#CRACKS MY KNUCKLES AS I RISE OUT OF MY GRAVE

[suku-enthusiasts]

Chapter Eight || mother & dress fitting - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝ in the lands of gods and monsters, she was an angel, living with the King of Curses- 

Sukuna Ryomen Itadori was a man of many things, but before he became the cursed monster, he was a kind husband, who was sarcastic, always loving in his words, and loves his wife dearly. After a day of work, he returns home early, to find his wife brutally murdered in the home he built for the two of them. Sukuna was unaware of the power he held, but when it unleashed, he became something his wife never thought she could imagine. 10 years pass, as Sukuna visits his wife's grave, the same spot he buried her all those years ago, something was different, something touching his face as he awoke, could this be real?❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

Word count ; 6.4k

main masterlist | series masterlist

The softest light of morning crept into the grand chambers, seeping past the heavy curtains in gold-hued rays that painted the bed in a warm, holy glow. The air was still, quiet, save for the occasional distant chirp of birds beyond the estate walls. Sukuna was still half-asleep, sprawled against the silk sheets with one arm slung protectively around your waist, his body curled behind yours. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, his bare chest rising and falling with a rare, gentle calm. Then—a knock. Three precise taps against the chamber doors.

Sukuna’s brows twitched, displeased at the intrusion. But he didn’t bark or shout. Instead, he slowly disentangled himself from you, sliding from the bed with practiced grace. Draping a dark silk robe over his broad frame, he padded barefoot to the door and opened it just a crack, his crimson eyes narrowing at the pale face on the other side. Uraume bowed deeply. “My Lord… we found her. The Queen’s mother. She is living in the woods just north of the ridge. Alone. Her location is confirmed.”

Sukuna’s gaze sharpened. A beat passed. Then he nodded once. “Ready the carriage,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll leave before the sun climbs.”

Uraume bowed again, disappearing as swiftly as they came. Sukuna closed the door and turned to you. You were still sleeping—peacefully, curled beneath the sheets, your cheeks flushed from the remnants of the night before. Your ringed hand rested over your heart, lips parted just slightly, like you were still dreaming something soft and safe. He moved toward you with reverence, the way he did when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Sitting beside you on the edge of the bed, he reached out, brushing his knuckles down the bare curve of your back. You sighed in your sleep and instinctively shifted closer. A faint, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips lingering against your skin. Then another—softer—at the nape of your neck.

“My love,” he murmured quietly, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He kissed your temple, then the edge of your jaw. “Wake up, sweetheart…” You stirred with a soft sound, your lashes fluttering as your body registered his warmth, his voice, the tenderness in his touch. He was stroking the small of your back now, fingers drawing gentle circles across your skin. “Mmh… Suku?” you breathed, eyes half-lidded as you turned to face him. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Time to get dressed.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Why? What time is it?”

“Too early,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “but necessary.” You sat up slowly, clutching the sheets to your chest as you looked at him. His tone wasn’t cold—but it was serious. Measured. “I had Uraume track her down,” he said quietly. “Your mother. They found her.” Silence fell between you for a heartbeat. You blinked, wide-eyed, the fog of sleep quickly evaporating. “She’s alive?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, watching you closely for your reaction. “Living alone, some miles north. If you want to see her—we can leave now. Carriage is being prepared.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, Sukuna reached out, cradling your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing across your skin in that rare, delicate way only he ever managed. “You don’t have to. But I thought you might want to see for yourself. Get closure. Or whatever it is you need.” You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned into his touch, your hand covering his. Then slowly, you nodded. “Yes,” you whispered. “Let’s go.”

He gave a curt nod and stood, walking toward the wardrobe to retrieve clothing for the both of you. He handed you a fresh, soft robe first—forest green with silver embroidery—before turning his back respectfully to give you a moment to dress. As you slid from the sheets and began to gather yourself, you glanced at Sukuna’s broad shoulders, the way he stood so still, yet so alert. You knew he was on edge—protective. Ready to strike if your mother so much as breathed in a way that displeased you. But beneath the tension, you saw it. The care. The quiet worry.

The rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels against the dirt path echoed softly through the forest trail, accompanied by the steady creak of wood and leather. Morning mist still clung to the air like a veil, weaving through the trees in delicate strands. The sky above was pale and cool, the light filtered through the canopy like spilled cream. Inside the enclosed carriage, the air was warm and still. You sat beside Sukuna on the velvet-lined bench, draped in your deep green cloak. The hood rested over your shoulders, your hands folded in your lap with restless fingers fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. You hadn’t spoken much since leaving the estate.

Sukuna, on the other hand, sat with one leg crossed over the other, his massive frame taking up much of the space. He was quiet too, but not out of discomfort—his gaze was fixed out the window, arms folded, jaw tight in a way you recognized. He was watching. Listening. Thinking.

You swallowed softly and glanced over at him, studying the shape of his profile—the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the way his brows furrowed slightly in thought. His expression was unreadable to most, but you’d come to learn the difference between his brooding and his worry. “This is… strange,” you finally whispered. He turned his head, meeting your eyes. “Seeing her again?” You nodded slowly. “I haven’t seen her in years. I always thought I’d feel… angrier. But now, I just feel… hollow.” He shifted, resting his elbow against the window ledge as he turned toward you. “You don’t need to prove anything,” he said, voice low and even. “You don’t owe her kindness. Or forgiveness.”

“I know.” You looked down, your thumb brushing over your engagement ring. “But I think I just want to look her in the eyes and ask her why. Why she couldn’t love me. Why she tried to break me.” Sukuna’s jaw clenched.

You reached over, gently resting your hand over his. “I’m not looking for healing, Suku. I already have that.” His gaze softened—just a little. His hand turned under yours, palm up, fingers curling slowly around yours. His grip was firm, grounding. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “You’ve barely gotten used to living with peace. I don’t want her taking even an ounce of that from you.”

“She won’t,” you promised. “I won’t let her.” You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He exhaled through his nose and slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. For a while, there was silence again. Only the sound of the wheels turning, the birds calling far off in the trees, and the faint rustle of wind through the canopy.

“You look just like your father when you worry,” Sukuna murmured after a moment. “Eyes go all glassy. Your mouth goes tight like his. Same sigh too.” You chuckled lightly against his chest. “And what do I look like when I’m happy?” His lips curved into a smile you couldn’t see, but you felt it—subtle and warm against your temple. “A nightmare,” he said dryly. “An irresistible little nightmare.” You laughed again, and he kissed your hair. His hand trailed up your back, fingers slipping under your cloak, tracing small shapes into the fabric of your dress.

“You sure you want me there?” he asked, softer now. “When you talk to her?” You nodded slowly. “You’re not just my protector anymore, Sukuna. You’re the man I love. My future husband. I want you beside me.”

He was silent at that—but his hand gripped yours tighter, his body subtly shifting closer, like he needed to be touching more of you. You could tell he was bracing himself for the worst, even as he let you lead. You looked up at him, brushing your thumb over one of the black markings under his eye.

“She can’t take anything from me anymore,” you whispered. “Because you already gave me everything I needed.”

—

The cottage sat quietly at the end of a winding dirt path, the porch covered in shadows from the towering oak tree beside it. The shutters were chipped, the roof slightly sagged, but there was something oddly peaceful about the place. The hum of cicadas drifted through the still morning air.

She was there.

You saw her before she saw you—watering a line of potted herbs on the porch railing with a chipped metal can. Her gray hair was tied back in a haphazard knot. Her back was hunched slightly with age, but her hands moved with precision, like a woman who still had control over her world.

Then she looked up. 

Her eyes caught yours instantly, there was no scream, no gasp, just a pause, her hand stilling mid-pour, water dripping onto the wood. A moment passed. Then she blinked, like she was squinting into the sun. “Well,” she said dryly, “I figured I’d see you here one day.” Her voice hadn’t changed. That same sharp, cold rasp. The one you remembered echoing down the hallway when you were a child. But now… now there was something weary behind it. A threadbare undertone. You stepped closer. “Hello, Mother.” Her gaze drifted past you—and that’s when she saw him.

Sukuna’s enormous form loomed behind you like a dark pillar. His four arms crossed over his chest, robe loose around his broad frame, tattoos visible along his throat and hands. His eyes—deep red and glowing—watched your mother with a level of calculation that made even the birds in the trees go quiet. The last time she saw him, he had been human. Just a man in ceremonial robes, placing a ring on your hand. Your mother squinted. “Well damn,” she muttered. “You really let yourself go, didn’t you?” Sukuna’s lips curled. “And you still have that snake tongue. I see nothing’s changed.” Her eyes narrowed. “The dog stays outside,” she said casually, gesturing toward the porch. Sukuna took a slow step forward, his voice low and gravelly. “Say that again and I’ll show you exactly what kind of beast I am.”

“Sukuna,” you murmured, gently touching his lower arm. His glare lingered on her a moment longer, then he pulled back slightly, giving you space. 

His massive form stood just off to the side of the porch now, like a monstrous sentinel, his arms still crossed. But his eyes never left your mother.

“Come in then,” she muttered, turning around and walking toward the door. “I won’t bite. Well, not you anyway.” You stepped onto the porch with careful, even steps, taking in the creaky wood and dusty windows. Inside, it was dim but tidy—plain furniture, a well-used stove, a mantle with nothing on it. The walls were bare, not a single photo. No trace of you. No trace of your father. Your mother gestured to the table. “Sit, sit. Don’t worry, I didn’t poison the tea this time.” You sat, folding your hands. “You never made me tea before.” She raised an eyebrow as she set a kettle on the burner. “That’s true. You hated hot drinks. Said they burned your tongue. Sensitive like your father.” Sukuna stood just inside the doorway, far too large for the space, arms now behind his back as he watched the exchange. His presence was oppressive—but you found comfort in it.

There was a long pause before you spoke again. “Why did you leave?” She sighed, grabbing two mismatched mugs from a cabinet. “Straight to it, huh? No small talk?”

“I don’t want small talk.” She didn’t answer immediately. The kettle hissed in the background. “I left because I was already halfway gone,” she said finally, voice low. “I was never meant to be a mother. I knew that before I had you. But your father… he was so kind, so hopeful. Thought he could fix me. Thought you would fix me.”

“I wasn’t something that needed to fix you,” you replied softly. She winced, setting down the mugs. “I know that now. Back then, I just felt trapped. I was raised in a home where love was weakness. Where cruelty was survival. I never knew what to do with softness. So when you cried, I got angry. When you smiled, I bristled. And when you loved me, I pushed you away.” Sukuna’s eyes flared at those words. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret that I let my own bitterness shape you. I see it now… I see the woman you’ve become. You’re stronger than me. You found your own way out of the dark.” You nodded slowly, tears stinging your eyes. “Father never stopped loving you.” She looked away. “He should have.”

“But I see why he did,” you said gently. “Even now, I see the pieces of you that he loved.” Her eyes flicked toward you again—wet, for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you deserved. I was too broken to raise something whole.” You reached across the table, your fingers brushing hers. And after a long pause, she didn’t pull away. From the doorway, Sukuna watched quietly. He said nothing—but his jaw had unclenched. Just a little.

When the moment passed, your mother drew back and wiped her face with her sleeve. “So,” she sniffed, “you’re marrying the demon again?”

You let out a teary laugh. “Yes.” She raised a brow at Sukuna, who only glared at her in return. “Lucky girl.”

“And you… do you think you’ll visit again?” you asked softly. Her eyes scanned the room. “I… I don’t know. I don’t have much to offer. But if you bring that monstrous husband of yours, I’ll be forced to at least bake a pie.” Sukuna smirked. “Make it cherry. I might actually eat it. Might.” Your mother chuckled—just once—and sat back in her chair.

—

The sky was pale as evening approached, soft clouds drifting like ghosts above the black-tiled roofs of the estate. The gardens were still. No servants bustling about. Even Uraume kept a respectful distance, sensing the silence that clung to you. You hadn’t spoken much since returning from your mother’s home. You weren’t sad. Not exactly. But the day had pressed something heavy into your bones—a kind of weariness that made your thoughts quiet and your limbs slow. You moved through the halls without sound, your fingers trailing along the cold stone walls, eyes distant.

Sukuna followed. Not looming, not demanding, not even sarcastic—just there. Watching. His steps were slow behind you, his robes whispering softly with every movement. His monstrous frame didn’t intimidate tonight. It comforted.

He hated this kind of quiet from you. Not because it scared him… but because it was unfamiliar. Your stillness wasn’t numbness. It was deep, and reflective, and far away from him. And Sukuna… Sukuna didn’t like being far from you. “Come,” he said at last, his voice low as his hand gently pressed to the small of your back. “Let me take care of you.” You nodded wordlessly.

He guided you to the bathhouse—the inner chamber, quiet and private, where steam curled like silk through the air and the soft scent of jasmine floated in the water. The marble tub had already been filled—likely on his earlier command—and pale candles flickered against the polished stone walls. You undressed slowly, and Sukuna helped you step down into the water, his strong hands supporting your hips, then sliding away as you sank into the warmth.

He didn’t sit back and watch like usual. He joined you—kneeling at the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, one of his lower hands dipping a small bowl into the water while the other reached for the delicate glass vial of perfumed oil nearby. You leaned forward a little, resting your chin on your folded arms along the lip of the tub, and closed your eyes. He began to pour the warm water over your head, slow and steady. Again and again. His touch was shockingly gentle. His claws never scratched, not once. His upper hands combed through your curls, separating the strands patiently, as though they were spun silk. The moment felt suspended in time.

He applied the oil with care, massaging it into your scalp in small, circular motions. His thumbs pressed lightly at the base of your skull, down to the nape of your neck, and you could feel the tightness in your muscles ease with each stroke. “You’re quiet,” he said finally, his voice gravel-soft. “Not sad. But… quieter than I like.” You gave a small hum of acknowledgment. “She wasn’t what I imagined,” you said after a while, voice muffled against your arms. “And yet… somehow exactly who I remembered.” His lower hands gently rinsed your hair, cupping water and pouring it down in streams. He didn’t rush a single movement. “She said sorry,” you murmured. “And I believed her. But it still aches. Not from pain. Just… from how long I went without it. Without even the idea of it.”

Sukuna said nothing—but he moved closer. He leaned over, placing a kiss at the crown of your wet head. One of his hands stayed on your shoulder, warm and anchoring. Another traced small circles over your upper back. “You deserve worship,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick, reverent. “Not apology. But… I know what it means to hear the one who broke you finally say it.” You opened your eyes, turning your head to glance at him. He looked so serious—his crimson gaze dark with thought, his expression softer than it ever was in the throne room or on the battlefield.

“You’re so gentle with me,” you whispered. His lips twitched slightly, like he wanted to scoff but didn’t dare break the moment. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said dryly, “or I’ll have to slaughter an entire village just to make up for it.” You smiled. He leaned in again, kissing your temple this time. Then your cheek. Then the curve of your neck. “Let me finish,” he murmured. “I want to wash you, worship you. Every inch.” You relaxed fully into his touch, your body warm and weightless in the water, his hands the only thing grounding you.

—

The air was crisp and clean when you stepped out of the carriage, a soft breeze catching the edge of your cloak. You’d asked to come alone this time—no guards, no Sukuna pacing in the distance with his arms crossed and eyes scanning the woods like a feral sentinel. Just you, and the woven basket tucked into the crook of your elbow.

You walked the familiar path toward your mother’s cottage, worn from weather and years, but a sense of home, maybe even warmth. The house looked a bit less lonely this time—there were flowers on the windowsill, the porch was swept, and a soft tune hummed from inside. As you stepped onto the porch, the screen door creaked open just enough for your mother to peer out. She had her hair tied up in a loose scarf and a watering can in one hand, damp earth under her nails. She looked you over, not startled, not overly expressive, just… taking you in. “Well,” she said, watering can still in hand, “look who’s come back. Thought you’d run off for good after last time.” You gave a light smile. “You thought I’d scare easy?” A shrug. “No. You were always a stubborn little thing.”

“I brought tea.” You held up the basket like a peace offering. That earned a faint, amused grunt. “I won’t say no to tea. Come on, then.”

She opened the door wider and stepped aside, tapping your back with a dry palm as you passed. The gesture was brief, a little awkward—but not unpleasant.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of lemon balm and old wood. You noticed a loaf of bread cooling on the counter, and a chair pushed out at the table, like she’d been expecting you all along. She motioned for you to sit while she fetched mugs. “You didn’t bring your… husband-to-be this time.”

“No,” you said, setting down the basket. “Thought I’d come by on my own today.”

“Good.” She poured water into a kettle. “He makes my skin itch.” You laughed softly. “He does that to most people.”

“He was a lot less teeth and claws when I saw him last. At your first wedding.” You rolled your eyes. “He still has all his sharp parts. He’s just better at hiding them when he wears clothes.” She snorted, and it surprised you how easy it was to laugh with her.

The tea steeped, and you both sat at the table, chatting about the wedding. You told her about the emerald silks, the ribbons ordered from the city, and the ridiculous size of the cake Sukuna insisted upon. She wrinkled her nose. “Too many people make too big a fuss over cake,” she said. “Nobody remembers what it tasted like anyway.”

“Unless it’s bad,” you countered.

“Fair enough.” 

It wasn’t effortless, but it was simple—gentle laughter, talk of flowers and dress hems, and the occasional teasing remark. She wasn’t soft, not really, but she wasn’t brittle either. There was something in between—quiet effort. At one point, she leaned back, arms crossed, and watched you for a moment too long. “I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly, like the words weren’t quite ready to come out. “I know I haven’t earned much of anything, especially not the right to be your mother… but if it’s not too late, maybe I could try. To know you. To be around. If you want that.” You blinked, surprised more by the tenderness in her tone than the words themselves.

There was a pause, but you didn’t fill it with nerves. You placed your hand over hers on the table—warm, a little rough, unsure—and smiled softly.

“I’d like that,” you said. “I don’t know what it’ll look like… but I’d like to try too.” She nodded once, like anything more would crack something inside her. Then she cleared her throat, muttering, “Well, don’t get mushy on me.”

“No promises.” The kettle whistled, breaking the quiet. She got up with a grumble and a little sigh, reaching for the mugs again. You leaned back, watching her move around the kitchen, and for the first time in a long time, the space didn’t feel like a shadow of what was lost. It felt like the beginning of something new.

The sun had just begun to dip low behind the hills when your carriage rolled through the estate gates. The sky was bathed in a muted gold, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard and washing the spires of the manor in soft, molten light. The horses slowed to a trot, hooves echoing against the worn cobblestones, and you sat quietly inside, one hand resting on your lap, fingers lightly touching the edge of your sleeve. You were thoughtful, not sad. Just full. Brimming with things you hadn’t yet put into words. The moment the carriage came to a halt, the door opened—not by the coachman, but by Sukuna himself. His towering frame stood in the fading light, arms crossed, shirt half-buttoned, his long pink hair loosely tied at the nape. His four eyes scanned you instantly—once over for injury, again for emotional damage.

“You’re late,” he muttered, though his voice held no true edge. “I stayed for tea,” you said simply, stepping down. “She added too much honey.”

He grunted and fell in step beside you, his stride always just slightly longer than yours. “Figures.”

“She asked about the wedding. Called the cake a waste of effort.” Sukuna sneered. “She sounds like a menace.” You smiled faintly. He glanced down at you as you both entered the hall, the door shutting behind you with a low boom. “You’re quiet.”

“I’ve been thinking.” He didn’t respond right away. He led you through the winding corridors to your chambers, then into the adjoining bathing room where the last of the evening light filtered through tall windows. He flicked his fingers at the servants loitering nearby and they vanished without a sound, leaving only silence and warm air between you. Sukuna reached for your cloak, pulling it from your shoulders in a single, fluid motion. He hung it over a chair and turned back to you. “Well? What did she say?” You stepped out of your shoes and rubbed the back of your neck. “She said she wants to try, have a better relationship, acknowledging her lack of motherhood,” He narrowed his eyes. “She’s not wrong.” You gave him a look, but he didn’t flinch. You were used to his bluntness—it was his strange way of shielding you. He hated people hurting you, even when you had already healed.

“She wasn’t cruel,” you murmured. “Not today. She was just… rough around the edges. But she listened. And she tried.” Sukuna grunted again and sat at the edge of the stone bench beside the bath, stretching one arm over the side as he watched you remove your outer layers “I told her I’d like to try too,” you added, folding your dress neatly. That earned a subtle twitch in his brow. “Even after she left you?” You met his gaze, your voice soft but steady. “She didn’t love me the way I needed back then. But she’s trying now. And I have room in me for that.” He didn’t speak right away. You moved to him slowly, your bare feet quiet against the floor, until you were standing between his knees. His large hands found your waist instinctively, fingers pressing into the softness of your sides like he needed to anchor himself to you.

“I don’t trust her,” he muttered.

“I know,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair. “I don’t like anyone touching what’s mine.” You smiled softly. “I know that too.”

He exhaled through his nose, pulling you closer. His forehead dropped against your chest, his arms winding fully around your waist now, wrapping you up in warmth and heat and that signature, smothering affection only he could offer. The kind that said, “You are everything to me,” even when the words never came. You combed your fingers through his hair in slow, thoughtful strokes. “She asked about you.” He grunted.

“Said you made her skin itch.” A short, sharp laugh burst from his throat. “Smart woman.”

“But I told her I love you. And that no matter how terrifying you look now… you’re still the man who carried me when I fell, who waited years for me, who learned how to wash my hair.” His hands tightened on your waist. “I just wanted to tell you… I’m glad I went. And I’m glad I came back to you.” He looked up at you then, his bottom eyes half-lidded, the top ones sharp as blades. “There was never a risk of you not coming back. I'd tear the world apart.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I came back because I wanted to. Not because I had to.”

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Good,” he said, voice low, feral, full of something old and aching. “Because I’d raze every kingdom that tried to keep you from me.” You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, pouring all your quiet affection into the space between your mouths. And when you pulled away, you smiled again. “Now… are you going to keep brooding, or are you going to help me into the bath?” He growled playfully, rising to his full monstrous height, then scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

“I’ll do more than that.” And with that, the night closed in softly around you—your king, your home, your heart right where it belonged.

—

The private drawing room glowed with filtered sunlight, softened by the silk curtains billowing gently in the morning breeze. Freshly cut florals filled the space with delicate fragrance, and a long mirror, framed in ivory and gold, stood tall before a raised platform. It had been transformed for this special day—dozens of gowns brought in from the capital, designers and royal dressmakers kneeling with fabric samples and sketches spread across velvet divans.

You stood barefoot on the pedestal in your undergarments, the softest silk chemise clinging to your form as the next dress was prepared behind you. Your fingers toyed with the engagement ring Sukuna had given you, the emerald glinting with every motion. You were nervous—but excited. Today wasn’t just about gowns. Your mother was visiting the estate for the first time. The door opened. “Is this the right room?” your mother asked dryly, her familiar sarcastic lilt echoing against the polished walls. She stepped inside, eyeing the luxury around her as if she didn’t quite believe it. 

“Well, you weren’t joking about living in a palace.” You turned to her with a smile, heart skipping in your chest. “Mother.” Her eyes scanned you—from the curve of your shoulders, to the blush on your cheeks, to the dressing gown loosely tied around your waist. “Hm,” she muttered, walking over. “Still can’t believe you're marrying a monster twice.” Before you could reply, the heavy doors creaked open again. Sukuna entered.

He filled the doorway with his towering form, crimson eyes sweeping the room, and then landing squarely on you. You watched them narrow as he caught sight of your nearly bare form—his chest rose slowly, deliberately. “Ah. I see the king has entered,” your mother said from her seat, plucking a grape from a tray like she owned the place. “Do kings usually barge into rooms where their bride’s half-naked?” Sukuna didn’t even glance her way. His eyes were locked on you as he strode forward, his voice smooth and dark. “Do mothers usually speak so freely in a king’s presence?” Your mother scoffed. “Do kings usually wear their egos like a second cloak?”

Sukuna stopped just beside the platform, towering over both of you. “Careful, woman,” he growled lowly, though amusement curled in the corner of his mouth. “You’re speaking to the man who will bend nations for her. I’ll happily show you what kings do to disobedience.” Your mother arched a brow. “Oh, would you?” she said, smirking, “Please. I’ve been threatened by worse men than you in smaller thrones.” you stifled a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand. Sukuna’s eyes cut to you. That smile—that flustered laugh—it softened his edges. He didn’t care if her mother challenged him, so long as you laughed like that. And maybe… maybe he even liked the woman’s fire.

The dressmaker returned with the next gown—a delicate creation of champagne silk and lace, sheer in the sleeves, heavy with hand-embroidered thread, and crowned with pearls. “You’ll have to look away,” you teased, glancing at Sukuna. “I will do no such thing,” he grumbled, folding his arms. “Let every tailor here be grateful I am sparing their heads.”

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, cheeks flushed as you turned your back to the mirror and let them carefully untie your robe. “I’m a king,” he reminded, though quieter now. Your mother watched this exchange silently, then—unexpectedly—spoke in a softer voice. “He really does look at you like you’re the only thing in the room.” You smiled as the dress was fitted over your shoulders, and the fabric hugged your frame. “I know,” you whispered. Sukuna said nothing. But his gaze held you. Worshiped you. Burned for you. And he didn’t look away.

The next gown was even more elaborate than the last—sleek ivory silk with a plunging back, tiny gemstone buttons trailing like a constellation down your spine. As the assistants fussed with the train and adjusted the bodice, you turned slightly in the mirror, admiring the way the light caught the subtle shimmer of the fabric, while Sukuna didn’t bother pretending to be subtle. He sat sprawled like a devilish emperor on the chaise near the back wall, one arm slung across the rest, the other curled under his chin. His red eyes devoured you with every step you took. “I like this one,” you said aloud, running your hands along your hips. “I don’t,” he grunted, voice low and unmistakably possessive. “Too many buttons.” You smiled, amused. “You haven’t even seen the front yet.”

“I’ve seen enough,” he growled, half-lidded gaze dragging across the open back. “If it takes more than a second to get you out of it, I’m setting it on fire.”

Your mother snorted from her chair across the room, sipping on a glass of juice someone had given her. “Well, at least you’ll be consistent. You were a menace the first time she wore white too,” she muttered. “Though back then you had the decency to stay clothed.” Sukuna smirked, teeth just visible beneath his upper lip. “Don’t worry, I can still be decent. Just not in the ways you’d approve of.”

“Oh, I don’t approve of much,” she replied coolly, not missing a beat. “Especially not men who openly drool.”

You bit your lip to stop the laugh threatening your composure as another dress was brought in—this one more romantic, off-the-shoulder with gauzy sleeves and a fluttering skirt that moved like petals in the wind. As the attendants helped you change, Sukuna didn’t so much as blink. “I’ve bedded you on tables less polished than that pedestal,” he murmured, smirking when you flushed and your mother let out a choked cough. “Must you be like this?” you muttered as you stepped into the dress.

Sukuna leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand like he was admiring art. “Always. Especially when you’re glowing like this.” You looked up from the mirror at him. His eyes weren’t joking anymore. He meant it. His affection was naked and unashamed—even in front of your mother.

Uraume entered a moment later, silent as ever, but bearing trays of food with practiced grace. “We’ve brought a midday spread, my Lord.”

“Good,” Sukuna said, standing. “She needs to eat. I’m not letting her faint in a corset.” You were helped into a silk robe again as the attendants cleared the space and set up the meal—fresh fruit, roasted meats, cheeses, warm bread, and spiced tea. You all sat around a small marble table in the room, the seamstresses taking their leave.

To your surprise, your mother didn’t insist on space. She sat across from Sukuna, arms folded, studying him over her tea. “So,” she said bluntly. “Tell me. What exactly do you do all day as a king? Besides glare at people and grow extra mouths.” Sukuna huffed a laugh, his gaze sharp and amused. “Mostly that. But I kill things too. Torture when I’m bored. Sometimes I rearrange the heads in the dungeon.” Your mother raised a brow. “How charming. And here I thought you were just a glorified overgrown cat.” You nearly choked on your drink. Sukuna’s expression cracked into a grin.

“I like her,” he said to you, jerking his thumb at your mother. “She’s got bite.”

“She bites everyone,” you muttered. “Except people who earn it,” your mother added, eyes narrowing as she studied him. “And you… well. You’re horrible. But I suppose you love her.” Sukuna didn’t respond right away. He leaned forward slowly, placing his massive hand over yours across the table. “More than anything,” he said softly. “Always have.”

The room was quiet for a beat. Then your mother reached for a piece of bread, grumbling under her breath, “Ugh, disgusting.” But you saw the tiny twitch of a smile on her face. As the lunch went on, the two of them bickered like wolves circling each other—quick, sarcastic, biting—but never cruel. You watched in quiet awe, slowly realizing something uncanny: they were so alike. The way they cut through pleasantries. The dryness in their tone. The darkness in their humor. The way they said exactly what they meant. It was like watching two different storms meet in the sky—but for once, neither destroyed the other. And in the middle of it, you sat between them, glowing.

The tailor entered quietly, holding a long garment bag that shimmered slightly in the light. “We have one final piece,” they said with a glint in their eye. “It’s a little unconventional—retro, delicate, romantic.” You stepped behind the silk divider, fingers brushing over the light fabric as the tailor helped you slip it on. As the dress settled against your frame, it felt like magic—the soft, flowing layers cascaded to the floor in airy sheets of ivory, speckled with subtle gold threading that caught the candlelight like sunlight through leaves. The short sleeves hugged your shoulders gently, the bodice fitted but ethereal, and the waist cinched just enough to bring out your silhouette. It felt like something from another time… a forest dream stitched into reality.

You stepped out slowly, your bare feet quiet against the rug. Sukuna was mid-sentence when he looked up—and froze. His arms, crossed over his broad chest, lowered just slightly. His expression shifted from one of casual interest to something far more intense. His four eyes took you in—slowly, reverently. You turned to the mirror, eyes wide with disbelief and wonder. “This… this is the one,” you whispered, hands brushing down the delicate fabric, the gold glinting with every movement. “It feels like me.” Sukuna stepped closer, his voice low but firm, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “Get to work on it. I want it finished in two months. No later.”

The tailor’s assistant nodded quickly, already taking notes, carefully measuring where the hem pooled ever so slightly at your feet.

You turned, lips parting in a breathless smile, your eyes sparkling with joy. “Really? Two months?”

“I’d have it done in two weeks if I could rip time in half,” Sukuna muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, his gaze never leaving your face. “You’re glowing.” Your hands flew to your cheeks, warm with bashful joy. “I feel like I’m dreaming.” Sukuna tilted his head slightly, letting a rare softness spread across his features. “You’re not. This is real. You’re mine.” You stepped toward him, arms gently wrapping around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For all of this. For making me feel like I’m the only person in the world.” He didn’t respond with words. His arms wrapped around you, large hands cradling your back with a quiet protectiveness. He only whispered, “You are.” And in that moment—surrounded by silk, gold, and the scent of pressed flowers—you believed him.

next

[moonandst4rs]

“No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her”

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Masterlist

DEAN WINCHESTER X GN!READER

WC: 721

Summary: Dean escapes hell, but he isn't the same

Warnings / Content: Inspired by Work Song by Hozier, Angst and fluff, no use of y/n, set in 4x1, 'Lazarus Rising"

A/N: Tried to do more dialogue !! Hope you guys are enjoying these, Reblogs and comments are very much appreciated <3

── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

“Heaven and hell were words to me”

Dean was back. It was impossible, right? You watched the hellhounds tear him to pieces. You held onto his dead body as sobs escaped your lips.

The air was heavy with unspoken words as you and Dean sat together in Bobby’s yard, broken cars surrounding you, mirroring your situation. You didn’t know if this was repairable.

Dean’s knuckles were white at his sides, his eyes distant, searching the yard like it would answer his questions. You didn’t know what to say. Were you supposed to reach out? You thought about it, but the way his rigid body flinched whenever something touched him made you question otherwise.

You’d stayed practically silent since you first laid your eyes on Dean, instead observing him. You knew he’d try and act like everything was fine. He was stubborn like that. It felt like the Dean you knew was only half here, a shell of the man he used to be. The same smile, but it wasn’t the same. He’d left half his soul down in hell, where he thought it belonged.

“Dean…?” You called out to him softly, not wanting to pull him out of whatever fragile place he was desperately trying to hold onto.

He didn’t respond at first, the muscles in his jaw tensing. You didn’t rush him; you couldn’t, after seeing the flash of emotion flicker in his eyes. After what felt like an eternity, he looked over at you to meet your gaze. The way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing real in a world gone mad, tugged at your heartstrings.

“I’m not…I’m not the same.” He muttered gruffly. His voice was rough since coming back, you’d noticed. You’d noticed the way his eyes kept darting around wildly as if nothing was real. You couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through.

“I know,” you whispered, brushing your fingers against his as a silent comfort for both of you. “You don’t need to be. You’ll always have the same heart.”

He chuckled bitterly; there was no humor behind it. “I don’t believe that anymore.” His voice cracked, just enough to send shivers down your spine. The Dean that you knew wouldn’t admit it. He’d hide behind his dumb grin and shitty jokes. It was different seeing him so broken, so raw and vulnerable.

“I think…” you started, trying to figure out your words. “You need to find your way back. You need to find your footing again.”

He turned back to the cars in front of him, the weight of your words settling in. He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t know how to keep going after hell.

“How…?” he whispered. “I’ve been trying since I crawled out. I’m stuck walking in circles.”

You moved closer, leaning against the car, pressing your shoulder to his. You were offering him the simplest kind of comfort, a simple grounding force. It was enough.

“You don’t need to figure it all out now. Give yourself some time. This is about putting one foot ahead of the other, one day at a time.”

His body untensed, just slightly. Finally letting go of some of the tension that had held him since he escaped. His lips twitched upwards. It wasn’t a smile. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was something softer—quieter. You finally saw a flicker of your Dean.

“I can’t promise I’ll be the same.” He admitted, his voice barely a whisper, as if he couldn’t even believe he was telling the truth.

You nodded, tilting your head up to look at him. You gave his hand a soft but firm squeeze.

“I don’t need you to be. I just need you.”

Dean’s eyes met yours. You saw the emotion in them. It wasn’t hope, but it was close. The Dean you knew and loved, the one that fought for the ones he loved, was still there, deep down.

"When my time comes aroundLay me gently in the cold dark earth"

“I promised you I’d find my way back to you, didn’t I?”

The time you spent apart didn’t matter. Neither did the darkness that followed him out of hell. What mattered was that he was here. He kept his promise.

"No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her"

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[just-dreaming-marvel]

A Princess & Her Knight ~ 17

A PRINCESS & HER KNIGHT MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,030ish

Summary: Your life hangs in the balance. Logan doesn't leave your side. Peter makes a decision.

Warning(s): injuries

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

Logan paced. His coat still torn. Blood still stained his shirt— your blood. The corridor outside the healing chamber was silent, save for the muffled voices behind the door and the low click of Logan’s boots across the floor. Every time a healer emerged, he looked up— but none of them looked at him. 

And then— Peter appeared. Wearing no crown. No crest. Just a black undershirt, blood on his sleeves, and a hollow look in his eyes.

“Logan,” he called. The man didn’t stop pacing. “She’s still breathing. That’s all they’ll tell me.”

“It’s not enough,” Logan muttered.

Peter nodded once. Then he leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes distant. “If she survives this…” That got Logan to freeze. “If she wakes up… I’ll surrender Dolad. To her. Everything. The title, crown, and army.” Logan stared at him, stunned yet skeptical. “No more thrones built on lies. No more arrangements. I’ll sign it in my own blood, if that’s what it takes.”

“Why?”

“Because I helped build this hell. And she’s the only one strong enough to rule what’s left of it.” A pause. “And because… she never chose me. But I’d kneel to her. Just not over her grave.”

Before Logan could respond, the chamber door creaked open again. Both men turned, bracing themselves for whatever news may come. Hank stepped out, his sleeves soaked to the elbows, exhaustion in every line of his face.

“She’s stable, for now,” he announced. Both men exhaled. “The wound was deep. The damage worse than we thought. And the blood loss weakened her system.” Logan’s throat tightened. “She’s developed a severe infection. It’s spreading fast. We’re doing everything we can, but…” Hank met Logan’s eyes. “She’s fighting. But she’s not out of danger.” Hank stepped back into the room and shut the door.

Peter lowered his head. Logan leaned against the wall, hands pressed to the stone like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Then he whispered— soft, raw, and meant for no one but you, “Don’t leave me, Y/N. Not now. Not when we finally made it through.”

~~~

Hours later, Logan was able to sneak into the chamber. It was dim, lit only by a few low-burning lanterns. The scent of herbs and blood hung heavy in the air. You lay in the center of the room, swathed in blankets, chest rising and falling in shallow, strained breaths. Your skin looked too pale. And there were bandages— to many bandages. The healers had done what they could. Yet, you were still slipping.

Logan stood in the doorway for a long moment, every part of him rigid— trying not to fall apart. He didn’t recognize this version of you. Not like this. Not unmoving. Not this quiet. He walked forward slowly, as if one misstep would break out. A chair was already beside your bed. He didn’t sit in it. He dropped to his knees instead. 

Reverently, Logan took your hand in both of his, cradling it against his chest. Your skin was cold. Too cold. His thumb traced lightly over your knuckles. His breathing shook. His voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper.

“I’ve taken arrows,” he began. “I’ve faced blades. Fought men twice my size… but nothing— nothing— has ever scared me like this.” His head lowered, pressing his forehead gently to your hand. “You can’t go, Y/N. Not like this. Not now.” His voice cracked. “We survived everything. We— You’ve survived to this point…” He took a long, trembling breath. “I should’ve told you sooner. What I felt. What I was too afraid to say. I thought… I thought that maybe there’d be time.” He looked up at you, eyes rimmed red. “So I’ll say it now. I love you… I love you so much it hurts.” 

Logan held a kiss to your hand. And then, finally, he sat. Not in the chair. On the floor, beside you. His hand never left yours.

~~~

The fire in your body refused to die. It burned beneath your skin, in your blood, behind your closed eyes— a fever that no amount of herbs could pull from your veins. The infection raged through you like another war. 

Logan stayed beside you the whole time. He didn’t speak anymore. Just held your hand and listened to the ragged rise and fall of your breath, counting each one like it might be the last. But your skin had only grown hotter. Your pulse, weaker.

Hank eventually knelt beside him. “Logan,” his voice was soft but unflinching. “I need to speak with you.” Logan looked up, eyes red, exhausted. “Outside.

Logan hesitated. He looked back at you and you were still motionless. He stood slowly, laying your hand down with heartbreaking care, and followed Hank into the corridor.

“Her fever’s spiking,” Hank explained. “The infection’s deeper than we thought… We’re losing her.” The words hit him like a sword through his ribs. “You should be prepared.”

Logan shook his head, eyes wild with grief. “She’s not leaving me. There has to be something I can do.”

“Stay with her. That’s all you can do now.”

Logan felt helpless as he walked back into the chamber. His eyes immediately fell on you. Your body was now trembling under the sheets, sweat beading along your temple. Then— a twitch. Your fingers moved, barely. Your lips parted in a breathless whisper. Your mind was splintered, thoughts drowning in the fever. But one name— his name— rose through the storm.

“Logan…” you were barely audible.

He was back at your side in an instant. He dropped to his knees again, gripping your hand like it was a lifeline.

“I’m here,” he told you, trying to sound strong. “I’m here, Y/N.”

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused. The room around you was a blur. But you felt his hand.

“Don’t…” you tried to speak again. “Go…”

His throat tightened. He pressed his forehead to your hand again, voice shaking. “I’m not going anywhere, darling.”

You drifted back into the haze. But you were still holding his hand. Still fighting.

~~~

A pale dawn crept through the windows, casting soft light across the quiet healing chamber. The worst of the night had passed. Logan hadn’t moved from his spot again. He sat slumped forward at your bedside, one hand still wrapped around yours. His body was motionless but his grip unrelenting— as if letting go would undo everything he’d held together.

The fever had raged for hours. At one point, your skin was so hot he thought the sheets might burn. You hadn’t spoken since that fait whisper of his name. And still, he stayed. Eyes closed now. Not sleeping. Just listening. For breath. For change. For anything. And then, you exhaled and it was ragged or shallow. It was a long, even breath.

Logan’s eyes snapped open. He straightened and turned to better face you. Your skin was no longer burning. Your brow was damp with seat, but your face looked calmer. His heart pounded.

“Hank,” he rasped toward the door, too afraid to raise his voice and break the fragile air in the room. “Hank— she’s—“

But before he could finish, you stirred. Your finger shifted weakly in his hand and then, your eyes opened. Slowly, blinking against the light. You were confused, exhausted, but awake.

“Logan?” You breathed out, barely above a whisper.

His breath caught. He scrambled onto the chair and leaned in immediately, the relief crashing through his so hard he nearly laughed and wept all at once.

“Yeah,” his voice was hoarse. “Yeah, darling, I’m here.”

You stared at him for a moment— trying to piece together the chaos, the pain, the dreamlike haze. Then you smiled. It was small and crooked, but real.

“You stayed,” you whispered.

His hand tightened around yours. “I’m never leaving again… You scared the hell out of me, Princess.”

“Thought I was dying.”

“So did I.”

You squeezed his hand with what little strength you had left. Everything hurt— but it was the kind of pain that meant you were still alive. 

“I owe you an apology,” you said quietly.

“No,” he shook his head. “We’re not doing this.”

“I need to, okay? And I think you still serve me, Sir Grumpy Pants.”

The two of you let out small laughs, causing you to wince. Logan was instantly on alert.

“Easy,” he cooed. “You’re not ready for jokes.”

“Yeah… I agree.” You let out a deep breath, trying to push away some of the pain. “But I’m sorry… for all of it. For doubting you. For sending you away.”

“I should have fought harder. So that I could have at least been in Westchester when—“

“If you had been there, you would have died too. Then I would definitely be buried next to my father right now. We’ve both made mistakes. But at least we’re still here to fix it.” Your eyes dried to the window, then back to him. “How bad was it?”

His jaw clenched. “Later… we can talk about it later.”

~~~

Hank came into check on you and brought food with him. Just a small bowl of broth, something easy for you to get down. You looked at the food, and then at Logan.

“I don’t think I can sit up,” you said.

“I’ll help,” Logan offered.

He stood, moving carefully to yours side. He adjusted the pillows behind you with quiet focus. Then, with the gentleness of someone who had held your life in his hands more than once, he slipped an arm behind your shoulders. You hissed softly at the motion, breath catching.

“I’ve got you,” whispered Logan.

You leaned into him, body trembling with weakness, until you were sitting up, propped gently against his chest and the pillows behind you. You could feel his heartbeat was strong, steady. He held the bowl to your lips, and you took the smallest sip. Then another. Each one felt like word— but it was life returning. 

“Okay, I’m good,” you finally told him. He set the bowl to the side and you studied his face. “You haven’t slept.”

“Didn’t want to miss you waking up.”

You nodded, leaning back to rest your head against his shoulder, growing tired again. “Can we rest?”

He brushed his lips against your head. “Of course, darling. We can rest.”

~~~

It was hours later with a knock came— soft, but deliberate. You were half-dozing, still leaned up against Logan. Logan tensed immediately, carefully sitting up straighter as his hand moved instinctively to your wrist to check your pulse again. You opened your eyes slowly.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, trying to bring Logan some peace.

The door creaked open and Peter stepped inside. He wasn’t in his formal clothes, having finally changed from the funeral. He stayed near the door.

“I came to see how you were,” he spoke to you.

“Still alive,” you responded.

Peter moved toward the food of your bed, slow, careful not to get too close. “Hank said the fever broke. That you’re past the worst of it.”

You nodded faintly. “Didn’t stop you from preparing for the worst, did it?”

Peter sighed, clasping his hands behind his back. “I know that you don’t trust me and that you are still healing, but I need to tell you this. Logan already knows, but I made sure it would be official if you survived.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dolad. The kingdom. It’s yours. The crown. Everything. I’m handing it to you. I’ve signed the surrender already. It seemed like the only move I could make that felt right.”

“And this isn’t some trick or political play?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “No more games. When you’re well enough, we can talk more about it. But you’ll have full control of both kingdoms.”

“And what will you do?”

“Whatever you let me.” He gave you a respectful bow. “My Queen.” Then he left.

You turned your head to get a better look at Logan. “Is he serious?”

“As much as I can tell,” Logan replied.

“So… I’m Queen… Of two kingdoms… That’s… a lot.”

“You will be wonderful.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

next chapter >

[eunoiiaff]

| Chapter 8: She looks like the real thing. |

Pairing: Joel Miller x FemOC WC: 2.1k Warnings: Angst, violence. A/N: Please turn a blind eye to any mistakes </3 REQUESTS OPEN.

______________________________________________

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ______________________________________________

BIRDS PEEPED QUIETLY FROM THE TREES ACTING AS A WALL BEHIND THE STRUCTURE, IT FELT AS THOUGH THE WORLD HAD FROZEN, LUCIA'S HEART THUMPING WITHIN HER CHEST AS SHE EXPLORED JOEL'S DEEP BROWN EYES FROM ONLY A FEW METERS AWAY. Lucia was the first to break eye contact, turning back to Ellie and Tess. Her eyes had opened up to her soul for a few moments before they closed right back up again. "I said what are you doing here?" She repeated, this time, her voice slightly shaky.

"We're taking Ellie to State House. Marlene, she told us to come get you; said you owed her." Tess explained, her tone still unsure of the woman standing in front of her; her concerns valid considering she still held onto her pistol tightly. 

"Shit..." Lucia murmured; Joel could see the shakiness of the woman's hands from afar, the pistol jittering within her hold. The man felt as though he'd seen a ghost, part of him wanting to turn back to the QZ and face the unimaginable wrath of FEDRA, though, another part of him couldn't leave Lucia. He couldn't let her leave without speaking the unspoken words that had been settled deep within him for the past two decades, even longer if he were truly honest with himself.

Lucia felt her heart twinge as she looked at Ellie, the woman knew that, if she really wanted to, she could get out of helping Marlene, run away and eventually find somewhere secluded enough that she couldn't find her. But those eyes, those deep brown eyes that reminded her of someone a little too closely made her stop in her tracks; the gun that had wanted to raise itself to aim right back at the two adults fell limp in her grasp. "Give me a minute." She spoke, spinning around to stomp back inside, leaving the front door open just a crack behind her. 

The woman stumbled toward the kitchen sink, turning the tap on and filling her cupped hands with the murky water, splashing it onto her face as she panted softly. Her eyes drifted over to the lone piece of ceramic resting on the windowsill, 'my little girl' printed upon it, chipped and worn, the rest of the mug long gone. She wanted to cry. All she wanted to do was lie down with a bottle of whisky and sob herself to sleep, allowing the torn bedding to envelop her until she could finally fall asleep and go home. Lucia stumbled toward the living room, her shin hitting the corner of the coffee table harshly causing her to almost stumble over, the glasses that had sat upon it for days filled with remnants of whisky hitting the ground, some shattering; the sight almost poetically reminding her of how she had felt the moment she laid eyes on the deep grave dug in the backyard of the Miller's home twenty-something years ago.

Outside the three stood in silence, Tess looking over to Joel with a look of uncertainty on her face. She could see it the moment she'd turned to him, the thousand-yard stare accompanied by the uneven rise and fall of his chest assuring her that something was wrong. Before she could move to question him, the sound of what seemed to be glass and wooden furniture clashing caught her attention, her head snapping towards the door as she furrowed her brows. 

Her heart pounded in her ears as she tightened her hold on her pistol, taking slow, cautious steps closer and closer to the door until it swung open, Tess jumping back slightly. Lucia eyed the weapon in Tess' hold for a moment before turning to Joel, her eyes finding his only for a few moments before she looked to the ground, tossing him a damp cloth. "For your knuckles..." She murmured, securing the backpack over her shoulder as she reluctantly stepped away from the house. As much as Lucia didn't want to be faced with the ghosts of her past, as much as she wanted to ignore the man as much as possible, she couldn't turn off the concern she held for the dark eyes ahead of her.

__________

"EVERYONE SAID THE OPEN CITY WAS CRAZY," Ellie said as they walked along the bridge towards the said city; the walk had been quiet enough, Tess asking Ellie a few questions whilst Lucia walked alongside them in silence, Joel following behind, rifle in hand. "Like, swarms of Infected running around everywhere."

"Not exactly like that," Joel spoke up.

"Not in the city anyway," Lucia muttered.

"You know, people like to tell stories."

"So, there aren't Super-Infected that explode fungus spores at you?" The youngster questioned, Lucia couldn't help but let out a chortle. 

"Shit, I hope not." 

"Or ones with split-open heads that see in the dark like bats?" However, rather than giving Ellie an answer, the three adults kept quiet, Tess and Joel sharing a look before an inhumane yell sounded out in the distance. The four froze, looking around in concern trying to spot the origin of the sound only to be met with sickening silence. "What was that?"

"Let's keep moving," The conversation had significantly died down as they continued on their way, Lucia's heart beating rapidly within her chest; though not necessarily due to the threat of danger. 

__________

"YOU'VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!" Ellie exclaimed looking down at the flooded hotel lobby. "Ya ever stay in a place like this?" She questioned the three, Lucia too busy sussing out the overgrown room to give the girl an answer.

"Uh, no, a little out of our league," Tess answered, rather unsure of whether she was also speaking on Lucia's behalf or not.

"How do you even know what this is?" Joel questioned, his tone rather harsh for what would have been considered a simple question.

"Have you heard of books?" None of the adults responded to the girl's sarcastic response, Joel instead descending the steps and into the water. "Wait, are we going in there?"

"Yeah, we gotta get to the stairwell on the other side," Tess spoke whilst Joel went ahead, Lucia close behind him.

"Well, I, I don't know how to swim."

"Seriously?"

"Do you think we have pools in the QZ?" She sassed.

"No, smart ass. I mean..." He paused before jumping down the final step revealing the water reached his mid-thigh at most. 

"I don't know how I was supposed to know that," Ellie said as she stepped forward. 

Lucia couldn't help but stare at Joel's back, every second spent with him only causing more memories to resurface, the woman unsure whether she was appreciative or not. His smell was the first thing she'd noticed. Being in the world they were in he didn't smell great per se, but he still had that earthy musk scent she'd remembered from all those years ago. "This is so gross," Ellie exclaimed, a wide smile on her face. "Oh, check it out!"

Lucia watched on in partial amusement as the girl spoke to herself, playing out a scenario at the front desk, putting on voices and all; Lucia couldn't help but be reminded of Sarah, wondering if Joel felt the same - not like she'd ever ask. "You're a weird kid," Joel said.

"You're a weird kid. Oh fuck!" Joel ran towards Ellie at the sight of a body bobbing around in the shallow water, his movements slowing once he'd seen it was nothing but bones. 

"Oh, my God." The girl breathed out, Joel pushing the skull with his foot to face the other way. "Uh, sorry."

"Quit fucking around Ellie." Lucia slightly scolded with a slight pant, turning to walk to the other end of the room, Joel's ears perking up at the sound of her voice.

"Someone's in a mood," Ellie murmured, Joel's eyes wandering, scanning the woman up and down as she walked away, Tess noticing the slightest of dilation in his pupils.

The three adults panted as they went up the never-ending flights of stairs, Lucia's legs aching once they'd finally reached the top. The paint of the walls was severely worn, practically falling off as the meat of a slow-cooked rib falls off the bone. Lucia could hear Tess and Ellie conversing, however, she was too concerned with trying to get through the hellhole of a building to hear them. "Great..." She murmured staring at the caved-in ceiling, blocking the path of exactly where they needed to go. Lucia stood on her toes as she tried to see over the rubble, Tess and Joel trying the doors along the hallway. 

"All right, well, I mean, maybe I could climb up there, work my way around, and open it from the inside?" Tess said as she stood next to Lucia, sussing out the situation for herself. "Lucia, you're coming with." The woman didn't argue and simply nodded her head, safety in numbers and all.

"Uh, no, well, I'm the smallest, so it'd be easier for me to get through." Ellie offered, partially wanting to be of some use to the three but also just wanting to get away for a little.

"And you're also the entire reason we're here," Lucia spoke. "You're not going, Ellie."

"Can you give me a hand?" Tess gestured to Joel, the man dragging Ellie back by the collar as he gave Tess a boost up onto the pile of concrete. Lucia watched the two in an attempt to determine the relationship the two shared. She had no reason to be jealous, she knew that. Joel had likely thought she was dead for the past twenty years just as she had, but she couldn't stop that underlying gut feeling.  

Joel looked at Lucia awkwardly, the woman - badly - avoiding eye contact as she stepped forward. As Joel boosted her up he couldn't help but notice the shakiness of her left leg, the limb jittering as she tried to get up onto the rubble, slight grunts escaping her lips. He helped her, pushing her right leg up further until she was stable on the concrete, holding on for a little longer than one might deem necessary. "You good up there?" He called out.

"Yeah, uh, it's a bit of a mess, so we're gonna need a few minutes," Tess answered as Lucia followed behind her, the two slowly falling out of Joel's line of sight. The two women were quiet as they climbed the concrete, Tess only speaking up once they were out of hearing range of the other two. "So you're Lucia, huh? Never thought I'd get the chance to put a face to the name." She said, muttering the latter sentence, though, Lucia still heard.

"What do you mean?" Lucia questioned after a few clicks, knowing damn well what she meant. 

"It's pretty obvious." She grunted, weaving through the rubble, avoiding any overly unstable grounding. "Well, I mean, I wasn't sure at first but the more I look at you, you're exactly what I expected." Lucia kept quiet, wondering to herself how much Tess knew. 

"He's talked about me?"

Tess thought for a moment. "I'll let Joel do the talking but, uh, yeah. Told me enough to know that the two of you've got some catching up to do." 

"So are you two, you know," Tess looked back to Lucia for a moment before focusing back on where she was headed.

"No, no. Not like that. It's just, comfort, I guess. Friendship." She said, unsure of what she'd label the relationship between herself and Joel. Lucia nodded, her mind running as they continued trying to find a way to get Ellie and Joel through.

__________

THE TWO HAD BEEN SITTING IN SILENCE FOR THE MOST PART, NOT MUCH CONVERSATION SHARED BETWEEN THE TWO OTHER THAN A FEW SIMPLE QUESTIONS FROM JOEL FOLLOWED BY SARCASTIC REPLIES FROM ELLIE. "So is L from Texas too then? Luci-" 

"Why do you ask that?" Joel asked cutting the young girl off, Ellie furrowed her brows slightly.

"Well, it's pretty fucking obvious you two knew each other. Won't stop staring at each other." She sassed. Joel was quiet for a few moments as he stared at Ellie before turning to look at the remnants of the hallway around him.

"Yeah. She is." The two fell into silence for another few seconds before Ellie came up with another question.

"So, uh, were you two like a-"

"Pass."

"Okay..." She said, slightly dragging it out. "How about you and Tess?"

"Pass."

"How'd you end up in Boston?"

"Pass. No more questions about me." The two eventually filled the silence with dull conversation - and inevitably sarcastic remarks from the two - until thumping finally sounded from behind one of the doors.

"You can put the gun down, Joel," Tess called out from the other side, the door eventually jarred open, Joel and Ellie presented with a troubled look from Tess.

"Where's Lucia?" 

[yandereunsolved]

In Death & Life

Pairing: James Patrick March x Fallen angel gn reader Summary: You preform a necromancy ritual on your fiancé to bring him back from death. The both of you reminisce and connect with each other on the mortal plane. content warning(s): none word count: 674 a/n: Just a short little thing. I lost determination to write it all the way so I gave it a satisfying end.

Ceremonial crimson candles cast an ominous shadow amongst the room that hides the secrets of a killer. The wicks slowly burn towards their inevitable end, the ritual already underway. Room sixty-four lies bare of any of its previous furnishings. A salt ring lies in the middle. Nothing lies within the ring; not even the light from the candles dare touch it. For it is crowded with the souls of the damned. The demonic entities praising the one that helps their master rise from his grave.

A bowl of rose water lies right outside the ring. A figure clad in cloth blacker than the hearts of men. A veil covers their face as they mutter ancient incantations only known by a chosen few. They mutter them fervently, almost obsessively. Again and again in a seemingly never ending loop.

Their knees ache from kneeling for so many hours. Their heart aches more—your heart aches more. Your heart beats for the man you are resurrecting: James Patrick March. Your James Patrick March. Your beloved fiancé. The one you saved from that wretched woman. The Countess may have felt nothing for the darkness, but you feel everything. You slit her neck and her tower of power crumbled beneath your feet. You filled the hole in his soon beating chest.

You coat your numb hands in the rosewater. One of the final steps in his resurrection. Having an affinity for death and necromancy since childhood finally came to fruition. Without his original body, you had to haggle a few souls in the Cortez for a demon to create a new one for him. In that moment, it was all worth it.

You stand as your hand reaches into the salt circle. The shadows receded as the flames of the candles cast them away. The dance between the devils and the darkness intertwined into both of your souls. He calls out to you like a spellbinding siren's song. From the depths of the shadows comes your true love.

His body was exactly that while in his ghost form. His ravenette strands still ever slicked back. The trimmed mustache of his sitting proudly above this top lip. His toned body was proudly suited to those three pieces. His neck slit is now healed, but the scar is apparent.That charming smile, goddesses, it looks even better now. 

"You are reborn as a warlock, my love. Immortal. Alive." Your words are hoarse and barely escape your cracked lips.

Your shaking hands are struggling to listen to the commands that your mind is giving them. Your left thumb barely touches his cheek before he has dragged you across the circle, separating the salt circle and making it incomplete. You couldn't even begin to care, as the ritual is complete. You are held in his deathly, loving grip once again.

"Indeed, darling. I am now the most famous serial killer both alive and dead." He whispers fervently as he places feather light kisses on each of your knuckles. "We shall wed in a few days time. Our consummation will finally be with the both of us living."

Your frayed wings and broken halo appear for a single moment. After all, you cannot risk using your abilities too often. Lest the angels hunt you, or the devils wish to make deals for your power. Once a mighty angelic being is now only the shell of one. Your wings are nothing more than bone, and your halo floats above your head in pieces. More fragments of your once-heavenly halo chip off and fall every day. Further tethering you to the mortal realm. 

You wrap the bones around his body as tears fall from your otherworldly eyes. His oddly tender hands wipe the tears away. He brings each finger up to his mouth as he tastes your sadness. A pleased smirk appears on his features as he places a teasing kiss on your delicate temple.

"You taste absolutely divine." He purrs gently as he tugs your waist closer towards him. "I cannot wait to taste you even more after our dinner tonight."

[softlittlegrumbles]

[writing about my old men ocs]

[content includes angsty vampire stuff like: drinking blood! have fun reading]

The wind off the lake tasted like rust and regret, curling through the high-rises and settling in the bones of the city. It seeped under doors, through cracks in old brick, into the gaps between ribs where loneliness took root.

Atticus Graves had long since stopped believing in ghosts, but he could feel something trailing him as he let himself into their apartment. A specter of exhaustion, maybe. Or the presence of John—waiting. Always waiting.

The place was dark except for the glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtains, turning the living room into a chiaroscuro painting of oranges and deep blue shadows. Atticus set his bag down by the door, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and let the quiet settle over him. He knew better than to call out.

John moved like a trick of the eye—one moment, absence, the next, a presence felt before seen. He leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen, arms crossed over a chest that rose and fell only out of habit. He looked young, unfairly so, somewhere between 25 and 30 in the cruel stasis of his immortality. Before light, there was John. Atticus, at 46, was soft decay—lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight wear of time in the way he carried himself. John was a preserved thing, untouched.

"You were out late," John murmured, his voice a familiar weight, smooth as blood running over glass.

Atticus loosened the top button of his shirt, his fingers slowing as he looked at him. "Deadlines don’t wait for me to be well-rested."

John didn’t move closer, but he didn’t need to. The air between them grew charged, thick with the unspoken.

"You smell like outside," John finally said, quiet, contemplative. "Ink and paper and cold air. And coffee you barely drank."

"You can always tell," Atticus said, an old half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting in the dark, sharp enough to cut. "I know you," he said simply.

Atticus exhaled, slow. There were nights he wanted to slip between John’s teeth, let himself be tasted, devoured. But then there were nights like this, where John watched him like something fragile. As if time would take him away too soon, as if four hundred years hadn’t taught John how to hold onto things. Atticus closed the space between them, resting a hand against John's chest. Beneath his palm, no heartbeat. Never a heartbeat.

"Take me to bed," Atticus said, and John, who had survived centuries, who had watched empires rise and rot, obeyed as if it were the only thing he had ever known how to do. Their feet padded over the soft carpet, the city’s neon glow stretching long across the bedroom walls. John’s back met the edge of the mattress, and Atticus followed, a slow press of weight and warmth. Atticus kissed him softly, his hands steady on John's waist, grounding himself.

"I missed you."

His voice was quiet, but his lips didn't lie. The words settled in the air between them, heavier than they should have been.

John’s fingers traced the sharp ridges of Atticus’ knuckles, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a string pulled too tight. “I know,” he murmured. “I felt it.”

That was the thing about John—he didn’t just see Atticus - he felt him, breathed him in like perfume, let it settle under his skin like a secondhand sadness. Four centuries had sharpened his senses beyond reason. He could taste Atticus’s longing as surely as blood on his tongue.

Atticus let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Of course you did." His fingers slipped into John’s hair, pushing it back, watching the way his face softened under the touch. “God, I could fall asleep like this.”

John tilted his head, eyes hooded, something unreadable shifting behind them. “Then sleep.”

Atticus sighed and rested his forehead against John’s. He knew what John was offering—stillness, the comfort of cold arms and centuries of patience. But he didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He wanted to cling to wakefulness. It wasn't fair that John got so much of the night to himself. Maybe he was selfish. Instead of answering, he kissed John again, deeper this time, fingers skimming over the smooth, unchanging lines of his body. John let him, let Atticus take something from him, let him press warmth into the parts of him that hadn’t felt heat in centuries.

“Let me hold you,” John whispered against his lips, a question disguised as a command.

Atticus breathed slowly, his body sinking against John’s like an unraveling. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Alright.” And for a little while, he let himself be held.

John’s fingers moved through Atticus’ hair with slow, deliberate care, brushing through the strands where silver wove itself between dark. He let them linger there, tracing time in the places it had touched him.

“You don’t have to look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they mean something.” Atticus kept his eyes stayed closed, but his mouth curved slightly, that quiet, knowing smile he always wore when teasing John.

“They do mean something,” John said, voice soft but sure. “They mean you’ve lived.”

Atticus hummed low in his throat. “And you haven’t?”

John’s fingers paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before continuing their slow path over Atticus’ scalp. He didn’t answer.

Atticus cracked one eye open, watching him through the dim light. “Do you miss it?” he asked.

“Miss what?”

“The proof.” Atticus spoke with his voice quiet and thoughtful, “That time has touched you.”

John smiled, “I don’t need proof. I feel it.” Fingers curled lightly around his wrist and Atticus placed a gental kiss on his palm. It was warm, warmed by the heat of Atticus’s body, but soon it would fade, just like every time before. Immortality gave coldness a permanent residence in the body.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” John murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I mean something.”

Atticus chuckled, quiet and low. “You do.”

John didn’t argue, didn’t remind him that time would take Atticus before it could ever touch him. Instead, he pulled him closer, wrapping himself around him in a way that felt more like devotion than anything else.

“Sleep,” he whispered against his hair.

And this time, Atticus did.

-

The room was dark, wrapped in the kind of silence that pressed against the skin. The blackout curtains swallowed the morning whole, trapping the night inside like a secret. Atticus blinked against it, disoriented, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. 10 a.m.

He overslept.

Beside him, John lay still, chest unmoving, face serene in a way that only the truly dead could manage. Atticus had always found it unsettling at first, that unnatural stillness, like John had been sculpted from marble and left to rest in a crypt. But now, he knew better. John was awake, in a way—just not in the way humans were. He’d slip into that deep, deathless sleep eventually, but right now, he was lingering somewhere between.

Atticus exhaled and shifted onto his side, fingers ghosting over John’s bare shoulder. “You watching me?” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

John’s lips barely quirked. “No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Atticus made a noise of protest, burying his face into the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” John insisted, amusement threading through his voice. “Mumbled something about me being a very obedient vampire.”

Atticus groaned, the heat of mild embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I’m leaving. I’m moving out.”

"No you're not," John’s laughter was soft, barely there, but real.

Atticus sighed, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “No, I’m not.”

They laid there for a moment, wrapped in the comfortable hush of the room, the kind of quiet that belonged only to places where morning hadn’t yet intruded. Eventually, Atticus sighed again and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I need coffee.”

John hummed. “I need—” He paused, considering.

Atticus turned his head toward him. “Blood?”

John smirked lazily. “I was going to say company, but now that you mention it…”

Atticus rolled his eyes and pushed the covers off. “Offer expired.”

John caught his wrist before he could fully pull away, his grip gentle, cool. “Stay a little longer.”

For a moment, Atticus hesitated, looking down at him, at the unchanging face he had memorized. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about John was fair, he thought absently. To be held in amber like that, untouched by time, while he was slipping, piece by piece, hair silver, stripped of its rich color, lines growing deeper, flesh still warm but always, always running out of time. Maybe that was why he stayed. Why he let John pull him back down into the dark, even when the sun was waiting outside. The sheets were still warm, pulling him under like a riptide. Atticus let himself sink, let his body relax back into the space where John’s presence curled around him. Just a little longer. He could afford that.

Then John kissed his wrist, slow and deliberate, right over the delicate blue lattice of veins. It was more than just longing—it was hunger, tempered but present, threading itself through the gesture like silk unraveling.

Atticus swallowed. “You’re being obvious.”

John’s lips curved against his skin. “I don’t have to hide from you.” His tongue flicked out, barely there, a whisper of warmth against the pulse point. It sent a sharp shiver up Atticus’ spine, not just from the sensation but from the knowledge of what could happen. What John could do, if he chose. If Atticus let him.

He turned his head, eyes meeting John’s in the dark. “How bad is it?”

John exhaled, slow. “Manageable.” But his fingers curled a little tighter around Atticus’ wrist, like he could feel the blood moving just beneath the surface.

Atticus considered that, tracing his free hand along John’s jaw. “You could—”

“No.” It was firm, immediate.

Atticus raised an eyebrow. “No?”

John lifted his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Not when you’re tired. Not when you haven’t eaten.”

Atticus huffed, rolling onto his back. “Always so goddamn noble about it.”

“You’d complain if I wasn’t.”

Atticus couldn’t argue with that.

"But..." John shifted, propping himself on one elbow. The room settled back into quiet, but the air between them buzzed with something unspoken. He looked down at Atticus with an expression that was more knowing than it had any right to be. “You like it when I want you,” he murmured.

Atticus didn’t move, didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

John smiled, slow and sharp, before leaning down and kissing him properly, teeth just barely grazing his lower lip. Atticus let him. Let him under, let himself sink into the kiss like surrendering to dark water. The weight of him pressed down, cool and grounding, the contrast between them stark—John, still and unchanging, Atticus, warm and fleeting, always moving toward something that John never had to fear. John’s mouth was gentle, but his hands weren’t. He gripped Atticus’ wrists, pinning them to the bed like something precious he wasn’t ready to let slip away. The moment stretched between them, thick with the weight of hunger—not just bloodlust, not just longing, but something heavier, something John never said out loud.

Atticus sighed against his lips. “You always do this.”

John tilted his head, thumb tracing the rapid beat of Atticus’ pulse. “Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m the one who’s going to disappear.”

John’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his dark eyes. “You are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Atticus’ throat, lips parting over the heat of his skin. “Eventually.”

Atticus shivered. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. But hearing it like that—soft, inevitable—set something in his chest alight. But it wasn't easy to hold onto thoughts when John's mouth moved lower, tongue flicking over the delicate skin of his collarbone, his jaw tightening as if he was fighting some internal battle. Atticus arched slightly, pressing up into him, not sure if it was an invitation or a dare.

"John," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. "Just—"

John didn’t make him finish the thought.

It was a slow puncture, sharp but careful, a deliberate unraveling. The pain barely had time to register before the pull of it took over, something deep and dizzying, pleasure curling at the edges of it like smoke. Atticus exhaled hard, his fingers twisting into the sheets as heat spread through his limbs. John groaned against his skin, hands sliding to his waist, pulling Atticus closer, as if he could take more than just blood, as if he could drink him down completely.

Taking blood always felt bigger than it was. In some ways, it was. John had lived long enough to know that feeding was more than just survival, more than just hunger. It was communion. It was trust, offered up on the fragile altar of human flesh. And Atticus—Atticus gave so easily. His breath hitched, his eyes closed. He let himself tip into it, let John take what he needed, let himself be consumed. His pulse beat against John’s lips, a rhythm he could fall into if he let himself. The heat of him, the sharp tang of copper bursting over his tongue—it was all-consuming, the kind of intimacy that neither of them never quite learned how to name.

Stopping was the hard part. John felt the mortality of Atticus in every sip, each one pulling just a sliver of it away. With force, John stopped himself to pull back before he could take too much, before the haze of need dulled his control. His tongue flicked over the wound, closing it with something close to reverence. Beneath him, Atticus was pliant, loose-limbed and humming with the residual high, his body draped against the sheets like he’d been unraveled.

Watching him for a moment, something unreadable coiled in John's chest. He brushed a thumb over Atticus’ cheek, tracing the color that had already begun to fade, his warmth just slightly dimmed. "You good?" His voice was quiet, rougher than usual.

"You always ask." Atticus blinked up at him, dazed but smirking.

John huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "And you always act like it’s unnecessary."

Atticus slowly shifted onto his side, his fingers finding John’s wrist, pressing over where a pulse should be. He did that sometimes, absentmindedly, as if he expected one to return if he searched for it often enough. John let him. For a moment, they just breathed—well, Atticus did. John only pretended.

"You’ll need coffee after that," John murmured. "And food."

"You’re worse than a nurse." Atticus sighed dramatically, hand over his forehead.

John smirked. "I’d be a terrible nurse. No bedside manner."

Atticus grinned, sharp and lazy. "No, I think you’d be excellent at it,"

John rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Atticus’ forehead before murmuring, "I’ll make the coffee."

Atticus made a contented noise, curling into the sheets, "You’re an angel."

John laughed at that, a low, rich sound. "Not quite." And then he slipped out of bed, leaving Atticus warm and drowsy in the darkness, the taste of him still lingering on John’s tongue.

Determined to regain some sense of autonomy, he sat up only for the world to tilt violently on its axis. His vision swam, dark at the edges, and he let out a slow breath before easing himself back down. Fuck. Atticus wasn't fragile—not yet—but mornings like this reminded him that he was, at the very least, human. John never took too much, but blood loss was blood loss, and it left him feeling hollowed out, unmoored. He pressed a hand to his forehead, fingers cold against his overheated skin, and exhaled through his nose. Somehow, in that moment, he felt older than he was.

Forty-six wasn’t a tipping point—not exactly—but it sure as hell wasn’t youthful anymore. There was an ache in his bones that hadn’t been there a decade ago, a weariness that settled deeper than sleep could fix. He wasn’t vain about aging, but he felt it in ways that unsettled him. Especially next to John. John, who hadn’t aged a day in four hundred years. A few years back, he had asked John if it was possible. If he could be turned. Not for vanity, not for vitality, but because a life without John felt like nothing at all. Like a different kind of mortal death. John had gone quiet, the way he did when something mattered—when words had weight and he had to measure them carefully before releasing them into the air.

"I don’t want that for you," he had finally said.

Atticus had scoffed, as if it were a ridiculous thing to say. "You think I want to get old and die while you stay exactly the same?"

John had looked at him then, really looked at him, and Atticus had hated the softness in his expression, the pity laced through it like silk-thin thread. "I think you don’t know what you’re asking for."

And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he still didn’t.

But now, lying there in the dark with the weight of morning pressing down on him, he wondered. If he asked again—now, with time creeping closer like an inevitability—would John still say no?

Doubtful.

John had spent centuries perfecting the art of refusal, of gentle, unwavering nos wrapped in the illusion of kindness. Atticus could press, could sink his teeth into the question and refuse to let go, but he already knew how the conversation would end.

Like it always did.

With John’s cool hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw. With a sigh that sounded like mourning, like I wish things were different, but never I’ll make them so.

With a sharp exhale, he dragged a hand down his face, pushing the thought away as John stepped into the room, the scent of hazelnut cutting through the heavy air. He carried a mug in one hand, casual, effortless, like he hadn’t been moving through this same routine for decades. Like he hadn’t been watching Atticus slip further from his prime with each passing year.

"Sit up," John said, voice warm, like the choice to obey was Atticus’ own.

Atticus did as he was told, slower this time, wary of the lingering lightheadedness. John handed him the coffee, watching as he took the first careful sip. "You're looking at me like I might keel over," he muttered, wrapping both hands around the mug.

John smirked, sliding onto the bed beside him. "I’m just admiring your resilience."

"Right. That what we’re calling it?" Atticus snorted.

John leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his temple. "You let me take from you before you even had breakfast. That’s either resilience or recklessness."

"Maybe both." Atticus closed his eyes for half a second, letting himself lean into John before he could think better of it.

John hummed, a sound that might have been agreement. Then, quieter, "You’re thinking about it again."

"Thinking about what?" Atticus stilled, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic.

John gave him a look. Don’t do that.

"Would it be so bad?"

"Don't ask me that," John’s expression flickered, something old and complicated threading through the sharp angles of his face.

Atticus studied him, taking another sip of coffee. "Why not?"

Instead of an answer, he reached for Atticus's wrist again, thumb tracing absently over the faint marks from earlier, barely visible now.

"Because," he said finally, voice too careful, too even. "You already know what I’d say."

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

No one needs to know

It’s winter on the Isle and these people don’t have a single functional coping mechanism in place.

AKA, Harriet asks Anthony to paint her nails, specifically so no one would see how cold she is.

@tiredflowercrown tagging you here ’cos I think you sent that prompt along with some others?

It’s so late it’s almost early – no self-respecting Villain would be up in this hour of the morning.

Unfortunately, the Isle hasn’t seen such a thing for almost two decades, not that some of its inhabitants still recognise the linear nature of time and all. Maybe that’s for the better, sometimes, too, but not right now.

The sun is almost rising and Anthony Tremaine only just managed to kick Cruella de Vil from the saloon.

He shuts the door behind her and sighs. The wind chimes above the door are still ringing, disturbed wild by the sharp winter wind, when he heavily sits down behind the cashier. He should count today’s profit, grandmother will want to know.

Instead, he just puts his elbows on the table and sinks his head into his hands. He hisses when at the sensation, his skin irritated and cracked by the cold as it is.

Freaking Cruella de Vil – were it anyone else, he’d have pawed them onto some of his sisters or cousins.

Oh, who is he kidding, he probably wouldn’t.

But Cruella?

No, not even Dulcia is allowed to work with her, Cruella’s own wishes notwithstanding.

So that leaves Anthony here, just waiting till grandmother gets up and tired to the bone.

Fucking Cruella de Vil.

He supposes he could get up and make himself some coffee; he supposes that he could take a nap on the sofa too. Both feels like too much work.

He supposes he could just stay here and feel sorry for himself – that should work, no?

But unfortunately, the universe has other plans.

The doors open again, cold wind breezing through them easily, and Anthony shivers, barely looking up. In walks one Harriet Hook.

She slams the door behind herself and Anthony winces at the sound – he hopes that didn’t wake up anyone, especially not his dear old grandmother. He sits up and leans back at the chair as Harriet drags the armchair over to him.

No one is yelling bloody murder yet, thank the saints.

„Hello, Harriet,“ he greets her.

„Salve,“ she mutters as she sinks into her seat. A heartbeat of silence and then: „I need you to paint my nails.“

„And here I was, just hoping for a friendly visit.“

„Ain’t no such thing in between us,“ she says and she is lying.

„Of course, dear, wouldn’t dream of such a thing.“

Instead of an answer, she rolls her eyes and slams her hands on the table. She has purple fingertips and knuckles and when Anthony gently takes one of her hands, he feels like death herself touched him.

„Holy fuck, Harriet–“ he can’t help pointing that out.

But she just laughs. „I’m not cold,“ she tells him, „I’m not. So just paint my nails so Sammy will get off my back, savvy?“

Anthony sighs again, clasping her hand in between both of his in a futile attempt to force some warmth into it.

„Harriet,“ he tells her gravely, „You don’t feel cold because your bloodstream is like ninety percent just alcohol.“

She leans back in her chair but leaves her hand where it is, reaching for something with the other. Something – the flask. Obviously. She offers him a drink too and he accepts, only letting go of her hand briefly.

Annoyingly, the drink doesn’t provide him with a magical burst of energy.

„You shouldn’t drink,“ he says as he hands her the flask back.

She just looks at him, eyes as dead as his are, probably. She doesn’t bother arguing. „Just paint my nails, ’Tony,“ she requests, leaning back in her chair and letting her head tip back too. Her eyes fall closed for a moment, and stay half-lidded.

„As you wish, Ettie,“ he says emphasising her nickname, „Any requests for the colour?“

„I’m gonna kill you slowly.“ She doesn’t even bother to look at him. And: „Blood red.“

A laugh escapes his throat: Blood red. He could have guessed that. She winks at him now, showing her teeth in what might be a smile or a smirk.

He lets go of her hand and sends her for the nail polish: She knows where it is, and she can choose the correct shade like that. She kicks at the table as she gets up and she makes faces, but she goes.

Moments later, she is back, and collapsing down, she sets the nail polish on the table for him to take. The glass is cold where she held it.

He gets to work and for a while, they don’t speak.

Silence, so unusual occurrence for the Tremaine saloon and household.

He wipes down excess polish from around her nail and asks: „What about your knuckles, Harriet? They’re still purple.“

(They shouldn’t be, by now, he thinks.)

She shrugs: „They’ll think that I just got into a fight again, that those are just bruises. No one needs to know.“

„No one needs to know that you’re basically trying to kill yourself slowly?“ he challenges like the hypocrite he is.

„Don��t be ridiculous, Anthony, I’m doing no such thing.“ Her voice is cold and scathing, like salt water in the wound. He wishes for a better grip on her hand instead of the delicate manicure pose, he wishes to grab her and shake her and hurt her until she realises she wants to live.

Instead, he asks: „What about Sammy? They won’t believe you.“

„They will believe me. They don’t need to know–“

He lets her have that lie and they slip into silence again.

Soon, it is finished, and her fingertips do look like they’re dripping blood.

She raises her left hand to admire the colour in – arguably – better light and leaves the other still in his hold. Her pupils are wide in the half-darkness.

She doesn’t thank him, or, god forbid, pay – she doesn’t even really smile, and he expected that much, really. But– She flips their hands around, and suddenly she’s holding his hand up as if she were a gentleman and he were a lady, and then she’s pressing her lips to his own damaged knuckles.

The kiss is so cold it burns, or maybe that’s the alcohol on her lips too.

His brain short-circuits for a moment, and Anthony is going to blame his sleep deprivation for that, thank you for asking.

She gets up and lets herself in the kitchen; she is gone before he can stop her. He shakes his head and eyes the cash register warily. He really should start counting now. Or maybe, he contemplates, he can paw off the responsibility to Angie or Dizzy, pass it off as morning math lesson. That would work, wouldn’t it? If they both get the same result, it is probably right.

Or Dulcia could do it for once– …Yeah, no. Anthony dismisses that with a shake of his head.

His joyful musings are only interrupted by Harriet placing a mug in front of him: Coffee, strong and black.

He looks up at her in surprise. She smiles this time, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes. „For you,“ she says as she takes the mug back and sips from it, „Coffee.“ (Unpoisoned.)

He takes it from her, noting that the warm liquid has finally managed to unfreeze her fingers at least a bit. She is already moving to leave.

„Your lips are still pale,“ he says instead of a „Thank you.“

She looks over her shoulder: „I’ll just take some of Ginny’s lipstick.“ Her lips stretch into a joyless smile. „Or maybe you could warm my lips up some other way.“ But with that sentence, she lets the door shut behind her, and Anthony is left staring at them and the ringing wind chimes.

Sounds of people waking up can be heard from upstairs.

[septembersmonologue]

Case of the Novembers

transcript under cut

It’s the worst month of the year again and it’s the month I turn to salt.

The month you left me.

Or the month the cracks started showing.

On all of us. We got old in November.

We went crazy in November. We cried together in November.

Some of us left for December’s snowy mountains, and some of us are still standing in the winter light, tears frozen to our cheeks.

And no one really moved on. I stalk my dead friends like they’re going to rise from the grave,

Like you’re a celebrity someone will someday release a tell-all about—

And sometimes they do, through the grapevine, I find out there were parts of you I didn’t know. Until the end. We were the best for each other, really, until you got stuck in November at seventeen and even though my soul was right there with you

I’m still with you, Orpheus, do you see me, can you hear me

Above the crazed maidens singing?

My body kept aging without my permission.

Orpheus is torn apart and I had to go, please believe me,

I know you turned around because I was the rock, the cave walls, the ground which you beat your foot against. Because the way was narrow, and staring only at the pinprick of light was beyond your poor tired eyes.

You turned your head, and then the rest of your body followed,

And I had to go.

The shades and I sit in November,

Lonely month, month of bitter water and holes in the wall.

Month so cold the anger cannot flame up

And give you the fist to punch it.

So you’d split your knuckles open around dry bone, all the blood curdled up and frozen, white month without wintery comforts.

Gray November’s saving grace is hibernation is

Forgetting this stupid fucking painful month ever happened.

I still keep waking up with the morning dew,

Wet dirt under my splintering fingernails, paper under my tongue.

God, not even a gold coin? I guess dead high schoolers don’t have a lot to give.

I try not to look down as I get off the ground, at the open grave and the

Peeling, maggoty body I dug up. I shut my eyes

Against the sight of your once-beloved face malformed by taxidermy and whatever injustices I did it in my sleep,

Even as my foot slips in the loose dirt and I land with you in the hole we made.

[aloneinthehellfire]

Chapter 23: The Aftermath

Season One | Season Two | Season Three | Season Four

Word Count: 4847 words of these kids definitely have ptsd now

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death, blood, hospitals (i myself am not fond of being in one), minor violence?, some nice sweet stuff in this one since all the others have been an angst fest

[A/N: this is kind of like a filler episode we all know and love on our fav shows (or not lmao) but i really wanted to give a shot at what was happening before 'two days later'. you don't really have to read this chapter if you don't want to, but there are some important parts?]

The Aftermath

Dawn was breaking by the time you left the Upside Down, slowly casting an orange light on your silhouettes. For a moment, everyone glanced over at the rising sun.

It wasn’t until you were heading to the RV that you realised this particular sunrise wasn’t meant to be seen by your eyes, or any after that. It was a bittersweet reminder that you almost never saw a sunrise ever again. You didn’t even remember the last.

Steve drove away from the trailer park, Nancy taking care of Eddie’s wounds in the back, while Dustin and Robin shared stories of the night. Despite their efforts, there was an unease that even the attempt of comedic conversation couldn’t break.

You sat in the front, staring out of the window and wincing at the reflection of the girl with a blood-stained face staring back.

There was too much running through your mind to truly allow you to focus, only ever seeing the same images burned into your brain. The visions of the people you lost, the grave inscribed with your name. The look in Vecna’s eye when he took your life. Your blood.

“Hey.”

Steve’s foot gently nudges yours, voice lowered in attempt to keep the conversation private. Not that it was needed; Robin and Dustin’s exchange of tales were loud and excitable, the pair happy to just discuss random movies and keep Eddie awake.

“You okay?” He asks before his face drops, shaking his head and looking back to the road. “Sorry, stupid question.”

“We lost.” You say after a time, quietly. He glances over to you.

He took a moment to decide his next words, flexing his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Not yet. We’ll get another chance, and we’ll win. I know it.”

“Yeah.” You try to agree, but your heart wasn’t in it.

“Look,” Steve sighs, quickly checking the mirror to ensure the others were distracted, “All I know is that we’re okay. That you’re okay.”

His voice was slightly cracked at the last three words and your whip your head to find his eyes, frowning.

“Steve-”

“No, I-” He breathes away the reddening of his eyes, focused on the road ahead in the soft yellow glow of the headlights, illuminating the paths hidden in darkness from the early morning shades of trees. “I genuinely thought I was gonna have to figure out the rest of my life without you and I never wanna do that again. I wish I could say it was the first time.”

“When have you…” You shake your head, confused.

Steve’s eyes flicker to yours, gulping. “Last year. When… the Russian base. We got separated. All I could hear were your screams. Even if I was getting beaten to a bloody pulp, those screams were the worst torture, believe me. Then- then that woman showed us a knife- your blood, and…”

A tear rolls down his cheek as he continues. “Jesus, I seriously thought that this year would be different. You left, and believe me that sucked, but you were safe. That’s what mattered.But I- I couldn’t get any of it out of my head. Then the worst finally happened just a few hours ago and I don’t even know how I’m gonna process that one.”

“You aren’t the only one.” You admit quietly and he nods.

“Yeah, of course. Right, I can’t even imagine-” His breath is shaky and you lower your head.

There was always a part of you that declared you needed to be strong, to never show weakness. It was that part that always ended up failing you, spinning you out of control until you did something you regret. But those usually extended from small lies or lack of communication. This time, it was quite literally death.

And you didn’t have the strength in you to pretend like you were okay.

“Don’t ever die again.” Steve frowns, breaking the silence, eyes filled with that painful memory. His lips were tight, glistening eyes watching as the light began to beam between the branches you pass. “Please.”

You lean over and wipe the tear from his cheek. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Good.” He chuckles, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Because I’m not letting you go that easy.”

That was the first time you felt like you smiled for a normal reason. The only times happiness had struck you over the course of the past few days were when you celebrated that your friends were alive. This… this felt better. Because it wasn’t a relieved smile for once. It was the joy you felt after the boy you loved told you that this was forever.

The moment was broken with a thick air of smoke clouding the road, Steve pulling the RV to a stop and frowning.

“What’s going on?” Nancy joins you at the front, peering through the windscreen.

As Steve wordlessly shakes his head, you can make out a shadow in the distance, a scarlet outline. Your eyes widen.

You were out of your seat and jumping from the door in no time, feet planting on the solid ground before taking a few steps. Your breath slipped from your lips, a clearer view of what you feared.

The Creel House was surrounded by the dark smoke but illuminated by a red light, almost like fire.

And it was no longer standing.

A huge slit broke the house in half, the beating heart of a gate staring back at you. Your gaze travels up the building, face dropping completely. The attic was incinerated.

“Do you think they got out?” Dustin asks with the smallest whisper.

Your friends had collected behind you, poking their head out of the vehicle and staring at the destruction with wide eyes.

Robin nods vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, they- they had plenty of time.”

Your eyes flicker around, part of you hoping to find Lucas safe and sound among the rubble. Nothing.

Erica would have gone for help, you tell yourself, he’s fine, she’s fine… Max is fine.

“Maybe they’re-” Dustin hobbles down from the step in the direction of the building, until his ankle folds beneath him and he’s almost face first on the ground.

Steve catches him just in time, “Woah, no, okay. We’re getting you to the hospital. You seriously need that ankle checked out.”

“But-”

“No, he’s right.” Nancy affirms, nodding. “You’re obviously in pain, Eddie needs those bites properly treated. And Y/n-”

Nancy turns to you and for the first time tonight, took in your appearance, breath hitching. Almost your entire torso was covered in dry blood, splattered across your neck and face. Three gashes were torn into the fabric of your shirt, outlining the red scars that replaced your once fatal wounds. Bruises coated the public skin, some more brutal than others. You were, to put it simply, a mess.

“I’m fine.” You shrug, clearing your throat. “But, yeah. We, uh… we should get to the hospital.”

You ignored her worried look, turning away from the wreck and stepping back into the RV, reclaiming your seat. Steve slips back behind the wheel, taking a deep breath and relying on the headlights to guide you all safely through Hawkins.

The earlier chatter of distraction had dissipated into unsettling silence. Perhaps they were originally riding the high of their survival, but now the truth of the surface had unveiled itself and plunged them into dread.

And it only got worse.

Driving through streets of chaos, your heart drops; crumbled buildings, fires burning away memories, people cradling limbs as they’re pulled from beneath.

Crying parents held their children, police men desperately trying to assess the source of the destruction. It was soul-breaking to see the panic, residents fleeing their homes without a choice. Hawkins was once so cosy.

The aftermath of Vecna’s victory hadn’t just hurt you. It affected the entire town.

The road to the hospital was busy with cars, forcing Steve to stop in the Family Video parking lot. Luckily for you, the final destination was only around the corner.

Steve supported Eddie’s weight, the latter insisting he was fine when, especially in daylight, he clearly wasn’t. Dustin simply loops his arm around Nancy, allowing her to help him along with no complaints. From the grimace of his face, the adrenaline must have worn off and he was now feeling the pain of the drop.

Robin offered to help, only met with a few murmurs of ‘no, it’s okay’ before she gave up and shuffled up next to you, her curious eyes assessing the buildings around her.

After seeing the Creel House destroyed, your hope had gone. You knew Max was dead, that part was made very clear by the grand opening of Hawkins’ biggest gate yet. But you also knew Lucas had to have seen that, and he wouldn’t have left her side, even if the ground was swallowing them both up. It hurt.

Lucas had a natural charisma about him when you first met. It was late, your first night in Hawkins, and the house beside you was lively, bundles of excited chatter and exclamations spewing from the tiny window of the basement and echoing straight to your window. It wasn’t until you took a step out of the house for some fresh air that you met the kids; Will’s shy smile, Mike’s under-eager wave, and Dustin’s wide grin. Lucas was the first one to talk to you, a warm welcome to the town.

Ever since then, you’ve seen him grow from that 12 year old boy into someone you wished you could be. You’ve dealt with his unrealistically optimistic flirts, his arguments with the other boys, his small and quiet conversations about wanting to play basketball like the older kids did but scared he would upset the Party. And he dealt with your sarcasm, your denial of emotions, even your constant refusals to assist them even though you would do anything for them. When you think of any memory tied to the town, almost every one had him connected into it, his sincerity and love for his friends inspiring you to make the same sacrifices onto selflessness. You couldn’t have hoped for a better person to care for your sister.

The thought of losing them both…

Warmth slipped into your hand and you look up to see Robin’s smile, her hand squeezing yours gently as you led the others towards the hospital. Neither of you spoke, only basking in the safety you felt with eachother, calming nerves.

As the greying white of the building appears into view, flashing lights blare the road behind you, screeching sirens of persistence loud enough to pierce the chaos around you.

The ambulance stops just outside of the entrance, a gurney being pulled from the back and slid onto the paving. You barely take notice, head hung low as you glance back to check on Dustin and Eddie.

“Is she gonna be okay?! Anyone?!”

Your head whips up to see someone else emerge from the transport, reddened eyes and quick breaths as they yell in exasperation.

Erica steps around him, noticing you stood with a look of shock on your face. She immediately turns to get his attention, pulling on his shirt and nodding in your direction.

Lucas’ face drops when he sees you, eyes widening. He glances to the gurney.

It doesn’t take long for the puzzle to build itself.

“Max.” You breathe out, loud enough for your friends to halt all movement and find the source of your whisper.

Without even waiting for confirmation, you drop Robin’s hand and sprint over to where they were carting your sister into the hospital, a sob leaving your lips when you see her face, blood staining her cheeks in tear paths.

“You need to step back.” A nurse informed you a little bitterly and you shake your head, keeping up with the fast pace.

“She’s my sister!” You insist and the woman sighs, nodding to another worker.

“And we will let you know everything once we finish her surgery.”

“No, I- Surgery?” You repeat, hand brushing against Max’s face before she’s pulled away from you and through restricted doors, leaving you stood alone in the foyer, murmurs of busy people vibrating around you.

“Y/n?”

You turn around to see Lucas stood a few steps from you, body almost curling in on itself like he was guilty, ashamed. With the drop of your heart, you realise he must think you’d hate him for breaking his promise. Your feet moved quickly.

Closing the distance, you wrap your arms around him and pull him close. His arms immediately clung onto you, soft sobs vibrating into your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I tried- he-”

“It’s okay.” You soothe, squeezing your eyes shut. “You’re here. That’s what matters. You did everything you could.”

Lucas’ mumbles of apology quickly faded into silent tears, his tight grasp finding comfort in your arms and letting you hold him up. Behind him, Erica patiently waits, her sad eyes finding yours and flickering to her older brother, a look of helplessness.

The doors open to reveal the others, Steve calling for doctors passing by and struggling to make excuses for Eddie’s condition.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, we…” Steve stumbles over words, looking to Robin.

“Uh, yeah, we… found him. Like this, I mean. We found him like this.” She finishes, turning red. She was never one for lying.

The doctor raised an eyebrow and Eddie sighed.

“Bats.” He states and they look surprised.

“Bats?” The doctor repeats and Eddie nods.

“Yeah, bats.”

Nancy clocks the medic’s startled face and clears her throat. “He might just be in shock, you know. The, um, earthquake must’ve spooked a lot of animals.”

“Right.” The doctor sounds hesitant but motions over a nurse, whispering something in her ear before she helps them take Eddie from Steve’s hold.

As they pass, Eddie sends you a smile, your brain instantly recognising that look where he hides something behind his eyes. You frown, carefully pulling away from Lucas but keeping an arm around him.

You watch as the doctor nods to a guard by the entrance, the man moving swiftly across the foyer and towards where the medics were helping Eddie.

And, with the sickening realisation, you knew there wasn’t even a small chance he’d have a normal life after this.

Because you never managed to clear his name.

Steve was by your side as you glared up at Officer Callahan, arms crossed as you stared with such malice he was starting to look uncomfortable.

As you intended. After all, his spiel about Eddie’s ‘murder rampage’ boiled your veins with each shake of his head.

“I’m just stating the law-”

“Fuck the law!” You spit and he widens his eyes, adjusting his hat.

Steve raises his brows but says nothing, trying to hide a smirk as the officer slowly shrinks in size.

“And it’s not even true. Which we’ve been trying to tell you for the past 20 minutes and honestly, I’m really starting to think our law enforcement is really fucking stupid.”

“Hey, now-” Callahan complains but you raise your hand and he shuts his mouth.

“Please, tell me how it’s humanly possible for anyone, much less Eddie, to be able to do that to someone.” You challenge and whatever retort he had was thrown away, shoulders slumping as he sighs.

“It’s not up to him.”

You and Steve turn to see Powell enter the hallway, nodding to his colleague.

“Since he was seen in contact with 2 out of the 3 victims, we have to take into account that he doesn’t have any kind of alibi.” Powell explains and you purse your lips.

“Explain my sister, then.” You say and he looks surprised, glancing to Callahan for clarification but in return getting a shrug.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Max is currently in surgery after being found with all her bones snapped and her eyes bleeding.” You try and keep control over your voice, wanting them to take you seriously. “Exactly like the other kids. And Eddie couldn’t possibly have done that.”

“How do you know that he didn’t?” Powell raises an eyebrow and you’re ready to answer until Steve’s reminding touch stops you.

“Uh…” You struggle to speak.

To tell the police that you had been hiding a fugitive wouldn’t look great for anyone, but especially not you. You knew about the records they kept on you at the station, the looks you’d get anytime you would pass an officer. They’d be quick to assume that Eddie had an accomplice.

“He was with me.” Steve breaks his silence and your eyes widen, whipping your head to him. He avoids your eyes, looking to Powell and scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, long story short I kinda ran into him at Skull Rock, got to talking. I mean, I was all on board thinking Eddie could’ve done it until I actually met the guy and yeah, I gotta tell ya… not a murderer.”

Callahan’s eyes narrowed while Powell assessed Steve’s face for any hint of a lie. You held your breath.

Powell eventually nods, glancing off into the distance before running a hand down his face. “Alright.”

“Alright?” You prompt, brows furrowed.

“We’ll reopen the case.” He states and Callahan turns to him with wide eyes.

“We will?”

“Yes.” Powell nods, adjusting his hat and finding your eyes. “I can’t guarantee anything will change, but he’ll no longer be in our custody. At least not until we’ve dealt with this earthquake.”

You let out your breath and exchanged a triumphant smile with Steve.

Callahan clears his throat pointing a stare. “It does mean we’re gonna have to take statements, from you and your boyfriend here. We expect you to show up this time.”

His narrowed eyes stay on you until he’s rounded the corner, contrasting the slight nod giving by his chief and then they’re out of sight, leaving you and Steve stood outside of Eddie’s room with dumbfounded smiles.

“Did that just really work?” You ask, unfolding your arms and frowning in joyful confusion.

“I’ll be honest,” Steve runs a hand through his hair, “When you said ‘I’m gonna scare them into freeing Eddie’, I kinda expected to be visiting you behind bars.”

You smirk. “Aww, you’d visit me?”

There was a smile on his face, but not from the humour. He was glancing to where Powell and Callahan had disappeared then returning to your face, struggling to keep his lips from widening into a grin.

“What?” You question, cocking your head.

“Nothing, I just…” He wets his lips as he shoves his hands into his pocket, grin on display. “You didn’t correct him.”

You furrow your brows, searching through your memory. “About what?”

“Nothing.” Steve shakes his head, grinning still. “Don’t worry about it.”

Laughing, you open your mouth to respond when something catches your eye. Silhouettes of two figures stood down the hall, sporting matching jackets that you’d recognise anywhere.

Steve frowns, looking over his shoulder to what stole your attention and he holds his breath. He turns back to see your furious gaze, the way your hands balled into little fists.

Lucas had explained everything, from the very beginning of Max baiting Vecna to the ending of Jason showing up out of the blue, smashing her Walkman in the process. Erica was quick to chime in about his friend, the attack. Needless to say, one of them had picked a wrong day to show up in your line of vision.

“Okay, let’s-” Steve begins, but you’re already storming towards them. “Nevermind, okay.”

“Hey!” You shout across the hallway, the boys’ heads locating the call. The one with darker hair looked surprised, fearful even, making you think he knew exactly who you were. The other sported a hat, and, adding fuel to your fire, seemed completely unbothered.

“Can we help you?” He grumbles. Andy, you read on his jacket as you stop in front of them.

You take a look between the two before settling on Andy. “You the one that tackled a little kid and threatened to break her arms?”

The boy beside him- Chase- shifts uncomfortably, looking to his friend with a startled expression. Andy barely flinched.

“No.” He spat, shoving his hands in his jacket and nodding to his friend, a cruel smile on his face as he begins to turn away.

“You realise harming a minor results in both jail time and high monetary fines?” You retort, his footsteps slowing.

He looks to you with a scoff. “You a fucking cop or something?”

“No.” You shrug, tilting your head. “Just a friend of the victim.”

“I don’t know what that little shit said but I didn’t do anything.” Andy insists, voice deep. It wasn’t a plead of innocence. It was a warning.

“Look, we’re just here looking for Jason.” Chase interjects, looking extremely nervous.

“Uh…” You frown, feeling a little guilty in knowing the truth. But you didn’t want to be the one to bear the news. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Waste of time.” Andy mumbles, scanning your body before rolling his eyes and sending Chase a sarcastic look. You purse your lips.

“Maybe if you had checked on him before running away like a wimp, you wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

“Andy?” Chase frowns and Andy’s amused face abruptly drops to a scowl. Chase seemed to have no idea of the previous events of the night, part of you wondering if he wanted out of the ‘hunting’ after his teammate died. Or maybe he was just morally better than the rest of them.

“I’m warning you.” Andy grits his teeth, body fully facing you now. He was clearly a violent one.

Maybe you should take the warning. After all, Andy was physically built as an athlete, much taller and stronger than you were. Your most recent exercise was climbing up a rope and hell, that was a struggle.

But Vecna had really heightened your preferences on what you would find intimidating.

“About what?” You challenge, raising your eyebrows. “You gonna break my arms then run away? Because as I recall, my friend still has her limbs perfectly intact and she’s 11, so… if you can’t even win a fight against a literal child, what makes you think you’ll win-”

Andy’s arm flies out, hand flat as he aims to swipe it across your head. The effect would have hurt for sure, if someone hadn’t caught it just before impact.

You barely flinched as it was, already set to have dodged the attack. But there was something even better having Steve Harrington stood next to you, hand gripping Andy’s wrist tightly as he glares at him.

“I’m warning you.” Steve threatens, voice low. “You fucking touch her and I guarantee someone’s losing their arm today.”

He violently thrusts Andy’s arm back to him, earning a wide-eyed stumble. Andy moves forward, but Chase blocks him.

“Come on, man, let’s just go.” He places a hand on his shoulder and manoeuvres him backwards.

There’s one more angry look from Andy before Chase manages to wrangle him back down the hall and out of your sight. You figure this won’t be the last of seeing him.

“I swear you make more enemies than you do friends.” Steve lets out a breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

“As long as I always have my knight in shining armour to save me.” You bat your eyelids sarcastically and he chuckles, clicking his jaw.

“I’m just glad I actually did something this time instead of running in when it was all over.” Steve smirks knowingly and you look to the ground.

“Can’t believe he did that to Erica. That any of them were just ready to kill a guy because of what? A- a game that they thought was satanic. Part of me felt bad for Jason, but the rest of them barely had an excuse.”

“And Jason did?” Steve quirks a brow.

You sigh, “He was broken. Chrissy was his girlfriend and, I mean, he clearly loved her. Love makes you do crazy things and no, I do not think anything he did was right, but he was hurting. So badly. God, if I was told that someone I loved was murdered, I’d…”

“Hurl Molotov cocktails at the guy who did it?” Steve suggests, attempting a joke but ultimately placing his arms around your shoulders and pulling you closer, planting a kiss on the side of your head.

“She’s gonna be okay, you know.” He mumbles into your hair after a while and your shoulders slump. Of course he already knew what you were thinking.

“We should probably be in the waiting room. For when the doctors have news.” You say quietly and he nods. “Maybe get some coffee so I can be awake. They’ll be a while.”

His arm slips from your shoulders but instead finds your hand, intertwining fingers as you walk towards the busy noise of people impatiently waiting for good news.

“Should also probably get our bruises looked at.”

“I’d rather suffer in silence until I get a good night’s sleep.”

“You literally just said you wanted coffee.”

“Huh, then I guess it’ll have to wait a little longer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me really.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You guys heard from California yet?” Lucas asks, his voice thick with tears as one hand holds an icepack to his face. He was trying his best to stay calm, but his leg anxiously bounced as he leant back in his chair. Erica's head was rested gently against his shoulder, the girl drifting off to sleep.

“No.” Nancy sighs, scrunching her face. You knew she and Jonathan hadn’t been talking as much lately. You prayed that everyone was okay, and that Nancy and Jonathan would be fine. They were meant for eachother.

“Oh my god.” Robin suddenly blurts, standing up abruptly. She glances around at everyone’s concerned faces. “I gotta call my parents.”

Once her eyes locate it, she bounds over to the phone hanging from the wall, scrambling to dial a number in. Nancy raises her head.

“What is it?” You notice Nancy’s fallen expression, the tightening of her lips. It looked like she was about to cry.

“My parents. Holly.” She says in breaths and you move from your chair to crouch in front of her.

“I’m sure they’re fine.” You comfort, placing your hand over hers and dipping your head down to find her eyes. “Okay, your- your dad is always watching those disaster documentaries, right? He would have gotten your mom and Holly to safety in no time.”

You didn’t have that much faith in Ted Wheeler. It wasn’t that he was a bad father, or anything like that. You were just closer to Karen, her taking you in like you were her own, and their marriage was far from perfect. Ted seemed grumpy most of the time, but regardless he definitely had love for his family. That was something you could have faith in.

“Yeah.” Nancy gulps her anxiety. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll call them when the phone’s free.”

You stand in time to see Steve rejoin you after a brief coffee run, noticing Nancy’s unease straight away.

“Nance?” He questions, placing her coffee beside her and another on the small table for Robin, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She sends him a quick smile, reaching for the cup and holding it up. “Thank you.”

Steve walks back to the seats opposite her, carefully placing himself in the seat beside yours, holding two cups. Gratefully, you take the hot beverage from his hands and hold it to your lips, breathing in the familiar scent. If you were going to be here a while, you needed caffeine.

Just as you shift back into your seat, echoing footsteps approached behind you.

“Mayfield?”

You whip your head up, exchanging wide glances with Lucas, and jumping from your seat to raise your hand.

“Hi, yeah. I’m her sister.” You stumble across the words, not expecting to hear back from the doctors so soon. The surgery would surely take hours to be successful without…

...without anything going wrong.

Your face drops as the doctor hugs the clipboard, offering a tight smile.

“I’ll need to speak to you privately.” Their eyes shift to the curious faces of your friends behind you. “Family only.”

You glance back at Lucas, the ice pack now deserted on his seat. There wasn’t much to do, so you made a silent vow to tell him everything.

As you follow the doctor down the surgery hallway, the bleached white walls seemed to be closing in on you, tightening your chest. Not a word was uttered as you pushed through the doors, entering a room with artificial lights that blinded you on first look.

The doctor stills, turning back to you and sighing. They didn’t need to say anything.

Your eyes had already drifted to the window beside you, your furrowed expression faltering.

Chapter 24: Hell Comes To Hawkins ->

[A/N: guys, there's only one episode left of Raining Hellfire 4 SOMEBODY SEDATE ME]

taglist: @gnnnne / @beepisbeep / @paintballkid711 / @eddiesbirdie / @livasaurasrex / @darktimelegends / @jackierose902109 / @mvrylee / @chervbs / @eternallyvenus / @nervouscatsuit / @f1nn-wolfhard / @hereiamhereigo / @ladybug0095 / @fangirling-4-ever / @astrolockley / @mothmanatemycat / @sheisjoeschateau / @champagnejoker / @umidktbh / @fallinginlovewithqueue / @ilovetaylorswift132006 / @live-the-fangirl-life / @sadbitchfangirl / @cherrymedicine13 / @engenelxver / @sagaonpandora /

[mrshipsmcgee]

I crave some of the classic “random villain kidnaps Peters girl and tortures her in order to get info on him” add in some “Peter shows up at the last minute and goes feral” to make me happy

Yes ma’am. Anything for you my darling 😏

WARNINGS: blood, booboos, owies, hurt

Peter steps into the open window of his shared apartment with his best friends, Miles and Mary Jane. Peter thumbs the switch of the floor lamp beside him before discarding his mask, pausing as his brows lace together - scanning his surroundings realizing his normally warm and inviting home was dark and empty.

No Miles.

No MJ.

They should be up still.. the house should smell like fresh popcorn and the fireplace should be filled with orange flames as Miles and Mary Jane played through their newest video game together.

They always stayed up together for whoever was on patrol.. but tonight something was wrong.

Hair stands up straight on the back of Peter’s neck as he steps deeper into the home, the old wood floors creaking under the weight of each step he took.

He hears a small whimper - MJ’s whimper.

His stomach drops as he crosses the into Miles’ room.

“Shit,” Peter whispers, hot tears forming in his eyes as they fall upon Miles. Peter is frozen, chest rising as he approaches where Miles sat on the ground propped against his bed, crimson blood flowing from his abdomen as he stares up at Peter.

Peter drops to his knees, immediately inspecting the stab wounds on Miles’ stomach. Peter cries, cupping Miles’ face - his normally warm eyes now panicked as he stares at his wounded friend.

“I- I’m okay, Pete,” Miles tries to point to the door. “He has her. Go.”

Peter’s palm drops from Miles as he stands, gritting his teeth, “Where are they?”

Miles shakes his head, “I don’t know Pete. She… she stopped crying a few minutes ago,” he begins to cry. “He came through the window. We- we thought it was you, Pete. I swear. I promise I tried. My powers failed me.. I’m so sorry, Peter. I should have known-.”

“-No, Miles,” Peter interjects, dropping to his knees again and taking his friend’s face in his hands before planting a loving kiss to his forehead. His eyes meet Miles’, “There’s no need to apologize. You’re still learning.. it’s okay.”

Tears run down Miles’ cheeks as he nods at Peter, “I love you, man.”

“I love you, too,” Peter whispers.

“Please, go find her.. He’s going to kill her,” Miles sobs. “She can’t die. I can’t handle another death.”

Peter stands, already stalking towards the door as he cracks his knuckles, “You won’t have to.”

Rage courses through Peter as he nears the cracked door of his bedroom, kicking it open and stepping through the threshold.

“I was wondering if you’d get home before or after I’ve killed them,” a familiar voice comes from the corner of the room. “I’ve been waiting for this day for so long now. I had hoped you’d be here to watch them die. I’m so happy things are working out as planned. You know, Peter - it’s been an awful long time since you’ve watched a loved one die. Hasn’t it?”

“Show yourself, Harry,” Peter growls. “I’m the one you want anyway, right?”

“Peter Parker… such a bright mind, but still can’t figure out the purpose of this all,” Harry let’s out a gravely laugh. “I’m simply doing what I have done before. I’m killing your hope. I don’t want you dead, I want you miserable. I want you to wish for death.”

“Where is she?” Peter asks, fists clenched as his chest rises and falls, “Where is Mary Jane?”

“Oh, the pretty one?” Harry’s voice is playful. “Pete, do you remember what I like to do with pretty women?”

Peter gulps, eyes flickering between rage and sorrow.

“I like to do whatever the fuck I want with pretty women, Peter,” Harry finally steps out of the shadows. “And god damn did I do whatever the fuck I wanted with her.”

Peter charges Harry, hands wrapping around his scaly neck as he begins to choke him, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Do you know who she cried for the entire time?” Harry laughs as he chokes. “You. And - and you - you weren’t there. You - you never are.”

Peter throws Harry against the wall before slamming him onto the ground, holding him by the collar as he screams, “Where is she?!” Peter’s fist meets Harry cheek, then his jaw, then his left eye, then his throat. Harry gasps for air as Peter pulls away, his face beet-red as he screams “Tell me!”

“Go to the bedroom,” Harry smiles. “I’ll just say that she couldn’t move whenever I was done with her.”

Peter immediately runs to Mary Jane’s bedroom.

“Fuck,” he whispers as he sees MJ laying naked on her toddler bed, “Mary Jane.” He rushes to her side, a scream escaping from his throat as he sees the markings all over her beautiful body. Her body already bruising from Harry’s abuse.

His fingers ghost over her bloodied gut, carved perfectly was

H A R R Y

Peter lets out an anguished cry as his hands hover over Mary Jane, to afraid to take her into his arms.

She wakes, eyes lazily opening as she looks to Peter, “Peter.”

“You’re here,” a small smile spreads across her face, her busted lip ripping more due to her drying lips. She hisses.

Peter cries, “MJ.. MJ, I- I- I’m so sorry. Mary Jane… I wasn’t here to protect you. Or- or Miles…”

“But you’re here now,” she blinks before passing back about due to pain.

He sobs, taking MJ by the hand and planting a tender kiss to the top of her limp hand. “I’m going to take care of this, and then I’m going to take care of you and Miles.”

Peter’s face drops, wiping the tears from his warm cheeks as he steps into his bedroom and grabs Harry by the collar.

Peter’s face is expressionless as he starts to pummel his ex-friend - beating him to the point of being unrecognizable. His fists finally stop as he hears Harry’s skull crunch under his final blow.

The hero stands, staring at his work - the bloodied piece of shit lying dead on his bedroom floor. “No one fucks with my family.”

[janeykath318]

You Did Not Just Say That: A Shieldshock Meet Cute

Steve was having dinner with Bucky and Sam to celebrate the end of a long mission and enjoy having real food again. The burgers were beyond delicious and Steve felt incredibly relaxed in the cozy environment, where the waitresses had his order memorized and called everyone “honey”.

Bucky and San were alternately playfully bickering and analyzing the people at the tables near them. Steve was half listening and sometimes interjecting a comment.

“That looks like an awkward first date,” Sam observed, nodding at a table nearby where a man and woman were stiffly eating.

“Very awkward,” Bucky agreed sympathetically. l

The man spent most of his time looking at his phone and the stunning brunette he was with was clearly trying to keep conversation going. In Steve’s opinion, the dude was an idiot.

When his slice of apple pie arrived, warm and gooey with ice cream on top, he forgot about them for a few minutes while he relished the deliciousness of his favorite dessert.

Sam and Bucky had teased him about being a stereotype, but he didn’t care. It was worth it.

“Oh, you did not just say that!”

He glanced up to see the brunette was now glaring daggers at her dinner companion.

“Listen here, Mike. I’ve seen and heard all I need to know. You’re a sexist jerk. Peggy would rise from her grave to punch you if she heard you talking that bullshit. She saved the country from Nazis multiple times and stood up to creeps like you who want to keep women in “their place”. Go back to your cave, Neanderthal. Peggy freaking Carter deserves respect and if all you can see are her boobs, clearly you’re not going to see beyond mine. Be glad I don’t have my taser with me because that comment deserved it. Don’t call me again.”

The angry looking brunette stalked away without a backwards glance ignoring Mike’s call of “Darcy, wait…”

Steve had listened to her rant with stunned admiration, noting the fire in her eyes and the pointed emphasis on the word Neanderthal.

“What did he say?” he asked Bucky.

“I’m not gonna tell you, because I don’t want you getting kicked out of here for assault,” he said, shooting Mike a look of disgust. “It was beyond gross, though. I can’t say I’m not tempted to menace him a little.” He cracked his knuckles and grinned fiendishly.

“He’s not worth it,” Steve declared. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped out of the booth and headed in the direction Darcy had taken. She was sitting just outside the door on a bench muttering under her breath.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” He asked, hoping she wouldn’t think he was being creepy.

Darcy turned around and looked up at him, blue eyes going wide as she recognized him.

“Oh, Wow. Oh.” she managed. “Did you hear that?”

“I caught the gist of it. I didn’t mean to overhear, but I couldn’t help but appreciate what you said to him.”

Darcy’s cheeks turned pink.

“I was just telling the truth. Peggy was one of my heroes.”

“Mine too,” Steve said. “She would definitely approve of you. She didn’t stand for bullies and sexists. Mind if I sit down?”

“It would be unpatriotic of me to refuse,” Darcy said, eyes twinkling at him behind her glasses. They were a very, very pretty shade of blue, he noticed. “Steve Rogers, I presume?”

“In the flesh,” he confirmed as he sat down.

“I’m Darcy Lewis—well, Dr. Darcy Lewis to be precise. Newly minted Astrophysicist and former scientist wrangler.”

“Ah. Thor’s lightning sister,” Steve remarked, recognition sparking. “He’s very proud of you and actually bragged about being tazed by you.”

Darcy chuckled. “He would. So what brings Captain America to Nancy’s diner?”

“The food is the best,” Steve replied decisively. “It’s our post mission wind down dinner tradition. Plus, Nancy loves to fuss over us like we’re her kids.”

“She sure does,” Darcy agreed fondly. “Her boys are all grown and she loves being a mother hen to her regulars.”

Steve took a quick glance back through the window to see Bucky and Sam looming over a scared looking Mike, who nodded and pulled out his wallet. Soon after, he left the diner at a trot, not looking back.

“Thank goodness he’s gone,” Darcy said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Nancy must have put the fear of God into him.”

Steve smiled.

“It wasn’t just Nancy.” He told her.

Bucky and Sam emerged, smiling cheerily. Darcy’s jaw dropped.

“I bet he wet his pants,” she remarked finally, then giggled.

Steve introduced her, but Bucky and Sam, being the good bros they were, made their exits after a few minutes, winking at Steve.

“What’s it like being friends with them?” She queried playfully.

“Never a dull moment,” Steve answered with fond exasperation as Sam and Bucky fought over who was driving.

He turned his gaze back to Darcy.

“Right now, I’m more interested in finding out what it would be like being friends with you.”

Darcy’s mouth opened and closed again and a playful smile bloomed over her face.

“Are you sure you want more trouble in your life, Rogers?” She asked. “Because I tend to attract it.”

“I’m very partial to your kind of trouble,” he told her with a wink and a grin that made Darcy forget all about her disastrous date.

[shiroba]

do you ever just... *cracks knuckles* rise from the grave after 6 years? god i even had to relearn where you go to actually make a post. so uh, hi!

i'm thinking of changing my url, so if you want this one, let me know and i'll tell you when i switch. i'm still very much a dmmd fan and all, but like, it's time.

lately i'm all about the ffvii remake and tbh i suggest you all check it out, i imagine the vitri crowd & sly blue fans might like the specific hell i'm diving into right now

[idontwikeit]

Lazarus Rising 

My first waking thought is: what’s dead should stay dead. Stirring in my grave, pain cracks open my limbs As they heave off the heavy cloak of deathly lead

And darkness woven expertly around me by deep depression, A humble funeral shroud for my turbulent mind and body, Rendered lifeless in this life, and for good reason.

The waking is endless. Each of my extremities Trembles, tearing apart dry muscle from brittle bone, Nerves popping as blood quickens, and gritting teeth

I punch past my coffin’s cheap wood. I atone For my sins with ruptured knuckles, for my lies I breathe in the grave dirt that was my home.

When I breach the surface I hear the poet’s lines; They grip me tight. It fills me with dread To be alive, looking into a kind man’s eyes.      What’s dead should stay dead.

— And This, Your Living Kiss by opal_bullets (@asecretvice on tumblr)

Only a very few people in the world know that the celebrated and reclusive poet Jack Allen is just Kansas mechanic Dean Winchester, a high school dropout with a few bucks to his name. Not that it matters anymore; life has left him so wrung out he never wants to pick up another pen. Until, that is, a string of coincidences leads Dean to auditing a poetry course with one Dr. Castiel Novak. The professor is wildly intelligent, devastatingly handsome...and just so happens to be academia's foremost expert on the poetry of Jack Allen.

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Drache || Sg || Au of an Au of an Au

Don't try to reach me, 'cause I'll tear up your mind I've seen the future and I've left it behind

[“It’s destabilizing.”, sighed Stormy, knuckles rubbing at his temple to mitigate the headache from a sixteen hour binge in New Kimia’s labs as his double rested his head on the dining room table, “I. I can’t fucking figure out why, why NOW- But something’s wrong. Paradox doubles are bleeding through in heavier and heavier numbers, all of them saying they were guided by some kind. Some kind of weird leader.”

“Weird leader? Like a resistance?”, asked Perceptor as Percy stirred his coffee and tilted his head.

“Something in. I think it’s some lingua franca from a fringe colony maybe. Klinky Saga or something?”

“Strange.”, said Percy, the more flamboyant of the doubled Perceptors, before he sipped his coffee, “It almost sounds like old central Iaconian; from before Neo became the preferred speech?”

“Yes, perhaps.”, mused Perceptor, “Try to say it again?”

“Klayne Shagh?”

“Kleyne Shlang.”, said Ratchet from the kitchen as his double looked up, “Means little or young dragon, I think. Some of the old’ns in Vaporex spoke a language modified slightly from auld Iaconian; it’s actually still mostly spoken around where Ma lives.”

“Strange. I wonder why that moniker.”]

Sightless eyes watched the ship engage, a hand covered in a dirty glove didn’t bother to rise to shield a visor as the engines fired up and the shuttle vanished into the nightdark in silence and flickers of miniature sunbeams like a comet.

He turned, looking behind him and away from the Rift in the sky like a bleeding wound as he saw the Hell Horizon of the approaching battalions of the False God’s ships. He cracked his knuckles, tapping the side of the digivisor and whispering his commands.

“Server- destruct. Permissions code 8 dash 6 6 0 dash 3 5 7 7.”

::Permissions accepted, server wipe in t-minus 5...::

He smiled, mirthless and cold, and bolted for the two-man shuttle he’d had waiting on standby. The door hissed closed after him, his digivisor sending the activation codes to the shuttles main console and firing up the idle engines to max in seconds- jarring his passenger awake with a groan.

“Bout time. Thought I’d have to-nngh. Leave without ya.”

“As if you have the ability to stay awake, much less steer Captain.”, was the deadpan answer, “Stop forcing yourself to stay aware, let the sedatives work their magic- you’re gravely injured you know.”

“Yeah, well. Optimus ain’t exactly one to fuck around when it comes to finding out he’s wrong.”

“Hush, Rodimus.”, was the sighed command.

“That’s no way to talk to your old Cap’n, Aid.”

“Not a Captain anymore- The Last Light is rubble and this is my shuttle.”, Was First Aid’s soft answer as he took his seat and heard the distant rumble of carpet-bombing beginning to commence. He paused a moment, closing his eyes in a brief second of grieving for his fourth home lost to the ego of a mad God and then steadied himself. The soft trills and twitters of the console accepting his commands as his hands moved without him looking and he cocked an ear towards the badly beaten man in the passenger side.

“...I’m sorry we lost Magnus.”, was the curt statement.

“...Least we got the twins.”, was Rodimus’s reply, nodding his head to the darkened side of the shuttles interior where two teenage boys slept the sleep of the medicated- each sporting matching black eyes and nose patches, “That’s the important thing. That.. NeoCreator program... Why did Prowl even think it would wo-”

And with that, the shuttle took off at beyond breakneck speed; Rodimus wincing loudly and the twin boys snorting awake with shocked yelps in tandem. They steadied quickly, the Rift rising high in their vision through the heavy window of the shuttle before First Aid snapped the shuttle’s covers closed and dropped them into darkness.

“So. Why the nickname. Little Dragon? Sounds like a cartoon character for younglings learning their colors.”

“It’s something of a signal. To the right people on the other side.”, said First Aid with a grim smile, “...Assuming, of course- they made it. I hope they did- or I’m doomed and you’re dead and so are the boys.”

“Draw made it through.”, grumbled one of the boys with a yawn, “I know he did. His trackers are all still active.”

“Prowl’s trackers, you mean?”

“Nah, his own. He gave me the signal frequency just in case he uh. Vanished on Kimia for No Good Reason.”

“Aw, how sweet. You’re boyfriend taught you how to stalk him-”

“Shut up Forge, you fucking donkey-”

“Boys, no fuckin’ swearing!”

“Hold tight, engaging Rift in Five...”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Another comet in a distant night sky as rolling death drifted over the last vestiges of a paradox planet, smoke billowing from the ruins left behind.

On the other side of the Rift; the sky darkened like an electric storm- the terrifying expulsions of electricity that plagued the planet in the time before history could be remembered. 

Twin Ratchets ran themselves ragged as power flickered, as generators were kicked and revved awake and lines were checked with an obsessive frequency. The sky was pitch black and the Rift pulsed in the sky like a visible tear in an artery, like a threat without words.

Blue eyes watched, too dark coffee was drunk too fast because sometimes chemicals could be a lifeline.

“What is on your mind, double?”, asked a modified medic with an amused snort.

A sigh, a hand through still vibrantly red hair.

“I’m just thinkin’ about what Stormy said, that he’d found out about the paradox doubles coming through the Rift. They keep saying they’re being.. Directed? Sent? By someone.”

“Oho, another ragtag attempt at resisting my people’s Optimus. Goody-goody.”, was the exhausted mutter, “Do tell, what grand title did this one use.”

“It almost sounds. Childish. Cartoonish. Like a nickname, y’know?”

“Mhm. Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It’s old Teorrex, for Little Dragon. Sounds like a cartoon charac- GGGHK!”

And suddenly, Ratchet is faced with a mad-eyed double, modified hand cinched around a strong neck and pulling them close enough for him to see fear and the flickers of enhancements in glimmering eyes.

“ARE YOU SURE. ARE YOU CERTAIN-”

“Y-hgk-YES NOW LEMME GO BEFORE I CHOKE ASSHOLE-”

He was released with apologies, whispered and almost frantic and suddenly Ratchet is watching his wilder twin skitter about like a spooked deer, snatching up things like keycard rings and digging about in desk drawers for-

“IS THAT A FUCKING PISTOL.”

“Yes, yes it fucking is!”, hissed the more vicious of the pair, “I have to go, I need to get to the Rift immediately-”

“Wh- What, hey wait WHY after hearin’ that silly name are you running off like a Petrex hen with it’s head lopped off-”

“Drache.”

A pause.

A sigh from the modified medic that seemed to deflate him and his ego at once, “Drache was a nickname Prowl had for me. Dragon, in auld Iaconian. It was... Not quite an inside joke, more likely it was derogatory because of his jealousy and, well. The fact he was absolutely out of his mind with zealotry. But Little Dragon as a name isn’t a name or a title. It’s a signal.”

“A signal?”

“Yes. The little me. The smaller me- That nickname could be First Aid on the run again; since I am gone, and he was CMO of the Last Light then... then when Optimus reclaimed it he...”

“...He woulda forced your Aid to become his medic, thinking your Aid could keep him alive like you used to.”

“Exactly. That name can’t be an accident- Not with how clever my boy is. Now; I have to go- I have to go and make sure; The Rift is acting up obviously, and it does this before a horde pushes through.”

Then the sky crackled alive with fingers of electricity and the Rift seemed to glow brighter and almost wider as the noses of shuttles pushed through, looking like a shark’s teeth growing in due to the the distance from the planet’s surface.

“Get goin’ then! I can hold down this place, I’ve held down worse now GIT!”

A mod from the modded double and he snatched his day coat, hurriedly pulling it on to flare behind him as he ran- polished leather shoes silent on the sanitized tiles as he barged through doors and out into the street.

Hurriedly, his vehicle rumbled to life, the dashcomm activating when he babbled his verbal code and his modded hands nearly dented the steering as he gripped onto it.

“Mmn, hello dear- Just woke up from a nap; wait, you should still be on shift love, love what is it-”

“Aid’s coming.”, he choked out as his speed climbed higher. His eyes burned almost like they needed to grieve as hope climbed too high behind a reinforced chest, “It’s Aid, love. I know it is. Double told me the name the Riftrunners have been giving.”

“What name, oh, the whole little dra...gon...”, Percy’s voice trailed off, and then silence before a breathless half sob leaked through, “Oh God. Oh God that’s right, Prowl always called you that stupid fucking name and Aid was. You made him CMO before...”

“I did. I shouldn’t have god DAMMIT I’ve never been stupider- Hell in a handbasket this is the biggest horde through the Rift yet-”

The commline dropped as his vehicle’s motors died with a shriek; as massive shuttles drifted through with scalds and scorchmarks all along the sides and stamped with city names he could feel were long gone.

He stumbled out, jacket flapping in the heated downdrafts that kept bursting through in random intervals and then he saw it- as the last shuttle pushed through and the Rift began to shrink back down to it’s usual size once more.

He saw it, careening crookedly through the sky at an uncontrolled angle with red lights bright along each side... and the Mad Mod Medic began to run. He shouldered past Enforcers and field medics, modified eyes on the sky and blown wide as enhancements zoomed in best they could; soot dusted his clothes as he got ever closer to the hellscape of a landing zone the massive shuttles had chosen as their own systems gave out and he watched in sudden and new terror as the much smaller spacecraft spiralled down and slammed into the ground at what he prayed was not terminal velocity.

And he ran. He felt the singe of seams in clothes overheating as he got closer and closer to the still bubbling hull and gagged as he breathed too deep the fumes of burning protectant coatings and crackling systems.

He pounded his fist on the shuttle’s visible and half melted door, bellowing a name loud enough for his forgotten God to hear.

“MULLEIN, MULLEIN ARE YOU IN THERE, CAN YOU HEAR ME!!”

The trill of the lock releasing, and a crackle in his earpiece comm.

“Papa, hel-”, and static.

He ran his hands over the shuttle door, looking for any point to get a grip on even as he heard Enforcers behind him.

“Sir, hands up, this is a restricted zone-”

“MY SON IS IN HERE NOW STEP DOWN OR YOU NEVER SEE YOUR FAMILIES AGAIN!”

Steam trickled from between megalodon’s teeth, eyes wide and glowing in unholy glimmers of green and blue and sickly hazmat yellow. He turned back, snarling again and flexing modified hands to expose knifelike claw implants that had long ago replaced fingernails. Still simmering metal screamed like it was in pain as he dug hands into where seams once were before the Rift burned it all together, and he began to pull. He pulled until he felt shoulders creak, until the nanomodded heart in his chest seemed to scream in time with the steel and he had to pause- coughing toxicity and pressure steam before his moved his head to crack his neck and start again.

Inside the shuttle, Aid coughed weakly; Halfway through the push through the Rift internal oxygenation systems had failed. He had masked the twin boys and Rodimus but all three had fallen unconscious as sedatives and lack of air slowly began to overtake them.

And Aid had simply tried to breath quick and soft and small; just like all those years ago when his Nana bundled him close and told him to breathe by her heart; when the air was hot like it was now, when the smoke tasted acrid where it leaked in from the crash and it smelled like Vaporex burning.

And then, there was light. Flashlight.

Flashlights illuminating a broad-shouldered silhouette with shimmering eyes and a crisp-shouldered businessman’s coat.

“H-Hello. Father.”, rasped First Aid as his digivisor finally shorted out, “Rodim-s. Stitches. Not holding-”

Aid passed out then, feeling his body relax and weaken as the bellows of unfamiliar voices called for breather masks and oxygen tanks. As he felt familiar modified and calloused hands reach in after the weight of Rodimus and the boys was moved from the broad chest he inherited from Optimus’s right hand medic.

The paradox Ratchet stood tall, Enforcers backing away at the few mods that had activated in his panic and fury and he lifted his Aid from the destroyed shuttle and held him close.

“Call the New Iacon Research Hospital.”, he rasped, “Call the red Ratchet.”

{The between place glimmered like the Rift. Aid looked around, touching his face and knowing he was dreaming because his vision was so very bright. His steps clacked like he walked the halls of an afterlife his Nana once pondered the existence of.

“Mullein. Lee, my baby.”

He turned, recognizing that voice.

“Nana! Nana where are you!”

“Foller my voice, young’n. Your papa’s worried sick now.”

“NANA! NANA WAIT WAIT FOR ME!”

“Oh baby- it ain’t time for you t’follow me so far yet.”, were the words that echoed around him as his temples began to throb, “Jus’ follow m’voice. I’m so proud a’you li’l one. Now g’wan. Your Papa is so worr-”}

-”ied about you. And so am I, my sweet boy.”

“Nana!”

Aid sat bolt upright, seeing only vague shadowy grey shapes once more before something clicked near his ear and his digivisor flickered back into activation to once more give him his crystalline color vision.

Percy sniffed grandly, eye swollen and red, “Oh my baby- you c-c-cAME HOME!”

He grunted as Percy threw himself against Aid’s chest, and his arms went around his Baba on instinct and he looked slowly around with a hard wince.

“Head is POUNDING-”

“You were on the way out young’n.”

He whipped his head to the side, instinctively reaching for a sidearm he realized he no longer had, “...Father?”

“Nah, well. Kinda? I’m... his double. His paradox twin. The Rift it... Leads to our universe. Our version of it, anyway.”

Aid raised his eyebrows, “...This has to be a joke.”

“It’s not.”, was the sigh on his other side, and he turned- and couldn’t help the shrieked swear as he clung tight to his Baba and made the vampiric sniper wheeze.

The double Aid’s stared at each other, the sighted one moving his visor up to show the entirety of his annoyed expression, “Get it out now, dude- I really don’t want a repeat of the Brainstorm’s okay? If you’re gonna try and kill me, do it now-”

“The Warmaster. Is here.”, were the growled words that made several eyes widen slightly, “And WHERE is that rude, narcissistic, borderline nymphomaniacal ratfink.”

“Uhm. Well, he is with his Quickdraw. They’ve been sitting with the Rodimus you brought in and the twin boys. His Quickdraw was rather antsy about them all.”

“Yeah, he and young Dominus the Second have been an item since they started their study years not long before the Rift.”

“...Right. Uh, anyway yeah! That’s where he is; with our daughter also, she was fussy and I didn’t think you needed a crying toddler in the room coming back from nearly suffocating.”

“YOU PROCREATED WITH THAT PILE OF MISMATCHED ALLELES, ARE YOU BRAINDEAD OR SIMPLY MENTAL?!”

“HEY, THAT’S MY HUSBAND YOU’RE ACCUSING OF BEING A MENTAL ILLNESS, NOW-”

“YOUR HUSBAND ONCE SENT ME A VOICE CLIP OF HIM BRAGGING ABOUT RAILING MY BABA BECAUSE I REMINDED HIM HE WAS SCARED OF FATHER!”

“HE WHAT?!”

And with those words, a modified hand gently landed on top of dark waves cut through with auburn highlights.

“Storm’s sins against you aside, son.”, rumbled a familiar voice, “Welcome back from the brink.”

He turned his head back to see his Father, face tired and reddened near the edges of modified eyes. Aid twitched his nose, his version of a squint.

“Father. You have been crying. You know that can corrode the facial circuitry-”

And then words were muffled as both Percy and the newer Aid were enveloped in a breath-killing hug; tight enough to make natural spines creak.

Aid coughed weakly, patting at his father to be released and hiding his grin at the show of emotion.

Percy held his son’s face, frantically peering about and checking for any more damage before Aid sighed and laid his hands on Percy’s.

“Baba, I’m alright now.”

“I know, I know but. What would have possessed you to do something so bloody RASH?! What if he had killed you?!”

“He was going to.”, said Aid softly, jumping slightly as his double crossed his arms to lean against the wall, “Something’s gone... terribly wrong. There’s been disappearances in the higher echelons- nobility vanishing without a trace, prisoners being found in pieces in their cells with very particular parts missing.”

The paradox Ratchet’s jaw set in a grim line, “...He’s decaying.”

“Yeah, he is.”, sighed Aid, “He thought for some reason I knew how to replicate Father’s remedies and when he realized I couldn’t, well. He sent Rodimus after me... with another agent.”

“Who?”

“...The Executioner. Magnus.”

The room went cold, and the sighted Aid glanced from face to face before looking at his own papa and staying silent by the look in his eyes.

“The planet on that side of the Rift is. Dying. Maybe already dead. The Matrix’s corruption is overtaking the False God faster than he can be put back together and he’s finally gone totally mad. I had to evacuate who I could. I had to, Baba.”

Aid hung his head, “...I couldn’t let Vaporex happen all over again, not while I could do something.”

A sigh, “That’s why you used that name. You knew I and your Baba had gone through. You knew, if I were alive, I’d pick up on it.”

“I’d expect Der Drache to know his hatchling was trying to get safe.”

A chuckle, “You’ve done well, First Aid.”

A softly hopeful twitch to a mouth that this universe’s Aid remembered having all too many times.

“I’ve never been more proud of you.”

“....Not even when I blackmailed Prowl into bankrolling my first single-shuttle?”

“This is even better than that- but only just.”

There was a knock at the door, the sound of a nurse’s voice calling gently, “Pardon me, a visitor for- uhm. kleyne.. something, oh dear.”

“Send them in.”, rumbled both Ratchet’s in unison before giving a half hearted squint to each other.

The door slammed open then, and the nurse yelped as the figure in the doorway grunted and the medical boot on their leg thudded into the room. He leaned against the doorframe, giving an exhaustedly fond look to the Aid on the bed.

“Kiddo, when you tol’ me you’d be tailin’ in a shuttle you coulda TOLD ME that the shuttle you was tailin’ in had injured aboard.”

“Sorry, Uncle Hide. You were worried enough shepherding the refugees and I needed you crisp and alert just in case it all went tits up tango, so to speak.”

“HIDE?!”

Ironhide, or the paradox double of him, looked up and grinned before digging in a pocket and pulling out the remnants of a cigar and tucking it between his teeth, “You and Percy pumped out a helluva rebel there Ratch. He made his Nana proud. Twice an’ double, he saved.”

The unmodified medic watched in amusement as his modded double bolted at the speed of too fast, barreling into the paradox Ironhide and crushing him into a near-pneumatic hug.

“L-Lemme fuckin’ go you gotdamn hellhound, they JUST stabilized m’spinal rods again!”

[softlittlegrumbles]

These Foreign Aches

[Atticus and John are my ocs and mine alone]

Chapter One

The wind off the lake tasted like rust and regret, curling through the high-rises and settling in the bones of the city. It seeped under doors, through cracks in old brick, into the gaps between ribs where loneliness took root.

Atticus Graves had long since stopped believing in ghosts, but he could feel something trailing him as he let himself into their apartment. A specter of exhaustion, maybe. Or the presence of John—waiting. Always waiting.

The place was dark except for the glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtains, turning the living room into a chiaroscuro painting of oranges and deep blue shadows. Atticus set his bag down by the door, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and let the quiet settle over him. He knew better than to call out.

John moved like a trick of the eye—one moment, absence, the next, a presence felt before seen. He leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen, arms crossed over a chest that rose and fell only out of habit. He looked young, unfairly so, somewhere between 25 and 30 in the cruel stasis of his immortality. Atticus, at 40, was all soft decay—lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight wear of time in the way he carried himself. John was a preserved thing, untouched.

"You were out late," John murmured, his voice a familiar weight, smooth as blood running over glass.

Atticus loosened the top button of his shirt, his fingers slowing as he looked at him. "Deadlines don’t wait for me to be well-rested."

John didn’t move closer, but he didn’t need to. The air between them grew charged, thick with the unspoken.

"You smell like outside," John finally said, quiet, contemplative. "Ink and paper and cold air. And coffee you barely drank."

"You can always tell," Atticus said, an old half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting in the dark, sharp enough to cut. "I know you," he said simply.

Atticus exhaled, slow. There were nights he wanted to slip between John’s teeth, let himself be tasted, devoured. But then there were nights like this, where John watched him like something fragile. As if time would take him away too soon, as if four hundred years hadn’t taught John how to hold onto things.

Atticus closed the space between them, resting a hand against John's chest. Beneath his palm, no heartbeat. Never a heartbeat.

"Take me to bed," Atticus said, and John, who had survived centuries, who had watched empires rise and rot, obeyed as if it were the only thing he had ever known how to do.

Their feet padded over the soft carpet, the city’s neon glow stretching long across the bedroom walls. John’s back met the edge of the mattress, and Atticus followed, a slow press of weight and warmth.

Atticus kissed him softly, his hands steady on John's waist, grounding himself.

I missed you.

His voice was quiet, but his lips didn't lie. The words settled in the air between them, heavier than they should have been.

John’s fingers traced the sharp ridges of Atticus’ knuckles, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a string pulled too tight. “I know,” he murmured. “I felt it.”

That was the thing about John—he didn’t just see Atticus’ exhaustion; he felt it, breathed it in like perfume, let it settle under his skin like a secondhand sadness. Four centuries had sharpened his senses beyond reason. He could taste Atticus’ longing as surely as blood on his tongue.

Atticus let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Of course you did." His fingers slipped into John’s hair, pushing it back, watching the way his face softened under the touch. “God, I could fall asleep like this.”

John tilted his head, eyes hooded, something unreadable shifting behind them. “Then sleep.”

Atticus sighed and rested his forehead against John’s. He knew what John was offering—stillness, the comfort of cold arms and centuries of patience. But Atticus didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He wanted to cling to wakefulness. It wasn't fair that John got so much of the night to himself. Maybe he was selfish.

Instead of answering, he kissed John again, deeper this time, fingers skimming over the smooth, unchanging lines of his body. John let him, let Atticus take something from him, let him press warmth into the parts of him that hadn’t felt heat in centuries.

“Let me hold you,” John whispered against his lips, a question disguised as a command.

Atticus exhaled slowly, his body sinking against John’s like an unraveling. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Alright.”

And for a little while, he let himself be held.

John’s fingers moved through Atticus’ hair with slow, deliberate care, brushing through the strands where silver wove itself between dark. He let them linger there, tracing time in the places it had touched him.

Atticus exhaled, a sound close to contentment. “You don’t have to look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they mean something.” His eyes stayed closed, but his mouth curved slightly, that quiet, knowing smile he always wore when teasing John.

“They do mean something,” John said, voice soft but sure. “They mean you’ve lived.”

Atticus hummed low in his throat. “And you haven’t?”

John’s fingers paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before continuing their slow path over Atticus’ scalp. He didn’t answer.

Atticus cracked one eye open, watching him through the dim light. “Do you miss it?” he asked.

John tilted his head. “Miss what?”

“The proof.” Atticus’ voice was quiet, thoughtful. “That time has touched you.”

John smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t need proof. I feel it.”

Atticus reached up, his fingers curling lightly around John’s wrist, pulling his hand away just enough to kiss his palm. It was warm where it had been tangled in his hair, warmed by the heat of Atticus’ body, but soon it would fade, just like every time before.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” John murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I mean something.”

Atticus chuckled, quiet and low. “You do.”

John didn’t argue, didn’t remind him that time would take Atticus before it could ever touch him. Instead, he pulled him closer, wrapping himself around him in a way that felt more like devotion than anything else.

“Sleep,” he whispered against his hair.

And this time, Atticus did.

The room was dark, wrapped in the kind of silence that pressed against the skin. The blackout curtains swallowed the morning whole, trapping the night inside like a secret. Atticus blinked against it, disoriented, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. 10 a.m.

He overslept.

Beside him, John lay still, chest unmoving, face serene in a way that only the truly dead could manage. Atticus had always found it unsettling at first, that unnatural stillness, like John had been sculpted from marble and left to rest in a crypt. But now, he knew better. John was awake, in a way—just not in the way humans were. He’d slip into that deep, deathless sleep eventually, but right now, he was lingering somewhere between.

Atticus exhaled and shifted onto his side, fingers ghosting over John’s bare shoulder. “You watching me?” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

John’s lips barely quirked. “No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

A pause, then: “You talk in your sleep.”

Atticus made a noise of protest, burying his face into the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” John insisted, amusement threading through his voice. “Mumbled something about me being a very obedient vampire.”

Atticus groaned, the heat of mild embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I’m leaving. I’m moving out.”

John’s laughter was soft, barely there, but real. “No, you’re not.”

Atticus sighed, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “No, I’m not.”

They laid there for a moment, wrapped in the comfortable hush of the room, the kind of quiet that belonged only to places where morning hadn’t yet intruded. Eventually, Atticus sighed again and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I need coffee.”

John hummed. “I need—” He paused, considering.

Atticus turned his head toward him. “Blood?”

John smirked lazily. “I was going to say company, but now that you mention it…”

Atticus rolled his eyes and pushed the covers off. “Offer expired.”

John caught his wrist before he could fully pull away, his grip gentle, cool. “Stay a little longer.”

Atticus hesitated, looking down at him, at the unchanging face he had memorized. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about John was fair, he thought absently. To be held in amber like that, untouched by time, while he was slipping, piece by piece, hair silver, stripped of its rich color, lines growing deeper, flesh still warm but always, always running out of time.

Maybe that was why he stayed. Why he let John pull him back down into the dark, even when the sun was waiting outside.

The sheets were still warm, pulling him under like a riptide. Atticus let himself sink, let his body relax back into the space where John’s presence curled around him. Just a little longer. He could afford that.

Then John kissed his wrist, slow and deliberate, right over the delicate blue lattice of veins. It was more than just longing—it was hunger, tempered but present, threading itself through the gesture like silk unraveling.

Atticus swallowed. “You’re being obvious.”

John’s lips curved against his skin. “I don’t have to hide from you.”

His tongue flicked out, barely there, a whisper of warmth against the pulse point. It sent a sharp shiver up Atticus’ spine, not just from the sensation but from the knowledge of what could happen. What John could do, if he chose. If Atticus let him.

He turned his head, eyes meeting John’s in the dark. “How bad is it?”

John exhaled, slow. “Manageable.” But his fingers curled a little tighter around Atticus’ wrist, like he could feel the blood moving just beneath the surface.

Atticus considered that, tracing his free hand along John’s jaw. “You could—”

“No.” It was firm, immediate.

Atticus raised an eyebrow. “No?”

John lifted his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Not when you’re tired. Not when you haven’t eaten.”

Atticus huffed, rolling onto his back. “Always so goddamn noble about it.”

John smirked. “You’d complain if I wasn’t.”

Atticus couldn’t argue with that. Then again, it wasn't uncommon for John to change his mind about blood. Especially if it was offered to him.

The room settled back into quiet, but the air between them buzzed with something unspoken. John shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at Atticus with an expression that was more knowing than it had any right to be. “You like it when I want you,” he murmured.

Atticus didn’t move, didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

John smiled, slow and sharp, before leaning down and kissing him properly, teeth just barely grazing his lower lip. “Then let me show you.”

Atticus let John pull him under, let himself sink into the kiss like surrendering to dark water. The weight of him pressed down, cool and grounding, the contrast between them stark—John, still and unchanging, Atticus, warm and fleeting, always moving toward something that John never had to fear.

John’s mouth was gentle, but his hands weren’t. He gripped Atticus’ wrists, pinning them to the bed like something precious he wasn’t ready to let slip away. The moment stretched between them, thick with the weight of hunger—not just bloodlust, not just longing, but something heavier, something John never said out loud.

Atticus exhaled against his lips. “You always do this.”

John tilted his head, thumb tracing the rapid beat of Atticus’ pulse. “Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m the one who’s going to disappear.”

John’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his dark eyes. “You are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Atticus’ throat, lips parting over the heat of his skin. “Eventually.”

Atticus shivered. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. But hearing it like that—soft, inevitable—set something in his chest alight.

John's mouth moved lower, tongue flicking over the delicate skin of his collarbone, his jaw tightening as if he was fighting some internal battle. Atticus arched slightly, pressing up into him, not sure if it was an invitation or a dare.

"John," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. "Just—"

John didn’t make him finish the thought.

He sank his teeth in.

It was a slow puncture, sharp but careful, a deliberate unraveling. The pain barely had time to register before the pull of it took over, something deep and dizzying, pleasure curling at the edges of it like smoke. Atticus exhaled hard, his fingers twisting into the sheets as heat spread through his limbs.

John groaned against his skin, hands sliding to Atticus’ waist, pulling him closer, as if he could take more than just blood, as if he could drink him down completely.

Atticus’ breath hitched. He let himself tip into it, let John take what he needed, let himself be consumed.

Taking blood always felt bigger than it was. In some ways, it was. John had lived long enough to know that feeding was more than just survival, more than just hunger. It was communion. It was trust, offered up on the fragile altar of human flesh.

And Atticus—Atticus gave so easily.

His pulse beat against John’s lips, a rhythm he could fall into if he let himself. The heat of him, the sharp tang of copper bursting over his tongue, the way Atticus’ breath caught in his throat—it was all-consuming, the kind of intimacy that John had never quite learned how to name.

He forced himself to pull back before he could take too much, before the haze of need dulled his control. His tongue flicked over the wound, closing it with something close to reverence. Beneath him, Atticus was pliant, loose-limbed and humming with the residual high, his body draped against the sheets like he’d been unraveled.

John watched him for a moment, something unreadable coiling in his chest. He brushed a thumb over Atticus’ cheek, tracing the color that had already begun to fade, his warmth just slightly dimmed.

"You good?" His voice was quiet, rougher than usual.

Atticus blinked up at him, dazed but smirking. "You always ask."

John huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "And you always act like it’s unnecessary."

Atticus exhaled slowly, shifting onto his side, his fingers finding John’s wrist, pressing over where a pulse should be. He did that sometimes, absentmindedly, as if he expected one to return if he searched for it often enough.

John let him.

For a moment, they just breathed—well, Atticus did. John only pretended.

"You’ll need coffee after that," John murmured. "And food."

Atticus sighed dramatically. "You’re worse than a nurse."

John smirked. "I’d be a terrible nurse. No bedside manner."

Atticus grinned, sharp and lazy. "No, I think you’d be excellent at bedside matters."

John rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Atticus’ forehead before murmuring, "I’ll make the coffee."

Atticus made a contented noise, curling deeper into the sheets. "You’re an angel."

John laughed at that, a low, rich sound. "Not quite."

And then he slipped out of bed, leaving Atticus warm and drowsy in the darkness, the taste of him still lingering on John’s tongue.

Determined to regain some sense of autonomy, Atticus pushed himself upright only for the world to tilt violently on its axis. His vision swam, dark at the edges, and he let out a slow breath before easing himself back down. Fuck.

He wasn't fragile—not yet—but mornings like this reminded him that he was, at the very least, human. John never took too much, but blood loss was blood loss, and it left him feeling hollowed out, unmoored. He pressed a hand to his forehead, fingers cold against his overheated skin, and exhaled through his nose. Somehow, in that moment, he felt older than he was.

Forty wasn’t a tipping point—not exactly—but it sure as hell wasn’t youthful anymore. There was an ache in his bones that hadn’t been there a decade ago, a weariness that settled deeper than sleep could fix. He wasn’t vain about aging, but he felt it in ways that unsettled him. Especially next to John.

John, who hadn’t aged a day in four hundred years.

A few years back, he had asked John if it was possible. If he could be turned. Not for vanity or vitality, but because a life without John felt like nothing at all. Like a different kind of mortal death.

John had gone quiet, the way he did when something mattered—when words had weight and he had to measure them carefully before releasing them into the air.

"I don’t want that for you," he had finally said.

Atticus had scoffed, as if it were a ridiculous thing to say. "You think I want to get old and die while you stay exactly the same?"

John had looked at him then, really looked at him, and Atticus had hated the softness in his expression, the pity laced through it like silk-thin thread. "I think you don’t know what you’re asking for."

And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he still didn’t.

But now, lying there in the dark with the weight of morning pressing down on him, he wondered. If he asked again—now, with time creeping closer like an inevitability—would John be more understanding?

Doubtful.

John had spent centuries perfecting the art of refusal, of gentle, unwavering nos wrapped in the illusion of kindness. Atticus could press, could sink his teeth into the question and refuse to let go, but he already knew how the conversation would end.

Like it always did.

With John’s cool hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw. With a sigh that sounded like mourning, like I wish things were different, but never I’ll make them so.

Atticus exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face, pushing the thought away as John stepped into the room, the scent of hazelnut cutting through the heavy air. He carried a mug in one hand, casual, effortless, like he hadn’t been moving through this same routine for decades. Like he hadn’t been watching Atticus slip further from his prime with each passing year.

"Sit up," John said, voice warm, like the choice to obey was Atticus’ own.

Atticus huffed but did as he was told, moving slower this time, wary of the lingering lightheadedness. John handed him the coffee, watching as he took the first careful sip.

"You're looking at me like I might keel over," Atticus muttered, wrapping both hands around the mug.

John smirked, sliding onto the bed beside him. "I’m just admiring your resilience."

Atticus snorted. "Right. That what we’re calling it?"

John leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his temple. "You let me take from you before you even had breakfast. That’s either resilience or recklessness."

Atticus closed his eyes for half a second, letting himself lean into John before he could think better of it. "Maybe both."

John hummed, a sound that might have been agreement. Then, quieter, "You’re thinking about it again."

Atticus stilled, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic. "Thinking about what?"

John gave him a look. Don’t do that.

Atticus sighed. "Would it be so bad?"

John’s expression flickered, something old and complicated threading through the sharp angles of his face.

"Don’t ask me that."

Atticus studied him, taking another sip of coffee. "Why not?"

John didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for Atticus’ wrist again, thumb tracing absently over the faint marks from earlier, barely visible now.

"Because," John said finally, voice too careful, too even. "You already know what I’d say."

-

Note: AAAA IF U READ THIS FAR YOU'RE A REAL ONE idk if my writing is even good but I love writing, esp about my characters so thanks for being interested ✌️

[mandoalorian]

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — One: Direction

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Taglists (let me know if you wish to be added!)—

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth

I Believe In Love: @mrschiltoncat @thebloodrobin @greatvaluedazzler @bxxbxy @marydjarin @the-feckless-wonder @typicalnerd98 @biharryjames @thwiso

Rating: 15+

Word count: 4,700>

Masterlist

Previous - One - Next

"I wish to travel to the world of man," you announced with a deep breath and a confident smile. Hippolyta looked at you and laughed. Her Amazonian guards copied the actions of their queen and burst into a fit of giggles that made you feel like a silly small child.

"And where has this outburst come from?" Hippolyta asked with a quirked eyebrow as she folded her arms across her chest. The laughing slowly quietened down as she waited for a response.

"I've been having these dreams," you began to explain hesitantly. Hippolyta leaned forward in her throne and looked at you quizzically, making a small gesture with her hand that urged you to continue. "I've been seeing death and destruction, I've been watching the world of man crumble…"

"You want to travel to a collapsing society? Don't be foolish, that doesn't sound safe. Why leave the beautiful walls of Themyscira to travel to the world of man?" You had heard stories about the world of man and how it was filled with greed and corruption. Themyscira was peaceful. It wasn't that you wanted to leave, it was that you knew deep in your heart that your time had come.

Hippolyta was right. You looked around the palace that you had stepped foot in, the marble floor under your toes and the gold intricate details that patterned across the walls. "You let Diana." you mumbled under your breath, turning away from the queen and beginning to walk towards the double doors that you had entered through, ready to leave the palace.

"What was that?" Hippolyta asked, rising to her feet. You opened your mouth to answer but an excruciating pain shot through your head— and that's when you heard him. You heard his voice again. His pain. It wasn't just in your dreams anymore… you could feel him like he was there, with you, like he was part of you. You screamed and fell to your knees as tears spilled from your eyes, your fingers clenching into a fist so hard your knuckles turned white. The pain was so intense and you heard his words over and over again. Hippolyta ran over to you, sinking down to your level and cradling your weeping body in her arms. She called your name. "What is it?"

"He's calling for me," you choked back a sob. "The world of man is in grave danger."

"From who?" Hippolyta questioned, wiping your tears away as you tried to regulate your own erratic breathing.

"I don't know, but I must help." you gasped. "I must help him. Please allow me to go." you grabbed Hippolyta's arms and looked at her with pleading eyes. "You allowed Diana."

"Diana was a fighter, our best one," Hippolyta said slowly, shaking her head at the memory of her daughter. "You are not a fighter." She said the four words matter of factory but her denial made your anger rifle through your body.

"Maybe I can win this without fighting," you sobbed. "Yes, I have no training. I do not use a sword or a shield, but my mother taught me that battles can be won if we just use our heart. If we love." you felt like you were begging as you recalled Hestia's words to you. Your Themysciran tribe were of a peaceful nature, and although small, your leader, Aphrodite, preached about the power of love.

"Olympus and Eurydice loved and what happened to them?" Hippolyta scolded, her question rhetorical. You recalled the story in the back of your mind and winced, knowing their fate. "We are Amazonians. If the world of men needs saving, then Diana will save them. Go home my child, I forbid you from leaving Themyscira."

Your heart broke. You couldn't believe that Hippolyta was confining you to the walls of Themyscira. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. It was only once in a turn of centuries did an Amazonian connect with someone from the outside world— and now, you had. You had made that connection, but Hippolyta forbade you from acting upon it. You composed yourself as you stormed out of the palace and hurried down the stone steps. Tightening the buckles on your gladiator sandals, you wiped your furious tears away and took a deep breath as the anger consumed you.

It wasn't fair. You had spent your childhood studying the world of man, learning about them and their ways. Nobody had cared more about helping others than you. Your desire to care for those around you came from your very own purpose. When Zeus sculpted you in his own image, he made you goddess of home and hearth. He gave you your abilities for a reason. Amazonian's outside your tribe shamed you for your kind and compassionate heart— telling you it was a weakness more than a strength. They belittled you and made you feel unworthy. As you remembered your childhood trauma, you pulled out your hair from your tiara. You lived on Themyscira your whole life but it never truly felt like home. You always craved for something more.

You ran home. You ran as fast as your feet could carry you, letting your tears fall and your screams of anguish echo through the Themsycrian forests. It wasn't fair. What did Hippolyta expect you to do? Deal with this for the rest of your life. How could you not help the man who's pain was destroying his very soul? The Gods had connected you and him for a reason. You had to go. You had to.

As soon as you arrived home you broke down. Your mother heard your cries and found you in the garden, picking at the native Themysciran flowers as your salty tears dropped on the lilac coloured petals. "Hippolyta denied your request?" Hestia asked, sitting on the wall next to you. You nodded sadly. "Sweet child, tell me more about these dreams. About this...man."

You didn't see the point now that you knew you wouldn't be able to leave Themyscira. But Hestia was your mother and you loved her dearly, and so you took a shaky exhale and done your very best to explain. "It feels like I've known him forever, like he's always been a part of me," you admitted. "But— I don't even know his name." you shrugged helplessly and cracked a small smile, listening to how pathetic you must've sounded. Maybe Hippolyta had a point. "I don't even know how he looks. Even if I did venture to the world of man, how could I possibly find him?"

Hestia sighed, unclipping her lasso from her tunic and wrapping it carefully around your wrist. You looked up at your mother, your eyes comically wide as the lasso glowed yellow. "Close your eyes, my child," Hestia whispered. "See him. See the truth."

You closed your eyes and let your soul space away as the lasso transported your mind to elsewhere. To him— the man of your dreams.

"Alistair?" Maxwell cleared his throat, his son's head snapping in the direction of his father. "That was your mother. She wants you home." Maxwell pointed aimlessly back at the telephone.

"But daddy, you promised the whole weekend together!" Alistair's eyes began to well up with tears. Maxwell ran to his son's side, his heart aching at the sight of disappointment and he pulled Alistair into his chest.

"I know, and I will keep my word," he hushed Alistair, smoothing out his hair. "Don't worry." Alistair nuzzled his face into Maxwell's dress shirt, sniffing in fear of losing his father again. There was a few beats of silence as Maxwell's brain ticked like clockwork, trying to work out what his ex wife's intentions were. "Does your mother… does she ever talk about me?" Maxwell asked hesitantly, unsure if he was about to regret the question.

"I hear her, sometimes. I hear her talk about you to Ted," Alistair admitted, referencing his mother's new boyfriend. Maxwell hummed, still stroking his son's hair. He wondered whether or not he should ask Alistair what exactly she said, but decided against it, not wanting to hurt his son anymore than he already had. He knew that Juliana had nothing good to say about Maxwell.

"Ted? I thought he liked to be called Theodore," Maxwell chuckled, rolling his eyes and Alistair giggled back. Max and Alistair would often joke about how pretentious Ted could be.

"Well now he wants me to call him dad," Alistair sighed, too young to understand the implications of that revelation. Maxwell's heart broke. Of course Juliana wanted her son to call her new boyfriend 'dad'. She got Alistair on the weekdays and Maxwell got him on the weekends, it was more than likely he saw Ted more than he saw Max, and Max knew for certain that Juliana's hatred was fueled further with his every breath. The prolonged silence urged Alistair to speak up. "But I told mom I won't."

"You did?" Maxwell smiled sadly. "Why?"

"Because you're my dad!" Alistair grinned. "And you'll always be my dad, no matter what."

Maxwell couldn't bring himself to reply. His stomach twisted into knots as he thought about Julianna's words over the phone. "You do not deserve him. I don't want you anywhere near my son ever again."

He knew the level of determination his ex wife possessed and if this meant she wanted sole custody of Alistair then Maxwell knew there would be very little that would stop her. He had messed up bad this time. Alistair felt tiny in Max's arms, but Max knew his son's heart was huge and filled with unconditional love. But the worry and guilt consumed him. How could Max possibly fight and win this case— after everything that had happened? He didn't even have the money for good lawyers. Maxwell whispered an incoherent 'I love you' into the crook of Alistair's neck, his shutting as a tear slipped down his cheek.

Your own eyes snapped open, your chest heaving and panting as the lasso of truth unravelled itself from your wrist. "What did you see?" Hestia asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Did you see the man of your dreams?"

You tried to process everything. "I didn't see him," you whispered feeling defeated. "But I heard his voice. And I learned his name. He's a father and he's afraid of losing his son," you explained, taking in everything you had learned. "And his son is afraid of losing his father."

"When you awoke last night, what did you hear?" Hestia asked.

"He was crying. He said he renounced his wish. I've been struggling to understand what exactly that means but…" you closed your eyes, remembering the dream like it was a perfect painting illustrating the patterns of your memory.

Hestia smiled wearily. "I always prayed to the Gods that you would not be chosen. My dear child, I love you so much, but it's clear that this man needs your help. You're the goddess of home and hearth, and Zeus blessed you with the ability to bring families together and that is your purpose. To live a life without serving your purpose— who would you be?"

"It doesn't matter," you sighed sadly, rubbing your eyes. "Hippolyta won't allow me to leave." you reminded your mother.

"I can help you leave Themyscira," Hestia cupped the side of your face with your hand, her thumb brushing over the height of your cheekbone. "But if you are to help this man there is something you must know."

"What is it?" you asked your mother, your eyes beckoning for answers.

"There were once two brothers; Romulus and Dolos. Their entities combined were a force of pure evil, but the brothers left Olympus to go to the world of man. When they left, Zeus gave them two magical citrine stones, and the brothers practiced their powers on the stones. Dolos went to a place called Greece, where Romulus travelled to Italy and built the city of Rome. Not much is known about the stones, but now, only one remains. We don't know which one or where it is, but it's dangerous."

"Why are you telling me this?" you furrowed your eyebrows together in bewilderment.

"The stones are indestructible, unless the power of the stone is harnessed by a person themselves. Then, the entity of the stone vanishes but the power lives in the person. The power of wish granting. If he has renounced his wish, that means…"

"...he's had a wish granted," you clicked on to what your mother was saying. "How do I find out which stone has been destroyed?"

"You need to find the man of your dreams and ask him who granted his wish," Hestia explained. "You must destroy the final dreamstone."

"But why?" You quizzed, your shoulders falling limp as you took in this abundance of information.

"Because Romulus and Dolos are the God of Lies." Hestia whispered, her hands falling from your shoulders as she clipped the lasso back to her tunic.

Your heart sank into your chest as the revelation hit you. "The God of Lies?" you repeated.

"If you go to the world of man then your purpose must be more than just helping this man and his son," Hestia told you. "You must find the final dreamstone and destroy it."

"How can I destroy the God of Lies?" you shook your head furiously. "No, nuh-uh, not happening. I can't even fight. I don't have any weapons— never trained. I can't do it. I can't." you scowled, standing up and brushing down your Amazonian dress, turning away from your mother. You felt her hand grab your shoulder.

"Remember what I taught you, my child. Battles can be won through the power of love," Hestia smiled. "If I didn't think you were worthy, then I wouldn't be allowing my only daughter to travel to the world of man. But I am because I believe in you. And I believe in love."

***

Maxwell couldn't focus on the video game anymore, shuffling around uncomfortably at the mere thought that Juliana and Ted could be on their way to collect Alistair for themselves. "Hey, how about we get some fresh air?" Maxwell asked, nudging Alistair playfully. "I think there are still some 4th of July celebrations happening in the park."

Alistair grinned ecstatically. "Really daddy? We haven't been to the park since… since… you were still with mommy!"

Maxwell scrunched up his nose and brushed off his sons comment. "Go grab your coat, okay?" he urged and Alistair bolted out the living room and into his bedroom.

Maxwell caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No amount of biotin was going to rid the dark circles from under his eyes. At least he had his health restored, but he hadn't thought of the implications of utilizing the government's multinational broadcasting service.

Every single citizen of the world had seen Maxwell. Knew him by name, by face. Maxwell had no idea how people were going to react upon seeing him again. He contemplated a disguise, but figured the best he could do was roll up his shirt sleeves to his elbows and brush out any hair product from his dark blonde locks. At least he wasn't wearing his signature tailored suit and ties. On the surface, he could just be mistaken for an ordinary guy. Maxwell Lord had never wanted to blend into society this much in his life.

The memory of how power corrupt he had become before Diana had saved him struck his heart like a dagger of guilt. But he couldn't regret. He had to think forward and think to the future if he wanted to change his errors.

Maxwell jumped when Alistair took hold of his father's hand and pulled him to the door. "Hey, let me help you zip your coat up." Maxwell smiled, kneeling down and making sure Alistair would be warm enough.

By the time they arrived at the park, it was as if nothing had happened. It was like the world had returned back to the way it was before all the death and destruction. Children squealed merrily as they played on the swing sets, families sat on the grassy fields eating picnics and vendors were serving hot dogs, burgers and cotton candy.

"Why don't you go play with the kids over there?" Maxwell pointed towards a group of children standing by the slide. "Daddy just needs a moment to himself, but then I'll come play. I promise." Max kissed Alistair on the forehead and Alistair nodded understandingly before racing off into the playpark.

Maxwell scratched the back of his head and took in the cool Summer air as evening began to dawn. He looked around at the happy families and figured it was something he could get used to. He imagined living a peaceful life outside of the spotlight. No fame, no money, just him and Alistair. But things didn't come easy for Maxwell Lord.

You woke up in a muddy puddle under a tree, groaning as the brown dirt stuck to your arms and legs. You looked down at your dress and tunic, thankful that the leather material could be washed easily. You smelt something unfamiliar yet distinct, your nostrils twitching as the scent of burgers and hotdogs from the vending vans engulfed you.

The screams of children alerted you and you looked over at the playpark, watching intently as the kids laughed and danced around. There wasn't many children back on Themyscira, but being the goddess of home and hearth; it filled your heart with joy and happiness.

You slowly walked over to the playpark, looking around at your awe inspiring surroundings. So this was the world of man? You beamed upon seeing the swans in the duck pond and the beautiful flowers that grew around the stone path you walked upon.

It was mesmerising, but your delight was cut short when you heard a thud followed by a child's cry. You looked over to see that, not too far away, a group of children had pushed a young boy to the ground. The boy fumbled to get to his feet but the children circled around him, pointing and calling him names. You walked over to the crowd of children and placed your hands on your hips. "Excuse me?" you called out and watched as the kids stiffened up and their circle disbanded. They ran away, shooting you a strange look before you could even say anything else. You extended your arm and helped the little boy to his feet. "Are you okay?" you asked, kneeling down to mirror his short height. The boy nodded sadly, his dark eyes glazed with tears. "What's your name?"

"Alistair." the boy mumbled, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

"That's a beautiful name," you gleamed before introducing yourself. Alistair smiled at the compliment.

"I like your costume," he pointed excitedly. "Are you a princess?" he pointed at your tiara which held back your hair.

"Something like that," you shrugged with a small laugh. "Are you here alone?"

"No, I came with my daddy." Alistair informed you, looking around as he tried to locate his father. Your gaze followed his and you watched the young child begin to panic as he couldn't find him anywhere.

"You can't see him?" you asked with an empathetic frown. Alistair burst into tears, holding his head in his hands. "Hey don't cry!" You pulled the child into you and hugged him tightly. "He won't be far. Come on, let me help you look for him."

"He-, he always leaves," Alistair sobbed and your eyes widened slightly. "But this time- this time he promised. No more leaving."

"You must believe in your father, okay?" you whispered, pulling Alistair's hands away from his face and wiping his tears. "Tell me, what does he look like?"

Alistair sniffed and grabbed onto your hand for support. "Strong," Alistair smiled. "Really really cool. Best dad in the world." you chuckled at Alistar's words, and how he had described his father's personality rather than his physical appearance.

"Do you remember what he was wearing?" you quizzed as you and Alistair exited the playpark and back down the stone path.

"Umm, a white shirt and grey pants," Alistair recalled. "He's on the television sometimes."

You furrowed your eyebrows together. "Television?" you asked curiously and Alistair nodded before gasping.

"Look! There he is!" Alistair screamed, pointing across the road into a store window, at a man with golden coloured hair and chocolate brown eyes. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you took in his appearance. The man shook his fists and nodded his head, grinning enthusiastically.

"That man on the screen over there?" you tilted your head as Allistair squeezed your hand and dragged you out of the park, across the road, and over to the shop.

"Yep, that's daddy!"

"Welcome to the future, life is good, but it can be better. And why shouldn't it be? Everything you've ever dreamed of is right at our fingertips. But are you reaping the awards? Do you have it all? Welcome to Black Gold Cooperative, the first oil company run for the people, by the people. Think about finally having everything you've always wished for. For a low monthly fee, you can own a piece of the most lucrative industry in the world. And everytime we strike gold, you strike gold! No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you deserve to have it all. Do you have everything you've always wanted? Aren't you tired of wishing you had more? Join me today. You don't need a pile of money or some business degree to get started. You don't even have to work hard for it. At Black Gold Cooperative all you need is to want it."

You were so hypnotized by the man's business scheme, you didn't even notice Alistair disappear. Your eyes widened as you looked around, desperately trying to find him. You called his name a few times, hoping he wasn't far.

Maxwell tugged on Alistair's arm and dragged him around a corner. "What are you doing?" Max hissed and Alistair looked away from his father nervously. "You don't talk to strangers, do you understand me?"

"I couldn't find you in the park, she was helping me look for you." Alistair explained, his voice timid.

"So why were you out of the park, huh? Standing outside a television store watching one of my-" Maxwell sighed. "-one of my infomercials?"

"I wanted to show her what you looked like," Alistair frowned. "I'm sorry daddy."

Maxwell leaned down and kissed his son's forehead. "It's okay, just please don't do that again, alright? This world is full of bad, dangerous people. You need to be careful." Maxwell said and Alistair nodded his head. Max slid his hand into Alistair's and walked him back into the park. "So, who was that woman anyway?" Maxwell asked, quirking his eyebrow.

Maxwell had barely managed to get a glimpse of you, but if your short warrior tunic was anything to go off, he figured you were someone hired to be in costume for one of the 4th of July celebrations. He didn't see your face, only the back of your head, but in the split second he saw you, he admired the way your hair gleamed under the amber setting sunlight and the shape of your body, how your dress sculpted it perfectly. He shook away the thoughts, reaching into his pocket and taking out his wallet as he approached an ice cream vendor.

"She was nice," Alistair smiled as he looked at the ice cream menu painting on the side of the van. "She told me she was a princess and she helped me." Alistair recalled the way his bullies ran away when you had come over.

"Helped you how?" Maxwell quizzed, pulling out a few dollar bills.

Alistair stiffened up, not wanting to tell his father about the bullies. He was afraid Max would be ashamed of him for not sticking up for himself. "Can I get a raspberry sundae?" Alistair asked his dad, brushing off his initial question. Maxwell nodded his head and slid the cash over to the vendor who began to prepare the ice cream.

"Hey, I'm looking for my friend Alistair?" you were asking plenty of people wandering the streets of DC the same question. "Do you know where Alistair is?"

Some people would reply with, "Alistair who?", but most people would look you up and down with disdain and hurry away. You wondered why nobody else was dressed like you, and why nobody knew who Alistair was. Back on Themyscira, everyone had their own individual, unique name and everyone knew who everyone was. You frowned. It clearly wasn't like that in the world of man. You needed a different tactic. You thought back to Alistair's description of his father and tried to remember the words he spoke on the television. "Welcome to Black Gold Cooperative."

"Do you know where Black Gold Cooperative is?" you asked an aging lady who was walking along the sidewalk.

She, like everyone else, looked you up and down in bewilderment. "The headquarters?" she asked. "East Avenue, about a ten minute walk away."

"Which direction?" you prodded further.

The woman blinked. "East." she repeated.

"Thank you." you smiled, curtseying politely before setting off to find this mysterious place that the man on the television spoke so highly of. If he was really Alistair's father, then maybe you could find Alistair there and ensure his safety. That's what really mattered.

You found it difficult to walk in your gladiator sandals, and the quality of the air made leather tunic chafe against your thighs. Nevertheless, you preserved, ignoring all the sky comments that were being made by passers by regarding your appearance.

Finally, you found yourself standing outside Black Gold Cooperative headquarters; the large building looming over you as a cold shadow hung above your head. Attempting to go through the revolving doors proved to be a challenge in itself, as there was no such creation back on Themyscira. After a few attempts of trying to push through you finally found yourself in the deserted lobby. "Welcome to the future," your head snapped up to the television on the wall, where the same infomercial you had seen in the store window was playing in the reception area. "Life is good, but it can be better."

You slid behind the main desk and placed your hand on the television screen, allowing your fingers to trace the man's face. It was that same charming smile and honeyed brown eyes you remembered. His hair was golden and styled perfectly, curling at the nape of his neck, like a fairytale prince you had read about in the storybooks of your youth. He was fitted in colourful patterned suits which accentuated his broad shoulders and every word glided off his tongue so sweetly. That's when it hit you— his voice. That was the feature that had attracted you to him. It was what brought you to him. It was the voice you had dreamt of, the voice you had heard over and over again. The voice that had brought you to the world of men. It was fate that had brought you to Alistair, something that could've only been written by the Gods. That man was the first man you had ever seen, and my oh my, he was something else.