hard, trying to catch her breath, his cum dripping from between her legs.

Daryl was unable to form words as he held her. Her legs were shaking, her body still throbbing, electric ripples going through her. Daryl pushed her wet hair from her face.

She slowly rubbed his chin, “it’s okay… it is.” They searched one another’s eyes, their faces flushed, breathing labored.

Daryl lowered his eyes, embarrassed, “c’mon… let me help ya outta the tub.”

“Thanks…” she said, blowing out her cheeks. He grabbed a towel, gently rubbing it along her hair, air drying it before continuing down her scarred back. Her lower back, just above her ass had so many lashes, red, and wide. He traced them gingerly. She slammed her eyes closed for a brief moment.

He continued to move the towel down lower over her hips and then pushed his forehead into her shoulder blade hugging her tight from behind. She rubbed his hands slowly as they gripped her, “It’s okay… really…”

When he released her, she turned around and opened his torn shirt, “why don’t you get a shower? Lord knows you need one.”

“Okay.” He nodded, looking her over, “gotcha dirty.” He wiped at her arm.

“It’s fine, it will come off.” She caressed his face again, “I’ll see where we can set up to sleep tonight.”

“Mhm.”

Daryl released the filthy water down the drain and turned on the shower. Once he climbed in, it felt so good. He let the hot spray redden his skin as he scrubbed the dirt away. He washed his hair three times to get it clean, the dirt pooling around his feet before trickling down the drain.

He’d crossed that line with Y/N, and she’d accepted him. She felt so good as he took her, he never thought it could feel that good. In his limited experience, the instruction wasn’t very clear on how to do anything more than stick it in and fuck. But Y/N was responsive, not blasé, and her body felt tight, not loose like the hooker. She’d cried out to him, not forced false moans. She liked it. Or so she said. He shook his head, why would she want him? He heard the bathroom door open.

“Daryl, I can scrub your back…”

After much deliberation, he said, “Mhm.” She opened the curtain and went for a washcloth. He handed her the soap, and she lathered it up, studying every scar. She wanted to remember every single line, the old, faded ones, the newer wide red ones. She kissed his shoulder. He flinched at first but relaxed as she pressed a little harder into his skin to scrub. It felt as if she was stripping away layers and layers of dirt. He gave her a curt smile and said, “thanks.”

She smiled and nodded, handing over the cloth. She shut the curtain and left him to privately wash. As she closed the bathroom door, she leaned heavily against it, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was still beating hard against her ribcage. She tried to pull herself together.

She entered the master bedroom and removed the dusty coverlet off the bed. The sheets and blankets below were surprisingly clean. Y/N rummaged through the closet to see what was there. She found some fresh pants that should fit Daryl and went through the dresser finding panties and a comfortable oversized t-shirt that she threw on. As she finger-combed her hair in the mirror on the dresser she barely recognized herself. She hadn’t had long hair since she was a kid. Her face was flushed, her body so alive from the after sex throbbing. She noticed the bruise on the side of her breast from Daryl’s bite, and then the one on her shoulder. Her lips were puffy from rough kisses, her vagina was still wet. She could barely wrap her mind around what just happened.

She went to the windows in the living room and looked outside at the fence, squinting in the dark. She couldn’t see the Walkers, but she could hear them. It didn’t sound like many.  She returned to the bedroom as Daryl turned off the shower and lit two candles from her backpack and set them on the dresser.

He loomed in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist, chewing the inside of his cheek. Daryl’s eyes lingered on her bare legs, his eyes traveling shyly up to her face. Y/N walked over to him, “I checked the gate. And turned off the generator. Everything seems good. We can both sleep tonight.”

“‘kay…” he paused, awkward, “I’ll take the couch.”

“You don’t have to…” she said, pulling back the blankets as she laid down. She patted the bed next to her, “a real bed, Daryl.”

He hesitated, “’s there any clothes in them drawers for me?”

“I saw some stuff…”

He walked over and started his own search. He grunted as he flipped through t-shirts until he found one that appealed to him. He found the pants she’d laid out and slipped into them. He laid his crossbow next to the side of the bed and slid a knife under his pillow.

“Should have your weapons close by, Y/N.”

“I do,” she pointed out her two metal hooks leaning against the wall and her knife on the nightstand, “and I’ve got you…”

Daryl slowly laid on his back. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was, and how wonderful the plushness of a bed would feel. He had a pillow.

“Now tell me this feels good, yeah?” Y/N asked, rolling to her side.

“Mhm.” Daryl’s eyes fluttered, the comfort, the silence, and the knowledge that Y/N was right next to him soothed him to sleep. Y/N watched him for a while. As he slept, the years seemed to wash away, and she could see a man at rest, deeper than she’d seen him in a very long time. She kept space between them, she didn’t want him to wake up. Every now and again, she’d go peer out the windows and check around. She finally fell asleep around early morning.

Daryl woke with a start, his knife in hand, looking around, heart racing. His eyes refocused when he heard Y/N say, “hey… it’s okay. I was just up and did a sweep. She was lying on the bed in jeans and her boots now. Daryl released a breath.

“I cleared some of the Walkers through the fence. Relax for a minute,” she touched his shoulder. He fell back on the pillow, an arm over his eyes.

“Thanks, Y/N, I needed that sleep.”

“I know you did, you look more rested,” she smiled at him warmly.

“I’m hungry. You?”

“I am starving.”

Chapter 20: Shopping

Before leaving the house with the iron fence, Daryl and Y/N rummaged through the garage. They found a thick chain and a padlock with the key still in it in a toolbox. They wrapped it around the gate of the fence, and Daryl took an old shoelace out of his jacket pocket. He threaded it through the eye of the key and slipped it over Y/N’s neck.

“Don’t lose it.” He smirked. She playfully shoved him.

“I won’t.”

They cleared out the few straggling Walkers before going into the town he’d dragged Y/N through. They checked all the fast food restaurants first. There was nothing left, just as they suspected. But when they got to a local drugstore, it was bound shut. No Walkers inside responded to their noises.

“Step back, Y/N,” Daryl instructed before kicking in the glass in the bottom frame of the door. He laid his jacket down and threw his backpack to Y/N. She held it as he crawled inside. He was on his feet keeping an eye out for Walkers and people as he motioned to Y/N. She crawled in and shook out his jacket before tossing it back to him. They grabbed a shopping cart full of junk and pushed it to block the hole.

“Sweep first?” she whispered. He nodded. Staying close to one another, they searched each aisle, the pharmacy, the bathrooms, and the back office.

“All clear,” she looked at him surprised, “how is it we get lucky two days in a row?”

He snorted, “’bout time we get somethin’. Fill yer pack.” He went into the pharmacy and grabbed some painkillers and antibiotics. Y/N sifted through the things left on the shelves, finding a few canned types of meat, tuna fish, and one or two cans of cream soups. Daryl meandered down the junk food aisle.

“Y/N… what kinda candy ya like?”

“There’s candy?”

“Mhm.”

“People didn’t think of stress eating when they raided this place? Unbelievable. We haven’t had any sweets except those stale cookies. Grab something with chocolate please.”

“Y’all like Twinkies?” He tossed one over the shelf at her. She laughed, barely catching it.

“I do now,” she popped it open and devoured half. She peeked around the corner and handed the other half back to him. He shoveled it in. Daryl moved on once finding chips and sweets to the magazines. He grabbed anything that looked interesting including some motorcycle ones, crossword puzzles, Sudoku, and Word Search books. He even grabbed crayons and coloring books.

“Y/N… puzzles.” He held some up.

“Oh, that’s good thinking. Stuff for us to do.”

“Psht, what’s free time?”

She went down the spice aisle, and although it was a small section she grabbed things to enhance their food and a big container of cinnamon sticks for Daryl. Daryl scaled over the cash register and grabbed boxes of cigarettes and put them in a shopping bag.

“Almost done?” He called out.

“Yeah…” Y/N was bagging feminine products. Daryl watched her from the end of the row, lighting a cigarette. His hand hit some hanging condoms and they spilled onto the floor.

She glanced his way, cheeks pink. Daryl pushed them to the side with his boot and lowered his eyes. She approached him and squeezed his shoulder, “I’m nearly done.”

He bobbed his head quietly, blowing smoke from his nose. She grabbed a grocery bag and filled it with some board games. She took one last look around.

“You look everywhere?” she asked him.

“Mhm. Got lots.”

“Pity the bread is moldy.”

“That happens after a year,” he teased. She nudged him with her shoulder.

When they returned to the house, they started unloading into one of the cupboards, but keeping a few things in their packs in case they had to go on the run.

“I found some powdered milk which has an amazing shelf life,” Y/N said, “and some pancake mix that’s expired, but I can check for bugs before I cook it.”

“Pancakes?” Daryl smiled, “Haven’t had them since everythin’ went ta shit.”

“I’ll make those if you turn on the generator, or I can do them in that cast iron pan I found in the fire.”

“Let’s save energy,” Daryl suggested.

She nodded, “Good idea.”

She mixed the batter and started cooking in the coals from last night’s fire before using some aluminum foil to cook the canned hash as a side food. Daryl’s mouth was salivating. First spaghetti now pancakes and meat.

“I left you something on the counter.”

Daryl looked at her surprised and walked into the kitchen. There was a container of cinnamon sticks. She must’ve noticed when he had no cigarettes that he’d chew on reeds or twigs to keep his mouth busy. She’d called it oral fixation. These were perfect, and she was really observant.

“Thanks, Y/N. Gotcha somethin’ too.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, brought in a bag, and set it next to her. She opened it up and there was a bunch of brand-new paperbacks inside.

“Got a little of everythin’ so y’all got lots to read.”

She stood up and exuberantly hugged him. He chuckled, hugging her back. She pressed her lips into his cheek, “thank you.”

“Mhm.”

“Oh! I’m going to burn the pancakes!” She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the hot heavy handle. Daryl tossed a towel on the dining room table and grabbed the aluminum foil by the coals.

As they ate, they barely spoke, just groans and moans of pleasure as they filled their stomachs.

“Was thinkin’,” Daryl said as he finished the last of his meat, “we’re gonna need meat. I ain’t gonna live on spaghetti.”

“No, we’re not. I think we should go hunting tomorrow morning. Maybe we can find some rabbits to start. If we aren’t going to have that generator running, we can’t keep the meat cold, so a little at a time.”

“There’s a firepit out back. We can dry some, bury some ta cook. It’s gonna last longer if we get the big game.” He said forking half the remaining meat onto her plate then the rest onto his.

“I’m full Daryl.”

“Naw, eat it. Yer gettin’ ta be skin n’ bones.” He’d been concerned about her well-being more so since he’d seen her body in the tub before…

“I am?” She lifted her shirt to look at her stomach. She pinched it, but it wasn’t like before, her hip bones stuck out enough to worry her, “god you’re right. I must’ve been lovely to look at last night.”

Daryl lowered his eyes, “I ain’t my size either,” he said, showing part of his stomach. His abdomen was more curved inward than usual, and his arms looked a little thin, “so we gotta eat.”

She nodded, “when we get some meat, we’ll cook in the fat from it, that should help. The peanut butter on our pancakes will help too. I know you hate it, but it’s got good oils and fats.”

He nodded. He’d gagged a little on it but had slathered quite a bit and made a pancake sandwich. He was full now. They’d finished everything and sat heavily back in their chairs.

“I never thought it would hurt so much to eat,” Y/N sighed.

Daryl didn’t speak. He knew all too well what it was like to go hungry before the world went upside down. He’d become so adept at hunting, otherwise, he’d have eaten nothing for days, even weeks on end when his father would disappear or go on a bender.  Merle taught him basic skills, but Daryl had taken it further, completely immersing himself in the outdoors. He’d become part of the outdoors, not a visitor. He was the dirt, the trees, the very air within the forests. He was the master predator tracking and sensing his prey. He’d started with one of Merle’s old bows, but when he started fixing engines for money, he’d saved up for a crossbow which became an extension of his arms. It was his primary source of food. When food was unavailable, bugs, worms, roots, and certain berries replaced the nutrients sustaining him for only a little while. But he was a full-blown carnivore at heart. And Y/N was his responsibility. He needed to keep her well-nourished and get that weight back on her.

She was clearing the table now, while he was deep in thought. He silently assisted her with placing the dirty items in the sink to wash later when they ran the generator.

“How ‘bout one of them puzzles?” Daryl asked, picking up one of the boxes and shaking it.

She nodded, “you know I’m surprised you picked one with a horse.” She snickered. Daryl looked through the other few boxes and held up a pond scene with ducks. She nodded.

“I haven’t seen a duck since the zoo. Oh god, the animals in the zoos, Daryl.”

He squeezed her shoulder tight, “don’t think ‘bout it. We can’t save everythin’. They may have gotten out.”

She nodded as they sat next to each other. Daryl flipped and sifted through pieces, trying to figure out what went where.

“Can I give you a hint?” She asked, “I separate all the flat edge pieces that make the frame first. You put them together and then the other pieces are easier to match up.”

He looked over at her, “yer picky.”

She smirked, “no, it works. Help me sort them, I’ll show you.”

He grunted, picking out pieces, and shoving the other ones to the side. Soon they were snapping together the edges until it was finished. Now they matched up some colors before quitting for a while.

“Looks good so far,” she complimented, hands on hips. Daryl agreed with a nod of his head.

“Almost to the ducks,” he answered, his hand touching her back. She peered his way as he moved his hand up to her shoulder blades. Y/N and Daryl didn’t touch much. The most was the day of the downpour and then last night. She had even kept a distance when sleeping. So when they did touch, it was an intimate gesture that neither was accustomed to.

“Almost to the ducks,” she agreed, and then, “I think I’ll dive into one of those books for a bit. I know we aren’t used to sitting still, but we should take advantage while we can. Not get lazy, but just recuperate.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his cheek, “could probably stay here a few days.”

“We’re safe, the woods aren’t far behind us. If we’re lucky enough to find some meat, maybe we could stay longer. No one can get in with that bolt and chain. The Walkers have been mostly driven away now because of us. We’re nearly in some bumfuck town that has already been picked over.”

“’ Cept that store.”

“Right, where we can go back and get a few more things when need be.”

“Mhm.”

She looked through the books, reading the synopsis on the back of a few before picking a romance novel. She couldn’t believe he’d grabbed a few of those. She wasn’t much for them, but her mind was needing something soft. She plopped down on the couch, dust flying everywhere. She coughed. Daryl grabbed a fistful of magazines and sat down next to her. She began to read, tucking her feet up under her. Daryl lit a cigarette as he thumbed through the motorcycle magazine first, reading every article closely. He missed his bike.

Daryl glanced at Y/N. She was already halfway through the book and biting her lower lip, her breath catching in her throat. He heard little sighs, her toes curling. He watched her for a bit longer, her cheeks turning pink.

His knee bumped her knee, “y’all okay?”

She covered her face with the book embarrassed, “yes,” she squeaked. He snorted, flicking ashes in an old soup can.

“What is it?”

She stood up, “I need to use the bathroom.” She dog-eared the page and rushed out of the room. Frowning, Daryl picked up the book and started reading the page she was on. He flicked back a few before realizing she was reading about two people making love. It was detailed enough to make him flush. The way the two characters interacted was foreign to him. They spoke of undying love, their eyes full of passion, their bodies moving slowly, the man gently working into the woman, satisfying her in every way. Frowning, he’d only known one way. He only knew how to fuck, and he knew that last night he’d fucked Y/N. He was so rough on her, nothing like this book. He wondered if that was what she would like. He wondered if it was something he could even do. Or was she just like him and only knew fucking?

The door to the bathroom opened, so he quickly put the book back as he found it. Y/N sat back down and cleared her throat. He watched her flip past the pages she’d been on, skipping the sex no doubt, he thought. He playfully whacked her with the rolled-up magazine. She grinned, smacking him back with the book.

“Hey now…”

“You started it,” she teased. He smacked her again, the magazine making it sound harder than it was. She returned the action. Soon they were laughing and whacking each other relentlessly. She pushed on him, knocking him off the couch, his legs still up in the air. She hit his feet with the book, “surrender!”

“Naw,” he exclaimed, “never.”

She laughed hysterically, getting off the couch and hitting him playfully in the stomach, “surrender!”

“Naw, woman!” He pinned her hands in front of him. They stared at one another for a long time before she got up.

“You won’t relent, then I’m going to let you lie there suffering.” She winked and placed her foot gently on his chest, “maybe now you’ll give up?” He held her foot.

“Y’all think this is gonna make me give up? Ain’t gonna happen.”

She applied a little more pressure. Daryl’s heart raced. For some reason, this little playback and forth was exciting him. He held her foot as she pressed a little more. Without a breath, he pulled her down and pinned her on her stomach, twisting her hands behind her back. He breathed heavily, her chest was heaving.

“Give up, Y/N,” he commanded, voice deep.

“No,” she breathed.

He twisted them more, it started to hurt, “give up, Y/N.”

“No,” her voice squeaked, “I won’t.”

“Damn yer stubborn.”

“Just like someone else I know.” She winced from the pain but felt a rush of adrenaline.

He pressed his hips against her ass. She felt his erection. He tugged down her pants and panties and undid his belt and pants. He whipped it out and spread her legs with his knees. His hands hiked up her hips before he pushed hard into her. She clawed the floor as she pressed back against him eagerly. He lifted her more, her hands holding her torso up now and he thrust so hard and so fast that his balls bounced against her ass. She cried out like a wild animal as he lifted her shirt towards her neck in the back with one hand and started biting her back. He grunted hard as she tightened around him, her slick hole spasming. He bit her harder and she howled again but didn’t stop him as he bit her shoulder blade and groped her breasts with one hand. He felt himself getting closer and closer. She moaned, panting like an animal that was running from its predator as he came, her pleasure not far behind. He grabbed her pulling her arms off the floor and rammed into her a few more times before withdrawing his softening cock. She lay on the floor, motionless, except for the panting. Daryl yanked his pants back up, tucked himself in, and stood.

“Gonna do a sweep.” He picked up his crossbow and went out the door slamming it. Y/N tried to gather her wits. She slowly pulled up her pants before wiping her damp bangs back from her forehead. Picking up the romance novel, she threw it in the fire.

She shook her head and grabbed her weapons. It was difficult to walk, but she went to join Daryl and stab the Walkers through the gate. Daryl was hitting them especially hard with his knives, she stabbed through the heads with her spears. Once cleared, Daryl marched back to the house not saying a word.

Y/N walked around to the back and saw a pear tree. Soon Spring would be coming, and the tree would be ripe with fruit. That’s if they stayed there that long. She sat under it, giving Daryl some space while she tossed loose rocks through the fence spaces. She realized there was another gate and went into the garage looking for something to keep it shut. She puttered around outside for a few hours before heading back in.

Daryl was sitting at the table with the puzzle, putting more pieces in. She walked over to the couch and plopped down, facing away from him as she said, “taking a nap.”

He grunted in response.

They spoke very little for the rest of the evening. Y/N watched him stoke the fire as she sat with a different book in her lap. This one was a mystery. Daryl saw remains of the singed book in the cold coals.

“What’s the deal with this book?” he pointed at it. She shrugged.

“It was stupid,” she replied frustrated, “full of bullshit.”

He chewed his lower lip, “yeah?”

“Mhm.” She picked up her newest book and began to read it by candlelight. Daryl plopped down next to her sharpening his knives on the whetstone they shared.

“I think I’ll take the couch or one of the other beds tonight,” she whispered. He frowned.

“Y’all mad at me now?”

“I’m not mad. I just think maybe we need some space. Maybe we’re together too much.”

Daryl didn’t think that was possible. He enjoyed her company. And he liked fucking her, “naw, we ain’t. Not too much, Y/N. But if y’all need space, I’ll give it to ya.”

She stood up, “goodnight.” She brushed his bangs from his face and kissed his forehead. She headed down the dark hallway with a flashlight and found one room full of boxes. The other had a single bed. She pulled back the dusty coverlet and laid down, setting one knife on her nightstand, and the hooks on the floor within reach.

Daryl was angry, frustrated, and confused. She’d obviously wanted what he gave her, or she’d have pushed him away. But instead, she’d left the room completely. She wasn’t her normal chatty self since their afternoon moment on the floor. Had he hurt her? She didn’t say anything.

He looked in the closest bedroom to the hallway. It was full of boxes. He went to the other room and saw Y/N covered up over her head.

“Y/N…”

He waited a few minutes before saying her name again, “Y/N.”

Chapter 21: Hunting for Food

Y/N’s eyes adjusted to the early morning light from the open curtain, the eastern-facing window. She grumbled, frustrated, still tired from a fitful sleep. She rolled to the other side, about to get up, but her toes touched Daryl’s shoulder. He was lying on the floor sleeping but woke as soon as her foot was there. He grabbed it instinctively, and before he reacted any further, his hands rubbed her ankle.

“What… What are you doing in here?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged, “didn’t seem right, leavin’ ya here by yerself.”

“I’m capable.”

“I know. But.”

“But?”

His hand moved further up her leg, “Yer mad at me, ain’t ya?”

“No. You seemed so angry yesterday afternoon with those Walkers and stuff. I thought you needed some time.”

She slid down to the floor, sitting next to him. Their hands grazed one another’s.

“It’s early. Wanna hunt?”

She nodded, “yes.” He offered her a hand as he stood up. She gratefully took it and once standing, she touched his chin slowly before both moved closer and then pulled away.

“Morning light’s burning,” she said, heading into the living room. They gathered their weapons and headed out the back, “I saw another gate out here.” She opened it.

“Gotta find another type of lock for it.”

“Yeah, maybe we can look in the garage again.” They headed out the back gate into the forest not far behind the house. Daryl pointed one way and then the other. She nodded as they split up. Both were silent as the grave moving like wisps through the foliage and brush. Daryl came upon a large pond with a small stream leading into it. A deer had its head down, his nose dipping into the cold water to drink. Daryl raised his shoulder, aiming his crossbow, looking through the site. He couldn’t quite see enough of the deer’s side for the shot. He moved as quietly as he could, watching every step. The buck raised its antlered head looking about. Daryl stood stone still. The deer hesitated for another moment before lowering his muzzle back to the water.

Daryl had a clear shot. He eyed the buck for a few more minutes, sizing it up to see if it was too much meat for their situation. Licking his lips, he aimed and let loose. The deer released a painful squeal, reared up, and started running. Daryl was sure he’d gotten it in the front between the shoulder and the ribs, right where it was supposed to be. He rushed after it, tracking it deeper into the thicker woods before he found it downed. His hand brushed over the chest, the heart stopping.

“Thank ya for the food.” He rubbed it a few more minutes revering in the moment for the life he’d taken. He whistled sharply, the sound reverberating. He looked around for Walkers and any other predators as he field-dressed the buck.

Y/N spied Daryl kneeling on the ground. She rushed to join him, kneeling, setting the hares she’d gotten next to her.

“Great kill,” she said, proud of his prowess, removing the arrow as she helped pull out more of the innards. She carefully took the liver and heart into her pack. Daryl hoisted the deer onto his shoulders. She grabbed the hares, and they walked happily toward the outer rim of the forest. She’d stopped to grab some wild shallots, and shelf mushrooms, tucking them away into her bag with the major organ meat.

Once back at the house, They hung the deer in the garage with a large towel underneath it to drain the blood. He lifted the large hares she’s brought in.

“These are great Y/N. We did good.”

“Roast hares tonight on the flames. That cast iron pan is gonna be handy.” She suddenly hugged him, “thank you for the venison. We’re going to eat so well!”

A smile invaded his lips as he nodded, “we are.”

Chapter 22: Delicious Dinner

As they ate the tender meat straight off the bones Daryl wiped the juices with the back of his hand, grease drizzling down his chin before saying, “it’s good, Y/N. All them spices n’ that bit o’ fat.” She’d made some quick biscuits with the pancake mix. They sopped up the juice, mixed the mushrooms with the pieces of meat, and the shallots softened to also chew down enhancing the flavor.

“Can’t wait to taste that venison either,” Y/N remarked, digging deeper into her mushrooms.

“You love them ‘shrooms, huh?”

She nodded, “I do, they’re saturated with the flavor of the meat and chewy. It’s like more meat. You like them?”

“Y’all know I eat everythin’. But the rest of them ‘shrooms are yours.”

“Daryl there’s a lot left, we can split them.”

“I said eat ‘em, woman.” He pushed the dish closer to her. She half laughed.

“Fine, I won’t fight you on this. I’m too hungry for them.” She shoveled them onto her plate. Daryl took another biscuit saturating it in the juices and scarfed it down.

They’d had a pretty good breakfast, but nothing like the fulfilling meats they were devouring now. Y/N’s soul was dancing in pure delight as she ate the mushrooms one by one, savoring each piece. Daryl propped his chin on his hand and watched her eat. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for her to get her weight back if they could eat this well most of the time.

“I saw a pear tree or two outback yesterday. If we stayed long enough, we’d have some fresh fruit in the late Spring.”

Daryl looked down at his meal, rapidly sucking the meat off the small bones.

“We could stay if we can keep the food supply up.”

“Saw a pond. Might have fish.”

“There will be wild berries too,” She volunteered, “I saw plants for yams, rosehips, raspberries, blackberries, and crabapples.”

“Mushrooms, chives, garlic, sage…” he added.

“Is there a basement here? We could use it for a root cellar.”

“Naw, there ain’t one. First thing I looked for.”

“Dammit.”

“Can make ya a root cellar easy ‘nough.”

“Does that mean we’re going to stay a while?”

“Is that what ya want?”

She finished the last nibble off a front leg bone and covered a belch.

“Yes, but what about you?”

Daryl rubbed his greasy hands on the front of his shirt, “We’re a team, Y/N.”

She looked up at him and nodded, “a team.”

After the dishes, they worked on the puzzle until it was finished. Y/N gave Daryl the final piece.

He smiled, feeling accomplished. As she started to pull it apart he grunted, “after all that work.”

“Yeah, I know, but we have more puzzles to do.”

Chapter 23: The Discussion

Daryl turned on the generator as Y/N wanted to get a shower at bedtime. While she was cleaning up in the bathroom, he lay stretched out on the couch reading one of the romance novels. He heard her humming to herself, sidetracking him from his quest to read this book. When the water stopped, her humming stopped, so he dug back in, mostly reading the sex parts. He chewed his nail, lost in the pages of a steamy lovemaking session.

“Do you want to get a shower before you turn the water off?” She asked him from the hallway. He shoved the book into the crack of the couch and looked over his shoulder at her.

“Do I have ta?”

She smirked, “no, grubby, you don’t have to.”

She was still in her towel.

“Get somethin’ on, yer gonna catch cold,” he murmured.

“Why are you getting so bossy with me?” She asked him, clearly irritated.

“I ain’t. I’m lookin’ out for ya. And y’all ain’t sleepin’ in that small room t’night.”

“What? You can’t tell me where to sleep!”

“It’s better if we sleep close, in case somethin’ happens.”

She cocked an eyebrow curiously, “where do you suggest we sleep, then?”

“In the big bedroom, ‘course.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Daryl?”

He snorted, “wouldn’t know how. ‘Sides yer still mad at me for somethin’.”

She came around and lifted his legs to sit down. When she did, she put his legs across her lap.

“What happened… the past two days… it can’t be like that.”

“How’s it supposed ta be?”

She cocked her head to one side, “you don’t have any idea?”

He contemplated his actions, “I’m tryin’ ta figure it all out.”

“I had a bad relationship. And I started feeling like a piece of meat. It’s all I’ve known. I don’t want that again.” She turned, showing him her back, “I know you’ve not forgotten.”

“No, I ain’t forgotten nothin’. Not when it comes to y’all. I thought ya liked it. I don’t wanna hurt ya, Y/N.”

“You didn’t hurt me… and I wanted it too. But afterward, it seemed so cold between us. I don’t want to be fucked and discarded, Daryl. I know there has to be a better way.”

“I don’t know how ta be… different.”

“I think it’s something we need to learn together. If we want something… special.”

He sat up, moving his legs to the floor, “I wanna be with ya, Y/N. I decided that a long time ago.”

She smiled, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. She slowly ran her fingertips along the side of his stubbly cheek, “It makes me so happy to hear that. Because I want to be with you too.”

A breath of relief escaped his lips.

She stifled a yawn.

“Why don’t ya go find yer t-shirt for bed an’ I’ll turn off the generator, do a quick sweep?” His voice was softer than it was before. She nodded, kissing his cheek, and heading back towards the bedroom.

When he returned from his sweep, she was already lying on the bed in her t-shirt from the night before. She patted the bed, “join me?”

He slid off his shirt and unzipped his jeans, kicked off his boots and pants, “ain’t used ta sleepin’ like this.”

“I used to sleep like this a lot. It seems weird now. And being clean is weird too. I was starting to feel like a Walker.”

“Y’all were startin’ ta smell like one too,” he grinned, laying on his back. She lay separated from him.

“Ya don’t touch me in bed. Do I jump in my sleep?”

“Sometimes. But that’s not why. Just a habit I picked up from being with him.”

Daryl reached over and softly took her hand. He hesitated before dragging it over and laying it on his chest gently. She felt the soft hairs between her fingers and started rubbing a small circle into it. Daryl breathed deeply, the tension leaving his body. He reached his hand over and grabbed the edge of her t-shirt, “c’mere,” he whispered. She inched closer until her head was on his chest too, his arm wrapped around her, hand resting on her hip.

“This is nice…” he whispered. She was rigid. He lifted his head, “ain’t this nice?”

“I have to get used to it, you?”

“Well, yeah, but feels nice, Y/N…” He kissed the top of her head, “ya gotta help me help ya. I don’t know what ta do.”

“It’s not going to happen overnight…” she admitted.

“Naw, it ain’t. But I like feelin’ ya on my chest.”

Her eyes fluttered as she listened to his heart beating in its strong rhythm, the sound of each inhale and exhale, and the slow rubbing of his hand on her hip and side. She slid her leg along his, his hairy calves tickling her sensitive skin. Daryl began to feel that arousal and slowly reached his hand down to move her leg aside.

“Was that bothering you?” she asked.

He huffed, “not in the way you’re thinkin’. I don’t wanna press ya t’night. I know you ain’t ready. I ain’t either.”

“I’m fine with just enjoying this,” she confided to him happily. He grunted in agreement. She reached down for the blankets and pulled them up around their waists. Both settled into a comfort zone and held each other as they dozed in and out.

Daryl realized Y/N was sleeping when her breathing pattern changed. Slower, deeper, heavier. Her body was completely tense-free. She smelled of cleanliness and soap, her hair floral from the shampoo. He lifted her t-shirt just enough so he could run his fingers along her hip. He stopped at the bone near the top, which was usually so full, but now sunken in and thinner. He’d admired her body before, the realization that he preferred a real woman with real curves over skinny ones. She could make anything look good, and her body… was a pleasure to study in or out of clothes. He nestled his chin into her damp hair and returned to that Zen comfort he was feeling moments before.

Chapter 24: Reading

The Following Day

After dinner, a yard sweep, and some hanging of venison in the garage, Daryl and Y/N settled in for the night. Daryl was working on a crossword puzzle and Y/N was on to a new book, another romance novel. Y/N was stretched out on the couch. Daryl rubbed her foot absentmindedly as it rested on his lap.

“What’s a four-letter word for behind?” He asked.

“Rear,” Y/N answered without a second thought. What do you know, it fits. Daryl smiled, accomplished in finishing his puzzle. He set the book down on the coffee table.

“What are ya readin’?” He asked snorting as he read the cover.

“Somebody got me a lot of romance novels, so that’s what I’m reading.” She peeked over the top of the book.

“Read ta me.” He leaned back into the couch as he lit a cigarette.

“You’re kidding.”

“Naw, I ain’t. Ya seem really into the book.”

“Why are you torturing me?”

He grunted, reaching for a different book on the floor, “have ya read this yet?” It was a horror novel.

“No.”

“Read this to me then, please?”

It was the please that did her in, “oh alright, hand it here.” She held out her hand. She’d told him so many stories about her firefighting days on the road, he grew accustomed to the sound of her voice settling him in times of stress when they were pinned in places they never thought they’d get out of. Now, the idea struck him since she had other things to read.

As she began to read, Daryl slid the romance novel off her lap and thumbed through it. He breathed out smoke and smooshed the remainder of his cig in the can he used for an ashtray, “Hey Y/N…” he interrupted the story. She looked over the book again.

“Yeah?”

He held up the romance novel, “people really do it like in these books?”

“Some people do,” she admitted, trying to remember way back when her ex used to be kind. She couldn’t recall it.

“It can be like that?”

“Something similar I suppose.”

“Is this what you want?”

“I want us to find our own way of showing… affection. Not someone else’s idea of what it should or shouldn’t be,” she answered, “what do you want?”

He shrugged, “never thought ‘bout it ‘til yesterday. Yer different than other girls I once knew. Not that I been with a lot of… them…”

“I’ve only been with my ex,” she admitted, “fooled around a little with a few guys, but that was as far as it went.”

“I wanna be good to ya,” he said after a long silence.

“I hope I can be good to you too.”

He wished he could think of things to say… internally putting pressure on himself, instead of just letting things flow as they came. She sat up and touched his face as if on instinct.

“We just go slow. You’re my best friend, Daryl. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

He felt the same although he couldn’t form words. He nodded instead. And that seemed enough for her. She smiled and started to read aloud again.

After a while, she started yawning, “I think I need to turn in. We have a lot of deer to cut up tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and we gotta go seed huntin’.”

“Right.” She dogeared the page she was on and stood, “are you coming?”

“Be in soon,” he answered, monkeying with his crossbow. She kissed his forehead lightly.

“Okay. Goodnight.”

He nodded, “night Y/N.”

Once she left, he reached into the couch and pulled out the romance novel he’d been reading. The man seemed much like himself, quiet, shy, and unsure of his feelings. The woman was a stronger character that knew what she wanted in a man and led him to her bedroom. Reading a sex scene made him blush, and hot under the collar. He paused reading and wondered how he’d ever be able to be like this man – coming into his own and masterfully taking care of his woman’s wants. He shoved the book back into the crevice of the couch and blew out the candles. He poked at the fire, leaving it burning remains of coals, and headed to the bedroom.

Stripping down to his boxers, he left the candle lit and crawled into bed next to Y/N.

“Y/N, are ya sleepin’?”

She lifted her head from her pillow, “no.”

“I wanna… try somethin’.”

“What?”

He slowly reached over and rubbed her shoulder, lightly kneading it. She felt her eyes flutter from his touch, her heart beating like a bullet bouncing off metal and ricocheting through her sternum. He slid closer, “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered. His hand moved towards her neck, still massaging. He wove his fingers into her hair, pulling at first, but then easing up as she gasped. He realized that when he got aroused, he wanted to just take her hard and fast. He didn’t want to feel that way, it wasn’t what she wanted. And he wanted to feel more at ease and able to show her how he felt about her. He felt the silkiness sift through his fingers, little ringlets wrapping around his pinky.

“Hair’s soft…” his voice was deep and husky.

“Mhm…”

His calloused fingers found her ear and rubbed the lobe before letting go. She smiled at him, “that felt nice.”

Daryl grunted as he lay flat on his back, looking over at her. She reached out and did the same: rubbed his hair and scalp slowly. His eyes closed, his breath deep. He groaned lightly, satisfied with the tenderness she doled out to him. Y/N lay down next to him on her stomach and wrapped an arm around his chest.

“Naw… comere,” he patted his chest. She nestled into his arm and rested her cheek against his chest. All her limbs rested, her body falling into a comfortable lull.

Part Seven

@eddiemunsonsupremecy @daryldixmedown

[parragone]

wip wednesday saturday

one of those "I can't tag anyone else because I don;t know who to tag" situations, but thank you @r6shippingdelivery for tagging me in the first place <3

it's been a hot minute, so I'm gonna post a couple WIPs - the first being a muze wip from the early days of Rainbow, the second being a wip chapter from my Gentle Progress rewrite, Set in Motion, and the third being from a Fallen Hero wip because I am fucking rotted by this game-

ANYWAY, IT'S ALL UNDER THE CUT

first is from Early Days, which is the mute/fuze thing that just... bites at my heels

The party was loud. Too loud, really, but Mark had grown somewhat accustomed to the way the team liked to celebrate. With new arrivals from Japan to liven the party further, Mark had ducked out to get a breath of fresh air and hopefully escape the party altogether. He had never been one for parties in the first place, having never been quite old enough to be invited to any among his peers, and had little interest in learning to enjoy them. With a flimsy excuse about needing to finish his latest prototype improvement for MONI, he’d escaped a lecture from Mike – a well-intentioned lecture about needing to learn how to socialize, but a lecture nonetheless – and slipped out of the mess hall. A walk to clear his head and ground himself would do him some good, and then he’d go back to his ideal holiday activity; six hours spent coding something for fun rather than for a deadline. It’d be quiet until the operators came back from the holiday party disappointingly sober yet still all too happy to carry on their chatter, but by that time he hoped to be well and truly too tired to care. As he tugged his hood up and prepared to take the short walk around the obstacle course that he had come to well and truly despise, he heard the steady pace of another set of boots on another late-night jog. He raised his head to look down the track with furrowed brows, only to be met with the now-familiar figure of Kessikbayev. The smell of fresh cigarettes overpowered the smell of the rain and Mark was suddenly glad for the mask that covered his face and hid the way he cringed at the smell. “You weren’t at the party,” Mark commented as the older man slowed to a stop under the overhang. Shuhrat raised a brow as he shook his head to get rid of the excess water. “No.” The answer was simple and curt, and Mark felt a twinge of relief. “You have left it.” “Too loud.” It was as much an excuse as it was a reasonable explanation. “You done jogging?” “Yes.” The older man paused and gave a sidelong nod toward the barracks. He was done for the night, Mark assumed, but they were heading the same way. “Mind company?” “No.”

This second part is for Set in Motion, but it's a ways away

"I brought a peace offering." Jayce's boots were heavy on the old steel floors but just controlled enough that Viktor could tell the man was being conscious about his approach. He stared at the wall as the Piltovan approached and placed something glass on the dusty old bedside table,  immediately followed by a retreat and the sound of his colleague circling around to the other side of the bed. The silence was so thick that he wondered if a bullet could kill it. "Can we talk?"  The bed creaked as Jayce sat on the other side, the dip in the old mattress just enough for the Zaunite to notice. He refused to turn over and look at the man, something bitter built up in his heart.  "Or maybe I can just… talk. I… I know I fucked up. I should have listened to you but instead, I paraded myself down an alley because I heard something. Even after you warned me that it's dangerous down here." Viktor listened as the Piltovan continued, aching hand slowly relaxing. "I was an idiot. And an asshole. And if your friend Vi wasn't there I probably would have ended up dead in a back alley instead of alive with a few new scars." Viktor looked at the pattern on the pillowcase. He wanted to be something mad, to be angry enough to yell at Jayce again, and found himself empty of it. The hollow cavity in his chest felt only slightly cracked, but enough to keep his attention on what his colleague was saying.  "I don't know what I'm doing. Obviously. I nearly - I did hurt people down there. And I… I'm… I didn't realize how upset it would make you or how dangerous it was or… or anything like that and now I feel like I've crushed your good will for me into the ground and I hate that more because you… you. You. You're smart. You're leagues beyond anyone else I've ever met, like the Lady of Progress herself made you to force me to change. You've never once been hesitant to tell me when I'm wrong or a jackass or just not being the best I could be." The Zaunite shifted his bad leg to stretch it slightly. "Such as your misconception about Shuriman naming conventions. You insisted upon yourself so loudly." "Yeah, exactly," Jayce replied, his voice tinged with an emotion Viktor couldn't place. "You damn near threw the history book at me. My point is, I don't want to lose you because you're one of my only friends. I just… I don't know how to be a good friend. I've never had many. Most people think I'm an asshole on purpose but half the time I can't even tell if they're mad at me or happy with me and the other half I can't tell their facial expressions apart."  The bed shifted again, the dip shifting into a full, familiar, comfortable weight behind him that made him ashamed and relieved at the same time. He wanted to turn around and look at his roommate, his friend, to encourage him and reward him with the end goal. Viktor knew better.  "I don't know how to be a good friend. I'm barely a good person. I know this because most of why I haven't built a city-leveling bomb is the morals of those around me. But I want… I want to be good for you. And I don't know where to start because I feel like every time I start to do something I'm inevitably gonna fuck up. Maybe not as bad as this excursion, but I still think about how angry you were when you left the play. I never want to do that to you again and here I am,  somehow doing something even worse. I think I'm asking for forgiveness, maybe? Or guidance. Just… I want to know how to..." "Fix it?" "You know me. There's nothing I can't fix, right?"

and the last bit is fallen hero, also very rusty, but also vaguely??? nsfw?? it's meant to be intimate but not necessarily sexual idk

The dreams had a strange mercy for once in that he could see nothing, but in exchange, his mind had conjured something far worse; a fantasy he could touch, smell, and hear. He didn’t need to see to feel Chen knelt in front of him, broad form settled between his thighs as a solid anchor among uncertainty. He needed a reason – and his mind provided, familiar hands pulling a blindfold tight over his eyes and the tickle of an all too familiar beard along the edge of one shoulder. Chen knew his strength. He kept one rough, weathered hand flat against Cole's lower spine to keep him still as he pressed quiet kisses against the warm, soft skin. Teeth grazed the edge of the ink that lined the smaller man's collarbone in fractal patterns too tightly interwoven to discern with the naked human eye; bruises bloomed over his neck and chest like flowers carefully embroidered into cloth too fragile to hold them. Held still as if he’d fall apart if Chen dared let go. Ortega had learned to be careful. His hands were softer than the Marshal’s, but just as grounding as they rested on his waist. Warm lips pressed to the nape of his neck, the scrape of a well-trimmed beard along the dip of his shoulder just as ticklish as it was when they kissed. He held the telepath as if he could save Cole from falling again, as if he could hold him close and somehow save him without knowing what he was saving him from. Like a hero should, if they could. It was too much to bear, not enough to fill the aching hole in his chest. Like filling an ocean one rainstorm at a time, bringing life from extinction. Washing away the barren empty with nothing more than a rag and their tears, they had no intention of letting him slip from their hands a second time. Monsters and all. Don’t touch me, his mind whispered in an instinctive flinch, I don’t know how not to bite.

[brawlqueen]

aftermath. / drabble.

maybe it was inevitable. or maybe the small girl was so used to the notion of 'false peace' . after the man who had solved the cyclops serial killings had adopted her, mizuki didn't quite know where to balance what was and what wasn't. her parents were still brutally murdered in ways both complicated and could never be shown to the public. she had verified both, quite literally in bloom park the other after . . . where date had found daddy.

despite it all, all the insanity coming afterwards and new terms to grasp, she wanted to believe things had ended. even though the grief, the insurmountable pain and horror that had compromised almost entirely her twelve year old life would end. then those 'hunger games' started. frankly with all she had endured, be it abuse, neglect, witnessing untold pain after pain, trauma after trauma until it cemented itself like grafting into her bones . . there was both an odd alertness and equal parts numbness when mizuki entered that unwanted arena.

so many people had tried their best to help a little girl, she, someone capable of utterly crushing bones to powder if she wanted to. she didn't need the pipe varys gave her, her body itself was a weapon since date had taught her how to fight . she didn't need the magic cloak as much as maria could have benefited and not suffered.

she hadn't been able to protect a single person!

and solita . . hearing the cannons sound for her had hit the twelve year old in such a raw and visceral way that her eyes watered up with tears. the way she had . . . as far as mizuki considered it, died by a sword, brought up too many unpleasant memories. no, horrifying memories that eclipsed even the games itself in most every aspect, only enhancing the reality of her life; not eclipsing it. it hadn't been a bad dream, it had been real, and no amount of stoicism she bore would make her life a 'bad dream' either in the months of both aftermaths.

idly she rubbed at her leg wound; where the culprit's bullet had hit her in an attempt to disarm him . to protect her best friend. it still hurt. just another scar like a quilt laid on her chest, mark after mark after mark . . .

. . . and then she heard the door knock.

she was wiser beyond her years, but even then she was still a little girl, somewhere buried beneath the thousand yard, fiery stare. dark grey eyes flitting to the door expectantly and subduing the quiet happiness mixed with annoyance that it brought her.

" date ? " she calls out to the man who had raised her for four years . she calls out to the man who chose her. she doesn't think to grab her metal pipe, nor release adorabbit, three eyes in its fur and all . it may just be someone dropping off one of his weird 'videos'. pervert. . .

but she is wrong the moment dark grey open to the stranger; description unimportant. her gut instincts coil like a trapped yet armed rabbit, fist aiming in reflex towards . . . the wall.

to say it left a dent would be a kindness the wall could not be given. the man in question seems rather disturbed as well, mortar and brick falling in powdered substance around her red sneakers.

" ah, you're mizuki ? district five? "

a curt, and burning stare, the one in question raising her chin in absolute defiance and barely subdued rage. perhaps even a little bit of fear for the fearless. " . . . i'm not giving you my last name. and you aren't coming inside. " came her cold response, seething with flame at the edges.

" i wouldn't expect anything less from the star contestant who attracted so much . . . attention. "

she flinches; teeth gritted as she snaps viciously, shaking her gloved hand of well, brick: ( sorry . . date . uh, my bad . ) " shut up you bastard. do you wanna look like the wall or do you honestly think i'm going to talk about it?!" she raises her voice; teeth gnashing together, a rabbit blending into a small lion. either cornered and coiled to attack all at once. the wall was proof of that.

" whoa , whoa missy. i'm not here to cause trouble. and i'm not here to harm your adoptive father, is it? i did hear you were recently adopted. a congratulations is in order, don't you think? " another flinch, eyes widening like a deer caught under the hunter's gun . " he - you leave him out of this! " hissed; taking a step forward to firmly safeguard the door.

she was for once, glad, kaname date was late at work.

" you even attracted the kindness of our menace, varys himself, and a few other characters . . . " she felt her eyes sting. she still hadn't verified if they truly were alive like she was or not, but it only fueled her resolve . . and her rage.

chin lifted in defiance, mizuki pauses to contemplate her next move. the man , rather insignificant for his role, clearly here to dredge up another fresh wound in her heart, has little tolerance. she doubts he'll give her any answers about maria, solita or varys. or any of the contestants. "so mizuki, " he begans so calmly, so casually, that she almost forgets that she broke a hole in the wall of brick that made up their apartment in preparation for him.

" can i ask you a few ques - " but the man does not get to finish his sentence. with a sharp cry beneath him, a girl's cry, a fist collides with his face.

along with a subdued yet powerful kick to his gut.

said girl stood over the now pitifully unconscious man, cracking her knuckles and barely hiding the slight tremble both of rage and a bit of fear as she looked at the wall, then at him. " damn. " muttered furiously, feeing tears prick her eyes . not even punishing him for all this felt good . . . and date is going to be so pissed .

" well, i think the interviews over . . . " mizuki mumbled; tilting her head around, a messy blue ponytail and too many wild strands sticking around her face and head bobbing with the movement.

sighing with exasperation she drags his unconscious form into the hallway; glad no one is outside to see. she hadn't even used a full fraction of her full strength, but at least this was good enough for her.

" . .yeahhh . . . the interview is definitely over. "

[vastayan--vigilante]

“I can make the bad guys good for a weekend.”

The gig was supposedly a straightforward one - just a security stint at some boss's joint, making sure no one entered or left without a valid pass, making sure no one interrupted whatever shit was happening in the "studio room" (not Scar's business to know) and making sure no one got handsy with the... actors.

The actors that Niska's buddy had on payroll looked rather a lot like streetwalkers and their johns. Was this just a flimsy front for a brothel operation? Figured. He'd thought that Valentino guy looked more like a pimp than a producer (whatever the fuck that was supposed to be.)

As weird as this gig was, at least it wasn't another turf tussle - all Scar really had to do here was stand around for a few hours, keep his mouth shut and look intimidating. Which, admittedly, he was quite good at doing. His lean, looming vastayan frame, the shimmer-purple tinge to his popping veins, and his dead-eyed glower had made him stand out enough in the line-up to get picked for this job.

Unfortunately, his unapproachable vibes didn't seem to deter one of the actors from approaching him anyway.

“I can make the bad guys good for a weekend.”

Scar narrowed his eyes in the actor's direction, and his ear twitched; his only immediate acknowledgement of being spoken to.

This guy(?) was... tall. Taller up close. Part of it was because he was in platform heels, but part of it was definitely just his legs being really fucking long.

Huh.

The chemthug had been hit on plenty of times. He'd never had to direct his attention upwards before, though. So this was what it was like being towered over, instead of the one doing the towering. He felt mildly uncomfortable.

Which was ridiculous, because the actor looked like he was built like a toothpick.

"...No coin," Scar told the actor in a flat rumble, after a suitably bemused pause. This curt and concise response had become his go-to - namely because it informed hustlers fishing for their next john that he was a waste of their time, and everyone else was usually so insulted by the implication that he thought they looked like a streetwalker that they abandoned the attempt at flirtation. Either way, it helped make the awkward interactions end quickly. (Or started a fight, but frankly fighting was easier than talking to strangers anyway.)

"Not interested."

@xxx-angeldust-xxx

[foxgloveblue]

pale in a liminal moon 🌙 chapter 20

Pairing: Grian/Scar

Tags: selkie AU, steampunk AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn

Summary: Scar has twenty-two minutes to find Grian.

Words: 4,768

previous chapter || next chapter

ao3 link || masterpost

The crowd felt alive. 

The people themselves were obviously alive, but that wasn’t what he meant. The hundreds of guests milling about and chatting were each their own being – each an individual with their own life, own motivations for being there. 

Normally, Scar reveled in these differences. It was almost like a game to him. With a few observations and careful words, could he dissect their life story? Could he connect with them, find a mutual understanding? Could he gain advantages, use their own nature against them? 

Such thoughts, usually the crux of his galas, were now nonexistent. He couldn’t help but view each person as just another feature of the landscape – jewels, silks, bustles, tailcoats, all as uninteresting as an individual cobble of a road. 

And yet that cobble was alive. Shifting, pressing, bumping. Talking to each other, talking to him. The party wasn’t even close to the height of revelry that Scar had seen before. People were still relatively sober. No untoward scandals had yet occurred. Nether, the dancing hadn’t even begun. And yet, the chatter of voices was somehow more deafening than Scar had ever heard before. Searching for Grian felt less like wandering through a crowded room and more like being swallowed whole. 

It wasn’t just that people were in his way. Some were actively reaching for him – sometimes with words, sometimes even with their hands, grasping his shoulders, his arms. One even had the audacity to grasp his hand where he held his cane, as if physically trying to prevent him from walking away. He had wasted valuable moments wrenching free and barking out something quite curt, wishing he had the time to take an aside with his guards and have her escorted out. 

Time. Time, time, time – that was really the crux of it. He had no time at all. 

He checked his watch, something he had surely done more in the past precious few minutes more than the entire week beforehand. Only seventeen minutes left. Less when he considered that he had agreed to meet with Mumbo five minutes before his speech if he didn’t manage to find Grian himself.

The worst part, however, was the uncertainty. With every mask he glanced over, every turn of his eye, he worried that he had just… passed Grian over. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? He had no idea what his mask was, and even if he did, the constant swell and shift of people made every glance fleeting. 

And that wasn’t even considering the very real possibility that Grian wasn’t here at all. That he was hiding away in some other room, swimming in the garden pool, sequestered away with Jellie or Grumbot, waiting for this entire foolish affair to pass. Even though Scar would be shocked at Grian’s willingness to throw away his freedom, it wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be the first time that Grian surprised him. 

Scar cursed under his breath. He was getting too lost in thought. He could talk it out with Grian after he found him. 

There was a soft tug at his sleeve. Scar instinctively yanked his hand away, turning on his heel to chew out whoever had the gall to touch him this time.

He came to face a heavyset, dark-haired man, slightly shorter than himself. His mask was some kind of… blue imp? It was frustratingly familiar, but Scar couldn’t seem to place it. 

“Sorry, sir, but I’m in a hurry.” Scar barked out, already pushing past the man. 

This time, the man’s grip was more forceful. “Scar.”

Scar froze. Oh, shit. 

He turned back, actually looking. “Cub?”

Cub let out a sigh, folding his arms. “I can’t believe you ‘sir’ed me.”

Scar scratched the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t recognize you.” It was more that he just couldn’t believe Cub had actually come. They hadn’t spoken since their little outing – Scar had figured his appearance at Joe and Cleo’s was, well… an excuse to talk to him.

“Clearly. I don’t think you’ve ever been so simultaneously respectful and rude.”

Scar laughed at that, some of the tension draining away. “Sorry, sorry. I honestly figured you weren’t coming.”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“I… suppose you did.” Scar couldn’t help it – he checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. “Listen, Cub, I really am happy to see you; but I actually do have to go. We can catch up after my speech, I promise.”

“I actually have some rather urgent business with you.”

Scar blinked. “You… you do?” 

“Yep. There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

Someone…? Cub wouldn’t be so insistent about a business proposition – or so mysterious. The only explanation that Scar could think of was that Cub was, well… involved with someone. 

It was almost enough to make Scar laugh, but he stopped himself. Not so long ago, he had trouble picturing himself with any romantic involvements. Was the idea of Cub finding someone really so strange?

Of course, that might not be it at all. It didn’t help that Cub was hard to read on the best of days, let alone when he was wearing a mask.

Regardless of what it was, Scar still had the same answer for him. 

“Whoever they are, they’ll have to wait.”

“Scar…”

“I promise I’ll come talk to them later!” Scar called out, already rushing through the crowd.

Cub moved as if to stop him again, but this time Scar was too quick, managing to slip into the crowd. Even that was odd – Cub wasn’t one to push like that. Not him, anyway. 

Scar shook his head. He couldn’t worry about it right now. Whatever was going on with Cub could wait – it had to wait. 

As if summoned by that thought, he heard a voice call out – “Scar?” 

He tried to duck away – just another person to avoid. “Hey! SCAR! Get your sorry butt over here!”

For the second time that night, he froze with sudden recognition. Whirling on his heel, he scanned the crowd for any sign of his friend.

His eyes landed on a rather short figure, clad in a lovely green velvet cloak that looked almost like moss, and a truly horrific mask. He grimaced as Bdubs approached.

“Did you have to wear that mask? Again?” he complained as soon as Bdubs was close enough to speak at a normal tone. 

“I like the mask!” Bdubs huffed, adjusting it so he could peer up at Scar. If Scar were forced to describe it, he would say that it was similar to the prototypical comedy theater mask, except far more grotesque. It was made of solid brass, but the mask somehow looked alive. The smile was stretched to the limits of the face. Patina patterning the metal so that it ironically looked like there were tear tracks cutting across the mask’s visage. Worst of all, however, were the eyes – rather than a mirthful upturn, the eyes were just wide and staring, repulsive in its mismatch.

Scar hated it. He had always hated it, and Bdubs’ insistence on continuing to wear it had not lessened his hatred in the slightest. 

He, however, currently had more important things to worry about.

“Have you seen Grian?” he asked, not quite managing to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Bdubs cocked his head. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Scar’s heart soared. Unable to contain himself, he grasped Bdubs firmly by the shoulders, practically shaking him in his excitement. “Where? Where is he?”

“Jeez, Scar, chill out!” Bdubs huffed in annoyance. “Saw him by the wet bar, nursing a glass of… something. ‘S why I wanted to talk to you, actually. Looked pretty down.” 

As soon as his good mood had come, it evaporated. Grian getting drunk easily was an endearing trait when they had been on vacation – now that Scar wanted to have an honest, very serious conversation with him, it was a recipe for disaster. 

Not to mention the fact that Grian had to give a speech in front of hundreds and hundreds of people. 

“I need to talk to him.”

“Uh, duh.” Bdubs laughed, though he didn’t sound very amused. “I was worried that you already had, and it had gone awfully.”

“No, no. I haven’t said anything to him. But I clearly need to.” Scar instinctively straightened his back, fiddling with his cravat. “What’s he wearing?”

“You don’t know?” Bdubs tsked. “Dark red cloak. Seal mask. I’d say he’s impossible to miss, but… well, he has a lot of competition.”

A seal. It seemed obvious, but Scar hadn’t wanted to assume. Grian so often surprised him. He had been ready for him to be wearing… a macaw mask or something, just to throw him off. 

Though maybe it was comforting in some way – just for tonight, he could be a seal again. 

He shook himself out of the thought. “Thank you, thank you so much.” He exclaimed, giving Bdubs a cursory handshake before pushing past him. 

“You still owe me that paycheck!” Bdubs called after him, though he was quickly swallowed by the fray. Scar made a mental note to double what he had been planning on giving him.

The wet bar wasn’t too far from here. He checked his watch. Eleven minutes. Not enough time for a proper conversation, but certainly enough time to reassure him that he was ready to talk, to apologize, to make it right. Enough to soothe Scar’s frayed emotions.

Tilting his head up, he could see the dark wood of the wet bar, art nouveau frame curving as it grew into the wall. He was so close, surely only seconds away from seeing Grian –

His sightline was suddenly cut off by a tall, long-haired man, standing resolutely between him and the wet bar. He was about to ask – not so politely – for the man to move when a second figure stepped in front of him as well.

The appearance of this second figure was so surprising that for a moment, the words died in his throat. She was a short woman, dark brown hair tied up in a fashionable, elaborate hairdo that even had fresh-cut flowers tucked into the whorls and braids. There were even real flowers on her dress, pinned between bunches of pale pink silk.

Her dress was much wider and more elaborate than most of his guests – a sure sign that she wasn’t from Cambria, where the dresses had been getting sleeker and more modest. Vindouxian, no doubt, which spelled trouble. 

That little revelation was far from the most notable thing, however. Scar’s skin crawled as his eyes were naturally drawn to her mask. In a horrific contrast to the rest of her outfit, her mask was a snarling monster, too-many teeth bared in a gut-churning grin, features somewhere between human and… not. 

Its horns, however, were decorated in green ribbon and pretty flowers. That was a nice touch. 

“Mr. Scar,” the woman said in a heavy Vindouxian accent, confirming Scar’s suspicions. “May I have a moment of your precious time?” 

If only she knew how precious that time was. Scar had to resist the urge to check his watch again. 

Instead he bowed slightly. “May I speak to the madame after my speech? I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Ah, but Mr. Scar, I’m afraid I insist. It is the contents of this speech that concern me – no, concern all of Vindoux.” 

Scar’s heart sank. “Are you the wife of the diplomat?” Truth be told, he was a little surprised. The diplomat was a rude and cantankerous man. Despite his prestige and power, Scar had difficulty imagining any woman actually settling down with him, but if anyone were to… this woman certainly exuded some powerful air of control.

She cocked her head. “The monsieur is unfortunately feeling rather unwell tonight, so I came in his stead. I am his eventual successor – I’m rather surprised that you haven’t heard of me. The lady diplomat of Vindoux is quite the cause for chatter in this country.”

Scar was very grateful that his mask was full-faced – his cheeks were definitely burning. He had always thought of himself as rather progressive, but he supposed old biases died hard.

He bowed again, ducking his chin. “Forgive my rude assumption, madame .”

She tittered, producing a fan from… somewhere, fluttering the delicate, lacy contraption in front of her face. “You’re forgiven. Not everyone reacts as gracefully as you.” 

She then turned, glancing back at the man who Scar now presumed to be her bodyguard. “ Ma chérie , leave us for a moment – I wish to speak with him alone.”

He hesitated. “But madame… ”

Oh. Not ‘he’ at all. At this point, Scar felt about ready to crawl into a hole. At least this time he hadn’t managed to put his foot in his mouth.

Though honestly, he could be forgiven for his assumption. She was certainly dressed like a man. Her long, blonde hair was tucked back in a no-nonsense bun, more suited for a working woman than a fancy party. More damning was, of course, her suit. The only times he had seen women wearing pants were the few militaries that allowed female soldiers, and even then, they usually had long coats that looked almost like a pseudo-dress. 

Even her mask was, well, masculine. It was clearly a bald eagle, each feather meticulously sculpted as if to be as sharp and off-putting as possible, beak gleaming gold in the light; though Scar supposed it didn’t hold a candle to her companion’s mask in terms of fear factor. 

“I insist,” the diplomat said, snapping Scar out of his momentary distraction. “I want to have an honest conversation. No intimidation.” 

She lovingly ribbed her companion, who still seemed hesitant. Nevertheless, after a moment, the tall woman bowed. “Of course, madame. I will be waiting for you.”

With that proclamation, she disappeared into the crowd, melting away as easily as a shadow. 

“Now then.” The diplomat said, snapping her fan closed. “To business. What was this I heard about your Solvan fiancé?” 

“Husband.” Scar automatically corrected, then flinched. Void, his husband. The man he very desperately needed to talk to; the task he was rapidly running out of time for. 

She made a noise. “Husband, then. Mr. Scar, do I need to remind you of your neutrality agreement?” 

She did not. It was one of the reasons he so very desperately needed to give a speech. 

At the beginning of ConCorp’s involvement in the war, Scar had signed an agreement to sell weapons to both sides of the conflict, with no exclusivity promises – other than, of course, the exclusivity that came with selling to the highest bidder. It was an arrangement that often benefitted Vindoux. It was simply a wealthier country. 

No doubt she was scared to lose that edge. 

“ Madame, all of this will be addressed in my speech. If you are really so worried about it, then let me assure you right now, my marriage was purely for love. There is no business about it.” 

“You say that, but how can you promise it?” There was an inescapable edge to her voice, a driving, demanding force. “Even if it was truly for love and love only, can you really say that your husband’s country means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t.” Scar said flatly, then froze. 

His vision had melted away. No longer was he gazing down at the cross diplomat of Vindoux. Instead, he saw beauty. 

A stark, craggy mountain range, dusted in snow. A thick forest in autumn, red and gold leaves turning the light rich and otherworldly. An entire ocean turned to ice, each crack an opportunity for fishing, for living . Solhav.

But the vision didn’t end there. A cold north gave way to a mellow south. Grand moors, dotted with flowers and cut open by trenches of white chalk. Beaches not so dissimilar from the one below Scar’s manor, water pale but holding secrets of great beauty. Cambria.

He even saw rows of vineyards and orchards, felt the wonderful crush of sweet juice in his mouth as he swiped plums off of trees. Vindoux. 

And just as he had that thought –

The orchards were on fire. Acres of trees, turned to jagged black skeletons, fingers reaching desperately for a reprieve that would not come. The ruins of buildings, of entire towns – hundreds of years extinguished in the matter of seconds. The cold water of a ocean, far from here, littered with the ruins of boats and bodies, the desperation with which his lover clung onto life –

Scar gasped, shaking his head as the visions faded away. What… what had just happened? 

More memories. There was no other explanation – he had experienced another foray into Grian’s mind. But why? What triggered it? It felt almost like karmic retribution, a rebuttal to his callousness. 

But even still, why Vindoux? He had no idea Grian had even been there. Surely if he was being punished for not caring for Solhav, he wouldn’t be shown its enemy.

“Mr. Scar?” the diplomat called uncertainly, snapping him out of his haze. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sorry, just – just got lost in thought.” He took a grounding breath, rubbing his finger over the smooth metal of his pocket watch. He could worry about… whatever that was some other time. 

“Look, madame, the neutrality agreement is already in ink. I can’t give much stronger of a promise than being legally bound to follow my word, and certainly not at a party. All I can offer you is this; I have no plans to go back on my agreement, and if you’re still not satisfied, you can take it up with ConCorp’s lawyers. They’ll tell you the same thing.”

She hummed, clearly not thrilled by his answer – and yet she didn’t press further. 

“Now, I really must take my leave. Perhaps I will see madame and her chérie later tonight over hors d'oeuvres ?” 

She opened her fan with another clat – this time, the flutters had a distinctly embarrassed edge to them. “Perhaps. Though don’t think you’re off the hook yet.” 

“Noted.” Scar said, bowing his head.

As he straightened, finally walking past her and towards his destination, his mind couldn’t help but wander back to his vision. Had he been reaching out inadvertently? Or maybe it had been Grian, opening himself up for the first time in days. 

That was almost certainly just wishful thinking; the bond had been horribly still for days. Cut off from each other, from themselves. Not surprising, but… it still felt terrible. 

It should’ve just been a return to normal – after all, Scar had lived the first thirty-two years of his life without experiencing anything like it. And yet… that bond, that connection between them, was so sweet, so unforgettable, that its absence was all the more torturous. 

If Grian had opened himself up, even just a little… maybe there was still hope. 

Scar checked his pocket watch, cursing under his breath. Four minutes. Not enough time for a conversation. Nether, it probably wasn’t even enough time to get to the stage – as the hour drew nearer, the excitement was palpable, making it even more difficult to get through the crowd.

But even just seeing him beforehand, reassuring him that he wanted to reach out, to make some amends… 

Scar stopped. 

There weren’t many people at the wet bar. A couple sitting at the edge, chatting away. A man already slumped over, head in hands. The bartender, cleaning a glass. 

None of them wore a red cloak. None of them were Grian.

Scar’s heart plummeted.

He made his way to the bar as if in a dream, not even feeling the plush velvet beneath him as he sat at one of the stools. He just stared, unseeing, at the dark whorls of the wooden bar.

He had been too late. And now it was all for nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to save his reputation – not without Grian. The rumors would just continue, compounding into greater, more lascivious lies. 

And yet… Scar couldn’t manage to muster up any kind of feelings about that other than a dull apathy. The worry that had been haunting him for weeks – no. Had been haunting him for years. 

He tried to really picture it, picture the consequences. Scandal, dissolution of ConCorp, going completely broke, losing everything. It all barely registered. 

All he cared about was Grian. 

“Mr. Scar?” Oh. The bartender. 

He managed to drag his gaze up. The bartender had his head cocked as he gazed down at Scar, concerned expression plain behind his small blue half-mask. 

Right. He knew this bartender, didn’t he? He had certainly been hiring the same person for every gala – much easier that way. 

“Keralis.” he finally managed to reply, digging the name out of the recesses of his mind after an awkward few seconds.

“My, my.” Keralis clicked his tongue. “You are the second-saddest fishie I’ve seen tonight.” 

“Axolo’ls aren’ fish.” A voice beside him slurred. Startled, Scar turned towards its source, and was even more surprised to see that he now recognized the man as Xisuma. 

He was wearing a startlingly pink suit, complete with a strange mask that appeared to have some kind of… fronds sticking out of the side. Scar supposed that he was supposed to be an ‘axolo’l’, though he had no idea what that was. 

It certainly didn’t help that Xisuma’s natural north Cambrian accent was out in full force, making him even harder to understand. He usually repressed it for fear of looking uncultured, but Scar supposed being drunk unlocked all sorts of things.

“Orcas aren’t fish either.” Scar ran his finger morosely over the fine wooden grain of the bar. “They’re not even whales. Isn’t that funny? They’re called ‘killer whales’, but scientists say they’re dolphins. Guess ‘killer dolphin’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.” 

Keralis put his hands on his hips. “Well, aren’t you just a pair of smarty-pants. Fine then. You’re the saddest killer dolphin I’ve seen tonight.” 

Scar managed to laugh at that. 

“M’kay. So, what’ll it be?” 

Scar sighed. What he needed was to bite the bullet, get up off this bar stool, and go give his speech. Instead, he just said “Whiskey neat. Whatever you have is fine.” 

Keralis laughed. “My my, Mr. Scar. It’s like you’ve forgotten that you have the entire world at your fingertips.” 

Xisuma cocked his head. “Don’ listen to him. He jus’ wants to make a frui’y cocktail.”

“Oh, hush up, Shashwammy.” Keralis tutted. Nevertheless, within a moment, Keralis had poured a plain glass of whiskey, sliding it to Scar with a flourish.

Scar reached behind his head, undoing the ribbons that held his mask in place. After a moment, it fell away from his face, and Scar placed it in his lap. The orca stared back at him, teeth still gleaming. 

Scar brought the whiskey up to his lips, and despite it undoubtedly being a rather fine liquor, he could barely taste it. Just felt the fire going down. 

“Mm. Very sad indeed.” Keralis said thoughtfully. “What has you so down, Mr. Scar?”

Scar swirled the contents of his glass. “Have you seen Grian? Wearing a seal mask, red cloak?” 

Keralis cocked his head. “Sure. Was here just a few minutes ago. Went off with a woman.” 

Oh. 

A woman. Scar shouldn’t be surprised – they weren’t even in a relationship, let alone an exclusive one. It was completely within Grian’s right to enjoy some company at a party. 

Didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Scar hadn’t realized it was possible to feel worse than he had, but tonight was apparently a time of new lows. 

“Who is he, anyway?” Keralis asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “Talked to me in Solvan. Interesting fella.” 

“He’s my husband.” Scar said mournfully, staring at his drink. 

“Oh… I’m sorry, Mr. Scar.” Keralis replied, sounding genuinely remorseful.

“‘S okay.” Scar managed. “Our relationship is complicated. I was just… I don’t know. I was hoping to talk to him.” 

“Well, you still can.” Keralis encouraged. “He almost certainly hasn’t gone far.”

“No point. Had to talk to him before my speech in…” Scar pulled out his watch. “Two minutes ago.”

“Mr. Scar!” Keralis admonished. “You need to get going! There are journalists who are waiting for you!” 

Scar groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Stage fright?” 

Scar managed a derisive snort. “Hardly. I’ve faced those vultures many, many times before. I just… I can’t bring myself to care.”

A sudden banging noise startled him, and he whipped around to face the source. Xisuma had slammed his pint glass against the table, some of the ale inside sloshing onto the surface of the bar table.

“Sashwammy…” Keralis started, a clear tone of warning in his voice. 

Xisuma ignored him. “Mr. Scar… how can you say tha’?”

Scar blinked in shock. Was Xisuma… angry? Was he getting angry? At him?

When Scar didn’t respond, X just barreled on. “How could you say that? After all of this – after all of the last minu’e changes, the nether you put me an’ my team through, the funding you pulled – how could you say you don’t care?” 

Scar just blinked stupidly. He had never seen Xisuma like this. He had seen him drunk before, certainly. Nether, X seemed to get drunk at most HEP galas. Something about being glad it was finally over. But this… this was something else entirely. Some facet of his personality that Scar had seemingly dragged into the light.

“Are all the things they say true?” there was an edge of desperation to his words now. “That you founded HEP as a vani’y project? That you only care about your reputation? What’s the truth, Scar? What is it?” 

“I…” Scar started. He swallowed thickly. “I… I did care. I do care. About HEP, I mean. The environment. All of it. I just… I lost focus of what was really important.” 

“If you care, then go up there!” Xisuma swung his arms wildly. “Go beg from donations from your rich friends. Do wha’ good you can.”

Scar ducked his head. He really had screwed X over – taking over what should be his ball, forcing donations to go towards his selfish project rather than raising any money for actual conservation. 

It was too late to change any of that now. But it wasn’t too late for the truth. 

“It… it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… the donations don’t matter. This whole ball – no. The project itself. It doesn’t matter. Not the way you want it to. The marine research facility, when completed and utilized as planned, would have… maybe twenty percent of its operations dedicated to discovery and conservation. The rest would go towards weapon development.”

Xisuma was silent for a moment. “Why… why are you telling me this?”

Scar shrugged, shaking his head. “You asked for the truth. Maybe I wanted to try telling it for once.” 

There was a long beat of silence. Xisuma took a deep, deep swig of his ale. “You’re no’ gonna have me killed or somethin’, right?”

“I’ll be honest, X, I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Not a fish.” Keralis corrected, startling Scar – he had somehow forgotten the man was even there. 

He was once again surprised, this time by Xisuma bursting into too-loud laughter. Harsh cackles that shook his entire frame, which rapidly dissolved into awful sobs.

“Oh, Sashwammy…” Keralis sighed, leaning over to pat the man on the shoulder, who was inconsolably wailing into his mug. 

Void. He must’ve lost his edge – giving concessions to diplomats, working up previously loyal employees to the point of tears, not even managing to gain an audience with his own damn husband. 

At this point, Scar wanted nothing more than to crawl back to his room and sleep the rest of the night off. 

But he had made promises, hadn’t he? Promises to the diplomat – void, he hadn’t even caught her name – promises to his friends, promises to himself. 

He knocked back the rest of his whiskey, nearly choking on the fiery liquid as it ran down his throat. The clink of his glass felt like a death knell. 

He went to put his mask back on, but something stopped him. Instead, he just placed it on the bar’s surface, the empty eyes of the orca staring back at him. 

He was out of time. Had been out of time for a while. Whether he liked it or not, the only way out was through. 

[nazorneku]

WREN ( @songcursed ) & AIS

          That day slowly verged to its actual end, and dark colors were spread all over the sky, whilst flamboyant dance of last rays of sunshine remained on the thin line of horizon, that occurred as vivid flames behind distant buildings. Each passing hour was wasted with purposeless idleness as the demon roamed around the city, deliberately delaying a scheduled visit to the Wet Wick. Nevertheless, eventually he found self in front of the bar and slipped inside, yet contrary to developed habit he neglected walking towards the bar and climbed the stairs leading to occupied rooms; the most remote was his destination and with a few knocks he announced own arrival. The waiting for an opened door did not prolong and the air of mischievousness dispersed once the sharp glance of crimson optics locked onto the aquamarine ones, as whist was their greeting; mayhap uncommon tiredness served as a catalyst for him to neglect habitual antics and approach more closely. Ringed fingers picked up dark strands and moved behind their ear, previously heavy stare transformed into a softer one, shifting regard down at the other, admiring their slightly bothered in its expression yet charming features. The need poured over him from the proximity of their bodies, from moonlight playing on those brown locks, from a few nights they shared and from that unabashed shitty attitude he was granted every encounter. The novelty of new sensations surged so abruptly, that now he had complications to suppress those, accepting the only possibility to comprehend the whole depth of all alterations and digest.

Overflow of feelings he sought to choke repeatedly prompted him to further course of action at that time by placing own hands on theirs above elbows to not disturb the bandages and to keep Wren away from fleeing, at least for that very moment, for those first steps he attempted. Leaning dangerously close, in the dark of night and in the folds of the gown lips found the scarred skin of the neck and brushed against its surface gently, planting the utmost tender kisses, proceeding like a snail crawling from one delicate area of the body to another, from ear to curve of the shoulder, which has long been parted with the cloth. "Not running away yet?" Accompanied by a playful smile, a whisper escaped his parted lips, a soft murmur as if he expected the other to rebel against the demands, to refuse to fulfill his desire. Wren faltered and hid their bright eyes flickering with incomprehensible emotion behind regrown bangs, tilting the head forward. Delight in a curt chuckle of his resounded in their head full of perplexity, the prospect of dangling on the precipice posed by their curse was seductively tempting.

Anew he stood straight, pinning a vivid gaze down at the other, permitting self a few seconds of a delay to observe more of their reactions and consider the next line of speech. "I will help you. You can't always keep running away." The demon uttered with previously serene tone, yet one could not claim to whom the last sentence was referred to: them or himself. With those words he released them from the tight grip, yet covering with a palm a part of their face caressed by the moon, he felt engrossed, another moment was granted to hesitation, prior to a few gentle and brief touches against their parted lips that were left by his, each time slightly leaning back to look into their eyes. Several times Ais brushed against that spewing insults mouth now completely silent, barely touching; those lips fluttered against their will, responding to his touch. Eventually he pressed their lips firmly together with a little strength and then dramatically retreated. And once more. Fast-paced movements of a small snake, as his tongue trailed a wet path, preparing for what would happen next, making them accustomed to the existence of his touch, his lips, his tongue. Gently covering their lips, slipping away every time and then pressing back again, forcefully and firmly. It was just a prelude.

A moment of standstill... and then... slender fingers got a firm hold on their chin, fixating the required position, lips newly were pressed against each other and their mouth instinctively tightened under the impact; but there was no equality in their forces, and his tongue boldly broke through the first line of defense, pushing rebellious mouth to open. Wren shuddered all over, resting their palms on his chest, intending to escape, but the free hand enclasped their slim waist, retaining them standing close. There was no evident intent to harm them, nevertheless he insisted on opening the mouth and sliding in between already weakened clenched teeth. Their tongue, sharp and poisonous, had surrendered at discretion, now obedient and subjugated, meekly responded to his caresses, realizing the beauty of its task, it sought another meeting, awkwardly, clumsily trying to reward the man for their enjoyment. And unbeknownst sensation, drove to his throat, was mixed with a sense of pleasure and fear, as he wished for that feeling to last, for it be genuine and reciprocated. When he finally released the confused little bird, they still clung to him, afraid to stir, breathing hard; new emotions crowded, absorbed, poured hot waves onto the face and bliss filled every cell of their bodies.

FIVE KISSES 1/5

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

(Part 1/?) | Part 2.

[Gyeonggi-do], South Korea.

An envelope is pressed slowly before Kijun at end of two horribly scarred fingertips, cigar ashes a wayward spillage of grey on the desk as it comes. Against the smooth brown paper lay one pearlescent KNPA seal and four red dots in horizontal, and unlike the external innocence they seem to hold by nature, in this room alone, they acted as harbingers of plight. The implications hardly go unnoticed by Kijun by way they force his spine straight against his seat, which had been holding him well intact up to this point. Knuckles pale against the arm rests after the sheer pressure of his tightened grip as a familiar dread sets a brittle chill in the furthest extent of his bones. History seems to enjoy repeating itself, as he recalls himself in this same exact position before.

"What's this?" Rasps Kijun around a dry throat, although he already knows the answer. Anyone in the nether end would know it. "Something bad happen?"

Thickset brows mimic the precise line those dots under them make as he regards the man across from him through gritted teeth. But his patron only reclines back into black leather with that burning cigar on his mouth, his sleek suit so opulent it near merges with the gloss at his back. His eyes are grim and as distant as they're present, like a prophet amidst a vision. Any lesser man would feel inevitably pinned to his demise under that gaze.

"Open it." He says in the end, weaved in smoke, and curt as a warning.

Kijun knows how to follow orders–proceeds with an attempt at swallowing around the lump that'd formed in his throat to no avail as he slips a pocket knife from his jacket and slits the throat of the police report wide open. It yields the news of death with far too much ease for his liking.

Standing on thin, protesting knees, Kijun pours the provided documents on the broad cherry wood before him, careful with each piece of the puzzle as he arranges a crime scene precisely in the order it'd been provided. They whisper the story through faint, fleeting intervals of friction, until at last, three names and a body is found in the havoc. But he finds himself sparing little focus for anything else but the myriad of photos of the man he'd seen last just a little over two weeks ago. And that one final piece on the far right, a scrap of paper bathed entirely by blood, his name spelled on it in large bulks that seem grotesquely accentuated by crimson.

Kijun.

"What the fuck, what the fuck is this?" Is all Kijun can muster for a shock-throttled moment. His heart begins a wild gallop up the ravines of his throat, face growing hot-red with equal parts of fury and bewilderment. "How the fuck did this happen?"

The body belonged to Boo Sangyeon, though if anyone were to ever tie a name to his bludgeoned face, they'd identify him as just Boo, respectively. The documents declare he'd died by murder, two days ago—the large, maimed stab wound in the center of his chest proving that ever so plainly. The police happened upon his body abandoned by the shipment docks in Busan, just a few aways from a carefully hidden den ran directly under the boss' meticulous supervision. He'd probably just stopped there for a smoke–they'd found strewn ashes on him–when he'd been ambushed and left dead with the message note nailed into his heart by the same blade that'd killed him.

Tied by a clandestine truce and adequate circumstances, Kijun and Boo were bound to come across one another at least once every few months for an exchange of goods and drugs. Ramshackled buildings and dilapidated night clubs wedged cozily into the underbelly of the city. Old, haunted market alleyways teeming with rusted steel wagons and the occasional ancient hands seeking to restock their stalls for selling. Blind spots and malfunctioning streetlight blackness. That was their thing, the sneaking. He would introduce Kijun to whatever was new on the market at the time, slip them in Kijun's pocket mid-smoke, and he would wholly envelop himself in the abundance at his disposal. Boo was a true bonafide, and friend, now tragically reduced merely to a messenger corpse.

"Read that to me," The chairman interrupts the nausciating chafing of flames in the pit of Kijun's abdomen, casually motioning towards the carefully preserved evidence on his left with an otherwise controlled fury.

"I'm besides myself with curiosity to know why one of my stalwarts had to die for you to receive... this."

Kijun holds steadfast on those tiger eyes, fingers never daring near the documents throughout the span of another passing stare as maybe, selfishly, by some ironic chance, his lack of contact would make the loss below less real. That it would be a lot less his fault they'd lost yet another valued comrade, and a mother her beloved son.

The lavish office suddenly morphs into a gaping abyssal stage, tearing underneath him a pitless hole that beckons for blood, but does not swallow. It's like standing under the engulfing shadow of a collapsing mountain without a way around your impending doom. Kijun swallows around the violence in his heart with dull nails grazing along his scalp, then, with a chaste touch, he begins to read.

Kijun. Long time no see, but I haven't forgotten about you. Bring me what you still owe me at [this location] in three days, this time. Cash. For every day you dare stall, someone you know will die. Don't blame yourself, they all had it coming anyway. Kang Dongwook.

It's nothing that hasn't happened before already, not even a name that has never seen the inside of his mouth. Just three years ago Dongwook had been in his old apartment at the extent of six other graceless hands, and had lost to two which hadn't tasted blood in four stagnant years. Seven years before now, Kijun had been one of the worst parts of the man's life sentence in jail, hence the vendetta. But he'd figured Dongwook would grow too old for petty disputes within three more years, give or take, so the timing of this was a far cry from appropriate. Or fair. To what end was he willing to extend himself over the past?

Something horribly askew was afoot, the gnawing sensation of malevolence and malposition persistent along the blurry depths of his mind. But for now Kijun is forced to abandon the thought, to resign. So for now, for show, he performs. His jaw tightens sideways with disdain as the plastic wrapped note falls from his possession and drifts from his end to the desk's opposite edge. Like it knows it's not supposed to exist.

The boss offers a slow nod, his tiger eyes trained on Sangyeon's face. His cigar lay now in its tray, seemingly forgotten by the strong fingers that fold in on themselves and weigh down cherry wood. This is narrowly a loss for him, but business, and he fails not to keep it frank, though merciful.

"I'd've slapped your neck backwards and cut out your tongue by now, were you anyone else. But I have faith in you," he sighs and stands for his final order, "Fix it." Before you interfere with my business.

Kijun automatically folds downward at the hip, into a deep bow enveloped by his patron's looming shadow. His teeth grind together as he promises with Gyeonggi's city lights kissing at his feet, "I'll take care of it."

Because if there's anything he's good at, it's taking care of it.

[vid-writes]

Interrogation is Torture, Literally (Ch. 8)

As always with my content this chapter is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18

TW/CW: Violence, blood, interrogation, torture, death mention, bad grammar because I still haven't re-edited this chapter

Kari

The hidden elevator to the Vrathia Kingdom's Royal police sector finally stops at the end of its shaft. The incredibly modern sector is hidden deep underneath the castle, firmly rooted in the bowels of the planet. Kari steps out after King Ruaridh and his Honor Guard. When King Ruaridh explained to Kari why he wanted him present for these interrogations, Kari didn't hesitate. He would get justice for Elidi before he had to return home and face her widowed girlfriend.

Though they had never been married, they had been together long enough that his kingdom would recognize Gelaxia as Elidi's widow. Kari shakes his head slightly to clear his thoughts. He has to focus on a part of his training he had hoped he would never need.

"I will go in first, so wait until I come out. Then, I want Fergus and Paisley to follow me if they still need to give me the information. Kari, you will be sent in unexpectedly when I give the signal," King Ruaridh explains. A mean-looking, tall man steps up to the right of the door. The scar across his left eye literally runs across his eyeball. The clouded eye would make most people balk. Kari knows from experience how people react to weird eyes more than any other physical feature. He and this man are the only two people he knows who would know this pain the most.

Sure, it is relatively common for magic to alter the physical features of the wielders, but no one has ever been born with heterochromia before. It was something he'd heard about in fictional stories of worlds without magic but a robust belief system that they used to have access to, and they would make these claims based on genetics being weird. But here? In reality? Magic influences features, not DNA.

The woman Kari assumes to be Paisley is shorter than Fergus by a whole meter but just as mean-looking. Her hair is a short bob with sharp ends that make it appear freshly cut, and it's yellow—not blonde, but yellow. Kari notices that her yellow eyes have flecks of black in them. She steps up to the left side of the door with lightning wreathing her fists. She gives Kari a wide grin and flexes her fingers.

"I heard they used lightning to kill your right-hand woman," Paisley says. Every cell in Kari's body drops another couple of degrees, but he keeps a firm grasp of his magic. There was no need to blast a stranger with permafrost just because she was curt.

"They did indeed," Kari manages to get out without any hostility in his tone. Trying to maintain his rage so his Yeti form didn't come out too soon might prove to be more challenging than he first thought.

"I promise to make them pay and still leave enough for you," she practically sings as King Ruaridh opens the door to the prison cell. Her voice echoes back a few times.

"Sounds like a plan," Kari responds with a grin that matches Paisley's.

"We aren't going to tell you—" the voice from inside of the cell cuts off as the thick metal door closes with a resounding thunk. A few seconds pass, and everyone, Kari included, bounces on their toes. Then, a muffled yelp comes from behind the door, and Paisley laughs.

"You're fucking terrifying," comes Cillian's voice from behind Kari. The Captain of the Vrathian Honor Guard must have finished putting Cassandra's parents in their holding cell. And it's here in this fluorescently lit hallway that Kari notices something he hadn't before.

Shadows wreathe the man. The coal-black eyes should have given him away, but Kari hadn't seen them in years. The last time he stared into the eyes of a shadow wraith, he had killed them.

"And that's why half of the Vrathian army flings themselves at my feet while the other half tries to crawl into bed with me," Paisley retorts with a wink at the Captain.

"She's really not exaggerating," Fergus chimes in as he leans forward around Paisley. Kari offers him a terse smile.

"So what's the order this time," Cillian interjects before the conversation can continue like it has. The last thing any of them need to be doing is discussing their sex lives or lack thereof.

"Fergus and myself first. Then, you, Cillian, and His Majesty probably didn't give any more specifics. He just told Kari that he wouldn't be allowed to be seen or to go in until he gave the signal." Paisley's voice really only matched her personality if she was trying, Kari noticed. In fact, her natural tone of voice is very soft and almost warm.

The door pulls open, and King Ruaridh steps out of the cell. "Well, I've done all I can without committing a war crime, so Fergus and Paisley, it's your turn."

Paisley cackles, and Fergus shakes his head. "She really is crazy, and she wants me more than anyone else," he mutters as he dips into the cell. The statement catches Kari off guard enough that shock actually makes its way onto his face.

Lightning is crackling freely around the short woman as she skips in behind Fergus.

Literally.

Fucking.

Skips.

"Have you ever had to deal with anything like this, Prince Kari," asks one of the other members of the honor guard—a man with buzzed blue hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a strong jawline. You must be a water magic user.

"I started training in combat and interrogation techniques from the time I was six years old," Kari replies.

"Good to know you won't puke on us," says the only other woman on the squad—a taller woman with braided pigtails of silver hair and matching silver eyes. Metal magic wielders, or metalurges, were as rare as seers. And their appearance always gave them away at birth.

A muffled scream of pure pain and terror interrupts the guards' idle chatter. A weird swishing sound and muffled roaring cut it off. Kari looks towards King Ruaridh; confusion etched deeply into his face.

"Fergus is also a water magic user," he explains. The deep blue eye that wasn't blinded by the scar now registers in Kari's eye. No one really ever had the same shade of color to their eyes, hair, or freckles as anyone else with the same magic. Save for shadow wraiths, metalurges, and seers. "We keep deep troughs of water in there for him to use. Sometimes, he fully drowns them, and then Paisley revives them with her lightning magic," he adds on.

"I thought as much," Kari murmurs.

What seems like hours later, but could also only be a few minutes later, King Ruaridh turns to Kari. He holds up two fingers and points between Kari and the door to the cell.

With a nod, Kari steps up to the door. "You guys might want to take a few steps back."

Everyone in the relatively wide hallway steps back at least five steps.

Kari focuses his thoughts on Flora. More specifically, Flora's naked body. The way she writhes with pleasure underneath his hands. How she expertly swallowed his cock, having never even seen one before.

The change happens faster than ever before. In seconds, Kari's shirt shreds from the growth of his torso, and fur sprouts on his face, arms, chest, and legs. His pants managed to stay on, but as usual, they were a tight fit. His clawed hand reaches up and pulls open the cell door with such ease that he finally hears someone take a sharp breath.

When his eyes adjust to the light in the room, a sight Kari has seen a few times greets him.

Broken, bloodied men sit in two big metal chairs welded to a metal plate bolted to the stone floor of the cell. A water bubble hovers over the head of the man on the left. Neither Paisley nor Fergus so much as glanced in Kari's direction.

"Tell us who sent you," Kari grunts out around the fangs filling his mouth.

Both prisoners look at him at the same time, and as the fear blossoms on their faces, Paisley and Kari both laugh.

"Answer the question, or we are going to let this one have his turn with you," Fergus says as he pops the bubble over the head of the man on the left. His green hair, standing up presumably from Paisley's lightning, plasters to his face as he spews.

"You think we are scared of that maledetto," spits out the man on the left with short, curly brown hair.

"I would be if I wasn't psychotic," Paisley nearly sings.

Fergus choked on a laugh as he turned to Kari, "I guess they're all yours."

Kari doesn't watch as the two Honor Guard Members leave. He strides right for the green-haired man. Ignoring the types of taunts the brunette had tossed at him is something Kari is well versed in.

With a speed the green-haired and eyed man never sees coming, Kari slashes his claws up the length of the man's left arm. A scream pierces Kari's ears as blood pours out of his arm. The gashes aren't deep and avoid significant arteries, but they still bleed intensely.

"You will tell me, or I will bleed you like a pig," Kari growls as spit flies off the larger of his fangs.

"And then what information will you have," asks the brunette.

"Whatever you scream in hopes that it will save you as you finally exit this life," Kari replies, still looking at the brown-eyed man. The man pales at Kari's reply.

But still, he doesn't speak. So Kari drags his claws up the man's other arm. Slowly, this time. And a bit deeper. It's still not enough to make the man bleed out anytime soon. Still, his wails of pain rend the air. Pierce into Kari's ears, which are much more sensitive to noises in this form.

"And if we tell you what you want to know," the green-haired man whimpers out. His eyes are full of panic now. He doesn't want to die.

"Don't you fucking dare Thibault," spits out the brunette again. This time, Kari turns to him and backhands him. His head snaps to the side before Kari focuses his gaze back on Thibault.

"Listen, I really didn't sign up for all of this shit, Yvon," spits out Thibault. "I might be an activist against the industrialization of our continent, on sacred lands no less. Maybe I was okay with storming this castle and scaring some people, so our movement finally got media attention. But this? Killing people? Our people dying? And the way you keep calling him maledetto like you know him makes me believe you are after something else entirely."

"And if you tell them the truth, you know they will still kill you. They're going to kill me because I'm not going to tell that beast a fucking thing," Yvon snarls as blood drips from the corner of his mouth. Actually, he snarls like some animal. And Kari would know.

"Will you kill me?" Thibault is shaking now. He really doesn't want to die.

"Personally? If you tell me all the truth that you know, I won't kill you. But once I leave this room, your fate is out of my hands. There's no saying King Ruaridh won't still sentence you to death," Kari manages to get all of the words out. He was going to have to learn how to manage these fangs individually from the rest of the curse factors.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Thibault says.

Twenty minutes later, Kari exits the cell, no longer in Yeti form. Other than King Ruaridh, only Cillian, Paisley, and Fergus remain in the hallway.

"The one called Thibault told me everything he knows," Kari says. They all look up at him, slightly shocked. Shadows flare up around Cillian as some seem to be returning to him.

His head tilts a little bit to the side, and okay, Kari has never seen this before. Are the shadows whispering to him? That's not normal for shadow wraiths. As if he can read his mind, Cillian locks eyes with Kari as the shadows settle back into each other.

"They indeed told His Highness everything," Cillian confirms. Kari wants to be angry, but just then, more shadows flow to the shadow wraith. He tilts his head again and smirks. "Clarissa's father wants to make a deal."

"Be on your way then, Kari," King Ruaridh says by way of dismissal. Kari sweeps into a bow and then turns for the elevator. Not sure whether to head to his chambers first or not, Kari finally notices that some of Thibault's blood is on his skin. It's better to get to his room and clean up before his future wife sees him like this. She would eventually be trained in this once she moved to Kroqales. But he doesn't want her to see him like this before then.

The elevator doors open, and luckily for him, no one is waiting outside except for the two guards permanently stationed there. Kari quickly beelines for his room.

Once inside, he closes and locks his doors. He picks up his phone from where he left it this morning when the incoming invasion roused him from his sleep to hide before the attack. He makes his way past the sitting area and through to his bedroom. Focused intently on the screen, looking for any news on the attack, he doesn't see Flora sitting on his bed. He does, however, hear her loud gasp.

"I knew my father had roped you into something, but I was really hoping it wasn't this," she whispered.

"I've been trained in this since I was nine, My Shining Star," he says as he crosses the room. "I promise I wouldn't have agreed if I wasn't well versed."

He lifts his hand that doesn't have blood on it and tosses his phone on the bed behind her. She stares up into his eyes. Those glowing green eyes are another rarity with magic, but nothing like his own. He knew Archmages, those who were born as the strongest of their magic wielders, who had glowing eyes. But not all of them did.

"Are you okay? Not physically, that I can see. But mentally?"

"All things considered?"

"Preferably."

Kari sighed and ran his blood-free hand through his hair, "I've been better."

"Do you want to skip the impromptu court gathering tonight," she asks. He smiles because she knows they can't. Mainly since they clearly targeted him. But even only having known her for these past two weeks, Kari knows she would do her damnedest to get them out of it. They would hold up the whole thing while she took him from hiding place to hiding place.

"As much as I would love to learn all of your secret hiding spaces while we evaded your Father, we need to be there tonight. Though how you managed to keep away from Cillian's shadows astounds me." Kari's sly look is answered by Flora's own.

"Bribery," is all she says. Kari raises an eyebrow at this, but she refuses to elaborate. In fact, she even shoos him towards the bathroom. "Go on and clean up. The smell of blood is getting worse by the minute."

[nomdepen]

"That's understandable." She agrees with a curt nod. Pen knew she had certainly cried enough in the past few weeks for a lifetime. Hiding her anguish from her mother had been harder than she'd anticipated. She had fully expected her mother and sisters to be too caught up in their own lives to care about their poor little Penelope wasting away in her room. But when her mama had knocked on the door and seen her reddened eyes, there was only so much she could lie about.

She hadn't told Portia about Ben. How could she? After the way her mother had reacted to finding out about her girlish crush on Colin, Pen was afraid what sort of pessimism the woman might bestow upon her youngest. Pen didn't need to be called foolish and irrational, not when she knew it so well already. Besides, Penelope wasn't entirely sure how she'd react if anyone, let alone her mother, were to bad mouth Ben in front of her. Her heart was still raw and, like a wounded animal, she didn't know how much she'd tolerate before she bit back.

"What are you saying?" She watches him intently, brows furrowed as he spoke. How couldn't he trust himself? To be friends with her? Or to not love her? A million questions come to mind, but she swallows them and listens. His concerns were valid, as much as Pen wanted to believe otherwise. Being friends would prove challenging for her, as well, but she was willing to bear the burden if it meant keeping him in her life. In time, she told herself, her heart would mend and the scar tissue would strengthen her resolve. But she couldn't expect Benjamin to be as dramatic.

"If it's any consolation, doing what one should do never made for a good story." A playful albeit wistful smile adorns her lips. If anything, she longed to return to the lighthearted sort of banter she'd found so enjoyable with him. Their intellectual volleys back and forth were something she missed dearly and finding such chemistry with another was impossible. She would do anything to have that part of their relationship back, even if it meant throwing out all possibilities of romance.

She's about to ask if he could spare her some time during the week, if he would offer her the luxury of one more afternoon with him, but Caleb's whistling breaks the spell and she's left speechless again. As sullen as she felt, Pen didn't wish to spread the misery, so she tries her best to smile.

"I had already offered to introduce him to any lady he'd like," The corners of her mouth twitch as she slips back into the ladylike façade, the mask of being nothing but a friend. "I suppose I could extent the offer to you as well, Mister Brewster. Though, I would highly caution you to steer clear of any ladies named Cowper."

"Pardon? O-oh, no, no, that's alright! I wouldn't want to delay your adventures any longer." She shook her head, waving the suggestion away with her hands. As grateful as she would be to have company on her walk back to the carriage, Pen knew it was for the best if she returned alone. Being able to explain Ben's presence would be easy enough, but explaining away Caleb's as well would prove a bigger challenge than she was willing to commit to. Plus, whatever tears may spill when the carriage door clicked shut were better kept to herself.

"Rae is waiting for me, anyway." Pen directs the comment to Ben before turning back to Caleb. "It was lovely to meet you, Mister Brewster. And a pleasure to see you, as always, Mister Tallmadge." She spoke with increasing haste as she slowly backed away towards the door, a futile attempt at hospitality. But as she shuffled backwards, her slipper caught on something and it caused her to stumble. It wasn't enough to send her falling to the floor, thankfully, but it was more than enough to bruise her ego and color her cheeks a bright red. In her embarrassment, she hurried out the door as swiftly as possible, but not before muttering a quick farewell. "I-I do hope you gentlemen enjoy your outing. I'll be off now. G-Goodbye."

Although The Sorrows of Young Werther assuredly was a novel Benjamin would enjoy, given the present circumstances, all he could think of was his own sorrow and his own heartache.

With a feeble smile, he ducked his head and nodded. "I think I might," he agreed, "but perhaps I'll wait to read such a novel. I feel...I-I believe I've had quite enough anguish and tears for the time being."

A look of pain blitzed across Penelope's eyes, crackling akin to a lightning strike. “I admit I’ve been less than fine." The words were soft, but held the effect of a yell.

Benjamin swallowed. "I...confess to the same," he whispered. A lump grew in his throat, and as he listened to Penelope speak in a similar soft, mournful tone, the tight sensation worsened. He was so sorry...sorry that he couldn't entirely believe her, sorry that he couldn't hold her and make that pitiful yearning in her eyes vanish.

Even now, he could still recall the pained way she'd whispered I love you into the dark -- and, more disconcerting still, how something in Benjamin's soul had whispered it right back.

Another beat passed, and steeling his shoulders, Benjamin shook his head. "I don't know what to say," he admitted. "Truly, Pen, I'm at a loss. I do want to trust you, and I do want to be friends -- but what if it's myself I cannot trust?" With a feeble laugh, he looked away again. "What I want and what I should do no longer coincide, so how can I possibly navigate a friendship if my heart is continuously steering off-course?"

It hurt him to say such things. Of course he wanted to remain friends, and of course he wanted to keep accompanying her to the library, but was it proper and wise? No. He knew that much.

Penelope gently touched his arm and Benjamin jerked, exhaling as they locked eyes. Chin trembling, he offered a feeble nod. "You broke my heart, not my spirit," he softly reassured. "And even then, I...I know it wasn't intentional. You have nothing to apologize for." Glancing in between her face and the wall, he murmured, "I want you to go, and yet I don't -- do with that as you will."

In the back room, a bunch of noise started up, followed by a jarring whistle. Caleb seemed to be intentionally warning them of his return before he, himself, appeared in the entryway.

"You kids done yet?" he teased. "If Ms. Featherington really doesn't wanna accompany us, I say we should head on out, Ben." He looked to Penelope with a wink. "Unless you know any pretty, eligible young ladies for 'im, this seems like my best chance to get Tallboy to stop mopin'. There's no greater cure than a lass, y'know?"

Benjamin winced, but nodded. "Yes. We should go," he agreed. Turning toward Penelope, he offered a stilted bow. "It's been a pleasure seeing you again. I'm so glad you stopped by." A distinct sorrow bled into his eyes, and though he wished to touch her, he refrained from taking her hands -- from cupping her face, from kissing her -- and instead, grabbed his coat from off the rack and made a show of slipping it on.

Caleb gleefully clapped his hands. "Now we're talkin'! Don't worry, Ms. Featherington: we'll walk ya back to your carriage."

[gayoxygen]

He took in the sight of you squirming under her blanket, trying your best to disappear in the softness of your blanket. A small, primal part of him couldn’t deny how much he wanted to help you..to fill you up.

“I could help you out if you wanted,” he said quietly, rubbing your calf over the blanket, “It might ease whatever you’re feeling.”

“Gray,” you cooed, “You don’t need to, I can deal with this on my own.”

Your thighs were pressed together under the blanket, you wanted to push him, but part of you really wanted him.

“Oh it would be my pleasure,” he purred, beginning to climb over your covered body, “Let me take care of you, I promise I’ll make everything feel better.” 

He caged you in under him. He pushed you to lay on your back, a scarred hand squeezing your shoulder tauntingly, “Only if you want this.”

You gaped at the man on display above you.

“Gray,” you whined, sliding a gentle hand up his arm to rest against his cheek, “Please.”

“Please what?” He asked softly, pressing his palm over the one resting on his cheek.

You took in a shaky breath, “Please, make me feel better, I want you.”

He smiled, kissing the inside of your palm. He slowly undid the blanket. A chill rushed up your spine as soon as he did.

“Cold?” He teased, starting to slide up the hem of your nightshirt.

You let out a curt “mhm”, shivering slightly as his hand started to slide up under your shirt, slowly palming one of your breasts.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he assured you, bringing the blanket to cover your shoulders as he lifted your shirt, revealing your bare breasts to him. His head dipped, attaching his mouth to your nipple, his hand playing with your other breast as his tongue started to circle your nipple.

You sighed at the feeling, more arousal starting to pool at your core as Grayson spoiled your breasts with his mouth, alternating between kisses and love bites, leaving a few hickeys on either breast before peppering kisses down your stomach. You shivered at the sensation, the chilly air not helping as you erupted in goosebumps. Grayson shamelessly rubbed his mouth against your clothed core, already feeling the wetness pooling there.

“Fuck sweetheart, you must really be needing this,” he suggested, leaving a soft kiss on the wet patch now forming before hooking his fingers into your waistband, pulling them down off your hips, and sliding them off your legs, “No panties?”

You whined at his teasing, Grayson started leaving kisses on each one of your thighs, slowly inching their way to your cunt.

Snaking a hand into his hair, you whimpered as you tried to pull him where you needed him.

“Needy little thing,” he cooed, holding back from absolutely ruining you, “You need to tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“I want you to stop fucking teasing me,” you whined, “Please Grayson, I need you to taste.”

You tried pulling his head closer but he held firm, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” You huffed, pouting.

He smiled before licking a long, slow stripe up the length of your pussy, moaning as he did so, “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined.”

Did he imagine this?

You had no time to process that as he slid a finger into you. Crying out, you tried to close your legs at the sudden intrusion. His left hand made quick work of holding them open as he dove back in with his tongue, curling his right finger inside her in tandem with the flicking of his tongue on her clit. It only took minutes to feel an all too familiar feeling form in the pit of your stomach, tiny whimpers and soft moans urging him on.

“D-Daddy…fuck please I-“

“Let go, little love,” he commanded, adding another finger, Your release tore through you, crying Grayson's name.

“Gray,” you beckoned, panting.

Grayson crawled back up the length of your body, placing a soft kiss on your lips, letting you taste how messy you made him. Pulling Grayson in closer, a hand on the back of his neck, you left out a plea so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

“More? Please?” A question, you were unsure of how much he was willing to give. He had only made you cum once, and here you were begging to be ruined.

“Oh love,” he cooed, settling between your legs once more, “How can I say no to you?”

Grayson dove right back in, not hesitating to suck on your clit, swirling his tongue around the now-swollen bud before flicking his tongue over it as fast as possible. Your undoing only took a minute after that, a second orgasm ripping through you, this one drowning Grayson in cum as your thighs clenched around his head.

“S-sorry,” you whimpered, realizing you’d not only squirted all over his face, but practically drowned him by clenching your thighs around his head.

Grayson let out a sultry chuckle, licking your cum off his lips, “Don’t be sorry.”

He let your thighs fall open fully, hands caressing your quivering legs, soothing circles tracing up and down your calves before grasping your plush, cum soaked thighs. With as much softness as he could maintain, Grayson licked up all the cum coating your thighs before gently doing the same to your sex. Languid strokes up and down your folds left you whining and shaking again.

“Daddy?” You muttered.

Grayson returned to hover over you once more, caging you in with hands on either side of your shoulders, “Yes, love?”

You inhaled deeply, trying to muster up as much courage as you could, “I w-want more.”

Grayson was amused by your desire, it urged him on even more. He was trying his best to hide his erection, but the tent forming against his slacks was a dead giveaway.

“What do you want, baby?” He smiled sweetly, caressing your cheek, “Do you want me to lick your pretty cunt until you scream my name again?”

His filthy words took you aback, mouth agape and eyes slightly widened, you shook your head shyly.

“No? Then what do you want from me, love?” He teased, “I can only help if you tell me how.”

You brought your hand up to his, slowly guiding his hand to your mouth. You stuck your tongue out, licking up the length of his middle and forefinger before taking both in your mouth.

Grayson watched in awe as you whined around his fingers, you made his fingers messy with spit before pulling them out, slowly starting to guide them down. Never breaking eye contact, you placed his fingers at her still dripping entrance, the pleading look in her eye begging him to ruin her with yet another orgasm.

Grayson let out a soft smile, “Do you want me to make you cum again? Is that what my baby needs?”

You nodded, you did want this. You needed this.

“Say it, petal,” Grayson demanded, pulling his fingers away from your dripping heat.

“I need you, Daddy,” you whispered.

Grayson brought his hand back to your cunt, “Again.”

“I need you,” He pushed in up to his first knuckle, slowly sliding the tips of his fingers in and out.

“One more time,” he pleaded, leaving sloppy kisses on your jaw, “You’ve been so good, say my name, say it again.”

 “I need you, Daddy. I’ve only ever needed you.” You pulled him up for another searing kiss. With those words falling from your lips, Grayson finally pushed his thick digits into you, earning a moan that was music to his ears. He quickly curled his fingers up against your g-spot, abusing it.

You grabbed onto his neck, his shoulders, his forearm, anything that could brace you for your coming orgasm.

Grayson got to see it all, the way you struggled to make any sound at all, the way your legs trembled and core clenched as if you were trying your best not to cum.

“Let it out, little love,” he purred, increasing his pace ever so slightly, “Just let it all out for Daddy.”

You practically screamed his name, throwing your head back as you finally allowed yourself to let go. Your breasts arched up into his touch. Your entire body felt like it was on fire. 

Grayson watched as you tensed up, your entire body seizing as he ripped another orgasm out of you, this one drenching him just as much as the last. His desire to make you squirt all over was insatiable. He needed some self-control. He would've kept going, would’ve allowed his hands to hold you down while his mouth and fingers abused your sopping cunt, forcing as many orgasms as he wanted out of you. 

He was fucking drunk off of your body.

He enjoyed watching you come back to reality, legs still shaking as you struggled to keep your eyes open wide enough. He had exhausted you only three orgasms in. The smile you gave him upon meeting his gaze almost made him wreck you then and there. That pretty smile that you would wear on your happiest days, granted it was fleeting as you realized how badly she wanted more.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” He cooed, soothing your body with loving touches and kisses, “Still not enough?”

You frowned, shaking your head slightly, you felt so greedy asking for more. 

Grayson just gave you a taunting grin, “Oh, my poor baby,”

Your eyes widened as he crawled up over you, making a show of how big he was compared to you. Fuck, he looked absolutely dazed off lust.

“I’ve made you cum three times, and it’s still not enough for you?” He teased, holding your jaw to look him in the eyes, “Something tells me you want more than just Daddy’s mouth and his fingers, hm?”

His predatory gaze never left yours, “Tell me what you want.”

A demand. 

This was a very dangerous game you were playing. He had made it very clear how you made him feel.

“I w-want-” you breathed, his liquid grey eyes distracting you, “I want you t-to, oh,”

His hand had crept around your wrists, pinning them firmly to the bed. 

“Hm? I didn’t quite hear you, little love,” He purred.

“Please, Daddy, it hurts,” you cried.

A hint of concern flashed across his face, “Where does it hurt?”

He let you wiggle a hand free from his grasp, you grabbed his wrist, slowly bringing it down to your lower stomach, “Here.”

“Here?” He affirmed, pressing a palm over the expanse of your belly.

You nodded, sniffling.

Suddenly, your leaked more fluid. 

Oh. 

He smiled, “Does my baby need to be full? Do you need me to fuck you full of my cum? Is that what you need?”

You shivered, obediently bringing your wrist back to where his hand had pinned the other, waiting to be restrained again.

His other hand came back up to your throat, “I need to hear you say it, petal.”

“Please! Fuck me Daddy, please?” You begged, tears running down the sides of your face in embarrassment and frustration, “Just fucking breed me-”

His grip on your throat tightened, a primal growl coming from deep within his chest, as he moved his lips to just inches away from your ear, “Say…that…again.”

You could feel his breathing starting to pick up, fuck you really must have unleashed something in him with one little comment, but there was no going back now.

“Breed me,” You whispered, “Please Daddy ?”

Grayson let go and pulled off you immediately, taking his slacks off and then his underwear. Your eyes widened upon seeing his cock, the sheer size of it, he was so damn thick, you knew you were in for it now. 

He descended upon you instantly, his cock only rubbing up and down to gather your wetness on his tip before pushing his entire length inside. 

“Fuck!” You yelled, throwing your head back.

“There we fucking go,” Grayson moaned, his hold tightening around your throat, you tucked your head into him, finally feeling some sort of relief, “Feels much better, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

You nodded against his collarbone, whining as he throbbed inside of you.

“See how easy that was?” Grayson sunk his teeth into your shoulder, eliciting a sharp gasp from you as he left a bitemark for everyone to see, “My sweet little angel, it's like you were meant for my cock.”

He started rutting into you at a slow, steady pace, his cock kissing your cervix. You clung onto him for dear life, leaving scratch marks down his back as your legs found their way to his waist. This was definitely what you needed.

Grayson nestled his head into your neck, inhaling deeply, trying to commit your scent to memory, “Gonna fill you up, breed this sweet little cunt.”

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head at his words, he chuckled at the feeling of your walls clenching around him.

“Filthy fucking baby,” He moaned, nipping at your neck, “You like the thought of being bred? Being filled up with my cum?”

“Yes!” You cried, not being able to say much more as yet another orgasm washed over you.

Grayson pulled your hand down to the expanse of your lower stomach, “Feel that?”

You gasped, feeling his cock bulging through your tummy as he fucked you hard, his hand pressed down harder above yours, “Gonna get you pregnant, yeah angel? Fuck you would look so pretty carrying my child!”

He started fucking you faster, clearly chasing his own release, you went limp against him, the overstimulation starting to numb your brain to any coherent thoughts. You didn’t care about the risks, sex like this had you ready to let Grayson ruin you. Grayson lost his will to be gentle, he pounded into your sopping cunt relentlessly, admiring how well you fit around him, the way your body trembled against his. How your moans turned into soft cries for mercy as he overstimulated you.

How much you trusted him.

His heart went soft, he brought his gaze up slowly to find you still fucked out and struggling with the pleasure.

“Look at me, little love,” He commanded, placing a hand on your jaw. You opened your eyes as his thrusts slowed, He sat up suddenly, pulling his warmth away for a brief moment as he brought his other hand back to your stomach. “I want you to feel me breed you, feel me right here.” 

He whispered against your lips. His hand pressed down on yours, his thrusts slowing as he released deep inside you. You pulled him in to meet your lips, tangling a hand in his hair as his cock kissed your cervix once more, throbbing as he filled you to the brim. Grayson wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling the both of you up into a tight embrace, his cock still nestled deep inside you as you rested on his lap.

“Mine,” He growled, burying his face in your neck, “You are mine.”

You chuckled, smiling sweetly as his wings cocooned the two of you. Pressing a kiss to his temple, you enjoyed the feeling of his cum leaking out of you, making a mess of you both. He was still hard, reeling from the intensity of the feelings you two had just shared. Your body was spent and thankful, no more did you feel the intense ache of ovulation.

And Grayson was going to make sure you never felt that way again.

[mochikeiji]

Exact Replica

Request: "Hi! I really love you're writing and was wondering if you could do prompt 25+29 for Kuroo Tetsuro from Haikyuu? And could it be angst to fluff? (Maybe Kuroo was ignoring the reader due to lots of work/stress so reader feels neglected?) It's totally up to you tho! Ty so much!!"

25. "Would you notice if I was gone?"

29. "I didn't mean it."

↠ Pairing: Kuroo Tetsuro x F!Reader

↠ Warning: angst to fluff, mentions of pregnancy and kuroo's sad childhood

↬ Word Count: 3.7k

↠ a/n: okay this is my longest one yet. I swear the prompt screams angst to fluff so much that I go into it.

↳ from Go! Go! Gogatsu Event

Kuroo Tetsuro achieved many great things in life after graduating from his university, with multiple acknowledgements and honors. Landed a position as a young CEO from a sports association at the age of 24, he had enough money in his pocket and bank to stable both of you financially. Life was good to him after having to build from the roots  of his ruined childhood; the only years of defeat Kuroo doesn't ever want to repeat. His father and mother were in the same position as you both are; owning your own shared house, good working environment, investments and stability, married.

Up until this day Kuroo questions why his parents split. They were fortunate that they had every thing completed, sadly it was the family and love that wasn't taken care of. You could be the happiest person, yet the void inside would still be there, Kuroo thought. Foolish people were to neglect something more valuable than any object that is given. Whether it was his father or his mother that stopped nurturing what they both bonded for the longest time, they were both fools to let each other go over something simple. He vows to never let history repeat itself.

But now the tables seemed to have flipped for the both of you. Your lives not far from what he had ran away from. If Kuroo could eat his words back, he would've now that he was running late yet again to coming home, forgetting about the promise he swore to about joining you after a full month of being occupied in his office. Coming home to have you already tucked in bed, but suffering in silence.

Most days he didn't bother greeting you in the morning and night. As a good wife, you understand. He was a busy man with an important position to maintain.

There were times where you'd be tapping your foot down on the floor as the clock strikes at an ungodly hour with your messages still not bothered to be replied to or even read. But you understand. He's working! Always doing what he can for the both of you like the good husband he wanted to be.

Even if sometimes he'd come home without a kiss or a simple, "I missed you." you understand. He's drained. No time for silly, endearing affections. You've done them a lot before back when you were younger. You're adults! Married! A married partner shouldn't be feeling so needy when the other was only doing their part.

Even when sometimes your insecurities would kick in whenever you'd visit your husband to drop his forgotten lunch again, only to see him flocked by different women; probably secretaries, interns, and assistance.

You understand. You always did took such good care of what you two have.

Well had.

His home office door slams shut, awakening you from your nap on the couch. Didn't Kuroo notice you when he walked in? Looking at the clock you noticed it was near 11:30 PM since he's arrived. Late again, maybe he hasn't eaten anything? No worries, you thought sadly. Stretching your aching muscles, you made your way to the dining area. So far dinner was left untouched once more. Just how many times has it gone to waste because you continued on cooking for two?

Or rather, three.

You beam at the sudden reminder while preparing your husband's plate. You'd always miss him whenever he'd come home, never had the chance to surprise him at the right time of your little discovery about a week ago. Fear did struck you because of the possible reactions he'd give, but you were so excited in sharing the news that a couple would share the equal happiness from, you couldn't contain it any longer.

Maybe you should've chosen another time unbeknownst to you how your husband was hunched over his desk, clearly in displease of the previous events that had occurred during the meeting back in his office. Hence why his work stack added more piles of predicaments, only fueling his headaches more wishing he could just lay down peace and quiet without disturbance.

He grumbles at the knock on his door, only typing furiously with emphasized taps on the keyboard. You, not sensing the emitting aura from the room took it as a response for you to enter. It surprised you a bit on how disordered his home office had become. It was obvious his coat had been thrown carelessly as it lays on the floor, wrinkled. Carefully placing the plate full of food on the small coffee table at the side, you gingerly picked up the article of clothing. Lightly trying to smoothen out the lines before hanging it behind his door and turning back to your husband.

"Tetsu?" cautiously calling out his name, you were kind of wary at the fact he didn't turn to see you unlike he does before whenever you'd enter the room. "I brought you your dinner. You came home pretty late." you tried to maintain the light hearted tone of your voice to hide how nervous you were in telling him the big news.

The atmosphere was kind of eerie when all he did was hum meekly from your words. Feeling a bit disheartened from his lack of attentiveness, still forcing a smile, you padded a little closer behind him with your hands clasps together. "I also wanted— well needed to tell you something." averting your eyes away from him as you prepared in your head. With a small hope he'd turn around for once after a long time.

"Can it be another time? I'm in the middle of stuff here."

Another time.

Why is it always next time? It's frustrating enough to not see him or have him speak to you even for a moment, but this made your stomach churn in an unpleasant way. Frowning at his poor reply, you gulped a few of your sentence back. Not fully trusting your emotions getting in the way, "You never really talked to me before, Tetsu.. I get that you're busy, but it wouldn't hurt for you to give a little minute for me."

Even just a second as long as he'd finally notice you.

"(Y/n) if you understand then why bother? You can clearly see I'm busy." chest huffing out a harsh sigh, still not bothering to turn around. Gripping your hands tightly, your patience were starting to snap. "You're always busy, Tetsu! I never had a proper conversation with you again." raising the volume of your voice a little made his actions come to a halt. Chair revolving around to face you. His appearance made it obvious how exhausted he has been; tousled hair that he usually takes longer to style, the light forming bags underneath his eyes from the screen and lack of sleep. The visible annoyance marked in his expression. But couldn't he say the same for you?

"Fine. Here, you have my attention now. Are we talking properly now?" his way of provoking you wasn't in the right place. It only made you look at him in disbelief because you've grown to never meet such side of your husband before. The news you had originally planned to share vanished from your head, replaced with the restrained emotions that has been building up inside your heart, tipping over.

"Tetsu, what is wrong with you?" looking at him now seemed like you were talking to someone else. His words were curt and short with no intention of prolonging the conversation, itching to get back to work so he could be done with it. "I already you I'm just busy. I would be done by now if you didn't want to talk properly with me." he says as if he's the one in distraught. "Seriously, nothing's wrong but I think you aren't. You're never like this."

"That's because you never cared to noticed in the first place!" wailing out the collapsed emotions that has weighed you heavily. It was too late to stop yourself from voicing out the things your husband left aside. A full month of being a good, understanding image of a wife thrown away to the rubbles without even appreciating the the long nights of you waiting up for him, cooking meals even though the next day they'd end up being in the trash, tolerating the coldness of the used to be warm sheets, putting up with the insecurities you took upon yourself to hide to avoid troubling your husband further when all you wanted was for him to assure you that he still loves you and only you.

The fascade you put up just for him crumbles. And it infuriates you more of how he still doesn't notice.

"(Y/n), you know I've been working! There's so much stuff that needs to be attended for just so you and I could live normally!"

"Tetsuro, we are stabled, it's okay to slow down a bit. How is this any normal to you when you don't even realize how this affects me?!"

The chair slides back roughly against the floor with a loud creak as he towers over you. Glowering eyes with a dark expression looming over his face, clearly now enraged. "You're being selfish right now. I'm here doing what I can to support us and all you could think of was you, you, you. Can't you see I'm doing this for you as well? God what else do you want from me, the world?"

"I only wanted you to give me your time and attention even just for a second, Tetsuro! I've been doing my best for you all this month and I never said anything to trouble you!"

It hurts when he said how you were being the selfish one when it was the opposite. It dawned to you that all those days of giving your all for him wasn't once noticed. "Will you ever grow up already? Attention? Really? We're adults, (Y/n) not teenagers for fucks sake. My time is just wasted because of you!" he doesn't stop there even if you've had your mouth already shut from how he portrayed you as. His words were beginning to leave a deep scar in you as you quiet down to the next line.

"If you think that nothing is troubling me, there is! And you just happen to add in for crying out loud!"

There were no words exchanged after his meltdown. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he looks away from you— who's eyes were already watery. Unable to even tell your side anymore at the ache of your heart. "So..I'm just troubling you then?" quivering out your words, Kuroo clenches his jaw as the bubbling frustration was being held back with the last bit of restrain he had.

"Would you notice if I was gone, Tetsu?"

Instead of being alarmed by your chosen form of sentence, you watched with sad eyes as your husband pulled back his chair and faced his workload. He didn't even noticed you're already crying silently, "Not now, (Y/n). We'll talk later."

He doesn't even noticed how you walked out sobbing with a shattered heart nor the door in the living room closing. Leaving him alone for the next few hours in peace like he wanted.

Time went on quickly when one doesn't take their eyes off from their consecutive workaholic state. With a groan, he almost slams his laptop shut before stretching his bones, slowly relaxing the tense muscles. It's up to his co workers and assistance to deal with the load he's prepared to dump onto them after they threw all theirs to him. Hoping to freshen up his face, Kuroo tidies his desk up before making his way to the door. Stopping in realization of the now cold dinner that was left on the coffee table.

His stomach growled loudly at the lack of food it's digested in the longest run. It was still good if he heats it up, he does miss eating home made meals than his stale ones back in the cafeteria of his workplace. Grabbing the plate carefully he first made a short journey to the kitchen to heat up his food. Unusual it was to have all the lights out in the house. You'd always leave some opened when he was awake. Then again the guilt started to crawl up to his chest knowing he's the cause of why you'd forgotten.

Now entering the bathroom with water running down his face, he plans ahead the apology he owes you when he wakes up tomorrow morning. He could reschedule his own time since he is the boss. He closes the faucet right after he was done rinsing. Looking around for the towel his eyes caught something below the small organizer you put up next to the sink. Grabbing the towel above the first part of the organizer, bending down slowly to avoid getting cramps, his actions were quick to grab the object that caught his attention the moment it seemed so familiar and surprising.

Pregnancy test. Two lines for positive.

Having a child with you was the last thing he's yet to accomplish from his list, and here it was. As much as he wanted to be in denial, it all felt like surge of contentment drowns him in because he was going to be a dad. However his body began to tremble whilst still holding the test and staring intently at it. The previous guilt that was crawling beneath his bones became a dark, desolated hole of anxiety and fear that ate him whole. The things he's said and done will never be taken back no matter how he apologizes to the past events a few hours ago.

Hours ago. It was already 2:25 when the fight had ceased. Deep down he knows he couldn't wait until the next day to plead for forgiveness. After all, he did vow to never leave you both a day feeling heavy alone. Kuroo felt nauseous of how much of an asshole he had treated you. Like starting a game of volleyball once more, he was beyond nervous when he approached your shared bedroom. There was no excuse of his actions indeed as he solemnly enters the dimmed room. He sighs a little shaky when he closes in your bed, "Baby?" he starts, "Baby, are you awake?" it was one of the little things he's memorized that you'd do when you both aren't in good terms. You never really slept, just pretended because you always had the heart to wait up for him.

When he gets no response he reaches out to pat you, only coming to the sense that the sheets were left untouched; no warmth traced behind. You weren't there, any where. His blood runs cold and immediately fishes out for his phone in his pocket, speed dialing your number while he circles the entire area of the house in case you'd be there. Now he was more terrified when he hears the familiar voice mail from the living room couch where you had slept while waiting for him.

You left your phone. His wife wasn't home— his pregnant wife.

"Fuck." running a rough hand through his tangled hair. The lump on his throat grows but he refuses to let out a string of sobs. It was his fault you were gone at such an ungodly hour. Kuroo felt more than a bigger asshole than before he's made you come to the point of leaving home. Just as his mother did and never returned. The one thing he swore you two would never be the same came to life, only thought now is Kuroo doesn't know whether you've left him for good after being a neglectful husband and to have dishearten his own beloved wife like that.

"Would you notice if I was gone?"

Rang in his head as he stood outside the neighborhood, running. Chasing after a hallucinated image of you any place he tried to remember you'd be in. A fool he has been to have left you in a loveless marriage. He loves you, he really does. He can't imagine a life without you in it. Just as it was about to become the happiest he's wanted, he pushed it all too soon. A bad husband, he cries. "(Y/n), please come home." legs aching and panting from having to study all areas. It was pitch black; there were no opened spots for you to even go at an hour of slumber and chaos. The only convenient store did not even have you in it. You were no where to be seen and Kuroo breaks.

Of course he'd notice when it was all too late. The past he's ran away from was still the place he's returned now that the house was only occupied by nothing but rotten memories of the love he didn't took care of. The exact replica of a married life he desperately tried to dodge. "I'm so sorry." for the lonely nights he's left you to sleep, over thinking of what may have been your fault and always figuring him out tirelessly. For the small efforts of adoration he didn't took a glance at and gone to waste. For the words that were never even meant for you to ever feel. For being a neglectful husband. He was sorry he noticed too late how he ruined his precious wife.

Now he's left you on your own out in the dangers outside. If anything horrible happened to you he will forever be crushed. But the world thinks that second chances are given to those who truly deserve them after you came in quietly, slipping off your sandals and waving back to your friend who had dropped you off home. Your short break to the convenient store changed when you met up with her and drove back to her place to rant about what happened. Being the sluggish person you are whenever sadness hits, you never noticed how long you've over stayed. It wasn't like your husband was going to know if he still was working.

Much to your surprise that he wasn't, you stifled a gasp to find him with his hands holding his head that was leaned down on the table. His shoulders were lightly jolting with escapes of audible sniffles, indicating that he was in fact crying. If he looked exhausted before, it wasn't enough to describe his current state; as if he was a man who'd lost every thing as he sat there with all hope lost. Your foot padded on the creaky part of the floor in attempt to tiptoe over his hunched back to comfort him. Squeaking in the awkward situation you've put the room in when Kuroo turns his head behind to see you standing there a bit frightened, but concerned when you saw how disheveled his face looks.

"Tetsu—" his name got cut off short from when you almost tripped over your balance at the sudden impact of Kuroo throwing himself into your arms with his weight. You couldn't make out what he was mumbling on about, but you melt to his embrace even if he squeezes the living day lights from you, afraid that he was going crazy and you weren't real. "Thank God," litters of kisses were placed on your clavicle, "You're back."

He repeats, slowly convincing himself that you are indeed home in his arms, safe, no harm detected. Just home. "I'm so sorry.."

"I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of what I said, I-I'm so sorry." your bodies swayed gently to the sound of your hushes and his cries of apologies. "Please don't leave me like that again. I was so scared."

"Shhh, it's okay, Tetsu. I'm sorry. I'm okay— we're okay." leading him to sit down at the couch, you placed the bag of different brands of sweets and junk on the table before facing your husband. You had to stifle in a laugh watching him wipe his nose, you couldn't help but be reminded of a mini Tetsuro by looking at him. The argument that stung you faded when he took a hold of your hands and mumbled another apology.

"You shouldn't be sorry for anything. I should be.." flickering his eyes from your belly to your bloodshot eyes from your own fiasco back in your friend's place, he slides in closer next to you where your shoulders touched. "I haven't been a good husband lately, have I?" he looks at you expectantly. Frowning, you still nodded. Tired of hiding your own feelings from him.

"I know you're busy most of the time, Tetsu. But I just wanted you to recognize me as your wife." thumbs quick to swipe away the tear that had shed from your eye, "We're in this together, remember?" he pulls you right from the arm, shoving your face to his chest in need to hold you for all the times he should've. Ignoring the dampness of his white long-sleeved polo, breathing in the scent of your sweet shampoo. You were still so forgiving and understanding despite on how equally tired as he was you are.

"I'm so sorry I've made you feel as if I never cared anymore. You never deserved that." his lips found it's way to the crown of your head. "I don't deserve you, and I really don't want to lose you after me being stupid." giggling through tears, fist connecting a soft punch on his chest, bubbling a chuckle to the surface as he lightly pulls you away from hiding.

"I really didn't mean all of those things I've said, baby. I love you and only you." stroking ever so lovingly your cheek, you don't catch on to the fact that his other hand was placed over your stomach protectively. Making a silent promise to not only you, but the soon to be new addition to the family that he will never again neglect what he should've cherished more and looked after than the constant worries at the back of his head.

Because he will never again repeat the replica of a broken family he once was born in.

© all content belongs to mochikeiji. Please do not repost or copy, ありがとうございました!! (=^･^=)

[john-macnamara]

tws below the cut: minor body horror, violence, murder

Thirteen days since he's been dropped off, and John's still going. He found out what had happened to his agents on day four: the whole area had been sealed off by some form of barrier that killed things as soon as they touched it. It took a good while, but he eventually found a crack in the gate that he managed to squeeze through.

Then came day seven, when he found out where the people had gone. Scattered across over 4,000 square miles, every single citizen had been rounded up and trapped in an underground bunker to be stored and later sacrificed by a satanic cult. He freed the first group on day eight, calling in backup to head through the same hole in the barrier and find the remaining groups. The next seven days had been spent looking for the ringleaders of this operation, and as of right now, in an empty church with the walls coated with blood, John's pretty sure he found them.

He looks around the church, searching for any signs of life, and yep, voices to his left. John pulls rifle, prepared to shoot if necessary. He knows he can't be stealthy, so he won't be. He bursts in through the door, shooting at the wall a few times for added effect, shouting "US Military. Down on the ground, now!"

Most of the occupants oblige, their hands on their head and knees pressed to the floor. They're in typical cult robes, black embroidery upon a blood red background (or, at least he thinks it's red). He asks them for information, and with minimal threatening he gets it. Down the hall and the third door on the right. Perfect. If he's lucky, he'll be going home today.

John prepares to pull the same tactic on the leaders, bursting in through the door- oh no. The sound of metal snapping against itself rings out, and a searing pain rushes up John's leg. He looks down, already knowing what he'll see, a bear trap. He stepped in a fucking bear trap. His leg's still intact from the looks of it, but he's pretty sure his fibula just got wrecked. As he's attempting to free himself, members clearly decorated as leaders of the cult walk in. Shit. The one wearing a barbed wire crown speaks first.

"Well lookie here, looks like we've caught a General!" The people around the man laugh, John doesn't find it nearly as funny.

"Let me out of this damn thing!" He hisses, gritting his teeth through the pain.

Another person walks up, only inches away from John. Their features shift and morph, now reflecting a muscular man only an inch shorter than himself with a very specific jacket on. Curt. "I'd recommend listening to us, cousin, if you know what's good for you."

The burning pain intensifies, becoming white-hot panic, "How the hell do you know about him?"

The barbed crown man speaks again, practically monologuing, "We know about all your little friends, Johnny Boy. We know where they live, who they are, what they mean to you. It's a wonder what a few little birdies can do to get us knowledge. And it's even more of a wonder how easily you fell into our trap. You'll be delivered to our benefactors, and if you run, we'll summon one of your friends to replace you."

The fear on his face shifts into pure rage as John does the only thing he can think of. He punches the person in front of him. They reel back, but unfortunately recover, and when they turn to him next it's Owen's voice and face speaking to him. "Why do you keep hurting me?"

John growls. He can't let his people be hurt, but he doesn't want to be taken either. He has things he needs to do, promises he needs to keep, he won't sacrifice himself again. Not for this. "I'm not going with you."

"Really? You're willing to sacrifice your friends for your own well-being? Olga, show him what will happen to his 'precious' people."

The shifter, now known as Olga, forms cuts and bruises across Owen's body. Part of the shirt tears, and the scars across his body look like they've been burned over once again. Then Curt appears once more, hollowed out by insects and entirely blank. Axel's there now, with their flesh torn into ribbons and hanging off their body. Then Xander and Schaffer in quick succession, bruised and bloodied with bones jutting out of their limbs. Last of all, of course, is Wilbur. There's neon green(?) creeping up his body, spilling out of his eyes and mouth and varying cuts on his body.

The leader approaches John, "See? We'll do all this and more. They'll suffer, and suffer, and suffer, but they won't die. Our benefactors won't let them."

This is John's last straw. He's been surviving on minimal rations each day, getting angrier and angrier at these damn cultists, and now they're going after his loved ones too. He thinks about the trap attached to his leg, and it's not connected to anything else, now is it? He lunges, primal rage flowing through him unfettered. "Dont." Punch. "Ever." Punch. "Touch." Punch. "My." Punch. "Friends!" Slam.

John's breathing evens only as he feels the blood dripping off his fists. The man below him has had his face caved in. God, John did that. And worst of all, he didn't hesitate. He thinks he's going to be sick, he should be sick, but he's not, and that's so much worse. But still, a thing to worry about later. Right now he needs to play it up, act like he'd do it again (to protect his people, he would). "Anyone else?"

The people around John look a lot more afraid all of a sudden. Good. He pulls out his handgun, pointing at the shifter. "Do you want to mirror anyone else, or will you surrender?"

Olga, the defiant bitch, looks up to John with Wilbur's eyes. "You can't kill me, not like this."

"I think I can, actually." A bullet goes through Wilbur's skull, and as the body falls it returns to the woman's form. "Now, whoever's running the barrier, close it right now before you die too."

A short man, looking no more than twenty, mutters an incantation and the purple aura surrounding him disappears.

"Here's what's going to happen. You aren't going to summon anyone, you are going to tell your benefactors that you failed and let them deal with you if they wish to, then you are going to stay here as I watch you and await pickup, during which you will be arrested. Anyone who goes against anything I just said will be shot next."

There are quick nods from the people around them, and John takes that as the okay. He sends his coordinates to Lewis, expecting the Maine base to have a copter to him within the hour. For now, he'll think about what had happened, what he had just done, and refuse to break down. He'll save that for home.

He lived, though. John from a few months back would've given himself up without hesitation. He hates himself for it deeply, but he's glad he fought back instead of giving in. He's glad he's still standing here, even with two more deaths on his conscience. Maybe this mission was good for him after all. Except for the broken fibula, that's going to suck.

It's 7 PM. It's 7 PM on a Monday afternoon and John gets a call while building his new bedframe. It's from Lewis, so he's got to pick it up whether or not he wants to.

"Hello. You have reached General John MacNamara of the United States Military: Special Unit P. E. I. P.. What do you want, Darcy?"

"We have a problem in Maine. A whole county's worth of people fell off the map in a matter of days."

"Okay, then send in a recon squad and find out what the fuck's going on. Simple protocol."

"...That's the problem, sir. Anyone who's gone into the affected area hasn't come back. Months have gone by, we've lost countless agents on this. Do you think that you could go in? Try to at least find out what's happening?"

John thinks before answering. He's still not in great shape, that hemorrhage is blurring his vision and his head's still pounding daily. But the other option is to send more of his own people to their deaths. He'll be fine, he can't afford not to be.

"Send a copter to the Michigan base. I'll be there before 23:00 hours. How long am I expected to be off grid?"

"Anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, sir. The helicopter is on its way."

John hangs up rather than responding. He has people who can take care of the testing for Curt, and he'll wire any texts from Owen mentioning it to said people. Other than that, it's not like he has much reason to not disappear for a few weeks. He doesn't live with anyone anymore, and he's pretty damn sure he won't be missed. At least, not as the burden he is right now. Maybe this'll be good for him, a vacation in a way. At least he won't be doing any paperwork. As long as he doesn't die, he knows he'll be retrieved by the end of May. Can't have a general gone too long.

Setting down the piece of wood he was working on, John puts his phone away and moves to his closet, pulling out a large backpack. Large enough to store water, food, medical supplies, and his smaller bag filled with weapons and resources of all shapes and sizes. He changes into clothing he knows will last, and slips a bulletproof vest on over it. There's only two other changes of clothes that fit in his bag, he'll have to make them last. Next is any necessary toiletries. He takes a can of dry shampoo, a disposable toothbrush and toothpaste pallets, and a bar of soap. These missions always wreck his hair, might as well do some damage control with the shampoo.

John heads to the kitchen, searching the fridge and clearing out anything that won't last more than a week. He's glad he finished the last of the chicken soup when he got home, it would be a pity to throw any of it. Once that's over with, he snags a banana to snack on while on the way there. Slowly but surely, he clears the house of any weapons he may need. Two handguns, a shotgun, a rifle with a detachable scope, three knives of separate sizes and uses, multiple grenades, flash and otherwise, and his trusty staff.

Finally, John makes a security run of the apartment. Cameras are set, motion alarms are armed, and there are lasers set on every window except for the two in the guest room. As he opens the door, he pauses and steps back inside for just a moment. Just in case anyone actually checks on him (he's sure they won't), he should leave a note at the door. He jots something down, signs it, and tapes it to his front door as he closes it.

As he drives to the base, John feels that familiar mix of anxiety and anticipation crop up inside of him. Solo missions are always their particular kind of experience. One he hates and loves at the same time. This'll go well, he thinks. For once, he'll fight to live, not just survive. Yeah... this'll help him get back to his old mindset. This mission will be good for him, everyone really. Give all his friends a break from his burden while John does one of the only things he's truly good at. He makes a promise to himself that he'll make it out alive and doing even better than before. And John can't break a promise like that, now can he?